Aifric Mac Aodha

/Ireland, 1979

Aifric Mac Aodha (1979, Ireland) is the Irish-language poetry editor of Poetry Ireland Review, gorse and The Stinging Fly. Her first poetry collection, The Taking of Syrinx (Gabháil Syrinx), was published by An Sagart in 2010 and her poetry has been published in various magazines and journals, including POETRY Young Irish Poets. Her work has been translated into many languages, including French, German, Italian, Spanish and Czech. She has been awarded several bursaries by The Arts Council and, in recent years, she has read at numerous festivals in Europe, America, Canada and India. Her latest collection, Foreign News, with translations by David Wheatley, was published by The Gallery Press in 2017. She lives in Dublin, where she now works for the Irish-language publisher, An Gúm.

The poet is coming to the festival with the support of Culture Ireland.

Poems

A Gift from God / Bronntanas ó Dhia

The Taking of Syrinx / Gabháil Syrinx

At Home / Sa Bhaile

Surplus Killing / Surplus Killing

It’s all thanks to the Dutchman Kruuk we’ve got
a term for slaughtering everything in sight.

He knew the wiles of berserkers on the loose,
with their dander up like a fox in a henhouse.

Distrusting my own narrow knowledge base
I spent the day inspecting the fruits of his,

but can’t say I much enjoyed what I found,
and turned instead to the first volume to hand

of Béaloideas and Deirdre’s sorrowful tale:
taken in hand by sundry ecstactics... rouged

and raddled… enamelled and Eton-cropped until
Noísi himself would neither recognise nor
acknowledge her.

And I too play the game,
who take flight in her slipstream

knowing no good will come of how
she suavely eyes now Naoise up and now

his brother, and the only end in store
the white sheet and blood everywhere

reminding us amid the mad uproar
of all the beauty that was here before.

Translation: David Wheatley

Kruuk na hOllainne a chum an téarma thuas:
an marú thar cailc, an tsúil thar do chuid.

Ríomh an Kruukach bealaí seilge lucht creiche,
galar an chró agus slad an mhadra rua.

Thugas lá ag foghlaim faoi na huirc is na hairc sin,
mé d’aon ghnó ag iarraidh mo ghob féin a neartú

ach breá bog tamall eile, níor léamh le fonn í,
is d’fhilleas arís ar an gcuisle, ar Imleabhar a hAon

de Bhéaloideas, ar an tagairt ann do Chlann Uisnigh,
d’ath-athDheirdre, taken in hand by sundry ecstactics...

rouged and raddled, enamelled and Eton-cropped until
Noísi himself would neither recognise nor
acknowledge her.

Is siúd liom san imirt leo, mé á samhlú thar lear —
an dá shúil, ‘beidh olc umpu’, ina luí go mánla,

ní ar Naoise, an uair seo, ach ar Ainle;
chomh mar a chéile is atá deartháir is deartháir,

fear is fear, agus gan den tosach amach
ach an brat bán, an deargadh is an dul ó mhaith.