Julie Breathnach-Banwait

​ 
Irish and English 

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Craobhscaoileadh caoch
 
Chaoin an paidreachán úd – í siúd atá díograiseach dírithe ar ghabháil fhoinn faoin mbreithiúnas aithrí, ollphéisteanna dearga trasna a t-léine ag sligh peacaigh, is tintrí ó ifreann ag loisceadh a ceathrúna le fírinní, a deir sí – go bhfeabhsaíonn an Mhaighdean Mhuire gach uile bhuairt, gur cheart muinín a chur inti, go raibh fianaise faighte aici, gur gabhdán Dé a corp, soitheach na bhfíréin, is í ag soiscéalaíocht ar bhóithre ar bís, is Caoineadh na dTrí Muire á phléascadh aici as ard a cinn, dár gcroitheadh ó shuan chun machnamh a dhéanamh ar ár bpeacaí is go dtabharfadh sí ábhar do bhrionglóidí duit. Sásamh intinne. Suaimhneas anama. Síoraíocht saoil. Chaoin sí go ndéanfaí réiteach ar do chuid is do chás. Thiocfadh meabhair chucu siúd gan tuiscint, chloisfeadh an chluas bhodhar is dhúiseodh focail is glórtha iontu siúd gan smid ná siolla, nach raibh ort ach do lámh a ardú. 
 
D’iarr mé uirthi Mam a fheabhsú le díograis m’urnaí i ngol caoch le deora is bosa fuaite i bpaidir laethúil. 
 
D’imigh sí ar aon nós.  
  
*
 
Blind faith
 
That preacher woman cried – she who is intent, alert and bursting in song about repentance, red serpents on her t-shirt slaying sinners and the fires of Hell scalding her loins with truths – that the Virgin Mary cures all ails and ills, that one should put one’s faith in her, she bore witness she said, her body being a God receptacle, a vessel for the righteous, and her gospelling on roads absorbed in prayer with the Lament of the Three Marys bursting from the top of her head, awakening us to repent and reflect on our sins so she’d give us the stuff of dreams. A satisfied mind. A soulful peace. A life eternal. Your plight and people would be saved, she cried. those without mind would understand, the deaf of ear would hear, and voices and words in those without sound nor syllable would awaken, you had only to raise your hand.
 
I asked her to heal my mother with fervent words spilled through blinding tears and hands sewn in daily prayer.
 
She left anyway.
 
**
 
‘Craobhscaoileadh Caoch/Blind Faith’ has previously appeared in Cnámha Scoilte- Cnuasach prósfhilíochta/Split Bones – A collection of prose poetry (Bobtail Books, Australia 2023).
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**
 
An t-ocras a d’fhan linn
 
Cheangail sé lámha Mhaurice suas taobh thiar dá dhroim, á bhrú in aghaidh an bhalla cloiche. Fear maol, a mhuineál mar stoc crainn, a ghuaillí mar phoc staiceáilte, a mhatáin ataithe – dealbhaithe le díogras, a chloigeann snasta faoi ghréis is céir, bícéips is tríchéips bioraithe, tatúnna de mhná gan folach orthu sínte go teannasach trasna na mealltracha is na cnapáin atá ag spuaiceadh is ag preabadh le hat, a chuid lámha ag pléascadh amach as muinchillí a t-léine. Ag fanacht leis na gardaí anois, a deir sé liom go bogásach, a chuid lámha fuaite thrí lámha Mhaurice, is Maurice scéineach is faiteach. ‘Níl sé ag tógáil a chuid leighis le gairid,’ a deireann sé, is réiteach na scéala faighte aige dhó féin. Bhí bob Mhaurice ag eitilt sa ngaoth, ag imeacht go fánach a bhí sé mar chuma liom, ina chuid éadaí codlata, ag feadaíl ar mhná na háite go drochbhéasach, ag crochadh boscaí bruscair is ag sceitheadh a gcuid putóga trasna na sráide, ag cnagadh ar dhoirse is ag clamhsán is ag cur dhó faoin gcrann iúir a gearradh síos is go raibh ordú caomhantais ar an gcrann chéanna is nár chóir lámh a leagan air dar leis.’ Éireannach?’ a deireann sé, nuair a chloiseann sé mo chanúint. Leagann sé an clamhsán go leataobh, is tosnaíonn sé ag doirteadh focail mar gheall ar a shin-seanmháthair a tháinig as Mórchuaird Chiarraí nó b’fhéidir Iarthar Chorcaí, nó áit éicint san Iarthar, áit ar tháinig an bháisteach isteach lúbtha go leataobh is plód turasóirí sa samhradh ag thóir tuiscíntí mar gheall ar a sinsir is a ndaoine, ag adhradh caisleáin leathleagtha trí phluid ceo. Tháinig siad le faic ar sé, is iad fós gan pingin rua. Ocras a deir sé. Ocras a bhí orthu. Ocras ó ocras mór a ndaoine. Is fágann an t-ocras sin lorg ar dhuine. Ghlaoigh a gcuid boilg fholamha orthu ar sé, is níorbh fhéidir leis iad a shásamh, san oíche dhorcha, le fáinne geal an lae. Is fágann an t-ocras sin lorg ar sé, is é ag osnaíl is a shúile ag ceansú is ag ciúnú le scaoileadh a scéil is faoiseamh. Fágann an t-ocras sin lorg.
 
*
 
The hunger that stayed with us
 
He held Maurice’s arms up against his back, pushing him up against the stone wall. A bald man, his neck a trunk, shoulders like a stacked buck, swollen muscles – sculpted through sheer will of force, his head sheened with grooming and grease, biceps and triceps cocked, tattoos of naked women tensed across the lumps and bumps that are blistering and throbbing in swell, his arms bursting for release from the sleeves of his t-shirt. Waiting for the police now, he smugly told me, his arms wrapped through Maurice’s, holding him stiff and scared. Off his meds, he added, nodding in his conclusion of today’s outburst. Maurice’s fringe was flaying, wandering he was in his pyjamas, making lewd comments to passing women, lifting the neighbours bins and spewing their guts across the street, knocking on doors griping and bleating about how the yew had been lopped and was under conservation.. ‘Ah, Irish’ he says referring to my polite retort about his complaint, sitting the grumbling about the yew aside, as he begins to spill his story about his immigrant grandmother from the Ring of Kerry or was it West Cork, or somewhere west he added, where the rain skulked in sideways and tourist thronged of a summer seeking understandings of origin and root, admiring crumbling castles through the fog. Came with nothing he added, still with nothing. Hungry, he said they were. Hungry. Hungry from the big hunger of their people. And hunger does things to the mind. Their empty bellies called to him he said, and he couldn’t shake them off of a night, or a day. And hunger does things to a mind he sighed, calming, his pupils sinking. Hunger does things to a mind.
 
**
  
‘‘An t-Ocras a d’fhan linn/The hunger that stayed with us,’  has been published in Aneas, an Irish language literary journal published by the Munster Literature Centre, Ireland.
 
**
 
Colg Hans is Mariella
 
Shnámh siad go faillíoch ar bhruach an chladaigh i bhfad i ndiaidh na scléipe, grabhróga an ghleo. Lobaí cupáin phoircealláin is cluasa crúscaí le rósanna dearga deilgneacha. Imeall óir ar photaí tae, is féinics coscrach ag ardú ó lasracha tintrí dearga ar shásair. ‘An Royal Albert,’ a chaoin Mam go haiféalach, ag croitheadh a cinn. ‘Old Country Roses,’ a bhí spáráilte go dtiocfadh Meiriceánaigh nó fear na bpaidríní ar cuairt nó duine éigin a thuill iad dar léi, ach gan iad a chur amú ar na gasúir. Shín sí i línte ar sheilf an drisiúir iad mar dhuais.
 
Tháinig siad i ndubh na hoíche, méarcheangailte le grá is drúis, a cheap sí. Féasóg fhada ghiobach ag searradh ó smig Hans, is Mariella gealgháireach giodamach, gur fhág siad leis an maidneachan i gciúnas reoite is clabhta eascainí m’athar. Scuab Mam na smidiríní, is síscéal gan insint i ngach píosa. ‘Colg is dócha,’ a dúirt sí, ‘spriúchadh is stoirm.’ Is cheangail dlaíóga feamainne thart orthu ina snaidhm mar bharróg gan fáilte, á dtachtadh, is mheall faochain na mara chun na bhfarraigí fairsinge iad mar chomhluadar. Go dtí a mbailte nua gan chion, colg ná máthair.
 
*
 
The rage of Hans and Mariella
 
Neglected they swam, at the edge of the shore, long after the furore, the crumbs of chaos. Porcelain cup lobes and jars adorned with thorny red roses. Gold-rimmed teapots and saucers with triumphant phoenixes rising from red flames of fire. ‘The Royal Albert,’ my mother cried regretfully, shaking her head. Old Country Roses, spared for Americans or priests or visitors or someone who deserved them but not to waste them on the children. She stretched them across the shelf of the dresser like a prize displayed.
 
They came, in the black of night, finger-wrapped full of love and adultery, she thought. Hans’ chin heavy-bearded and ragged, Mariella jolly and giddy. They left at dawn amidst a frosted silence and a cloud of my father’s curses. My mother swept the smithereens, each its own fairytale untold. ‘Rage I suppose,’ she said, ‘a stormy splutter, I’d say.’ Locks of seaweed entangled them, smothered them like an unwelcome embrace and the winkles enticed them out to join them in the depths of the ocean for company. To their new homes without love, rage, nor mother.
 
**

‘Colg Hans is Mariella/The rage of Hans and Mariella,’  has previously appeared in Cnámha Scoilte - Cnuasach prósfhilíochta/Split Bones – A collection of prose poetry (Bobtail Books, Australia 2023)
 
**

Póiríní
-do Colette
 
                                                                 Ní maith liomsa
                                                                Boladh na gcoinnle
 
                                                                Mise Éire
                                                                Colette Ní Ghallchóir
 
 
Bheadh cúr mar phrislíní ag sileadh óna bhéal ar an Domhnach, is é ag greadadh an leachtáin lena bhos, bís air le díograis, a chuid súile beagnach ag cur fola le dúthracht is pléascadh a phraeitseála, a chulaith ag clupaideach is a lámha ag slapar leis an mbíoblóireacht. Stiogma ó ghloine dhaite an tseipéil le feiceáil mar scáthán i snas a chuid bróga. Cléirigh óga ar chlé, scéineach is bánghnúiseach, airdeallach le faitíos, a gcuid bosa fuaite i bpaidir. Déanaim filleadh isteach orm fhéin le haghaidh síocháin a fháil, ón tseanmóireacht is ón tsoiscéalaíocht, mo lámha trasna mo choirp mar chosaint, ar fhaitíos go n-iompódh a dhíograis ormsa nó chugamsa, ar fhaitíos go ndéanfadh a shúil dhearg ceangal liomsa is mé go míthráthúil sa suíochán tosaigh. Déanaim tréigean ar a ghlór láidir is isteach liom i gciúnas mo phóca chun na póiríní a thógas ón gcladach a shleamhnú idir mo mhéara. Trí cinn a fuarthas, iad mín is snasta, lán mo ghlaic glan, go bhféadfainn iad a chasadh is a chuimilt. Nuair a tháinig sé ar cuairt chugainn níos déanaí, ligeas isteach é gan súil a chur ar a aghaidh, a mhuineál corcra, an craiceann teannta trasna a chuid ailte, meáchan fós ina anáil. Thóg mo mháthair na soithí deasa amach dó, is údarás a ghlóir is a chabála fós liom. Déanaim cúlú chun seomra na leapa ar thóir mo chuid póiríní, go bhfágann sé. Nuair a d’fhág, dúirt mo mháthair nach raibh an colg sin go maith ag a shláinte, is nár ghá dó a ghlór a ardú ar chor ar bith, mar go dtuigfeadh muid chomh maith céanna dá labhródh sé go bog. Chaith sí súil orm is faona hanáil go cogarnach, dúirt sí nach raibh sé go maith againne ach an oiread.
 
*
 
Pebbles
- for Colette

                                                            Ní maith liomsa 
                                                           Boladh na gcoinnle
 
                                                           I do not like 
                                                           The smell of candles
 
                                                           Mise Éire
                                                           I am Ireland
                                                                                        
                                                           Colette Ní Ghallchóir
 
He’d froth at the mouth of a Sunday, smacking lecterns with the palm of his hands, going hammer and tongs with the fire and brimstone, his eyes almost bleeding with the fervour and  puffing of his pulpitry, his stole flapping as he swung his arms with the proselytising. The sheen of his shoes glinting with the stained glass reflections of stigmata. Altar boys kneeling left, pale-faced and alert with terror, palms sewn in prayer. I fold into myself for silence, from the preaching and gospelling, cross-armed to protect my body should his enthusiasm turn towards me or on me, should his bloodied eyes meet mine, positioned haplessly in a front pew. I fade the thundering into the distance and shrink into the safety of my pocket, twirling the pebbles borrowed from the mire, smooth as glass now, three of them forming a perfect fist-full to roll and twirl between my fingers in turn. On his visit later that day, I let him in without meeting his raging eyes. His neck and hands were purple, the skin across his knuckles taut, his breathing still weighted and heavy. My mother got the good china out for him, the clamour of his collar on show. His presence hefty, I revert to my pebbles and twirl. She watched him leave and said all that rage wasn’t good for his health and we’d get the message just as well, had he spoken gently. She glanced towards me, acknowledging his impact, and quietly added under her breath that it wasn’t good for us either.
 
**
 
‘Pebbles’ is taken from Julie’s upcoming bilingual collection of prose poetry hypnagogia/hiopnagóige, due for release in 2025 by Pierian Springs Press, US. This prose poem has also appeared in The Literary Times. It is dedicated to the Irish language poet Colette Ní Ghallchóir.
 
**
 
 
An síneadh ó dheas go Ross
 
Molann an Cosán Oidhreachta dúinn síneadh a dhéanamh ó dheas go Ross. Déan suntas d’oidhreacht ghleoite a deireann sé. Déan tagairt d’ár mbaile beag galánta. Ag béal an bhaile tá na gunnaí móra béaloscailte prislíneach á ndíriú féin ar lár na sráide. Sráid breactha le crainnte móra glasa ar gach taobh, ag leathnú mar a bheadh zip á oscailt is á ghearradh ina dhá leath i bhfad uait. Vearanda á gcasadh thart fá na dtithe beaga le craiceann pleancanna adhmaid péinteáilte, i ndathanna pastalacha boga is síochánta. Tithe poist a thugann compord lena dteanntán. A gcraiceann gaineamhchloch, malaí a gcuid fuinneoga dairdhonna, pánaí mar a bheadh tóin buidéil, cuair a gcuid sean-rachtaí - lorg fiacla na sábha fós mar phatrún trasna orthu – is iad faoi mheáchan díonta nua-aimseartha. Parlúis ghleoite is tithe beaga leagtha amach le haghaidh tae na maidine, scónaí is pluideanna plúirfós ar a gcoróin, i gcnocáin caite go ciotach is ag doirteadh óna plátaí, hata gléas páiseoige – buí is breactha le síol dubh – ag lonnrú ar chacaí cáise is iad sínte, mar ornáidí poircealláin i gcásaí gloine. Tithe, a bhí mar theaghlaigh uair, do na fir stoic úd, na fir leis na muscaeidí meirgeacha sin, na fir fhaiteacha, hata leathana orthu is iad deargtha le grian, guailleáin a mbrístí ag fágáil gleannta ina nguaillí. Is anois reoite, i scrólanna dubha is bána, ag insint scéalta mar gheall ar chrainnte gearrtha is dambaí caidhilte. A gcuid buataisí fillte síos, dubh le puiteach, ar an bhfoscadh taobh thiar de mhuscaeidí is urchair, oird is piocoird. Is na picoirdí is na gunnaí móra sin gnóthach, ag tógail bailte as an mbaile, is iad ag múnlú críocha, ag cruthú scéalta nua is ag dealbhú tíortha nua.  Luaith na bpíopaí cuachacha leáite i ngrátaí, is na sleánna adhmaid ag lobhadh sna cúlgharrantaí. Go n-ídíonn oidhreacht amháin iomlán oidhreacht eile.
 
*

Right stretch towards Ross
 
The Heritage trail suggested a stop at Ross. Admire the quaint features of our Heritage and past lives it screams, observe the quirky village. A large black cannon on entry, open-mouthed anddrooling, pointing towards the centre of a tree-lined street, a zipper opening and slicing the town in two into the distance. Wrap-around verandahs encasing cladded houses and stone post offices comfort me with their familiar aesthetic. Their sandstone skins, the bottle-bottom panes of their oak-browed windows, the slight curve of old rafters – the saw’s teeth marks still patterend along its curves – bending under modern roofs. Quaint ice cream parlours and morning tea shops, scones still crowned with a blanket of flour, piled clumsily and spilling off cake stands, the yellow and seedful passion fruit glaze reflecting off baked cheese cake slices arranged like china ornaments behind glass cases. Houses, once homes of the fearful, rifled stock men, broad-hatted and reddened by sun, the braces of their breeches creative indents in their shoulders. Now frozen in black and white Heritage scrolls, telling tales of tree lopping and dam piling. Their boots curled and muddied. Cowering behind bullets and muskets, sledge hammers and pickaxes, busying themsleves creating there here. Those pistols and cannons, shaping landscapes, forming alternative narratives and sculpting familiar worlds. Rosing and fencing front gardens, shaping and moulding into boundaries only understood by them. The ashes of the hollowed pipes smouldering in backyard grates. The wooden spears rotting in back gardens. Until one Heritage completely consumes and fully digests another.
 
**
 
Julie Breathnach-Banwait is a bilingual writer and visual artist. She has published four volumes of poetry/prose poetry and her fifth collection - hypnagogia/hiopnagóige - is imminent from Pierian Springs Press. She has published many pieces in literary magazines, journals and newspapers internationally. She is part of the Tinteán (Australia) Editorial Team and currently lives on Turrbal Country.