An File ~ Raifteirí. I was delighted to receive a comment as Gaeilge from Máire Holmes on the little piece marking the passing of John O’Donoghue. At one time the Irish language was our native tongue on this island and for many years was a compulsory subject in our schools, many believing that this was the death-knell of it as a living vibrant language. While the number of native speakers has steadily declined, the number of people learning the language seems to have experienced a resurgence with the proliferation of Gael Scoileana (schools that teach only through Irish) and the popularity of TG4 an Irish language TV station.So to mark Máire's first appearance on the Dew blog I’d like to present this poem by one of our finest Gaelic poets Antaine Ó Raifteirí. Raftery was born in Killedan in 1784, the son of a weaver. He was blinded by small pox while very young and is said to have worked as a stable boy for the landlord, Frank Taaffe. He was a wandering musician with a fiddle and like so many vagrant musicians of the time (c. 1784 - 1835 ) he was blind. They taught the blind to play an instrument so that they would at least be able to earn some sort of a living despite their handicap.I hope you enjoy the poem,Máire …
Gerard O'Shea
Is Mise Raifteirí an file,
Lán dúchais is grádh,
Le súile gan solas,
Le ciúnas gan crá.
Ag dul síar ar m'aistear
Le solas mo chroí
Fann agus tuirseach
Go deireadh mo shlí
Féach anois mé
Is mo chúl le bhfalla
Ag seinm ceoil
Do phócaí folamh
I'm Raftery
I'm Raftery the poet,
Full of hope and love,
With eyes without sight,
My mind without torment.
Going west on my journey
By the light of my heart.
Weary and tired
To the end of my road
Behold me now
With my back to the wall
Playing music
To empty pockets.
Antaine Ó Raifteirí
1 comment:
Thank you John. I read your book Anam Cara and grew to a new understanding of death. It helped me appreciate this last phase of life and because of it fully engaged in the process with family and friends. When I met you at a retreat once, you signed a copy of your poems. I did not tell you what your books meant to me...after all, I thought, why would you care.
I am so sorry that you are gone as your gifts to the world were enormous. Now I tell you just as your friend told you, I am less afraid to die because you have gone before us.
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