it's easy to feel, it's easy to feel/but it's not good enough even though it's real

[kaberett]

Aotramachd
B’ e d’aotromachd a rinn mo thàladh,
aotromachd do chainnte ’s do ghàire,
aotromachd do lethchinn nam làmhan,
d’aotrmachd lurach ùr mhàlda:
agus ’s e aotromachd do phòige
a tha a’ cur trasg air mo bheòil-sa,
is ’s e aotromachd do ghlaic mum chuairt-sa
a leigeas seachad leis an t-sruth mi.

Lightness
It was your lightness that drew me,
the lightness of your talk and your laughter,
the lightness of your cheek in my hands,
your sweet gentle modest lightness:
and it is the lightness of your kiss
that is starving my mouth,
and the lightness of your embrace
that will let me go adrift.

-- Meg Bateman

These are the words that have been calling me this evening; they echo in my heart.

(It's odd, the way my friendships cemented by poetry burn bright & fierce, & how I nonetheless hesitate about sending people love poems - for fear of giving the wrong impression, perhaps, but while I'm concerned about being misunderstood that's not about the romance but more, I think, about fragility; & doubly so for those I see maybe once a year, in passing, in a mess of Scrabble & laughter & cookery & late-night conversations murmured between the bed & the sofa after we've already said goodnight; where e-mails often go astray, because we're like that; where I'll hear nothing for months on end followed by "survived hurricane, work continues well", or "arriving in UK tomorrow morning; can I stay with you?" Sometimes calling out into emptiness - to hear the echoes of my heart - is too much vulnerability, I suppose. -- & this is, of course, where I try to make a joke of myself, insert a self-deprecating remark about not being let near the Internet after I've had my bedtime meds, but actually I mean this, every word of it, & I think it's worth saying. If I'm not comfortable baring my soul in private I may as well in public, I suppose.)

Comments

[hairyears]

Yes: spoken poetry and tales are something of a sacrament in close and closer friendships.

This was recited to me, and then sung, once:


Imtheochaidh soir is siar
A dtainig ariamh
An ghealach is an ghrian

Imtheochaidh an ghealach's an ghrian
An Daoine og is a chail 'na dhiadh

Imtheochaidh a dtainig ariamh
An duine og is a chail ne dhiadh


Someone knew me very well indeed, once.

Being nothing like a poet, and entirely ignorant of Gaelic, I read her the Lotus Sutra. I doubt that I could say a word of it today.

That poem wasn't written for me, though it was very much written of me, or of young men you would immediately recognise as me. It turned up as the lyric for a TV serial in the 1970's, of all things, and was over-orchestrated out of all recognition to the woman who sang it first, long before I was born. Try and find a solo, unaccompanied, recording.

Also: be careful with tbe translations you find: the word you think is ' reputation' is better spoken as 'the tale of a man' and it is a surprising word to use for a young man, rather than an older one.

[khalinche]

I write and speak soppy poems to people much more readily if they're in a language that person doesn't understand.

I love Meg Bateman, also. Her one about the deer and her mother means a lot to me, but upon looking for it I find this, which ties in a little with the Neruda poem you posted recently:

An Ceist

Bheirinn a'ghrian dhut s'a ghealach
's na rionnagan gu tur
Ciamar mar sin as leor dhomh
mi fhin a thoirt dhut?

Question

I'd give the moon and sun to you
and all the stars
How then is it enough for me
to give you myself?

[kaberett]

Yes. Yes, yes, yes. Thank you.

(& glad that people aren't objecting to me going through a phase of sharing poetry!)

[khalinche]

It helps that you have taste in poets that is very very similar to my own :-)