bho Cheum air Cheum
III
С фонарем обшaрьте
весь подлунный свет!
Той страны нa карте –
нет, в пространстве – нет.
Marina Tsvetaeva
Dh’fhàg thu Glaschu airson Cambridge, Cambridge
airson an t-Saoghail Ùir is, aig a’ cheann
thall, fhuair thu dachaigh ann am Mexico.
Chan fhacas rithist leat baile Seville,
ach mun cuairt ort, an dòigh nach robh co-ionann
ach nach robh dìreach coigreach, bha do chànain
ga bruidhinn là seach là. Fhuair thusa faclan
ro chruaidh airson na tìr a dh’fhàg thu. B’ e
dìreach mallachd a chunnaic thu sa chànain
a bha gad cheangal rithe, is a dh’fheum thu
sgrìobhadh innte. Cha b’ urrainn do bhàrd,
thuirt thu, a dhualchas no a thìr a roghainn,
air neo a chànain, ach bu chòir gu robh
an dìlseachd a b’ àirde ’s a bu shàir a bh’ aige
da chogais fhèin a-mhàin. Bu chòir dha sgrìobhadh,
chan ann airson nan co-fhear-dùthch’ a shònraich
an dàn (’s e magail, searbh) dha, ach airson
na bhiodh ag èisteachd ris le aigne dheiseil
is tuigse làin, ge b’ e a’ chànain bha
ga cleachdadh leò, ge b’ e ’n tìr dan do bhuin iad.
Am bu chòir dhaibh a bhith nas maoith’, na faclan
a chleachdar leams’ an uair a bhruidhneas mi
mu mo thìr fhìn, mo dhùthaich bheag mu thuath?
Mu dhùthaich air mo shon nach dùthchasail,
dùthaich far nach do dhìonadh mi ’s nach dìonar?
Oir tha gach teaghlach ’na dhùthaich bhig fhèin,
is bidh eilthirich beò ’na mheadhan cuideachd.
De pheathraichean mo mhàthar, chuir an tè
as fhaid bha beò a lathaichean mu dheireadh
seachad ann an taigh nan daoine aosta.
Bha i letheach às a ciall, ach b’ e
’s dòch’ an abairt a bu thùrail’ thàinig
bho bilean gu robh na daoine chunnaic i
mu thimcheall oirre “dìreach Albannach”.
Rugadh i, mar a rugadh mo mhàthair,
faisg air Glaschu, cha robh iad riamh fuireachd
an Èirinn, ach bha tìr am breith ’s an àraich
’na h-àite-fògraidh ’na an sùilean, ’s iad
cuairtichte le nàimhdean ’s srainnsearan.
Cha b’ obair a’ mhic-mheanmna e an nàimhdeas
a dh’fhairich iad mun cuairt orra is iad
’nam pàistean no ’nan caileagan. Ciamar
a chuireas mi an cèill an fhaireachdainn
a bh’ aig mo mhàthair, dàimh-se ris a’ bhaile,
h-an-dùthchasachd an crìdh’ a dùthcha fhèin?
Cha tèid an snaidhm sin fhuasgladh leam, is e
cho iomadh-fhillte, teann. Air mo shon fhìn
b’ e do-dhèantachd a bh’ ann an Glaschu, àite
a thriallar ann is far nach urrainnear
ach astar ùr a thòiseachadh. Cha robh
mi tuigsinn mar a dh’fhaodadh Glaschu bhith
dùthchasail, cha robh na ghabhadh ann ach
do-bhuntainn, dìreach fuadachadh gu tur.
Bha tnù agam ri neach a dh’fhairicheas
srath, sliabh no coille mar bhall a chuirp fhèin.
Tnù, iomachomhairle is ionndrainn mhòr.
Translations of this Poem
from Step by Step
Translator: Niall O’Gallagher
Light up with a lantern
the whole sublunar world.
That country does not exist on the map,
it does not exist in space.
Marina Tsvetaeva
You left Glasgow for Cambridge before leaving
Cambridge for the New World where at last
you found yourself a home in Mexico.
You would never see Seville again
but all around you, in a way that was
both foreign and familiar, your language
was spoken day by day. The words you found
for the country you had left were harsh.
You thought the language to which you were chained
and which you had to write in was a curse.
You said a poet couldn’t choose his background,
his country or his language but must keep
the highest and most perfect loyalty
to his conscience only. He must write
not for the countrymen assigned to him
by a cruel and bitter fate but for
whoever listened with a ready mind
and a generous understanding,
whatever language they used, whatever
country they belonged to. Should the words
that I use when I speak about my country
be gentler, my little northern homeland?
The homeland that for me was never homely,
where I never was or will be protected?
Because every family is a little
country of its own and immigrants
live in its midst as they do everywhere.
The longest living of my mother’s sisters
spent her last days in an old folks’ home.
They said that she was senile but I think
that she was very lucid when she said
the people all around her were “so Scottish”.
She was born, just as my mother was,
near Glasgow and had never lived in Ireland,
but the country where they had been born,
where they were brought up and where they lived,
was a place of exile in their eyes,
surrounded by strangers and enemies.
They did not imagine the hostility
that they felt around them when they were
just infants and young girls. How can I
describe the feeling that my mother had,
of her relationship to her own city,
her foreignness at the heart of her own
country? I cannot untie that knot,
the knot that is so tangled and so tight.
Glasgow was an impossibility
to me, a place that you could visit but
which you had to leave to start anew.
I didn’t understand how Glasgow could
be homely, all I ever felt there was
disconnectedness, or even exile.
I felt jealousy towards those who
felt as connected to a valley or
a mountain as they did to their own bodies.
Envy, indecision and great longing.
