Cisteachan-Laighe
Duin’ àrd, tana
‘s fiasag bheag air,
‘s locair ‘na làimh:
gach uair theid mi seachad
air bùth-shaoirsneachd sa’ bhaile,
‘s a thig gu mo chuinnlean fàileadh na min-sàibh,
thig gu mo chuimhne cuimhne an àit ud,
le na cisteachan-laighe,
na h-ùird ‘s na tairgean,
na saibh ‘s na sgeilbean,
is mo sheanair crom,
is sliseag bho shliseag ga locradh
bhon bhòrd thana lom.
Mus robh fhios agam dè bh’ ann bàs;
beachd, bloigh fios, boillsgeadh
den dorchadas, fathann de’n t-sàmhchair.
‘S nuair a sheas mi aig uaigh,
là fuar Earraich, cha dainig smuain
thugam air na cisteachan-laighe
a rinn esan do chàch:
‘sann a bha mi ‘g iarraidh dhachaigh,
far am biodh còmhradh, is tea, is blàths.
Is anns an sgoil eile cuideachd,
san robh saoir na h-inntinn a’ locradh,
cha tug mi ‘n aire do na cisteachan-laighe,
ged a bha iad ‘nan suidhe mun cuairt orm;
cha do dh’ aithnich mi ‘m brèid Beurla,
an liomh Gallda bha dol air an fhiodh,
cha do leugh mi na facail air a’ phràis,
cha do thuig mi gu robh mo chinneadh a’ dol bàs.
Gus an dainig gaoth fhuar an Earraich-sa
a locradh a’ chridhe;
gus na dh’ fhairich mi na tairgean a’ dol tromham,
‘s cha shlànaich tea no còmhradh an cràdh.
Translations of this Poem
Coffins
A tall thin man
with a short beard,
and a plane in his hand:
whenever I pass
a joiner’s shop in the city,
and the scent of sawdust comes to my nostrils,
memories return of that place,
with the coffins,
the hammers and nails,
saws and chisels,
and my grandfather, bent,
planing shavings
from a thin, bare plank.
Before I knew what death was;
or had any notion, a glimmering
of the darkness, a whisper of the stillness.
And when I stood at his grave,
on a cold Spring day, not a thought
came to me of the coffins
he made for others:
I merely wanted home
where there would be talk, and tea, and warmth.
And in the other school also,
where the joiners of the mind were planing,
I never noticed the coffins,
though they were sitting all round me;
I did not recognise the English braid,
the Lowland varnish being applied to the wood,
I did not read the words on the brass,
I did not understand that my race was dying.
Until the cold wind of this Spring came
to plane the heart;
until I felt the nails piercing me,
and neither tea nor talk will heal the pain.
Learn more
Ruaraidh MacThòmais
Derick Thomson
No Gaelic poet has had more influence on the generation that followed him than Derick Thomson. As poet, publisher, and editor of the literary quarterly Gairm, Thomson shaped the development of Gaelic writing in the post-war period.Derick Thomson
