Tommy Collins Poetry

Níl a dhath ar an domhan A chuireann mo chroí Ag bualadh chomh bríomhar Is a bhí sé ar an Satharn Sin ar chósta san Iarthar Théis dhá uair a chloig Ag rith na mbóithre is na Sléibhte roimh thús thonn teasa Agus gaoth fhuar ag séideadh Go cneasta ar mo dhroim Ach d'aghaidh gheal ag Taitneamh fé ghruaig órga Is do rosc glas ag breathnú Díreach im shúile féin, Do lámha amach chun mé A fháiltiú chuig do bhaclainn Ag deireadh rás timpeall an oileáin Nó ag deireadh lae i seomra an óstáin.

Dá gcuirfí an cheist orm inniu Is mé im' aonar sa leabharlann, Seangheansaí rugbaí an choláiste Á chaitheamh agam d'ainneoin an Cárta as-dáta aitheantais im' phóca, Leabhar as-cló filíochta os mo chomhar, Peann dubh leath-fholamh im' lámh, Leideanna na málaí gorma fém' shúile Ar aghaidh nár bhraith faobhar an rásúir Ar feadh seachtaine fhuar fhada, N'fheadar an ndéarfainn gur file mé féin, Nó múinteoir nua, nó fós i mo mhac léinn, Cúlbáire gan cúl, amadán, leaid saonta óg, Nó smaointeoir tuirseach ina shuí i liombó.

With favourite recipe, time to perform! Occasion calls for flavour and romance, Ingredients for colour, taste and charm, For energy and passion in the dance. With seasoning, perfume of spice and herbs, The sizzling of oil within the pan, The heat and tender meat, some gentle words To tease between later and present calm, Attentive watch to see that nothing burns, A deft flick of the wrist and skilful hands, A tasting bite delights a waiting tongue Impatient to satisfy its demands, The plates are filled, the first course of our feast, To be left bare, to be enjoyed, a treat.

Gheallaigh solas bán guthán mo charad Tráthnóna inné is muid inár suí Os comhar scáileáin sa choláiste seo Gan smál ar imeall chathair Luimní, Tweet ag fógairt go raibh cinneadh déanta Cé go mbeidh ina nua-phápa Ar na 1.2 billiún caitliceach Ar fud an domhain, de réir na nuachta, Is muid ag féachaint ar 'Cré Na Cille', Ag léamh guíonna na nguthanna marbha, Ag gáire faoina sean-traidisiúin, Deatach bán os cionn na Róimhe Fiú tar éis gach saghas fidléireachta.

This irrational Nervousness On the border Of outright panic, Trembling limbs And shallow breath And racing mind, Every grim idea A potential reality, Every move delayed In fear of fault Or failure, Shyly shrinking back, A quiet coward, Imagining the worst Instead of asking Simple questions, This irrational Nervousness Comes and goes, Returns and Fretfully flows As I forget to breathe, As I try to find the words To ask such Simple questions Instead of dreaming Awful answers.