IF it were possible to end all war and start from the premise of love, how would we begin? So much badness is born from greed and division, the priorities of vanity and heartless self-righteousness, strafing propaganda, ignorance, greed and fear: how might we actually counter all that?
Not to lapse into idealism nor to waste our time in anguish, but to think practically, should we not begin by finding ways to confirm affirmation of all that is truly worthwhile? All the essays I’ve written for these columns have been in some small respects attempts to make such affirmation possible. Here’s a defining one.
Aonghas MacNeacail is perhaps the most-loved of all the Gaelic poets working today, and among the most senior. His poem “thug thu dhomh samhradh” / “you gave me summer” is published in dèanamh gàire ris a’ chloc: dàin ùra agus thaghte / laughing at the clock: new and selected poems (Edinburgh: Polygon, 2012), where it is given in the original Gaelic with Aonghas’s English-language translation on the facing page.
It first appeared in an earlier collection entitled The Avoiding And Other Poems (Edinburgh: Macdonald, 1986). And it has also been translated into the Scots language by J Derrick McClure, published in his collection
Scotland o Gael an Lawlander (Glasgow: Gairm, 1996). It is reproduced here by permission.
Derrick McClure’s judgment on the poem is straightforward: “If this is not one of the greatest Scottish poems of the 20th century I’m an Englishman.”
Now, no-one would mistake Derrick for an Englishman but it is not only one of the great Scottish poems but a great love poem – in Gaelic, Scots and English. Each language has its virtues and limitations, but despite all claims to the contrary, the poetry remains the most translatable thing. First, the Gaelic:
thug thu dhomh samhradh de los lenguajes humanos el pobre solo sabria tu nombre — Pablo Neruda thug an geamhradh buaidh air an earrach bha e fuar, bha e nimheil gheàrr sgeinean an reothaidh an cèitean chùm na craobhan an guirme dùint’ ann an rumannan caol an geugan thrèig smeòraich gaoil na raointean thriall camagan ciùil às gach linne sgap a’ ghàire na neulagan anail thar firich chrìon àrsaidh ar dualchais air gaothan geur neo-aireil thuislich danns’ a’ mheudaidh gun dùsgadh nar n-anam leig sinn bhuainn a bhith sireadh cuach òir na grèine torraich chaidh teanga na treubha balbh ach osann gann bìgeil f hann fad cruas mall an earraich gun shamhla againn a shuaineadh ar spiorad ’s ar gnè ann an ròp soilleir daingeann
. . .
bha mise, ’s mo shannt gu tràghadh, a dh’aindeoin, sìor shireadh fiu ’s gaoireag à fidheall no fannal à fanas. is choinnich mi riutsa mar lasair bhlàth ròis às an domhan nochd dhomh blasad dhed bhinneas nad ghnogadh gun f hiosta ’s do thighinn a-staigh orm, is thug thu dhomh samhradh
. . .
cha ghabh d’ àilleachd innse, mo luaidh, chan eil air mo theanga de bhriathran, ach teine falaisgreach. seinneam òran dhut is tuigidh mo chinneadh e, tuigidh m’ aiteam am fonn. tha thu beò rubain ruaidh m’ f hala a dhùisg mi le brùchdadh dearg-leaghte do ghaoil à buillsgean na cruinne ’s tu m’ iarmailt ’s mo thràigh, mo reul-iùil tro gach dochann ’s tu mo ràmh air a’ chuan thoirmsgeach nuair a tha na stuaghan ag èigheach deàlrachd deàlrachd thubhairt fear eile ri tèil’ ann an suidheachadh eile “anns gach cànan a labhras daoine, na truaghain a-mhàin a dh’aithnicheas d’ ainm” ach m’ aideachd àigheach-sa anns gach cànan a labhras daoine bidh d’ ainm air gach teanga, pròiseil, prìseil ’s tu mo chànan bheag sheang ’s tu gam ionnsachadh mo ghaol àrsaidh òg
If you’re fortunate enough to be fluent in Gaelic and the poem can do what it does without the effort of study, let that be sufficient. But if study is required, or if you’d like to consider how the meaning is changed, and yet stays the same, in another language, here’s the English:
you gave me summer de los lenguajes humanos el pobre solo sabria tu nombre — Pablo Neruda winter prevailed over spring it was cold, it was bitter knives of frost cut may trees kept their green enclosed in the narrow rooms of their branches the songbirds of love fled the fields ripples of music abandoned the pools laughter dispersed in vapours of breath beyond the crumbling ridges of our history on sharp indifferent winds the dance of growth stumbled without wakening in our soul we gave up our search for the golden cup of the fertile sun the tribe’s tongue went dumb only a rare sigh, a whisper through the slow hardness of spring we had no symbol to plait our spirit and kind into a bright durable rope
. . .
i, desire all but ebbed, still continued my search for even the mewl of a fiddle or the merest breath from the void. and i met you like the flame of a rose-blossom out of the universe a taste of your sweetness was given to me in your knocking unnoticed and coming in on me, and you gave me summer
. . .
your beauty can not be told, my love, there are not on my tongue enough words but a spreading heathfire. let me sing a song for you and my clan will know it, my people will know the melody. you are alive red ruby of my blood who woke me with the molten eruption of your love from earth’s core you are my sky and my shore, my pole-star through every hardship you are my oar on the turbulent sea when the waves are crying glitter glitter an other said to another, in other circumstances “in all the languages of men, the poor alone will know your name” but i proclaim exultantly in all the languages of men, your name will be on every tongue, proud, priceless you are my small slender language and you are learning me my young ancient love
After which it seems almost unnecessary to go any further, and yet, when we read the Scots language version as well, surely we can understand the fact that language, while it can be a barrier between people, can also equally be what connects us across all the differences.
Ye gied me the simmer de los lenguajes humanos el pobre solo sabria tu nombre – Pablo Neruda the winter wan the gree abuin the spring cauld it wes an atterie mey gat haggit wi gullies o frost the green o the trees wes hainit steikit in the brainches’ nerra rooms mavies o luve forhouit the parks maisic o lippers wes quaet on the lochans lauchter skailt in the haars o braith ayont our birthricht’s auld crynit bauks on wunns sae snell an tentless the dance o the brairdin stachert, waukenin nocht in our sauls we devault wi seekin the gowden quaich o the growthie sun the tung o the fowk gaed dumb but for an antrin souch, a dwaiblie peuch throu the langsome hard o spring wantin a patren til’s tae plet our kin an our speirit intae a strang bricht raip
…
an me, houbeit at the ebb o my ettle aye wes I seekin the peeriest peek o a fiddle or a sowff frae the howes an I met yoursell lik the bleeze o the bluim o a rose frae the hert o the warld kythit the gust o your sweetness tae me in your chappin unkent an your comin inbye tae me an ye gied me the simmer.
…
Your bonnieheid’s no tae be telt, my luve, there isna the words on my tung but a lowe lik muirburn breengin. Lat me sing ye a sang an my fowk will ken it, my clan will ken the lilt o’t. och my bluid’s reid ruby that dang me awauk wi the gowd-burnin brist o your luve frae the warld’s het hert my hevin are you an my shore, my laidstarn throu ilka skaith my oar are you on the walterin seas whan the swaws cries skinkle skinkle anither man said tae anither ’mang ither ongauns “in aa men’s leids, there nane but the puir wull ken your name” but here my ain hertsome furth-tellin: in aa men’s leids, your name wull be hard on ilka tung sae vogie, sae vauntie my leid, smaa an spirlie, are you an ye are learnin me my yung auncient luve
So much is carried and conveyed by such a poem, so many possible forms of praise and respect, humility and desire, the matter of love itself, are reflected and represented by seeing it reflected and refracted through the different languages. A love song for a partner, a beloved person, yes, but also a love song to a language, and perhaps to language itself, to all the forms of language in the world.
And thus, a way of speaking and listening to each other, a form of touching gently, firmly, and an end to war, a stay against the chaos and all the malevolent intentions of certain particular women and men.
We’ll always need such poems as this. Summer returns but it also moves on. We are given such things in our lives, in all the complementarities of human difference, in all the various governments of the tongue.
There are those you can tell will have neither the time nor the sympathy to find the understanding for such matters. Heed them not. Shun them. But be guarded.
They will cause harm and great grief. But there are those who know and whose knowledge comes with their feeling, and whose feelings bring more understanding. Such women and men form the government of the tongue.
Pay attention to them. Keep them in mind. Their works are more needed than ever. Let the poem sink in and stay. The antidote is within it.
