Cuid I
Turas aigne

Do sheas an trodaí i lár céime,
is bhí fhios aici go raibh umar an chatha léithe.
gach léim, gach gáir, gach lúb ar lár, gach dorn ardaithe,
gach teann ceanndánachta uasal
titithe óna méaranta

mar na scéalta a d’inis Spiorad na h-oíche léithe bréag-chathanna cuisle, scáil físe go bhféadfá greim a leagan orthu
an seomra mar bheadh,
ach na daoine, na daoine ba mhó a haithne orthu
fuar agus gránna.
suarachas don trodaire a leithéid de chacamas

ach is bean í an trodaí fíochmhar seo
tá a croí oscailte, is a súile leáite
agus a meabhair ag prapáil léithe
gan stad gan staonadh.
tá meabhair inti.
ach tá a croí lag

tá máchail éigin ar néaróga na hintinne
a chasann ina dtranglam a cuid smaointe.
má tá féin, dob í a móid,
go gceannsódh sí an diabhal gránna san
a bhí á tachtadh
sprideanna beaga agus pus orthu ag smoocheáil timpeall
ag cur an goimh ar na héinne
nó ar a mbarraicíni timpeall uirthi
féachaint an bpléascfadh sí

níorbh í seo an trodaí
b’í seo an t-aisteoir ag lorg drámaíochta lár-stáitse in ainm na drámaíochta agus na féin-tuisceana
glór istigh ag béiceach go dtuigfeadh duine éigin ionracas a sceimhle
Trodaí sceimhlithe gan de mhisneach aici ach an chath
pé diabhal cath gan dealramh a bhí os a comhair
nó tabhairt isteach don sceimhle

cara an sceimhle céanna ar uairibh,
mar go dtugadh sí dlús dá gnó
nó go mbeadh smut do áit éigin ina diaidh
nuair a bhíodh sruthanna na cruthaitheachta
ag lapadaíl leotha trína méaranta
nó ag sú isteach spleodar radharc tíre
nó cosa Dé is castacht scamall
bhí a sprid ar lasair

nó an rud ba ansa léithe
dhá shúil a bhí lán de rud éigin arbh í mian a croí
dhá shúil, dhíreach, lán le sonas iontu féin
gan díreach di sin ach dóibhsan ar aon
tuiscint dhoimhin bheith eatarthu gurb trodaí í
agus dá bhfaighdeadh sí anál na tuisceana
sin go dtabharfadh sí grá a croí
agus lán a dúthrachta don aontas sin
chomh fada is go mbeadh an bheirt acu ag comhlíonadh a gcoda
agus sásta le chéile agus leo féin

go mbeadh sliabh tuisceana idir í agus duine eile
a thabharfadh grá fireann di agus í ag dul go barr a maitheasa.
ach níl a leithéid de dhuine ar an domhan seo
a chuirfeadh a dhá lámh timpeall ar throdaí
ar bhean,
lán de laigeacht agus fiachmharacht in aon turas chomh scáthúil leis na scamaill

níl ann don fhear a chreidfidh go gcneasóidh sí
dá dtugfaí creidiúint di
agus dhá lámh fháisciúla chiúine a chur thar a com nuair a bheadh sí faoi scamall dhubh na doircheachta

ní hann don fhear sin
ach fágann san gur inti féin atá an leighis
ach tá an mian sruthlaithe as a cuid fola le teann troda
agus siar-chatha agus iomrascáil intinne
agus an sceimhle ghránna

fágann san an trodaí céanna gan uaireanta
ach fuaireacht de leath-chuimhneamh
ar an saol mar atá sé le maireachtaint
dualgais, mac, tig, airgead, cúl-chaint
tachtadh intinne agus easpa comhluadar intleacltúil paróisteachas agus macasamhail saoil


Cuid II
An Turas go Corcaigh

Do lean sí léithe, gan leabh.
gan faic ina croí ach an bóthar
agus umar éigin maitheasa ag a ceann scríbe doircheacht ghránna ag crochadh os a cionn feadh na hama
béicigh ag canadh lena ceol cairte
cos go hurlár agus bhí sí fuar neamhspleách

gan de mhaitheas fágtha inti ach conas a dhéanfadh sí an bheart
sciorradh fé nótaí a d’fhágfadh sí
is cé dhóibh a d’fhágfadh sí iad
nó ba chuma sa diabhal léithe i ndeireadh an lae
mar gheall ar mar go raibh sí caillte sa doircheacht

a chóngaraí a tháinig Máigh Chromtha chuichi
ba dhoimhne an doircheacht
bhí ceist le cur anso
bhí an bás ina diaidh go scáthúil anois
bhí béicigh le déanamh ar na Déithe
mar go raibh an Trodaí i mbaol a báis.


Cuid III
Tobar Ghobnatan

Luigh sí ag éisteacht le siosarnach an tsrutháin
ag éisteacht is ag ciúniú na haigne don achainní a bhí le déanamh.
reilig os a comhair
fear óg curtha ach níorbh áil di cos a leagan ar ithreach na reilige
d’fhonn an bás a fháiltiú ró thapaidh

d’ól sí gal na sástachta.
shiúiligh sí fé bhealach an tobair, cosán thar sruthán bhí an ghrian ag leath imirt tríd na duilleoga glasa os a cionn
an mothú dhraíochta san a bhraith sí cheana
is a mheall thar nais í

chuala sí gadhar ag sceamhaíl
an sceamhaíl, fhiachmhar, phianmhar
os-nádúrtha ag scréachaigh
agus chaith sí smaoineamh ina threo babhtha amháin nó babhta eile féachaint ar chóir di
ceann a thógaint dó nó leanúint lena gnó
ach stad sí agus d’fiafraigh go dtobann
cad é a guí ag an dtobar seo
stop an glór láithreach agus dúirt sí
suaimhneas aigne
dá mbeadh sí ag lorg aon ní ar an domhan seo ghuífeadh sí ar mhaithe le suaimhneas aigne
a bheith aici istigh go smior
ach an bhfuil a hachainní ró mhór?
nach bhfuil an méid sin tuillte aici?
dhírígh sí léithe go dtí an crann agus an tobar
agus na cirteanna is na paidríní
is na rudaí beaga aite eile a bhí crochta mórthimpeall agus léigh sí turas na hoilithreachta

ar dtús bhí sé casta go maith a dhéanamh amach
cé mhéid paidir a bhí le rá ag cén stad
agus sa deireadh thiar thall
bhí sí ag fáil bailithe de agus ansan chonac go gcaithfí
“Creidim i nDia”
a rá ag gach stad i ndiaidh na bpaidreacha

bhí fhios aici láithreach nárbh di sin an módh seo agus bhain sí díthe a brat gruaige corcra
agus thóg cúpla céim síos i dtreo an tobair
uisce agus duilleoga titithe agus ithreach agus d’fháisc sí an brat
chuir sí fé thobar an uisce ansan é
agus chuir sí an brat, fuar, néarógúil
lena héadan, arís lena haghaidh
agus arís le cúl a muineíl

báthadh, suathadh, dúiseacht
bhraith sí éagsúil,
is d’ól trí huaire ón tobar
is thóg sí an brat
agus phrioc sí amach féith taitneamhach
a bhí ag glaoch uirthi ón gcrann leis an brat a cheangal léithe
a hofráil chuig Ghobnait
nó aon ní a bhí ag éisteacht
go néisteodh sí lena guí

ar shiúl amach di
b’ait léi a gnímh ach bhí dúiseacht éigin inti
bhéic os ard ar a hathair, ar Dhia, ar Bhúda
ar gach sean Dé
fóir orm táim ag titim
tá mo smaointe titithe as a chéile
gainmhleach faoi stoirm
agus níl fágtha ach creatlach traochta ag lorg cabhrach

shiúlaigh sí léithe fós sa tsiúl
cuisle inti, a cuisle, b’fhéidir gan fonn
ach faid is a bhí cuisle ann
bhí an trodaí
is an bhean
is an mháthair
is an duine
fós ann.
buíochas le Dia éigin.


Cuid IV
Scáil

Do tháinig sí go Loch na Scáil
féachaint an mbeadh smut dá scáil féinig ann
fhliuch sé agus fhliuch sé agus
bhí corr stróinséir timpeall agus
ní raibh faic uaithi, ach dul síos taobh na locha
lom nocht faoin mbáistigh
is snámh fhada a dhéanamh
d’fhonn gur cleasaíocht na doimhneachta
is na doirchearchta is na dúisithe
a bhí á mealladh

Part I
An Internal Journey

The warrior stood in mid flight
knowing the belly of the flight was with her
each leap, each cry, each missing link, each raised fist each headstrong fit
fallen through her fingers

like the stories the Night Spirits told her
false, pulsating wars, you could almost touch them
the room as is
but the people, the ones she knew best
cold and horrible
the warrior didn’t need this kind of hassle

for this warrior is a fierce woman
with an open mind and eyes peeled
her mind pushing her faculties
never stopping
she is bright
but her heart is weak

the nerves in the mind are sick
and churn her thoughts
even so, she swore
she would beat the devil that was choking her
the little spirits with a pus on them smooching
around pissing everybody off
or else tiptoeing around her
waiting to see if she would explode

this was not the warrior
this was the actor seeking centre stage
in the name of drama and self indulgence
a sound screaming inside that someone would
understand her terror
a frightened warrior with only a fight
whatever bloody fight there was
or give in to the terror

this terror was a friend
who motivated her
always lurking about
but when the streams of creativity
danced through her fingers
or she soaked a splendorous sight
or the rays of the sun under a cloud
her spirit was alive

or the thing she wanted most
two eyes full of that something
two eyes, happy in themselves
not just for her but for them
with a deep understanding that she was a warrior
if she got the breath of understanding
that she would give her hearts love
and her full attention to that union
as long as they both did their bit
happy with each other and themselves

that there would be a mountain of understanding
between her and that person
that would give her love as she blossomed
such a person does not exist
who would put their arms around a warrior
a woman
full of weakness and fierceness at once
as shadowy as the clouds

there does not exist a man who
could believe that she would be healed
and would give credit to her
and put two welcome arms around her waist
when she was under the black cloud of darkness

such a man does not exist
that leaves her to find the potion
her desire brimming in her pulse
and endless wars and mental unrest

so the warrior is left
with a half cold memory
of life as it is to be lived
responsibilities, a son, house, money, gossip
mental strangulation and lack of intellectual
companionship
parochialism and a half baked life


Part II
The Trip to Cork

She carried on childless
the road in her heart
and a vessel of goodness at her destination
a great darkness always hanging over her
roaring lyrics with the car stereo
foot the floor she was independently cold

with no goodness now only how she would commit the act filtering through notes she would leave
and to whom she would leave them
she didn’t give a damn at this stage
for she was lost in the darkness

the closer Macroom came
the deeper the darkness
there was a question to be put here
death was not a shadow behind her
there was roaring to be done at the Gods
for the warrior was close the death


Part III
Tobar Ghobnatan

She lay listening to the babbling of the stream
listening and quietening the mind in preparation for her plea
a graveyard facing her
a young man buried but she could not step on its soil
lest she entice death more quickly

she smoked a happy smoke
and walked the way of the well, a path over a stream
the sun playing through the green leaves overhead
the magic she had felt before
and drew her back

she heard a dog howl
a fierce, painful, howl
an otherworldly screaming
she threw a thought toward it once
or twice wondering whether to pay
attention or continue on her business
but she stopped and suddenly asked
what was her prayer at this well
the sound stopped and she said
peace of mind
if she was looking for anything in this world
she would pray for peace of mind
peace to her core
but is her prayer too great

she headed for the tree and the well
with its beads and cloths
and other odds and ends hanging about
and she read the ritual of the pilgrimage

at first it was difficult to figure out
how many prayers to say at each stop
and in the heel of the hunt
she was getting fed up and she saw that
she would have to say
I Believe in God
at each step after the prayers

she knew immediately that this way was not hers
and she took off her purple headband
and took a few steps toward the well
fallen leaves and water and clay
she squeezed the cloth
and plunged into the waters of the well
and she placed the cold, tingling cloth
to her forehead again to her face
and again to the back of her neck

drowning, immersion, awakening
she felt different
and drank three times from the well
and took her cloth
and chose a pleasing branch
calling to her from the tree and tied the cloth
her offering to Gobnatan
or any listening being
that they would listen to her prayer

as she walked out
she found her actions strange but there was an awakening and she roared aloud at her father, at God, at Buddha
at all the ancient Gods
help me I am falling
my thoughts have fallen apart
a storm in the desert
and all there is a skeleton, tired and seeking help

she kept on walking
a pulse in her, perhaps without conviction
but as long as there was a pulse
the warrior
and the woman
and the mother
and the person
were still there
thanks to some god


Part IV
The Lake of Scáil

She came to the lake of Scáil
to see if she could find her reflection
it rained and rained
and the odd stranger was about
and all she wanted was to go to the lakeside
bare naked in the rain
as if the trickery of the deep
were enticing her

the fairy shadow might swallow and release her
but she felt something higher
and that there would be healing if she did that
but the day was dark and cloudy
filthy wet in its movement and inclination

Scáil was in the lake
and the fairy women were taking the piss out of her
the gods were doing their thing
but Scáil spoke to her from the lake
in a quiet space in her head
she spoke the language of nature
the sounds of the rain and the wind
and the water and the air
greeting toward the mountain

the sound made no sense in the car
so she got out under the heavy rain
put on a long black coat
and headed by the lake into the valley to listen

but she did not speak
she cried
and cried and got wetter and wetter
drowning the heaviness in her heart
and the spirits at once
until her insides tore
like a fierce pain
skin cells shrieking
an eruption in the vagina
bringing death and killing the spirit
at once

she looked up at the two great giant mountains
ancient gaps
and at the great stacks threatening down upon her
terror
she was terrified of the world
and was unable to put a finger on it
for it was before her

she demanded as a right
to let her spirit go
the weaknesses of love
that makes a mess of women
chasing wayward men

she walked deeply
into the valley in the wetness
but she stopped
and she turned
her step quickened
as she made her way back
she heard a high shriek from the peak

now she saw a twisted tree of dead wood
and heard herself calming in the confusion
like the eagle watching its young
Scáil replied
in silent conversation
through the quiet
through every breath
it will be okay
wake up woman and take command
easy
naturally
catch the air
fill your body with goodness
the world of Scáil is in you
for you are a warrior.