Francis Faunt – A wave

IamFrancis Faunt has been writing poetry inspired by the history, beauty, and people of Ireland. W.B. Yeats and the northwest of Ireland is a source of unending inspiration. The author’s goal is to have his poetry available in both Gaeilge and Chinese. The use of both languages in translate is supported by various individuals. It is the author’s desire to add symmetry and universality to his words by using one of the smallest languages and one of the largest. The use of Gaeilge is an attempt by the writer to contribute to and show respect for this beautiful and ancient language. The author lives in Cape May Point, New Jersey.

Poem by Francis Faunt Translation by Antain MacLochlainn

A WAVE

Rhythms beat within my head, marking out the song,

The whistling wind, the waves refrain, the pulse beats hard and strong.

Wither winds on winter days, the fire warms the soul

The gnarled tree in tortured repose clings upon the knoll.

And the rhythms beat within my head, marking out the season

Within surges power natural in a land beyond all reason.

A collage of thought and feeling abound, a kaleidoscope of joy and sound

A collapse of past-remembered dreams and new ones yet unfound.

Waiting at the edge of day, at the edge of night

On the line the great divide, waiting to take flight.

Leaving behind the unfulfilled schemes, letting go of the broken dreams.

Falling unfettered toward the future along and unknown stream.

I stand-alone now and joy enwraps my soul

Released for once to be me in that place beyond the mortal sea

TONN

Rithimí á mbualadh istigh i mo cheann, mar bheadh meadracht amhráin ann

Feadaíl ghaoithe is siansa tonn ina gcuisle bhorb theann.

Agus gaoth dhreoiteach an gheimhridh, a chuireann ag triall ar thinidh sinn

Is a chorraíonn an crann cnapánach atá faoi shuan ar bharr an chnoic.

Rithimí á mbualadh istigh i mo cheann, ar nós mheadracht na séasúr

Cumhacht aiceanta ag cur thar maoil, gan  teorainn lé’ ná réasún.

Measctar machnamh is mothúcháin i gcumasc lúchaire is fuaime

Castar aislingí an lae inné ar aislingí úrnua.

Agus fanaimse i rith an ama, ag comhrac lae is oíche

Ar an teorainn leathan dhomhain údaí, is mé ag súil le héalú

Ó gach scéim atá gan chríochnú, ó gach aisling, fís is beart

Is imeacht liom gan cheangal i dtreo an ama atá le theacht.

Seasaimse liom féin anois, m’anam lán d’aoibhneas

Cead mo chinn is mo chos agam ó dhaoirse mo chomhdhaoine.

Aside | This entry was posted in Poetry. Bookmark the permalink.