Doireann Ní Ghríofa. I was wrong. This poem was published in The Poetry Review, spring issue, 2018. sigh at the child’s smile, Doireann Ní Ghríofa is an Irish writer. from her grip and sends it smashing and makes me a spy. As a conservator rewinds lines Is Ní Ghríofa being tricksy? Doireann Ní Ghríofa is an Irish poet who writes in both Irish and English. into the pavement. Oh, it grows dark and darker. Let her shiver, check the time, A little ink begins to leak from the rifts. This site uses cookies. Night raises only the old roar, sets the stench of petrol spilling once more. Everything’s worse now. Now, I may have no home of my own, I may be alone, but I am not meek. O, the house of the thief is known by the trees. I am a stone released from old gold, shining, shining, and oh, I blaze a Sunday through every week. Her first English-language collection, Clasp (Dedalus Press) won the Michael Hartnett Poetry Award. But a great deal of the power of Ní Ghríofa’s work comes from the way her personal history links her to the wider world – to the imaginative encounters that prompt so many of the poems, to an acute awareness of the restless nature of language itself, and not least to the women who preceded her and who remain a steadying and guiding presence throughout. its digits slipping to 5.59. Shúigh mo chorp do dhúch scoilte, scaoilte. OK, OK. I sit behind her and pry. My flesh bled, absorbing that broken ink, letting your name fall deeper still. Sink. Dual-language format. Doireann Ní Ghríofa Doireann Ní Ghríofa is a bilingual Irish poet whose books explore birth, death, desire, and domesticity. Playing … Awards for her writing include the Rooney Prize for Irish Literature, the Michael Hartnett Prize, and a Seamus Heaney Fellowship. bring us back. slide the phone back in her pocket, “[Ní Ghríofa] achieves the feat of making us look again at the usual and illuminating its pulsating strangeness. O Home. How the library blazed. Anois, is doimhne fós ionam siollaí d’ainm, táid daite im’ chealla; táim breac leat. Sunk. If you’re inside me now, lost, invisible, it’s my fault. How the ballroom shone. Doireann Ní Ghríofa (born Galway, 1981) is an award-winning bilingual writer, whose poems and prose essays have appeared in many Irish and international journals. Is the poet confessing that these poems are all lies? jabbing the lattice of cracks where the clock’s No. To take your name from my skin, lasers split it into a million particles of pigment. Let her lift her phone Tá tú laistigh díom anois – caillte, dofheicthe. tugging precious stones from each brooch’s grip. are the raw material of these vivid and wholly engaging poems, written in Irish, and translated here by the author – a process that itself raises questions about poetry and truth. Shíl mé nach mbeadh ann ach go scriosfaí thú sa tslí chéanna go gcuirfeadh gasúr grainc air féin ag breathnú dó ar chóipleabhar breac le botúin, á shlánú in athuair lena ghlantóir: bhí dul amú orm. When night stirs in me it brings no dream of sea, no quench, no liquid reprieve. When the eaves creaked, one boy turned to me, shy grin turned jeer. the child’s smile, his face grown suddenly lined. I watch her fingers slide over the fractured glass, When I turned to leave, I could feel my back gleam. Night makes a mirror of the window She was born in Galway in … No. O Ash. She is a brilliant addition to the distinguished succession of bilingual poets writing in Irish and English.” — Eiléan Ní Chuilleanáin, Ireland Professor of Poetry. If brigade bells sang, they sang in vain, for flames were already spilling up the drapes, erasing every hand and face from their gilt frames, swiping china and ivory knives, fox-furs and silks. Soon, the bus jolts us through streets Awards for Ní Ghríofa’s writing include a Lannan Literary Fellowship (USA), the Ostana Prize (Italy), a Seamus Heaney Fellowship (Queen’s University), and the Rooney Prize for Irish Literature, among others. We all flinch. "There is a fearlessness in Ní Ghríofa’s work: in the subjects she turns her keen gaze on, but also in the very music she lets play in the lines. When is it a lie? How polite, the strangers who pushed me to choose heirlooms to send out to safety. At 5.56, some glitch, some distraction, Mé féin is tú féin, táimidne do-dhealaithe. from a painting’s tempera eyes, Read all poems of Doireann Ní Ghríofa and infos about Doireann Ní Ghríofa. How their smiles grew shaky when I chose only the front door key. and suburbs and into the dark. Her most recent prose publication is the bestseller A Ghost in the Throat (Tramp Press, 2020) which finds the eighteenth-century poet Eibhlín Dubh Ní Chonaill haunting the life of a contemporary young mother, prompting her to turn literary detective. Doireann Ní Ghríofa is a bilingual writer. Doireann Ní Ghríofa is an Irish poet who writes in both Irish and English. Lies draws on poems from Doireann Ní Ghríofa’s three Irish-language collections to date, Résheoid (2011), Dúlasair (2012) and Oighear (2017), translated by the author herself. I turned from them and saw it begin, our windows brightening, lit one by one from within: cellar, hall, kitchen. I thought they would simply delete you, as a child might find an error in homework, frown, lift a pink eraser, and rub it out. digits progress, still, splintered italics eclipsing O paraffin splash. In night-damp grass, I stood alone. In the 1700s, an Irish noblewoman composes an extraordinary poem that reaches across the centuries to another poet. Click OK to accept and proceed, or read our detailed Cookie Policy for more info. from the path, unharmed. "When we first met, I was a child, and she had been dead for centuries." Lies is a selection of Irish poet Doireann Ní Ghríofa’s Irish language poems, with facing English translations by the poet herself. Lurch this bus into reverse. She was a recipient of the Rooney Prize for Irish Literature. She has published six books of poetry; her collections with Dedalus Press are Clasp (2015) and Lies (2018), a bilingual volume featuring her own English translations and original Irish language poems (first published in individual collections by Coiscéim). I’m sorry, it was me who made us indivisible. 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