‘The way I talk moves, streams and urges, rushing along like water. . .’
‘Mo Shearmon’ / ‘The Way I Talk’
By Crìsdean MacIlleBhàin / Christopher Whyte
Taken from Sound of an Iceberg: New Writing Scotland 37
Published by the Association for Scottish Literary Studies
MO SHEARMON
Mo shearmon siùbhlach struthlach deifreach,
’na ruith gu cabhagach mar an t-uisge
an dèidh da dhoineann bualadh air bearradh àrd
fad uairean, ’s e sireadh gach beàirn is sgoir,
dèin’ air a bhith tèarnadh, a bhith
sgaoilte ann am mìltean dhe chuisleannan
beaga, drillseanach, nach cuir cnap-starra
bacadh fada orra – far an tig stac gu oir,
bidh an t-uisge gu h-obann a’ stealladh
mar gum b’ e falt fuamhair a bh’ ann,
ach leis a’ cheart ghluasad mhì-fhoighidneach
a bhios aig boireannach ’s i tilgeil
a pailteas chiabhan ri taobh
a thuiteam ’nan eas dhe bhoinnean
do-àireamh, làidir, leanmhainneach –
theireadh tu nach fhliuiche idir a bh’ ann
ach sreangan, ròpannan anabarrach tana,
cho tana ’s gum bi sèideadh beag gaoith
a’ fòghnadh gus an toirt às a chèile –
no dh’fhaodadh iad a bhith
’nan cùirtear a tha ceiltinn
chan eil dòigh air nochdadh
ciod e ’n seòrsa thaisbeanadh,
am mireagach no gruamach no co-measgt’ –
mo shearmon a shiùbhlas cho grad
nach bi gu lèor a dh’ùin’ agad
airson freagairt a chruthachadh nad inntinn,
feumaidh greas a bhith ort
ma tha thu ag iarraidh a ghlacadh!
Mo shearmon a tha mar bhòcan beag crùbte
a gheibh a-steach do chùbaid
nach bu chòir neach eile seach am ministear
a bhith ’na sheasamh innte,
le aodach sìobhalta, oifigeil a’ mhinisteir air,
tha e sealltainn dìreach coltach ris
ged a smaoinicheas an coithional
gu bheil e mar gum b’ ann air seargadh –
b’ àbhaist don mhinistear a bhith coimhead
beagan na b’ àirde – agus fhuair
am bòcan gruag bhreugach a dhinn e
sìos air a cheann, bhon a tha fhios ann
falt nam bòcan a bhith cleiteagach, pràbhach
mar nach biodh riamh falt a’ mhinisteir
’s e nochdadh anns an eaglais air Di-dòmhnaich
agus, san tiota a thòisicheas am bòcan a’ bruidhinn,
cha bhi ach treamsgal gun chèill
a’ sileadh a-mach bho bhilean sgabach
do bhrìgh ’s nach eil na bòcain
eòlach air aon chànan daonnda
ach draoidheachd shònraichte a bhith orra –
is ciamar a dh’fhaodadh draoidheachd phàganach
a bhi èifeachdach san eaglais air Dì-dòmhnaich? –
san tiota seo, nochdaidh am ministear
am measg a’ choithional
gun aon chòmhdach air a chom
rùisgte mar san latha a thàinig e dhan t-saoghal
agus bidh e a’ ruith ’s a’ ruith às an eaglais
suas air a’ chnoc a tha faisg oirre
fo mhaoim gum faic an sgìreachd uile
cho crìonach neo-theòma ’s a tha a cholann
’s a bharrachd air sin cho beag ’s a tha a ——
(aon fhacal air a dhubhadh às an seo)
ach air cho clis, grad-shiùbhlach ’s a bhios am ministear
a’ ruith dh’ionnsaigh na coille taobh eil’ a’ chnuic,
fo ionndrainn do bhrìgh ’s gu bheil e cinnteach
nach bi e tachairt ri drathais no briogais
air an crochadh gu dòigheil air geug beithe
no sgithich, mar as àbhaist dhaibh bhith crochte
ann am preas-aodaich farsaing
san dachaigh chomhfhurtail aige –
aig a’ cheart àm, bidh am bòcan a’ leantainn air gu socraichte
treamsgal an dèidh treamsgail a’ tighinn bho bheul
cha robh fhios aige idir e fhèin a bhith
cho sgileil anns an òraideireachd,
tha ’n coithional a’ fàs beagan an-fhoiseil
b’ àbhaist droch latha no dhà a bhith aig a’ mhinistear
cha bhiodh e an còmhnaidh ag ràdh
rudan reusanta no loidigeach
aig amannan bhiodh e doirbh dha-rìribh
aomadh no brìgh a shoisgeulachd a ghlacadh
no aon seagh a b’ fhiachail a tharraing a-mach aiste
ach an-diugh tha e dìreach air a chuthach –
bidh am ministear bochd a’ faighneachd dheth fhèin
am bu chòir dha, ’s dòcha, dàibheadh dhan lochan
ach tha uisgeachan an lochain uamhasach fionnar
b’ fheudar dha snàmh gu tìr is a liubhairt fhèin
mu dheireadh thall – air cho bun-os-cionn,
dian, clisgeach ’s a bhios am ministear fo oillt
a’ saigheadh air adhart ’na dheann-ruith,
cha ruig e ’m feast’ an luathas a th’ aig
Mo shearmon a bhios uaireannan mar fhiadh sgeunach
nach fhaicear ach plathadh dheth am measg nan duilleagan
leis cho meata prìobhaideach ’s a tha e
agus an uair sin, gun rabhadh idir, mothaichidh tu dha
a’ streup suas air a’ bhràighe
is smaoinichidh tu gum faodadh sin a bhith ’na aisling
bhon a tha am fiadh cho mòrail, rìoghail, coileanta ’na mhosgladh
gach ball dheth a’ co-oibreachadh le chèile
mar gun robh e ’g itealaich an àit’ a bhith siubhal,
creididh tu cuideachd gum b’ fheàrr math dh’fhaodte
nach robh sin ach ’na aisling bho nach bitheadh
modh no inneal ann an uair sin
beud no aimhleas a bhith beantainn dha,
bhiodh e do-ruighinn do-leònadh do-chiùrradh
mar gach rud a chruthaich mac-meanmna
no a thugadh dhuinn ann am bruadar,
cho iomlan, cuimir, do-chlaoidheadh –
agus their thusa riut fhèin:
“Chan eil mise creidsinn ann an Dia sam bith,
chan e Crìostaidh no Muslamach a th’ annam,
cha bhi mi toirt mo thaic do ghin dhe na seann-teagasgan
mu bhodach aosta, fòirneartach
no mu na h-àitheantan a sgrìobh e sìos
gu bhith gan leantainn leinn
no mu na peanasan sìorraidh
a tha a’ feitheamh oirnn
mur a bi sinn strìochdail gu leòr” –
ach their thu cuideachd gur dòcha sin
am faireachdainn a bhiodh aig Dia fhèin
an uair a chruthaich e creutair ùr de fheòl ’s de fhuil
gu bhith ga shuidheachadh am bad àraidh dhen t-saoghal
Mo shearmon gun fhios dè cho fada ’s a tha e dol a bhith
’s dòcha gun tèid mi air adhart
gus am faigh Alba neo-eisimeileachd
aig a’ cheann thall agus
“Abraibh rium! Sibhse aig a bheil
dlighe air inntreachdainn sa bhùth bheag is crois
a chur sìos ri taobh na beachd as fheàrr leibh
eadar ’s gu bheil sibh gealtach no dàna!!
Ciod e an àireamh bhliadhnaichean as fheudar traoghadh
mus tig an latha miannaichte sin?”
Mo shearmon a bhios ’na dhearbhadh nach eil
coltas sam bith ann gu bheil
an cànan seo fo smachd a’ bhàis
a dh’aindeoin na their a’ chuid anns an dùisg
a’ Ghàidhlig gràin no gamhlas, a bha co-èigneachadh
ar pàrantan is ar seann-phàrantan
gus a mùchadh ’s a dearmad,
a dh’aindeoin linn sàrachail fadalach
nuair nach ceadaichte a h-ùisneachadh san oilthigh no san sgoil,
sam bruidhneadh na fir-teagaisg
eadhon air cuspair Gàidhealach sa Bheurla,
ar cànan fhìn a dh’fhàs ’na adhbhar-maslaidh,
’na chomharradh air bochdainn’ is ainfhios
na feadhna chleachdadh ann an cagair e –
smaoinichidh mi air cruinneachadh sgoilearan
bliadhnaichean air ais sa Phòlainn, ann
am baile ris an can na daoine Szczecin
baile Pruiseanach a bh’ ann ron chogadh,
Stettin an t-ainm a bh’ air, bha suipeir
fhèiseil, mheadhrach a’ dùnadh na còmhdhalach,
òigear ann, ’s e Sasannach, bha ’g obair
ann an oilthigh san Eadailt, mar a rinn mi fhìn
is mi ’nam òigear, ach nuair a chaidh mi null
a bhruidhinn ris, an ciad rud a thuirt e,
b’ e Not many people speak that language
agus chuala mise mo ghuth fhìn ag ràdh
gu soilleir, stèidhichte, a’ toirt
a thruime sònraichte ri gach aon lide
I – just – haven’t – got – the – time
dh’èirich mi air ball is chaidh mi thairis
gu na boireannaich Phòlainneach nach bitheadh,
bha mi cinnteach, claon-bhreith dhen t-seòrs’ ac’
’s nach iarradh orm bruidhinn mu dheidhinn cuspair
a bhruidhinn mi mu dheidhinn cho tric san àm a dh’fhalbh
’s gu robh e faisg air sgreamh a dhùsgadh annam –
nuair a sheall mi air ais, cairteal uarach às a dhèidh,
bha an t-òigear a’ coimhead orm fhathast
iongnadh air aodann, theireadh tu
gun d’ fhuair e dìreach sgealp air a ghruaidh
agus smaoinich mise nach robh teagamh ann
nach e dreuchd a tha a’ beantainn ruinne fhìn
barrachd foghlaim a sholarachadh do luchd na Beurla
Mo shearmon aig nach bi ach fìor-chorra uair
an aon mhaille eagnaidh, mhion-chùiseach a bhios
uaireannan aig mo leannan ’na ghnìomhachadh –
cha bu chaomh leam sibh a bhith gam thuigsinn ceàrr,
faodaidh a’ chùis gu lèir a bhith air a coilionadh
ann an ùine ghoirid cuideachd, mar an turas sin
a bha sinn còmhla nar suidhe aig cuirm-bainnse
is bana-charaid ghràdhaichte air pòsadh aig a’ cheann thall –
theab sinn gach dòchas a chall oir bha
uimhir a chompanaich air a bhith aice, cuid dhiubh
geanalta gu leòr ach cuid eile nach gabhadh
creidsinn gu robh i comasach air feart thaitneach
no tharraingeach sam bith fhaicinn
ann an uilebheist dhen seòrs’ ud – chan ann
mu dheidhinn gastachd no ciatachd a tha mi bruidhinn
ach mu eileamaidean nas bunailtiche riatanaiche
mar, dè cho tric ’s a bhios cuideigin ga nighe san t-seachdain
air neo, gu leòr a mhion-airgead a bhith ’na phòcaid
gus dà chofaidh a phàigheadh, gun iomradh air notaichean –
bha feasgar àraidh ann a thàinig esan dhachaigh
cha d’ fhuair sinn bloigh de chadal gu trì uairean san oidhche
’s e bruidhinn is a’ bruidhinn mun chùram a bh’ aige
air sgàth na bana-charaid ud – ach a nis bha coltas ann
a h-uile rud a bhith air a seatlaigeadh gu dòigheil,
mo leannan riaraichte mar a bha mise,
sinn nar dithis beagan nar misg, ris an fhìrinn innse
ged nach robh na mìlseanan fhathast air am bòrd a ruighinn
ach bha am fìon a dhòirt iad nar gloinneachan
blasta gu h-ìre nach fhurast’ a chur an cèill –
thuig mi bho mar a bha e sealltainn orm
cha duirt mi facal is mhair esan cuideachd ’na thost,
lean mi e gus an taigh bheag aig na fireannich –
b’ e taigh-òsta anabarrach rumail is spaideil a bh’ ann,
suidhichte am meadhan pairce mhòir, agus na caibeineidean
san taigh bheag aibheiseach mar gach uidheam eile,
thachair a h-uile rud gu luath snog, bha sinn fortanach,
cha d’ rinn neach eile ar ruighinn fhad ’s a bha sinn ann –
an dèidh dhuinn an t-èideadh foirmeil aig a chèile
a chur gu mionaideach air gleus, mar a bha feumail,
chaidh sinn air ais gus an talla mhòr
far an robh a’ chuideachd uile ’na suidhe –
ach ’s ann mu dheidhinn maille shònraichte a thig air
am mòmaidean ainneamh a bha mi ’g iarraidh bruidhinn,
neo-ar-thaing gu bheil sinn air uimhir a bhliadhnaichean
a chur seachad le chèile, mar as trice is esan
a stèidhicheas ruithim an t-sùgraidh,
chan eil mi cinnteach carson a tha sin a’ tachairt,
’s a’ mhaille ud a’ misneachadh faireachdainn annam
cho anabarrach tlachdmhor ’s gu bheil e an impis a bhith pianail –
faodaidh an ceart ruithim a bhith uaireannan aig
Mo shearmon mar chuthachd aighearach nan gobhlan-gaoithe
ann am baile beag san Eadailt air barr cnuic
le bòtharan corrach, caola ’s na taighean cho faisg
air a chèile, bidh tu ri plosgartaich mun ruigear leat
mu dheireadh an sguèar a dh’fhosglas air a’ mhullach –
mothaichidh tu gu h-obann dha na gobhlanan-gaoithe
gan cur air bhoil le camhanaich an latha
dìreach mar a bhios a’ chlann a’ ruith
a’ glaodhach ’s a’ brùchdadh a-mach
sna deich mionaidean mus tèid iad dhan leabaidh
an nàdar fhèin a’ fàsgadh bhuap’
gach aon luirg air smioralas no guaineas,
a’ cuimhneachadh mar a bhrùthas neach spong
gu teann eadar a mheuran gus a h-uile
boinn’ a fhliuich’ a dh’fhanas innte fhuadachadh –
na gobhlanan-gaoith’ gu trang a’ figheadh sa chamhanaich
lìn aibhisich len goban, a’ glacadh
snàthainnean an dorchadais an siud ’s an seo,
chan e na cuileagan no na meanbh-bhiastagan
itealach eile a cheapas iad, ach cinn
sreanganan na duibhr’ ag udal san adhar,
iad gu dìcheallach a’ saigheadh
eadar nam bunnacha-bac, a’ teannachadh
na lìn ud anns an tèid an’ oidhch’ a ribeadh
gu mall rùnaichte dh’aona-ghnothach,
plangaid dhubh a’ teàrnadh oirnn uile
a cho-èignicheas eadhon an fheadhainn as buaireasaiche
’s an-fhoiseile dhen chloinn a ghèilleadh
ris a’ chadal a dheòin no a dh’aindeoin
ged nach do dh’fhàs iad fhathast sgith dhe
Mo shearmon . . .
THE WAY I TALK
The way I talk moves, streams and urges,
rushing along like water when a storm
has beaten for hours on a high ridge,
seeking out every gap and notch,
aching to descend, to be scattered
in thousands of small, gleaming
rivulets no obstacle can hold back
for long – where a crag reaches an edge
suddenly the water spurts
like the hair of a giant,
but with the same impatient gesture
a woman has tossing her mass of hair
to one side, so it descends
in a waterfall of countless
drops, powerful and insistent –
you would think it wasn’t wetness at all
but cords, unbelievably thin ropes,
so thin a gust of wind suffices
to dishevel them – or else
they could be a curtain hiding
who can tell what kind of a performance,
comical or tragical or both –
proceeding so fast
you won’t even get time
to form a question in your mind,
you’ll have to put your skates on
if you want to catch up with
The way I talk like a little hunched goblin
who somehow managed to get into the pulpit
where no one else but the minister
has any right to go,
wearing the minister’s fine, official garb
and looking very like him
even if the congregation have the feeling
he sort of shrank –
the minister generally looked
that little bit taller – the goblin also
got hold of a wig he pushed
down onto his head, because everyone knows
goblins have shaggy, unkempt hair
such as the minister’s would never be
when he appears in church on a Sunday
and, as soon as the goblin starts talking,
nothing but senseless drivel
comes from his scabby lips
given that goblins are incapable of speaking
any human language whatsoever
unless under a particular spell –
and how could a heathen spell
work in church on a Sunday? –
at that very moment, the minister
appears in the midst of the congregation
naked as on the day he came into the world,
he runs and runs out of the church
up onto the hill close by
terrified that the whole shire will see
how withered and uncoordinated his body is
and besides that, the smallness of his ——
(one word has been crossed out)
but however nimbly and speedily the minister
sprints towards the wood on the far side of the hill,
filled with melancholy because he knows only too well
he won’t come upon a pair of trousers or underpants
hanging tidily on the branch of a birch tree
or an ash, the way they usually hang
in the spacious cupboard
of his comfortable home –
meanwhile the goblin chunters on determinedly,
more and more rubbish coming out of his mouth,
he had no idea he was such a splendid orator,
the congregation is getting a bit restless,
from time to time the minister would have a bad day
the things he used to say weren’t always
reasonable or logical, at times
it was extremely difficult
to grasp what he might be getting at
or extract any worthwhile meaning from his preaching
but today he has really lost the place –
the poor minister is wondering
if maybe he ought to dive into the loch
though the water is tremendously cold,
he would have to swim to the shore in the end
and hand himself over – however helterskelter,
headlong the panicking minister is
as he shoots onwards like an arrow in his flight,
he’ll never match the speed of
The way I talk, at times like a shy deer
you only catch a glimpse of through the foliage
because it is so withdrawn and private
and then, without warning, you see it
climbing up the braeside
and you tell yourself it could be a vision
because its movements are so majestic, kingly, consummate
all of its limbs working together
as if it were flying rather than running,
and you wonder if it might be better
for it to be a vision, because then
there would be no way or possibility
for harm or malice to reach it,
the deer would be inaccessible, invulnerable
like whatever the imagination produces
or something we see in a dream,
perfect, shapely, invincible –
and you say to yourself:
“I don’t believe in any kind of a god,
I am neither a Christian nor a Muslim,
I don’t support any of the old doctrines
about a venerable, violent old man
or the commandments he wrote down
for us to follow,
or the eternal punishment
waiting on us
if we are insufficiently obedient” –
but you also say that maybe this
was how God himself felt
after making a creature of flesh and blood
to set down somewhere in the world –
The way I talk, without anybody knowing
how long it is going to continue
maybe until Scotland finally
achieves independence, and:
“Tell me! You who have the right
to enter the little cubicle and put
a cross next to the policies you favour
however courageous or craven you may be!!
How many years still need to pass
before that longed for day arrives?”
The way I talk which proves beyond question
death is not going to triumph over this language
whatever people who regard Gaelic
with distaste or detestation may say,
the ones who forced our parents and grandparents
to suppress it and neglect it,
all through endless, oppressive years
when it couldn’t be used at school or at university,
when teachers would use English
even for discussing Gaelic topics
and our language was a source of shame,
a symbol of poverty and ignorance
for the people who spoke it in a whisper –
it makes me think of a conference
I attended years back in Poland,
in a town they call Szczcecin,
a Prussian town before the war,
Stettin was its name then,
the whole business concluded
with a joyous, festive dinner,
there was a young Englishman who taught
at a university in Italy, as I had
when I was young, and when I went over
to speak to him, the first thing he said was
“Not many people speak that language”
and I heard my own voice saying
firmly, steadily, giving due weight
to each single syllable:
“I – just – haven’t – got – the – time”
I got up at once and went over
to the Polish women who I was sure
wouldn’t have prejudices of this sort
and wouldn’t ask me to talk about something
I’d been asked so often in the past
it simply made me feel sick –
when I looked round, a quarter of an hour later,
the young man was still gazing at me
with a surprised expression, you would think
someone had just struck him on the cheek
and I decided there was no question about it,
it’s not a job we have to take on,
educating people who promote English –
The way I talk, which very, very rarely
has the same detailed, punctilious slowness
my partner occasionally has when making love –
I wouldn’t want you to get me wrong,
sometimes the whole business is over
in a very short time, like the day
we were both sitting at a wedding lunch –
a dear woman friend had finally married –
we practically lost hope, because
she had been with so many guys, some of them
perfectly acceptable, but others
there was no way you could grasp how she could possibly
find anything pleasing or attractive
in a monster of that sort – I’m not
talking about manners or looks
but about basic, indispensable things
like, how many times in the week somebody washes,
or having enough change in their pocket
to pay for two coffees, not to mention notes –
one night my partner came home,
we didn’t get a wink of sleep till three in the morning,
he kept on and on with how worried he was
about our woman friend – and now it looked
as if everything had got settled properly,
my partner was as pleased as I was,
the two of us slightly tipsy to tell the truth,
even though they still had to serve the puddings
but the wine they poured into our glasses
was excellent in a way I can’t describe –
I realised from how he was looking at me,
and followed him without saying a word
to the gents’, he too was silent –
it was an unusually spacious and posh hotel,
in the middle of a big estate, the toilet
cubicles were as huge as everything else,
we got through it neatly and quickly, we were lucky,
nobody else entered all the time we were there –
once we had adjusted our formal clothes
with due care, we went back
to the big hall where everyone was seated –
but what I wanted to talk about was
the particular slowness that comes over him
in certain rare moments, even if the two of us
have been together for such a long time,
generally he sets the rhythm of our lovemaking,
I couldn’t actually say why this happens –
that slowness awakens a sensation in me
so acutely pleasurable it almost hurts –
sometimes there is that same rhythm in
The way I talk, like the exultant craziness
of swallows in an Italian hilltop village
with twisting, narrow lanes and the houses
so close to each other, you are spluttering
before you finally reach the square
that opens at the summit – all of a sudden
you notice the swallows going crazy in the twilight,
just the way children will run around
shouting and exulting in the ten
minutes before they get into bed,
nature itself squeezing out of them
every last trace of energy or mischief,
making you think of how you squeeze a sponge
tightly between your fingers to expel
every last remaining drop of moisture –
the swallows busy weaving in the dusk
a huge net with their beaks, catching
the strands of darkness here and there,
it’s not midgies or other flying
insects they intercept, but the ends
of threads of darkness floating in the air
as diligently they dart back and forth
between the eaves, intently weaving
that net tighter, gradually and deliberately
so the night can get trapped in it,
a dark blanket descending on us
that forces even the most tempestuous
and restless of children to yield in the end
to sleep, even if they’re still not tired of
The way I talk . . .
translated by Shuggie McCall
‘Mo Shearmon’ / ‘The Way I Talk’ by Crìsdean MacIlleBhàin / Christopher Whyte is taken from Sound of an Iceberg: New Writing Scotland 37, published by the Association for Scottish Literary Studies, priced £9.95
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