Filíocht Nua: New Poetry Dolores Stewart Iníon Galileo Tá sé lámhscríofa i láthair fianaise I seaneaglais San Lorenzo I Leabhair na mBaistí, lomcnámha a breithe: A hainm bhaiste, ainm na máthar, An admháil oifigiúil Gur as an striapachas a gineadh í. I bhfíoraíocht na réalta, d'aithin Galileo An cosán conaire A bhí geallta dá inion i mbealach na bó finne, Rabhachán neimhe ag nochtú na lúibe In a tuismeá Idir lán-sholas na gréine is lag-sholas an ré, Léarscáil nár chríochnaigh sé. * Ar an taobh thall do chaiseal San Matteo, Cuireann Suor Maria Celeste roimpi Cith litreach a sheoladh chuig a h-athair uasal, A tiarna ceana a sholáthair dídean is bia dí I gClochar na Cláiríní Bochta. A ceann crom ar a cuid oibre, lean sí Gan dicheall go foirceann na beatha é Ar a thaisteal Ag treabhadh na mórspéire faoi dhraíocht An ghrianréalta, ceo na dáighe a scaipeadh. Agus fiú nuair a bhuail coradh Tuathail é, thaobhaigh sí leis i bhfeacadh glúine, I dteach a tógadh ar fhuílleach a pheaca. [End Page 40] Galileo's Daughter Written by hand in the presence of witnesses in the old chapel of San Lorenzo; there in the plumped up baptismal book, the bare bones of her birth: The name of the mother— Alongside the official submission that she was born of fornication In sketches of the zodiac, he plots her orbit, the momentum promised to his daughter in the heavens' ledger; sees her face splinter in the candle-lit lenses, the quirks in her horoscope playing tricks with the spyglass in his hand. * On the far side of the castle of San Matteo, Sister Marie Celeste casts off a shower of letters To her illustrious father, the noble lord who provides her with board and lodging In the convent of the Poor Clares. Her head bent, she follows him in prayer to the ends of the earth as he ploughs the furrows of heaven under the spell of the sunstar. And even when he errs in calculating the swing of the pendulum, She sides with him in penance in a house Built on the axis of his sin. [End Page 41] Fabhealscéal Calvino Leath bealaigh ó bhaile, Ar an taobh thall den gabhal, Siúd leis ag ciorclú ar bhearaibh neimhe— goimh an gheimhridh air, Ag fanach ar an loco nach bhfuil ag teach choíche; fear cuasleicneach i bhfásach na hoíche, feadóg na traenach geallta dó agus lóchrann na cruinne gan a bheith múchta. I dtámhnéal an tséasúir, airíonn sé Traein ag falaireacht isteach, gan stad, A scáth féin neamhnaithe i mbóchna plódaithe an charráiste, é ag gliúcaiocht tri cheo na fuinneóige— scáil bánaithe, srianta a bhaithis ag dul i ndearmad, ar nós dúcheist chomhthíoch ar foluain, ach gutha a phiocadh as foclóirín póca, iaraiglifí as sifín súl. Ar an ardán iargúlta úd, ceapann sé Airbhe draodh-ghonta mar gheasa ar an seanbholadh a tá ag sluaisteáil briathra i mbéalaibh stad na traenach. Cé a shamhlódh é nar airígh sé an dubh-oscailt is an traein imithe air? [End Page 42] If on A Winter's Night a Traveller after Calvino (1923–1985) knows that the world is November and it's raining and the last train is gone, that fellow passengers have made their connections or have arrived and left the platform where he stays put like a late-night conductor with his collar crunched up craning to where interlocking lines will cross, a whistle stop down the line, his face set to break into the margins of a page of manifests and schedules, then trails off in parentheses . . . beneath an exit sign; * or, if on...