Lurch this bus into reverse. When I turned to leave, I could feel my back gleam. I watch her fingers slide over the fractured glass, 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. Tá tú laistigh díom anois – caillte, dofheicthe. When is it a lie? A little ink begins to leak from the rifts. 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. O Ash. A deep intelligence informs the strategies and approaches in the poems, and a generosity of spirit and openheartedness are signal qualities" — Paula Meehan, Ireland Professor of Poetry, (for correspondence only) Dedalus Press 13 Moyclare Road Baldoyle Dublin 13 K1C2 IRELAND, For the latest news & special offers direct to your inbox. digits progress, still, splintered italics eclipsing 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). Now, I may have no home of my own, I may be alone, but I am not meek. 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.
Is Ní Ghríofa being tricksy? As a conservator rewinds lines Is the poet confessing that these poems are all lies?
Nuair a baineadh d’ainmse de mo chraiceann, bhris na léasair an tatú ina mílte cáithníní líocha. I sit behind her and pry. Take us back, driver. © 1909 - 2020 The Poetry Society and respective creators • Site by Surface Impression. O, the house of the thief is known by the trees. Sunk. Sink. and makes me a spy. No. Lies is a selection of Irish poet Doireann Ní Ghríofa’s Irish language poems, with facing English translations by the poet herself. In the 1700s, an Irish noblewoman composes an extraordinary poem that reaches across the centuries to another poet. Let her shiver, check the time, Click OK to accept and proceed, or read our detailed Cookie Policy for more info. Ghosts, those flames, racing up the stairs, sending smoke through slates, a constellation of sparks to star the dark. She was born in Galway in … some finger twitch, slips the phone
the child’s smile, his face grown suddenly lined. In night-damp grass, I stood alone. Dual-language format. Doireann Ní Ghríofa is an Irish poet who writes in both Irish and English. The bold and arresting title of Dorieann Ní Ghríofa’s latest collection - Lies- tips the reader into a quiver of questions before she has opened the book.
Doireann Ní Ghríofa Doireann Ní Ghríofa is a bilingual Irish poet whose books explore birth, death, desire, and domesticity. from a painting’s tempera eyes, If you’re inside me now, lost, invisible, it’s my fault. Everything’s worse now. O Home. 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. 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.
"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. My flesh bled, absorbing that broken ink, letting your name fall deeper still. When does a poem tell the truth? Soon, the bus jolts us through streets How the ballroom shone. When night stirs in me it brings no dream of sea, no quench, no liquid reprieve. Her first English-language collection, Clasp (Dedalus Press) won the Michael Hartnett Poetry Award. and suburbs and into the dark.
We all flinch. 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. Doireann Ní Ghríofa is an Irish writer. jabbing the lattice of cracks where the clock’s Shúigh mo chorp do dhúch scoilte, scaoilte. “[Ní Ghríofa] achieves the feat of making us look again at the usual and illuminating its pulsating strangeness. slide the phone back in her pocket,
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Read all poems of Doireann Ní Ghríofa and infos about Doireann Ní Ghríofa. Doireann Ní Ghríofa poems, quotations and biography on Doireann Ní Ghríofa poet page. No. OK, OK.
Doireann Ní Ghríofa. 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. Anois, is doimhne fós ionam siollaí d’ainm, táid daite im’ chealla; táim breac leat. To take your name from my skin, lasers split it into a million particles of pigment. Doireann Ní Ghríofa Ireland. Oh, it grows dark and darker. 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. How polite, the strangers who pushed me to choose heirlooms to send out to safety.
This site uses cookies. Photograph: Pat Boran, ‘and the fire brought a crowd in’ – Austin Clarke, The Planter’s Daughter. Sink. I’m sorry, it was me who made us indivisible.
O paraffin splash.
Mé féin is tú féin, táimidne do-dhealaithe. tugging precious stones from each brooch’s grip.
Night raises only the old roar, sets the stench of petrol spilling once more. In Lies, intimate moments carefully re-appraised (first dates, break ups, young parenthood, etc.) I turned from them and saw it begin, our windows brightening, lit one by one from within: cellar, hall, kitchen. It grows dark. its digits slipping to 5.59. 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. Northern Ireland’s leading contemporary multi-artform festival largely goes virtual for 2020, For the best site experience please enable JavaScript in your browser settings, Free resource aims to help businesses tackle employee stress and wellbeing, Workplace solutions that help us work together, Business owners hopeful of new guidelines for levels of personal injury damages, Workplace solutions for enterprise organisations in a changed world, A Light That Never Goes Out by Keelin Shanley: a down-to-earth account of a life well lived, Earthlings: Funny, dark and not for the squeamish, Little Dancer Aged Fourteen: Life of the model for Degas’s artwork, The Divine Comedy: Venus, Cupid, Folly & Time – Thirty Years of The Divine Comedy, Belfast International Arts Festival returns for its 58th edition, Paul Mescal goes 'in at the deep end' with Rolling Stones music video, 40 Irish female artists cover Cranberries 'Dreams' to raise money for abuse victims, Vera Lynn, the 'Forces’ Sweetheart', dies aged 103, Live music back on the bill as Australians enjoy drive-in concert, Andrea Bocelli mesmerises in performance from empty Milan cathedral, Netflix: The best 50 films to watch right now, The BBC still rues the day Jeremy Clarkson hit an Irishman, Roddy Doyle: ‘My unpublished first novel was sh*te’, Cardi B and Jon Bon Jovi in a tough contest for ill-educated narcissist of the week, Sam McConkey’s Spinal Tap moment takes the restrictions debate to Level 10, Co-living development ‘will destroy’ North Great George’s Street, Researched to death? Awards for her writing include the Rooney Prize for Irish Literature, the Michael Hartnett Prize, and a Seamus Heaney Fellowship. bring us back. 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. How their smiles grew shaky when I chose only the front door key. I am a stone released from old gold, shining, shining, and oh, I blaze a Sunday through every week. "When we first met, I was a child, and she had been dead for centuries."
Doireann Ní Ghríofa is an Irish writer. Now, you’re stuck in there, wedged somewhere in my innards’ disarray, between my arteries, my shame, my quivering veins, and I, I must live with your syllables, smashed, astray. How the library blazed. O night. In 2020: 'A Ghost in the Throat' published by Tramp Press to critical acclaim. Old men watched me from the lawn; I knew their mute gaze, grown grey, grown cold, as I knew all the women on the gravel, folding whispers in their shawls.
Her first English-language collection, Clasp (Dedalus Press) won the Michael Hartnett Poetry Award. from her grip and sends it smashing Doireann Ní Ghríofa is an Irish poet who writes in both Irish and English. This poem was published in The Poetry Review, spring issue, 2018.
Let her lift her phone
At 5.56, some glitch, some distraction, sigh at the child’s smile, Playing … She is a brilliant addition to the distinguished succession of bilingual poets writing in Irish and English.” — Eiléan Ní Chuilleanáin, Ireland Professor of Poetry.
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