Criss-Cross Mo Chara

By Gearóid Mac Lochlainn and Mark Braidner

Mac Lochlainn works in a unique way. His beat-up anti-heroes are shapeshifters that hover between cultures and wander through broken ‘macaronic’ landscapes. His characters flip a finger at traditions of Irish poetry, translation and storytelling. They leap back and forth, from Bardic poetry to Spaghetti Westerns, from Mississippi blues to sean-nós, weaving a journey that explores the creative process itself.

• Language: Gaeilge
• Publisher: Cló lar-Chonnacht
• Release date: Dec 1, 2011
• ISBN: 9781908947819

Gearóid Mac Lochlainn

Gearóid Mac Lochlainn was born in Belfast in 1966. His last collection of poetry, Sruth Teangacha / Stream of Tongues, with translations in English, received awards nationally and internationally, and selections of his work have been translated into several languages. He has been writer-in-residence at the University of Ulster and Queen’s University, Belfast, and a fellow with the William Joiner Center for the Study of War and Social Consequences (University of Massachusetts, Boston.)

Book preview

Traicliosta

CHANGE

I could hear him singing in the dark.

– I was bornnn by a riv-err, inna little shack …

He was outside the bar, counting change. Stamping his feet, blowing into his fists. Shoppers were sliding around the square with bags of Christmas swag.

– I feel it my bones, he said. Ice. Punters droppin like flies. Everywhere. La temperatura. Jet stream, gulf stream. Fuck it. Whatever. Toco de oído. I’m gettin … sociably aware. Drink? … Take one … por la carretera, hombre … The wide shot. There might not be a take two …

We moved inside to the fire. I stared into the hearth. Flames danced and licked.

– First in line, this shit hole. North, south. East, west. The big freeze. Other people … like some fuckers in some cold place. They’re gonna burn. Hot-cross buns. It’s changing … Criss-cross. Imperial evidence, man. Collation. We’re not on the natural frequency. A mix up … fumamos, amigo?

We went back outside and smoked. Watched the shoppers slide and fall.

– History. All connected, right? One big organism. That’s the way we have to think. Not like rappers. Rappers don’t give a fuck. Fuck rappers …. One big organism. Tents. Snares … Catch our own shit … Mackerel. Hares. La Transición. No shoppin. No Tesco. No Asda. No quiero hablarlo más … Three miles deep, right?

He coughed and killed the smoke. A shopper bit the dust. I said I had to go.

– Via con Díos, chach … Remember. We’re not in Córdoba … yet. Es decidido. Catch our own shit, amigo.

The bell in Chapel Lane tolled six. The ice glinted silver and gold. Another shopper dropped.

THE SEARCHERS

Bhuail mé leis taobh amuigh de Castle Court.

Bhí sé ar lorg SkyBox don TV.

Bhí sé ag iarraidh RTE signal a fháil san árasán.

– ’bhfuil Teilifís na Gaeilge agat? arsa sé,

É ag tarraingt ar dhúidín gaiceach.

– TG4?

– Whatever they call it now? ’bhfuil sé agat?

– Níl. Ach, shíl mé nach raibh spéis agat sa Ghaeilge níos mó?

– Foc an Ghaeilge. Tá mé ag caint ar Westerns, muchacho.

John Wayne, Rio Bravo, El Dorado … Westerns …

– Le fotheidil?

– Béarla! Westerns! Chóir a bheith achan lá. The High Chapparal.

– Gan fotheidil?

– Níl an Ghaeilge bainteach leo, man. Just Westerns,

Chisum, Chato’s Land, Who Shot Liberty? …

Freedom of the press at the Shinbone Star!

Indoubably, yes, pilgrim … Indoubably, yes …

– Ní thuigim …

– Tá sé soiléir go leor, a chara …

My name is Manalito Montoya … agus …

Tharraing sé ar a spliof agus chaith sé é ar an chosán.

Mhúch sé é lena chos agus chleachtaigh sé an quick-draw

Leis an 38 special dofheicthe ar a thaobh …

– Is maith liom amharc ar Westerns, ar seisean.

You gotta have an edge, Gringo,

Even just the sun on your back …

Agus scaoil sé cúpla bounty hunter dofheicthe

Agus shéid sé an deatach de bhairille a ghunna.

– Bhuel, It’s bin good, pardner.

But the horned toad says ‘Mexico …’

Agus d’imigh sé leis ag feadaíl

A Fistful of Dollars.

PENELOPE’S DEAD

He threw the book down on the table. Stared at it.

– I tried to read the stupid book, man. I really did. But this cunt can’t keep it simple … always changin shit.

Have they got another menu here? …

I mean, if I wanna get this bit, right, then I have to read all this other stuff. All this Greek shit that has nothin to do with anything. Right? I mean why should I care about fuckin Hector? Penelope and Zeus? The guy under the sea? All these other fuckers?

He counted his coins. Stacked them in neat little columns …

– Fuckers who can’t get to the point. Cos they’re thinkin bout Penelope…. But Penelope’s dead as Hector, man.

He studied the menu.

– Me? I’m thinking about pesatas, drachmas. Heat! … Coin for the meter. Fuck Penelope!

He ran his fingernail down the little pillars of change again, counting. Then he stared at the book, shook his head, ordered scrambled eggs.

SRÁIDCHEOL

Bhí sé i Sráid Rósmhuire. Hata stetson os a chomhair,

Buataisí buachaill bó air. É ag seinm leis sa cheobhrán

Ar a ghiotár,

– Gonna hang my sombrero on the limb of a treeee

Comin’ home sweetheart darlin …

– Bhuel, hombre. Dia leat. Táimid beo go deo fós, arsa sé.

– Bhuel, Mo Chara?

– An diabhal cathrach seo. Foc it. Shithole!

Tá mé ag imeacht liom. Tá mé caillte cráite ar an talamh seo.

Mar a dúirt an seanfhile, ‘Tá an tír seo focáilte.’

Dhírigh sé a mhéar ar an stetson. Ní raibh ann ach caoga cent.

– Tourists lena fuckin euros, man. An pota róbheag is ní líontar é.

Phioc sé ar na téada go brónach.

– Féach orm. Ag obair go cruaidh is chomh fuar leis an uaigh.

Thosaigh sé ag folcadh fearthainne. Í ag titim go trom orainn.

– Gach bocht le muir is gach saibhir le sliabh, arsa sé.

An giorria san fhásach, an breac ar an lionn. Catch our own shit …

– Go n-éirí leat, arsa mé.

Chaith mé cúpla punt sa stetson. D’fhág mé ansin é,

É ag ceol leis an fhearthainn, de ghuth lagíseal.