The Old Woman of Beare

A poem from the Irish Gaelic tradition, translated by Brendan Kenneally.

The sea crawls from the shore Leaving there The despicable weed, A corpse's hair. In me, The desolate withdrawing sea. The Old Woman of Beare am I Who once was beautiful. Now all I know is how to die. I'll do it well. Look at my skin Stretched tight on the bone. Where kings have pressed their lips, The pain, the pain.

I don't hate the men Who swore the truth was in their lies. One thing alone I hate– Women's eyes. The young sun Gives its youth to everyone, Touching everything with gold. In me, the cold. The cold. Yet still a seed Burns there. Women love only money now. But when I loved, I loved Young men. Young men whose horses galloped On many an open plain Beating lightning from the ground. I loved such men.

And still the sea Rears and plunges into me, Shoving, rolling through my head Images of the drifting dead. A soldier cries Pitifully about his plight; A king fades Into the shivering night. Does not every season prove That the acorn hits the ground? Have I not known enough of love To know it's lost as soon as found?

I drank my fill of wine with kings, Their eyes fixed on my hair. Now among the stinking hags I chew the cud of prayer. Time was the sea Brought kings as slaves to me. Now I hear the face of God And the crab crawls through my blood. I loved the wine That thrilled me to my fingertips; Now the mean wind Stitches salt into my lips.

The coward sea Slouches away from me. Fear brings back the tide That made me stretch at the side Of him who'd take me briefly for his bride. The sea grows smaller, smaller now. Farther, farther it goes Leaving me here where the foam dries On the deserted land, Dry as my shrunken thighs, As the tongue that presses my lips, As the veins that break through my hands.

Translated from the Irish Gaelic by Brendan Kenneally.