Clo Duri Bezzola in Gaelic

Madainn

Sgòthan a’ pògadh mu do chneas

Bho bheul gu beul
A’ ghealach air an allaban
Ann an teangachan solais

Na rionnagan gan leagail
A-mach às na làmhan againn

Maurice Chappaz in Gaelic

B’ Fheàrr Leam Pògan

B’ fheàrr leam pògan
Seach ceileireadh nan eun.
A sheinn bho bhriseadh-na-fàire
Mu na gruaidhean ‘s na fabhraichean agad.
B’ fheàrr leam an oidhche
Seach an latha,
Ùrnaigh seach obair,
An t-sàmhchair
Seach briathran.
B’ fheàrr leam an t-sìorraidheachd
Seach a’ bheatha
Ged nach biodh ann ach tiotan.

Image based on the character Florentino Ariza in Gabriel Garcia Márquez's Love in the Time of Cholera

On a terrace in the Botanischer Garten, garlanded with German and French
And English and Latin flora, a young man reads on a bench.

S. Corinna Bille in Gaelic

Fosgail an Uinneag

Fosgail an uinneag
Ach an gabh mi a-steach nam anail
Am fìonan fo bhlàth
Thuirt a’ chailleach a’ dol eug.

Bha uiread a ghaol
Aic’ air an fhonn
‘S nach b’ urrainn dhi fhàgail buileach.

Sgaoil a gruag a-mach na maotharain
‘S fo bhuinnein nam fìonan
Bha na sùilean aic’ fhathast a’ sealltainn oirnn.

Achtung!

Suddenly in a clearing, a fence, a Volkswagen in an outhouse full of dung
And fodder and stuff like it was back there in Derryoober. The sign’s right: Achtung!

Issa

sèimh is ciùin,
a’ sealltainn air na h-Alpaichean,
gille-cràigein

À L'Étranger

À l’étranger in Rossacher out of the Gurtenbahn, looking out on Berne,
I could be Sweeney or Éamonn an Chnoic or a woodkerne.


From the site highland-gurten.ch near Gurten Kulm,
I can see virtually all the way home clear to Duntulm.


I met her on a Privatweg. I bent down to give her a kiss.
She turned her cheek and went: No! Not one! Three! Ah, the Swiss!


A shop full of whisky and tartan and other Scottish things. Might it be amiss
If I were to demonstrate, by way of a further example, a Glesga kiss?


On the Wanderweg, no, the Meanderweg, I stop and think of home at every turn.
Duisdale Burn. Muir-burn. Saddle burn. Heartburn.

Remo Fasani in Gaelic

Feasgar anns na Beanntan

Solas mar am fìon
Ri losgadh mun fhàire làn sneachda
‘S criothnachadh an crochadh os cionn nan creag.

An oidhch’ air nochdadh,
An uair sin a’ ghaoth na misg
Ri slacarsaich nan taighean aosta
‘S ri blaomadaich fhathast ann an aislingean.

Tha ‘n tuainealaich a-cheana
Ri sgiathalaich mu gach palla,
Clamhan ri farsanaich am fad na h-oidhche ‘s i falamh.

Willkommen in der Blogosphere

Another country. A different language. A map says You Are Here.
A sign says Willkommen in der Blogosphere.


Here I am, an embedded observer at my oeuvre in my own atelier in a loft
Looking down on the city, no, the town, no, the village, no, the croft.


March, Bern, Helvetiaplatz, the Aare. On the first leg
Of the Wanderweg.


Shake a leg, it’s nearly half past three!
Time to go out again on Wege zu Klee.


On the Rundgang, going through the motions, I imagine Klee out for a lunchtime jog
With an Ohrwurm that won’t go away: Walking the Dog.

Wanderweg

Sunday afternoon. Everywhere closed. Christkatholische Kirche. Wandering.
Munsterplatz. Chapelle de L’Église Libre. I hear bells ring.


The Stadtbach outside of the Rathaus is the only sound
I can make out. Everything else is all underground.


The Aareweg by the wood is full. I’ve gone and lost my way.
All green. It could be in Chicago on St. Patrick’s Day.


St. Patrick’s Day. I meet them at the station.
In the Barengraben, they’re all coming out of their hibernation.

Two Minutes

The rain appears in small drops, barely
Discernible, as I look out of my study
Down on the square and the passers-by
And minibuses on Speichergasse,
One-way, at a ninety degrees angle
Precisely, punctiliously, without the slightest fuss.

Another two minutes and they’re all gone
And the sun shines
On the skylights and shutters of Office World Express.