While I am working hard to learn Irish, the poet and playwright whom I study did not. William Butler Yeats, Ireland’s greatest poet (i mo thuairim féin) never learned any Irish. He tried, or say he claims, but never got the hang of it. He also tried French, with little success. Yet, he is one of the reasons I am here in Gleann Cholm Cille. I want to put Yeats’ poetry into conversation with fíliocht as Gaeilge to see what their disparate visions of poetry and nation have to benefit from one another. Part of my practice, my journey towards learning Irish, has been to translate Yeats back into his native tongue. While I am not quite ready to share my middling translations here (I read a bit aloud in the pub aréir), I will share a view of Yeats’ favorite mountain, Ben Bulben, I stumbled upon while hiking a mountain that shields Gleann Cholm Cille from the east.
If you look far into the horizon, you will see a mountain range just past the bay. That is Sligo and Yeats’ Ben Bulben.
We had a poetry reading as Gaeilge a few nights ago; it was an amazing chance to hear the language in a new form. I have heard it in conversation, in instruction, in music, and now in poetry. Learning a new language is an opportunity to discover a world of literature that was previously closed off. Immediately after the reading, I got my hands on a few texts by recommended poets. Ansin, caithfidh mé fíliocht a léamh!