“A savage is not the one who lives in the forest but the one who destroys it.”.

a savage

A savage is not the one who lives in the forest but the one who destroys it.” Unknown

Out of all those millions and millions of planets floating around there in space, this is our planet, this is our little one, so we just got to be aware of it and take care of it. – Paul McCartney

No issue is more compelling than the air we breathe, be it hot or cold, be it hawk or human. – Jack Nicholson

Conservation is a state of harmony between men and land. – Aldo Leopold

The proper use of science is not to conquer nature but to live in it. – Barry Commoner

It was not until we saw the picture of the earth, from the moon, that we realized how small and how helpless this planet is – something that we must hold in our arms and care for. – Margaret Mead

I conceive that the land belongs to a vast family of which many are dead, few are living, and countless numbers are still unborn. – Nigerian Chief

Where the quality of life goes down for the environment, the quality of life goes down for humans. – George Holland

The battle we have fought, and are still fighting, for the forests is a part of the eternal conflict between right and wrong. – John Muir

Plans to protect air and water, wilderness and wildlife are in fact plans to protect man. – Stewart Udall

green is the prime colour

You could cover the whole earth with asphalt, but sooner or later green grass would break through. – Ilya Ehrenburg

The activist is not the man who says the river is dirty. The activist is the man who cleans up the river. – Ross Perot

The use of solar energy has not been opened up because the oil industry does not own the sun. – Ralph Nader

Waste not the smallest thing created, for grains of sand make mountains, and atomies infinity. – E. Knight

Man is a complex being: he makes deserts bloom – and lakes die. – Gil Stern

Anything else you’re interested in is not going to happen if you can’t breathe the air and drink the water. Don’t sit this one out. Do something. – Carl Sagan

The fate of the living planet is the most important issue facing mankind. – Gaylord Nelson

Sustainability is about ecology, economy and equity.- Ralph Bicknese

If we go on using the Earth uncaringly and without replenishing it, then we are just greedy consumers. – Satish Kumar

we never know the worth of water

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Tar Éis an Rabharta By Niamh Ní Lochlainn

Tar Éis an Rabharta
(Muighinis 2004)

Tonnta reatha ag rince chun cladaigh,
faoileáin go biorrach ar foluain,
ceann róin á bhá
is ag gobadh aníos chun anála,
salachar feamainne ar charraig,
broc le chur de ag an bhfarraige.

Seasaim ar tráigh
mar a sheas mná ar oileáinín mara,
iad ag caitheamh gainimhe le sáile
ag impí ar Dhia
an stoirm a cheansú
is na hiascairí a thabhairt abhaile.

Achainaímse, go dtiocfaidh lagtrá
maidin ghréine
is go nochtar athuair
tobairín mara,
suaiteacht cealaithe,
ionlach ar dhuirling chun feamainne.

In English  

After the Surge
(Muighinis 2004)

A run of waves dancing to the shore,
sharp-eyed seagulls hover,
a seal’s head being drowned
then re-emerging for breath,
seaweed littered on a rock,
a badger-like loaded sea.

I stand on a strand
as the women stood on an island
casting sand at the brine,
imploring God
to ease the storm
and bring the fishermen home.

I beseech that the ebb-tide may come
on a sun-bright morning,
and that once more
a sea-well is revealed,
turbulence cancelled,
a spreading ground on the shore for seaweed.

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Tatú By Nuala Ní Chonchúir

Tatú

Is pailmseist mo chorp
faoi do lámha,
paipír ársa
scrollaithe fút,
ag tnúth le do rian.
Glanaim mo chraiceann,
sciúraim siar é
go pár báiteach
ionas go bpúchfaidh
do lámh mar
dhúch tatuála,
ag líníocht thar
línte dofheicthe
gach fir eile.

Níl faic ach tusa
scrábáilte ar mo chorp.

 In English translated by the author 

Tattoo

My body is a palimpsest
under your hands,
a papyrus scroll
unfurled beneath you,
waiting for your mark.
I clean my skin,
scrape it back to
a pale parchment,
so that your touch
can sink as deep
as the tattooist’s ink,
and leave its tracery
over the erased lines
of other men.

You are all that’s
written on my body.

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An Fear Glas By Cathal Ó Searcaigh

An Fear Glas

As na cúlchríocha tig tú chugainn ar dhroim na gaoithe;
géagscaoilte, garbhánta, boladh an aiteannaí ar ghlasghála
d’anála; úsc an chaoráin ar fhód glas do theanga;
ealta éan ag ceiliúr i nduilliúr ciabhach do chúil.
Tig tú ag spreagadh an tsíl, ag cur síneadh i rútaí,
ag gríosadh lí na gréine i ngnúis liath an Aibreáin.

Tá scamaill i bhfostú i do ghéaga agus éanacha beaga
na spéire ag neadú i bhfraoch do chléibhe, i bhfál do ghabhail.
Sciúrann tú an mhaidin le garbhshíon na gcuach,
sa chruth go gcuirtear luisne úr i luibh is i lus, i dtom is i sceach.
Nuair a bhaineann tú searradh as do chnámha Earraigh,
cluintear méileach sna cuibhrinn agus cuacha sna crainn.

I mínte an tsléibhe, teann solas do shúl i bhfód ionainn.
Tig bachlóga ar ár ndóchas.

 

In English

The Green Man

You ride in from the outback on the back of the wind,
loose-limbed, hob-nailing a storm. I smell whin, fresh
on the gale of your breath. The ooze of the bog drips the green
sod of your tongue and flocks of birds sing like leaves in
your hair’s cowl. You come inciting seed, the roots’ fingering
and bidding sun’s lustre to the grey face of April.

The clouds are tangling in your limbs and birds nest
in your chest’s heather, settle in the hedgerow of your loins.
Yet you come scouring, pelting the cuckoo out with rain
that drives a sheen on weed and bush and blackthorn.
And when you stretch the spring of your bones
there is a bleat in the field and a crake in the meadow.

Here, in this mountain pasture, the green light of your eye
dives into our clay and hope is full in bud and feather.

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Saol Eile By Louis de Paor

Saol eile

díreach sara dtagann
an t-ardaitheoir
a thabharfaidh síos
chun an tsaoil arís mé,
braithim a theacht;

tá an mhaidin chomh trom
le hualach na feola
ar a chabhail ata
agus trucail lán
den sócúlacht bhán
a chuirtear idir colainn leonta
agus tocht na hoíche
á bhrú aige roimis go mall;

warm, adeirim,
is snámhann a dhá shúil
i dtreo íor na spéire
mar a mbraitheann sé
bonnán mo ghlóir
ag séideadh air sa cheo;

today, adeirim,
téad róghearr
á síneadh agam chuige
thar tonnta
is fochaisí an aeir, isn’t it?

tá sé ag dul faoi
dem bhuíochas
is ní fhágfaidh mé
an mhíntír
le dul amach ina dhiaidh

díreach sara ndúnann
doirse an dá shaol eadrainn,
labhrann a ghlór báite
aníos ó ghrinneall na mara

a lifetime, ar sé

 As Bearla…In English

Another life

just before
the lift arrives
to take me down
to the world again,
I sense his coming;

the morning is heavy
as the burden of flesh
on his swollen body
as he pushes a container
full of the comforting whiteness
that is laid out
between a wounded body
and the overwhelming night
slowly in front of him;

warm, I say,
and his eyes swim
toward the horizon
where he hears
the foghorn of my voice
blaring at him in the dark;

today, I say,
as I throw
a too-short rope
toward him over the waves
and submerged rocks of air, isn’t it?

he is going under
in spite of me
and I will not leave
dry land
to go out after him

just before
the doors close between us,
his drowned voice speaks up
from the sea-bed

a lifetime, he says

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Iascaire is ea m’athair le ceart By Louis de Paor

Conas ná raibh a fhios againn cheana
agus diamhair na mara
chomh glé sin ina shúil?

Lá an adhlactha, iompraíonn sé
doircheacht mhoch na maidine
ar an trá sin a shíneann

ó dhoras an tséipéil
go dtí bruach an tsaoil.
Siúlann thar an slua

atá bailithe sa chlós,
a chois báite sa ghaineamh
gan cabhair a iarraidh

ó éinne dá chlann mhór mhac.
Ní thuigimid an fharraige fós,
dar leis, a cneastacht ná a racht.

Tá naomhóg an bhróin
bun os cionn ar a ghualainn
chomh dubh le fuil théachta,

an fharraige ag fiuchadh
le deora goirt
a loiscfeadh súil na gréine.

Scarann tonn na sochraide roimis
is cuireann sé a dheartháir
sa pholl atá tochailte

aige féin is an ngealaigh
ó aréir. Nuair a shiúlann
ón uaigh ar ais,

tá gile na dtonn
is uaigneas an domhain i ngleic
i súil ghlas mo shinsir.

As Bearla —English Translation

My father is really a fisherman

How did we not know already,
when the deep mystery of the sea
shines so brightly in his eyes?

On the day of the burial, he carries
the early morning dark
on that beach that stretches

from the church door
to the edge of the world.
Walks past the crowd

that has gathered in the yard,
his feet sunk in sand,
asking no help

from any of his many sons.
We still don’t understand the sea,
he says, its kindness or its anger.

The naomhóg of sorrow
is upside down on his shoulders,
as black as clotted blood,

the ocean boiling
with salt tears
that would burn the eye of the sun.

The funeral-wave parts
and he buries his brother
in the hole

he dug up with the moon
the night before. When he walks
back from the grave,

the brightness of the sea
and the loneliness of the world
grapple in my father’s green eyes.

 

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Cumhthach Labhras an Lonsa – Old Irish Poem

Cumhthach labhras an lonsa,
an t-olc do fhuair d’fheadarsa
cidh bé do théalaigh a theagh
is fá éanaibh do hairgeadh.

An t-olc fhuairsean a-nossa
ní cian uaidh ó fhuarassa
maith m’aithne ar do labhra, a luin,
a haithle th’adhbha d’argain.

Do chridhese, a luin, do loisc
a ndearna an duine díchoisc–
do nead gan éan is gan uigh
sgéal is beag ar an mbuachail.

Tigdís fád ghothaibh glana
do muinntir nua a-nallana
éan noch dtig as to thaigh
tar béal do nid ba neanaidh.

Do mharbhsad buach aille bó
do chlannsa uile i n-aonló
ionann sódh damhsa agus duit
mo chlannsa ní mó maraid.

Do bhí ag ingheilt go hadhaigh
leithéan an eóin allmharaigh,
do-chuaidh ar an sás iar sin
go bhfuair bás leisin mbuachail.

A Fhir do chum an cruinne
doilig linn do leatruime;
na caraid atá rér dtaoibh
maraid a mná is a macaoimh.

Táinig sluagh sídh ‘na sidhe
do mharbhadh ar muintire;
gion go ró gádh mé ón ghuin
nocha mó ár ó armaibh.

Cumha ar mná, cumha ar gclainne
tréan a imshníomh orainne;
gan a slighe a-muigh ‘s a-mach
do thuil mo chridhe cumhthach

As Bearla…In English

It Is Sadly the Blackbird Calls
It is sadly the blackbird calls,
the wrong that is done him I know.
The cowherd took his house
and killed his little birds.

The wrong done to him now
was also done to me.
Well I understand you, blackbird,
after the wreck of your house.

Your little heart, O blackbird,
is burning with what that rough man did–
your nest without birds, without eggs,
the story is little to him.

Your newborn children used to come
at your clear call;
now no fledgeling comes out of your house.
Nettles grow over the entrance.

The cowherds killed all your children
in a single day;
the same thing to you and to me–
my children live no longer.

The mate of the bird from across the sea
was feeding until nightfall.
Then she went into the trap
and was killed by the cowherd.

O Man who made the world,
I resent your favoritism.
At the sides of my friends
their wives and children still live.

A fierce host of immortals
came to kill our people.
I am not in danger
but violent death is no worse.

Sorrow for our wives, sorrow for our children
is a strong torment.
Without their going in and out
my heart is full of grief.

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