Scott De Buitléir's Blog, page 2

Poem: Cutlery

Washed, drying on the rackone knife one forkone spoonwhen there were once two of eachand somehowit now feels better this way.

Poem: To Wonder and Rest

I wonder where my mother shall be laid to rest:
Whether in the meadow of bulls,
where her grandmother lies
by the castle where my father once laboured;
where we brought him lunch after school –
how happy we were, my hand in hers
walking along the oak lined avenue –

Or past the strawberry beds to the elm’s ridge beyond,
where her parents and brothers slumber;
when each descent broke her soul apart
’til it crumbled to sand, mixing
with graveyard clay, ochone.

I wonder where my father shall be laid to rest:
Should he find peace where he spent most days
by the sea where Gaels fought foes
or back to ancestral lands
where his fathers were lords –
his name and mine bear a burden of legacy,
though I know he cared little for that –

I wonder where I too shall rest:
In that same meadow where I ran and played
down by the sea that taught me
to look beyond and seek stories anew
or further south, by a wide river’s bed
upon a marsh where love, once promised, was shed
and blossomed afresh – unexpected, but true.

I know not where we’ll be laid to rest;
Death rarely offers a chance to prepare
and few are fit to talk of such woe,
but one day we’ll bid our lives adieu
and I shall, for one, give thanks for such luck:
Love throughout is all that I knew.

Clontarf, Dublin – June 2023

Poem: Checkmate

We try to be good;
a version of ourselves
presentable to peers, seniors, and strangers

but what is real and what pretence
when expectations and standards block
and barricade us into civility

until genuine moves
feel more like attempts
to escape checkmate.

~

Bhí radharc ann sa chlár teilifíse Lucifer a chonaic mé aréir ar Netflix, radharc a sheas amach dom.

Bhí Mazikeen, deamhain de chuid Ifrinn, ag bualadh leis an aingeal Amanadiel i gcaifé cathrach. Admhaíonn Maze (mar a chuireann Lucifer uirthi mar leasainm) gur breá léi an áit sin, mar bíonn na daoine atá ann sáite ina gcuid oibre.

“Ní thuigeann siad ach go doimhin ina gcroíthe nach bhfeicfidh a gcuid saothair solas an lae go bráth. Cuireann sin an baile [Ifreann] i gcuimhne dom.”

Chuir an ráiteas sin i bhfeidhm orm. Na blianta fada a chaith mé i gcaiféanna; i mBaile Átha Cliath, Béal Feirste, Sasana, Cóbanhávan, agus i gCorcaigh. Faoin am seo, tá go leor foilsithe agam, ach tá an fhonn sin orm bheith ag scríobh. Bheith i m’údar. Scríbhneoir. Cé hé an scríbhneoir gan rudaí á scríobh aige? Ach ní leor sin amháin, caithfear bheith fiúntach. Fiú más ealaín, nach mbeadh spéis ag éinne, atá ann, caithfear bheith luachmhar go leor lena chruthú nó lena chur ar phár. 

An bhfuil a leithéid fágtha ionam?

On International Day Against Homophobia, Biphobia, and Transphobia (IDAHOBit) 2023

Earlier this week, I attended the launch of Cork LGBT+ Awareness Week at Cork City Hall. Dressed in my Cork Hellhounds RFC gear, I listened to speeches from Deputy Lord Mayor Cllr. John Maher (Labour), veteran gay rights campaigner Arthur Leahy, and Luna Lara Liboni of the ICCL, as well as listening to the beautiful performance of Cork’s LGBT inclusive choir, Choral Con Fusion.

In previous years, I would’ve felt that the week-long series of events was a nice effort, but possibly unnecessary. Not anymore. Recently I’ve become more and more aware of homophobic, transphobic, and xenophobic comments from (supposedly) Irish people on social media. Naïvely, I once dismissed such bile as being limited to Trump’s America, Brexit Britain, or some other far-off land, but not possible in Ireland. In Ireland, I experienced a golden era of sorts; the introduction of civil partnership, marriage equality, and gender recognition legislation. I grew up in an Ireland – or at least in her cities – where gay people felt a little more comfortable in being themselves. Being open. Visible. Proud.

Recently, though, homophobic and transphobic voices appear to have grown louder and more aggressive. As I write this, reports are coming out about a teenager being queer-bashed by a group of teens in Navan, Co. Meath. I’m not sure whether to call it apt or ironic, but either way, the fact that I write this during IDAHOBiT feels all the more relevant and powerful. Despite the years of progress we have seen and enjoyed in Ireland, the threat to reverse that progress feels like it’s growing in strength.

A Political Act

Today reminded me that in the face of such hate, intolerance, and vitriol, the simple act of being openly gay (or LGBT, use whichever suits you best) remains a political act. Pride parades remain relevant, important, and a political protest as well as a celebration of our community. Gay bars remain a necessary community hub and safe space; a sanctuary, yet still under threat. If you walk down the street holding your same-sex partner’s hand, or kiss them in public, you do it in spite of the looks you may well receive from passers-by.

In recent years, I’ve considered my lifestyle to be relatively free from activism, but in some ways I’ve dismissed or underestimated my own self-confidence in living as a gay man. I’ve been out since I was 15, and in recent years I’ve played and spoken on behalf of a gay/inclusive rugby club. I’ve marched in pride parades in Cork, Belfast, Limerick, Dublin, and Copenhagen, and even when I thought I was living a private life away from activism, it remained a political one.

How wonderful it would be to be able to kiss my boyfriend on the street, and not consider who could be watching in disapproval or disgust.

Unfortunately, Ireland is not immune from the shift towards xenophobia, racism, transphobia, homophobia, and national conservatism that other countries have been impacted by. That means that those most vulnerable are the same ones in greater danger from others who have started to feel justified in their opinions and actions. I generally consider myself an optimistic person, but it is unnerving to see these changes taking place, when we were once celebrating a new and socially liberal Ireland. It makes IDAHOBiT, Pride, and simply living openly, all the more important.

Fás, Bás, agus Athfhás

Torremolinos na Spáinne

“Táim sásta….” – sílim go bhfuil d’fhadhb aimsithe agat, cruatan, imní agus fearg a chuireann peann ar phár – ní sástacht!

Scríobh mé tamall ó shin gur shíl mé go raibh mo chuid ama mar scríbhneoir caite agam; nach raibh aon inspioráid ag teacht chugam le fada an lá, agus gur bhraith sé nach dtiocfadh sé choíche arís.

Nuair a roinn mé mo chuid mothúchán ar-líne, dúirt Gaeilgeoir eile le bua na scríbhneoireachta, Ciarán Dunbar, an méid thuas liom. Shíl mé go raibh an ceart aige; bhí mé sásta le mo shaol agus le gach a raibh agam ann. B’fhéidir, cheap mé, nach raibh faic fágtha le scríobh agam mar bhí mé déanta leis an scríbhneoireacht. Cúig leabhar foilsithe agam; éacht bainte amach agam, agus táim saor anois chun tabhairt faoin chéad dúshlán eile.

…nó an ea?

Tá go leor tar éis athrú i mo shaol le 12-13 mí anuas, agus cé go bhfuilim níos áthasaí agus níos ‘saoire’ ná mar a bhraith mé le tamall anuas, braithim fonn na hinspioráide ag teacht ar ais chugam.

D’aimsigh mé leabhar iontach sa siopa tamaillín ó shin dar teideal Seacht dTír Seacht dTeanga le Diarmuid Johnston, agus cé nach bhfuil sé críochnaithe agam go fóill, is breá liom é. Tá a stíl scríbhneoireachta díreach agus simplí, neamhfhoirmeálta ach breá mion ag an am céanna. Chuir sé mana i gcuimhne dom a bhí mar bhunchloch scríbhneoireachta dom; “Scríobh faoina bhfuil ar eolas agat”. Déanann Johnston é seo go foirfe; ag oscailt a dhomhain don léitheoir, gan iarracht nó dráma ollmhór a dhéanamh as. Déanann sé go héasca é, agus is é sin spraoi na léitheoireachta ann.

Chuir a leithéid an t-úrscéal le North Morgan, Into?, i gcuimhne dom, fosta. Is an-difriúil iad na leabhair, ach séard atá i gcoitinn eatarthu ná an mana céanna, ag impí ar an údar chun scríbh faoina bhfuil ar eolas acu. Cé gur ficsean atá ann san úrscéal le Morgan, tá go leor leor tar éis teacht ón bhfíorshaol agus curtha isteach, ábhar a mbeadh aithne ag léitheoir áirithe ar an scene aerach i Meiriceá Thuaidh agus tíortha an Iarthair, Éire ina measc.

N’fheadair cén splanc inspioráide a tháinig chugam le déanaí, ach thosaigh mé ag scríobh dom féin don chéad uair le fada; sliochtanna ionraice, bunaithe ar eachtraí a tharla i mo shaol. Nílim cinnte fós an gcuirfidh mé le chéile iad le leabhar a fhoilsiú, nó an athróidh mé iad le cruth ficsin a chur air, ach táim ag baint sult as an bpróiseas pé scéal é. Tá sé ar nós teiripe dom, agus tá rud éigin ag baint leis a ligeann saor mé, ar nós faoistin a dhéanamh. Agus mé á dhéanamh seo i nGaeilge, tá rud éigin nádúrtha faoi, ar nós go bhfuilim ag insint mo scéil féin i mo theanga féin, ar bhealach a dhéanann mo chuid scríbhneoireachta speisialta.

Nach raibh sa tréimhse ciúin sin ach tréimhse athfháis.

Poem: Waterloo

The marks my family left
On the city where I was born
Are clear to me still:
Passing Butler’s Wharf along is history intact,

While on my mother’s side
Walking through Waterloo Station
I think of my uncle, labouring,
Joking with the rest of the men

But if a British brickie dared to call him Paddy
He’d stand firm, refined, work gear bedamned,
And calmly correct:

My name
is Patrick.

His resolve and pride remains within those walls and tunnels
That his son and I have passed through so often,
And I remember him each time –

He’d be proud of us both too, I feel.

London, 25 November 2022

Poem: Pathways

Did you ever learn about orienteering
in school, in scouts, or as a kid?
Being given a map by a grown-up
and told to find your way
towards treasure,
the campsite,
or home.

Did you ever look at the terrain;
the contours, chasms, and cliffs,
and wonder which was the fastest
or safest
path?

Lately, I could’ve done with
remembering such skills;
knowing what lay ahead was full
of adventure
and loss;
of wonder
and pain.

But I remember the folktales
of ancestors old,
meeting different gods of love
at each fork in the road.
In my mythology, Ares and
Aphrodite were one,
who had the power to show me
three futures:

One showed a life all expected to see.
One showed a life where I was renewed and free.
One showed a life where selfless love saved me.
But entry to each was not without its cost.

To those same gods I prey, with
compass in hand
that the path I’ve chosen delivers me
to the Promised Land:

This path, like the others, I shall not walk alone,
but I’ll cherish the Others for their love I have worn.

Cork, 20 November 2022

Poem: Rebirth/Regret

for Imad

In previous incarnations
my phoenix soul, once reborn,
would fly into the skies and scream;
not in pain
but searing vitality,
proud in youth’s redeemed strength.

But this time

I awaken, and look
at the scorched earth and ashes of old
and mourn for what was;
the beauty of shimmering tail feathers,
the glint in my eye –
and don’t misunderstand; there is a glint now still –
but a different one: A shine from a different star.

I cry, knowing
the fire that renews and keeps me immortal
was expected, but this time not wanted so soon
for the Before was joy, as the After will be too,
but the Between was such fearful pain – such Hell.

So, soon I shall soar free, as I have done before
and this time, my new plumage will shine

but so too shall my tears for what I lost.

—

Cork, 17 November 2022

Bás an Scríbhneora(?)

Suím i gcaifé cathrach, le ríomhaire os mo chomhair ar an mbord, agus ceol á sheinm i mo chluasáin. Tá cappuccino le bainne coirce á ól agam go mall, mise ag baint taitneamh as blas séimh na seacláide agus breosla an chaife. Díreach mar atá déanta agam go rí-mhinic thar na blianta, ó bhí mé i mo dhéagóir, nó ó bhí mé i mo mhac léin ollscoile, ar a dhéanaí. Is cuid de mo chuid féiniúlachta é an radharc seo, ar shlí; fear óg cathrach ina áit dhúchais, ina chompord ina shaol. 

Níl ann ansin ach taobh amháin den gcineal duine iltaobhach is ea mé na laethanta seo. D’éirigh mé i mo gym bunny; ag dó an mheáchain bhreise a chuir mé orm le linn na paindéime, agus mé feargach liom féin, braon den gcineál coirp a bhí agam. D’éirigh mé páirteach le club rugbaí aerach nua, ag traenáil agus ag foghlaim conas an spórt a imirt. Tharla rudaí móra eile le linn na tréimhse chéanna a raibh tionchair mhóra orm; d’fhág mé mo pháirtnéir, bhog mé amach as ár dteach féin, isteach chuig árasán i lár na cathrach, agus thosaigh mé caibidil saoil úr. Tháinig an meascán mhothúchán leis na hathruithe siúd, ach den chuid is mó, d’fhás mé tríd. 

Ach bhí taobh amháin díom nár mhair, sílim. 

“Is ealaíontóir thú” arsa mo bhuachaill nua Ceanadach liom le déanaí, agus é ag déanamh trácht, lán iontais, faoi mo chuid scríbhneoireachta agus oibre sna meáin. Ach níor luí sé i gceart liom, mar ní aithním an taobh sin díom ionam a thuilleadh. Mhothaigh mé, agus faic fágtha lena chruthú nó lena scríobh; go raibh an t-ealaíontóir marbh, agus anois go raibh an gnáthdhuine seo beo ina ionad. 

Bheadh cuma bhrónach air sin, b’fhéidir, ach ní mhothaím a leithéid. Beagán trua, b’fhéidir, ach caithim bheith ionraic liom féin; céard is ealaíontóir (d’aon chineál) ann gan chúis? Muna bhfuil faic le rá agat trí do chuid ealaíne, céard is fiú ann?

Murab ionann agus ealaíontóir, ar féidir leo ealaín a chruthú ar son na healaíne amháin agus gan phionte nó gan teachtaireacht, ní mór do scríbhneoir pointe a bheith acu le focail a chur ar phár. Le déanaí, chuireadh ceist orm má bhí aon rud á scríobh agam, agus an fhírinne lom ná nach bhfuil, mar níl faic le rá agam. Nílim paiseanta go leor faoi hábhair faoi leith le teacht ar ais chuig an mblagadóireacht, an gcolúnaíocht, nó an iriseoireacht. Níl aon scéal ficsin á chur le chéile i mo cheann. Níl an fhilíocht ag teacht chugham níos mó. Tá an fhoinse tirim.

Mór an trua. Tuigim go bhfuil bua na scríbhneoireachta agam, go bhfuil Gaeilge mhaith agam, gur féidir liom a bheith an-chruthaitheach. Ach ag an am céanna, táimse sásta le mo shaol mar atá sé faoi láthair. Táim sásta le mo phost don chéad uair le fada. Táim sásta le mo chuid sláinte. Táim sásta leis an saol sóisialta dá bhfuil agam na laethanta seo.

…ach céard a tharlaíonn do scríbhneoir a chuireann síos an peann?