Doireann Ní Ghríofa

Tuathal (Counter-Clockwise)

Cuirim eochair i bpoll an téitheora
          agus casaim an chomhla ar tuathal — siar,
siar, go dtí go gcloisim sileadh an uisce
          ag glugarnach as i mbraonta tiubha,
an t-aer a bhí srianta scaoilte arís.
          Le clic and trice-tic, filleann cuisle an phíopa,
ag tarraingt teas ar ais trí córas soithíoch an tí,
          trí fhéitheacha agus artairí folaithe faoi chraiceann
na ballaí — rúndiamhracht an ní nach bhfeictear
          a bhogann faoin dromchla, amhail oibriú cloig.
Smaoiním siar ar an gclog clinge i dteach mo sheanmháthair
          agus an scéal a d’insíodh sí i gcónaí
faoi lá samhraidh agus í ina bhean óg nuaphósta,
          fágtha ina haonar chun an dinnéar a réiteach.
Tableau: an béile réidh, bord leagtha, an t-urlár scuabtha,
          sheas sí ag fanacht orthu, a lámha trom gan ualach
oibre orthu. Nuair a chonaic sí go raibh an clog ina stop,
          dhreap sí ar stól chun é a thochras,
an eochair ina dorn aici
          ach chaith a athair chéile an doras ar oscailt,
ag búireadh nach mbeadh sé de chead aici riamh
          méar a leagan ar spré a chéile. Ní dhearna sí
dearmad ar a bhfocal, dúirt sí, gach uair, ina dhiaidh sin
          gur chuir an clog céanna ar stól í, le eochair
a bhrú sa pholl agus é a chasadh ar tuathal — siar,
          siar go dtí gur chuala sí clic and trice-tic,
cuisle an cloig fillte arís — córas casta an saoil,
          a chuid féitheacha agus artairí, agus rúndiamhracht
síoraí an ní nach bhfeictear, a bhogann i gcónaí
          faoi dhromchla ár laethanta.

                                                                                

I place the key in the radiator slot
          and twist the valve withershins — back,
back, until I hear the liquid drip, the fall
          of fat glottal drops, trapped gas, freed
and the click and trickle trick of pipe-pulse
          sending heat through the house’s
circulatory system, all its veins and arteries
          concealed under a skin of walls —
the mystery of that which moves under the surface
          like clockwork. I think of the chiming clock
in my grandmother’s house and the story she always told,
          the one where it was a summer’s day and she,
a newly-arrived bride left alone to prepare the midday meal.
          The dinner ready, table laid, floor swept, she stood,
waiting, hands heavy with the lack of tasks. Seeing
          that the clock had stopped, she climbed on a stool
to correct it, the winding key gripped in her fist
          when her husband’s father threw open the door,
roaring that she should never again lay a finger
          on his wife’s dowry.
She remembered those words,
          she always said, every time the old clock
put her up on a stool, to place the key in its slot
          and turn it withershins — back,
back, until she’d hear the click and trickle trick
          of clock-pulse returned — the convoluted workings
of life, all its veins and arteries, and the mystery
          of the unseen, of that which moves
under the surface of our days, continually.

 

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