Cornucopia na haoise, an cóifrín draíochta
as a dtógaimid nua gacha bia agus sean gacha dí —
oiread sólaistí agus d'iarrfadh do bhéal
is gan aon dá ghreim acu ar aon bhlaiseadh.
Bolg soláthair gach teaghlaigh, tobar slánaithe
ár n-ocrais oidhreachtúil na méadaíonn
is ná téann i ndísc. Adhraimid a chairn
ollmhaitheasa. Níl aon teora lena shlaohdaibh oigheartha
de mhil is uachtar, de phéitseoga is úlla,
de strúisíní Gaelacha, sceallóga,
ceathrúna mairteola ina fheoil mhionaithe,
iarphroinnte, cístí milse, dhá chaora.
Tá cúig bhollóg aráin ann is dhá iasc
faoi choinne sluate comharsan (má thagann siad).
Is cé chuir an cat marbh seo i measc an spionáiste?
— A Jimín Mháire Thaidhg, gearánfad tú led Mham!
Suite go buacach i gcroílár gach cisteanach
feidhmíonn mar mheafar bunaidh ár sibhialtachta.
Is iad ceolta sí na cruinne seo a chluinimid
ná a mhiam sástachta, cáithníní áthais srutha leictrise.
Momento mori, par excellence, má feaca
riamh ceann, samhlaoid uafar ar an díog
dar di sinn is gur chuici atáimid;
íomhánna greanta gach a gcúblálaimid inti:
marbh agus cruaidh is chomh fuar leis an uaigh.
A modern Horn of Plenty, a magic coffer
from which we take the best of food and drink —
every comestible we might savour
and no two tasting the same. A trunk
of household odds and ends, a healing well
that staves off our deepest hungers, it ne'er o'erbrims
nor gangs dry. We adore its monumental
wealth, its illimitable, icy streams
of milk and honey, apples and peaches,
Irish stews, crinkle-cut chips,
pre-ground legs of beef, batches
of dessert, sweet cakes, a couple of whole sheep.
Here are the five loaves and two Spanish
mackerel to feed the multitude, if ever they come —
Who put the dead cat in with the spinach? —
Jimín Mháire Thadhg! Wait till I tell your mum!
In the dead centre of every kitchen
it holds its own, it glumly stands its ground:
these are the strains of no Otherworldly musicians
but the hum of its alternating current.
From here, if I ever saw one, is a fit
emblem of the ditch or long barrow
from which we derive and wherein lies our fate:
it chills me to the marrow
that we should most truly find ourselves
among its fatted and its golden calves.
Translated by Paul Muldoon
