Sea-Incitement
_{from Birlinn Chlann Raghnaill}

Let us push out this ship’s dark
perfection of yew. Slip left behind
for safer water, a sailing place. 
Each oar shaft and blade thrust out, 

flush with the horizon, feathered clean.
Precision in grain. The handles
solid and shaped to our hands.
Seasoned ease makes for swift rowing.

So let us, when we set off,
embrace the open water growing
white around us, the rhythm 
in our palms. It will all be worth it

in the end: the hurt and rush 
of casting sparks, every stroke 
a flint-strike and with every strike 
a sunshower. Seas clotted 

to foam will cool your burning
singular lunge. Lean salt-bleached oars, 
their sharpest blow 
will beat to smithereens all 

toppling swells and waves overflowing.
Blue welling like a wound. 
Aye, such drill and draw could level 
the whole ocean. Oars fastened 

will stretch, draw and bend 
as the blood leaves your grip. 
Taut pinewood oars in-hand 
and everyone a Vitruvian man 

with arms carved, sculpted and hair 
stippling muscle. In unison you fall 
and rise, and escaping waves 
prove your oars’ design. 

A spirited oarsman, first among the bow, 
will sing out and his iorram surge 
through your shoulders. Thus 
this ship glides over the cold sea-glen 

and by the sickle of her prow scales
two walls of water collapsing to white. 
Roar, thrash. Cabes bracing the oars 
will crack. And thrash and roar

breakers against the boat planks smash, 
Oars drubbed. Your blistered grip
reopened. Every fit thick rower 
will tear through spumy surf to no end. 

Oakplanks, caulking, iron cast in violence. 
Nail heads missing after the clash. 
The water from all sides threatening 
the last laugh. Hence the oar-team: 

to brave it, rave through it, 
strive forward and face the music. 
Seas could shatter a crew 
front-to-back but you, 

a powerhouse on deck, 
will clear the livid spindrift.
Imperilled you tirelessly turn the tide,
and the tide turns in you, perilous, alive.

bho Birlinn Chlann Raghnaill

Gun cuirt an iùbhraich dhubh dhealbhach
An àite seòlaidh:
Sàthaibh a-mach cleathan rìghne,
Liagh-lom, còmhnard;

Ràmhan mìn-lunnacha, dealbhach,
Socair, aotram,
A nì ‘n t-iomradh toirteil, calma
Bos-luath, caoir-gheal;

Chuireas an fhairge ‘na sradaibh
Suas sna speuraibh,
‘Na teine-sionnachain a’ lasadh
Mar fhras èibhlean.

Le buillean gailleacha tarbhach
Nan cleath troma,
A bheir air bhòc-thuinn thonn-anfaich
Lot le ‘n cromadh;

Le sginean nan ràmh geal tana
Bualadh chollainn
Air mhullach nan gorm-chnoc gleannach,
Gharbhlach, thomach.

O, sìnibh, tàirnibh is lùbaibh
Anns na bacaibh
Na gallain bhas-leathann ghiùthsaich
Le lùths ghlac-gheal:

Na fuirbidhnean troma treuna
A’ luigh suas orr’
Le ‘n gàirdeanan dòideach, fèitheach,
Gaoisneach, cnuacach,

Thogas ‘s a leagas le chèile,
Fo aon ghluasad,
An gathan liagh-leabhar rèidhe
Fo bhàrr stuaghan;

Iorghaileach, garbh an tùs clèithe
Ag èigheach shuas orr’
Iorram a dhùisgeas an spèirid
Anns na guaillean,

Sparras a’ bhirlinn le sèitrich
Roimh gach fuar-ghleann,

Sgoltadh na bòc-thuinne beucaich
Le saidh chruaidh chruim,
Dh’ iomaineas beanntainean bèisteil
Roimh ‘dà ghualainn.

Hùgan le cuan, nuallan gàireach,
Heig air chnagaibh,
Faram le bras-ghaoir na bàirlinn
Ris na maidibh,

Ràimh gam pianadh ‘s balgain fhal’ air
Bois gach fuirbidh,
Na suinn làidir, gharbha, thoirteil
‘S coip-gheal iomradh,

Chreathnaicheas gach bòrd dhe ‘darach,
Bìth is iarunn;
‘S lannan dan tilgeil le staplainn
Chnap r’a sliasaid.

Fòirne fearail a bheir tulgadh
Durrgha, dàicheil,
Sparras a’ chaol-bhàirc le giùthsaich
An aodann àibheis;

Nach pillear le frìth nan tonn dubh-ghorm,
Le lùths ghàirdean:
Siud an sgioba neartmhor, sùrdail
Air chùl àlaich,

Phronnas na cuartagan cùl-ghlas
Le rinn ràmhachd,
Gun sgìos, gun airtneal gan lùbadh
Ri uchd gàbhaidh.

—

Alasdair mac Mhaighstir Alasdair (c.1698-c.1770) was a Scottish Gaelic poet, lexicographer, military officer, and Gaelic language tutor to Charles Edward Stuart, popularly known as the Bonnie Prince Charlie. His only volume of poetry, the self-published Aiseirigh na Seann Chànain Albannach (1751), was the first secular work to be published in any of the Celtic languages.

Taylor Strickland is a poet and translator from the US. He is the author of Commonplace Book and Dastram/Delirium, a PBS Translation Choice. His work has appeared in New Statesman, Times Literary Supplement, Poetry Review, and elsewhere. A doctoral candidate in literary translation at the University of Glasgow, he lives in Glasgow, Scotland, with his wife, Lauren.