Sílim go bhfuil failleanna ann gan mhoill
Don tsúil ilteangach, don fhile oilte atánn
Ag lorg an rud suimiúil lena lóchrann lag,
An litir ar lár, lasmuigh dá limistéar, ar fán.
Bhíodh peann ar pár; tá picsil ar ríomhairí;
Bíonn mac ag gach leabhar, agus maicín;
Rotha mór an dá leagan déag don údar,
Ach an litir buailte ann mar chuid dá fhilíocht.
Dá léamh is dá ath-léamh, dá phromhadh go náid,
Gaillí i ndiaidh gaillí, ag teip roimh naimhde
laga;
Cuirtear i gcló agus cinnte faoina lán-cheart –
Ansin súile ar oscailt: Cad is
“Iris school” ann?
Iris School in New York
I think that there are unimpeded opportunities
For the multi-tongued eye, for the learned poet who
Is seeking the interesting thing with his weak lantern,
The missing letter, outside it’s vicinity, lost.
There used to be a pen on parchment; there are pixels on computers;
Every book has its son, and little son;
The big wheel of its twelve versions for the author,
Except the struck out letter there as part of his poetry.
Reading it and re-reading it, proofing it to nothing,
Galleys after galleys, failing before weak enemies;
It is put into print and certain about it’s total correctness –
Then the eyes open: What is an
“Iris school?”