Syds Wiersma was the RIXT poet of the month in June. You can read his original Frisian poems from that month here. The translation of one of his poems – ‘the lone poet’ – is published here.
The lone poet
North Mayo, the Nephin
The old, lone poet mostly sleeps,
a stand-alone, a king if he so wishes.
When he wakes, he briefly blinks,
and if he sees you, his word will strike
with the strength of hazel wood.
The old poet has a very big heart,
open to the north draped in shade
but he probably never birthed a saint.
He’s just a vast mound, a little hard
of heart but still the seat of Gods,
elves and the kings of Connaught.
For centuries he’s mulled over his last verse,
doesn’t want it to be clichéd, silly or terse.
At night he starts writing and calls upon
his old friend and muse: Lough Conn,
a mer á boire that catches perch for him.
Is that why his back glistens a bit fishily
in the far evening light from across the sea?
© Syds Wiersma
translation: Trevor Scarse