Capturing the tones of poetry in paint

'An Leabhar Mòr' bills itself as a modern Book of Kells. It's not quite that, but it is a remarkable showcase of contemporary Gaelic art, writes Aidan Dunne.

Like seven other venues throughout the Scottish islands and Ireland, An Gailearai, in Falcarragh, is hosting an exhibition of original art works that, when eventually reunited and combined, will make up An Leabhar Mòr, or The Great Book Of Gaelic. Initiated by the Gaelic Arts Agency, an organisation based in the Western Isles, the book is a huge project that enlisted the skills and talents of more than 200 poets, artists and calligraphers. Fifty Irish and 50 Scottish artists accepted the challenge of creating a work in response to a Gaelic poem.

The exhibitions were launched simultaneously earlier this month. All eight openings were linked by a live video feed via the Internet. A daunting technical feat, one might imagine; Una Campbell of An Gailearai was one of those watching with interest as the technology was deployed. "In the event it worked incredibly well," she reports. "People loved the idea of being able to tune into Inish Óirr or the Isle of Islay at the click of a button."

There have, by this stage, been several projects comparable to An Leabhar Mòr. What sets this one apart is its imaginative linking of a predominantly western Gaelic culture. Although billed as a modern-day Book of Kells it is, of course, nothing of the kind. There are, it is true, several nods towards the Celtic decorative tradition, including a typically thorough piece of pastiche by Alasdair Gray. But the book is inevitably a more heterogeneous product altogether, a melting pot of Gaelic talent.

One of the strongest underlying links is the amazing calligraphy, undertaken by different hands under the direction of Frances Breen. Gray's work, incidentally, illustrates a scribe's lament or, more accurately, complaint. This being Gaelic, the lament figures large, from the earliest poems, as early as the sixth century, to the most recent, from this one.

The poetry coaxed some great visual inventiveness from the artists. Although many opted for a relatively staid, rectangular format, others took advantage of the possibilities presented by the two-page spreads. Ronnie Hughes's frog is, apart from anything else, beautiful graphic design. Eileen Ferguson, working with The Yellow Bittern, opens out the space of the page wonderfully.

There is no cultural complacency about the project, and there is a vein of dissent, including Donnchadh MacDhunlèibhe's Lament of a Black Woman whose Husband Was Killed by the Police, capably taken up by the artist Mick Kelly. Iseabail Ní Mheic Cailéin's bawdy paean to a formidably endowed priest, dating from 1500, is counterpointed by Catherine Harper's kitsch erotic reverie.

There are exceptional contributions from many artists, including Hughie O'Donoghue, Alan Davie, Jake Harvey, Katherine Boucher Beug, Oona Hyland, Anna MacLeod, Ian Joyce, Bridget Flannery and Sean Hillen. You might be surprised at how many of the ancient Gaelic poems are lodged somewhere in your mind, ready to be recalled. An Leabhar Mòr is an archive of sorts, and a remarkable showcase of contemporary Gaelic art.

The Yellow Bittern

(An Bonnán Buí) by Cathal Buí Mac Giolla Ghunna, c 1680-1756

The yellow bittern that never broke out

In a drinking bout might as well have drunk;

His bones are thrown on a naked stone

Where he lived alone like a hermit monk.

O yellow bittern! I pity your lot,

Though they say that a sot like myself is curst -

I was sober a while, but I'll drink and be wise,

For I fear I should die in the end of thirst.

It's not for the common birds that I'd mourn,

The blackbird, the corncrake, or the crane,

But for the bittern that's shy and apart

And drinks in the marsh from the lone bog-drain.

Oh! If I had known you were near your death,

While my breath held out I'd have run to you,

Till a splash from the Lake of the Son of the Bird

Your soul would have stirred and waked anew.

My darling told me to drink no more

Or my life would be o'er in a little short while;

But I told her 'tis drink gives me health and strength

And will lengthen my road by many a mile.

You see how the bird of the long smooth neck

Could get his death from the thirst at last -

Come, son of my soul, and drain your cup,

You'll get no sup when your life is past.

In a wintering island by Constantine's halls

A bittern calls from a wineless place,

And tells me that hither he cannot come

Till summer is here and the sunny days.

When he crosses the stream there and wings o'er the sea

Then a fear comes to me he may fail in his flight -

Well, the milk and the ale are drunk every drop,

And a dram won't stop our thirst this night.

... - translated by Thomas MacDonagh

Artist: Eileen Ferguson; calligrapher: David McGrail

(Ailean Dubh à Lòchaidh)

by Anon MacKenzie Woman, c 1700

I like Ailean Dubh from Lochy,

I love brown Ailean of the trim coat,

I like Ailean Dubh from Lochy.

Ailean, Ailean, I'm pleased you're

living.

You swept my cattle from the

moorland,

you burnt my stackyard of oats and

barley,

you killed my three youthful brothers,

you killed my father and my

husband.

Though you did that, I'm pleased

you're living.

... - translated by Meg Bateman

The Spirit of Kindliness

(Spiorad a' Charthannais) by Iain Mac a'Ghobhainn (John Smith), c 1848-1881 (excerpt)

O tremble midst your pleasures,

you oppressor, hard and strong!

What pain or death can justly be

your reward for people's wrongs?

The sorrowful sighs of widows

are what inflates your wealth;

every cup of wine you drink

is the tears of each poor wretch.

Though your estate should be so vast,

and hosts should yield to you,

death has the very strictest laws,

and you must obey its rule.

That's the lord who will ordain

an equal share for all;

he'll grant a shroud as your estate,

and two paces of green sward.

That will be your lowly end,

you man of haughtiest ways,

with your notices and summonses,

keeping others in their pain;

when you receive that quiet estate,

your pride will be cut down;

no factor there will make a row,

nor will a vile officer frown.

Then the crawling worm will praise you,

for the tastiness of your flesh,

when it finds you stretched straight out

on its board without a breath;

it will say, "This one is plump,

just right for crevice beast,

since he made many hundreds thin

to make for me a feast!"

... - translated by Donald E. Meek

Artist: Hughie O'Donoghue

Since Tonight the Wind Is High

(Is Acher in Gaith In-Nocht)

by Anon, c 900-1000

Since tonight the wind is high,

The sea's white mane a fury,

I need not fear the hordes of Hell

coursing the Irish Channel.

... - translators: David Greene, Frank O'Connor

Poem for Lara, 10

(Dán do Lara, 10) by Michael Hartnett, 1941-1999

An ashtree on fire

the hair of your head

coaxing larks

with your sweet voice

in the green grass,

a crowd of daisies

playing with you

a crowd of rabbits

dancing with you

the blackbird

with its gold bill

is a jewel for you

the goldfinch

with its sweetness

is your music.

You are perfume,

you are honey,

a wild strawberry:

even the bees think you

a flower in the field.

Little queen of the land of books,

May you always be thus

May you ever be free from sorrow-chains.

Here's my blessing for you, girl,

and it is no petty grace -

may you have the beauty of your mother's

soul

and the beauty of her face.

... - translated by the author

Artist: Alanna O'Kelly;

calligrapher: Réiltín Murphy