Ne gomprenan ket

by Lorelei Bacht

 

Mor is the name of our country:
the sea. We sail and salt its meat
on our kitchen tables. Born of it,
we intend to return and drown
in arms of varech and seagulls.

        Me ’zo ganet e-kreiz ar mor.
        I was born in the middle of the sea.

Greunvaen is the rock we carve
into headstones and cathedrals,
freckled grey, speckled black,
and hard. It takes three men
to lift our crosses to the sky.

        Goude ar pred: greunvaen ha sklent.
        After our meal: granite and slate

Blev is our sole beauty, so we sell it.
Our hair is shorn every four years,
woven into bigwigs for the city.
A hundred strokes a day keeps it
lustrous — my lover cannot touch.

        Kribañ a ra he blev. Glav a ra bepred?
        She combs her hair. Is it raining, still?

Glav is when the sea marries the air,
which happens every day. Our days
are wet. Our women spend it in quiet
work, a form of contemplation. At sea,
the rain becomes a beast, drowns us.

        An avel en he biz a rofe glav e-pad ur miz
        The northeast wind: rain for a month.

Brezel is what we do when we are not
working the land: we pick a hoe, pick
a pitchfork and gladly walk into pitch
black, escort of cannon fodder for
our new master, Commander Whoever.

        Ar brezel e voe berraet ar ed-du.
        The war puts an end to black-wheat.

Kanaouenn is how we fall asleep,
awake, do our chores, go to church,
to war, and how we mourn: we sing
through it. A song for every minute
of the day, a Saint for every hour.

        C'hoant em eus e kanfes ur ganaouenn.
        How I long for you to sing to me.

Treizher is what we can no longer be.
The boat is sunk. The tongue is cut.
Grandmother, the last of our kind, and
speaking it behind closed doors. We know
nothing, but long for our language.

        Klaskerien ha treizherien soñjoù.
        Seekers and ferrymen of memory.

The language presented here is Brezhoneg or Breton, a language of the Celtic family spoken in Brittany, modern-day France. It is classified as "severely endangered" by the UNESCO Atlas of the World's Languages in Danger. In the 19thCentury, it wasbanned by the French Republic. Breton people could be sentenced to jail, corporal punishment, expelled from school, etc.,for speaking their language in public, which led to itsrapid decline. My grandmother was the last person to speak it in our family. She remembers speaking it as a child, at night, with her father. As I do not speak it myself, I used online translation tools and played around with ready-made sentences. I probably messed up the grammar, and mixed several dialects, for which I apologize –it is representative of the fact that there are no more first-language speakers of Breton nowadays, and that those who attempt to speak it fumble around, reconstruct it as best they can, and speak it with a heavy French accent.The title itself means “I do not understand”.

Schooled in French

by Lorelei Bacht

Grandmother's tongue rolls out in waves
Of fathers and sons lost at sea,
Cursing captains, mother of pearl,
Varech, sea-biscuits, flock of foams.

We need our consonants to shape
The undertow, the anima
Of cockles and anemones:
How much ship would a shipwreck wreck?

You trip on our pebbles, opaque,
Our vowels all blue like the clouds,
Rain an etch-a-sketch in granite
Growing mussels on wave-breakers.

Grandmother's tongue rolls out in waves.
Her tide broken — rise of the nation state,
She will be schooled in French.

Lorelei Bacht is a poet of complex European heritage living in Asia. In a past life, she was a political lobbyist. When she is not carrying little children around or encouraging them to discover the paintings of Edvard Munch, she can be found collecting bones and failing scientific experiments. Her recent work can be found and/or is forthcoming in OpenDoor Poetry, Litehouse, Visitant, Quail Bell and The Wondrous Real. She is also on Instagram: @lorelei.bacht.writer

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