Eòghan Stiùbhart

Eòghan Stiùbhart is a teacher, broadcaster and shinty player. A Gaelic speaker proud of his Lewis and Skye roots, he was brought up in various manses in Cumbernauld, Strathmore and Inverness, giving him a wide experience of Scotland, Scots and Gaelic. In recent years he has become an advocate and campaigner for Mental Health awareness amongst men and young people. As a poet he has received prizes and various commendations for his work, which is both traditional and modern in style, mixing nature imagery and decolonisation with love and death. He was the runner up at the Dòmhnall Meek Award in 2017 for his as yet unpublished debut collection Beum-sgeithe.

Events

Gaelic Writers Showcase »

Reading: Deborah Moffatt, Eòghan Stiùbhart, Sandy NicDhomhnaill Jones, Niall O’Gallagher

Sun 8 March | 13:00 - 14:00 | £4.50/£3.50 | Parliament Hall, South Street

Poem

Panolis Flammea—‘Pine Beauty Moth

Bha na craobhan air leth-fhàs aig Gearraidh na h-Aibhne
nuair a chaidh na cuilg-chònach a chagnadh
is thog an leòmann beag croinn liath lom fhuar
mar chabhlach nam fuath do mharaichean an Ach’,
asnaichean geala sa chladh-chraobh gun sealladh air a’ chuan

mar nach bu dual dha mhuinntir an eilein,
agus aon shamhla eile de dh’eug sa pholl-mhòine fhuar
amhail mar àirighean Chlach Ghlas Fiar Allt

no seann-tobhtaichean falamh nam mìle fuadach;
an uair sin, eadar na stuic mharbh, thàinig am fàs
agus chunnacas as ùr e; gorm, glas, uaine
agus thug e togail dhan chridhe a dh’fhaicinn
bòidhchead a’ ghiùthsaich sìor-uaine is buan;

nach do shluig an leòmann beag aoireil i gu tùr
is gun tàinig air a’ bhàs buaidh.

Panolis Flammea—‘Pine Beauty Moth
The trees had half grown at Garynahine / when the needles were chewed / and the little moth raised cold bare grey masts / like a ghostly fleet for the Achmore sailors / white ribs in a tree graveyard without a view of the sea / so unlike the customs of the people / and one more sign of death in the cold peat soil / just like the shielings at Clach Glas Fiar Allt / or the old empty ruins of a thousand clearings / then, between the dead stumps, the growth came / and it was seen again, green, green, green / and it raised the heart to see / the beauty of the pine forest, everlasting and evergreen / that the satirical little moth had not swallowed it all / and death was overcome

Eòghan Stiùbhart