Kneecap’s DJ Próvaí shares powerful poem to mark St Patrick’s Day

JJ Ó Dochartaigh, aka DJ Próvaí, is one-third of Belfast hip-hop phenomenon Kneecap alongside Mo Chara and Móglaí Bap. Recently nominated for six Baftas, they playfully said they’d swap them for the six northern Irish counties. They are politically involved clever blokes who are standing against occupations of all types, and so getting an audience the uninvolved can only wish for. Ó Dochartaigh has written a poem for St Patrick’s Day, which features in this week’s issue, the 10Foot takeover. (English translation below.)

In ómós: Barney agus spideog 

Tá crith i mo lámh le fuacht an lae agus sioc i mo shúile gléigeal 

Na callóga sneachta ag leá ar mo ghruaig; spideog ar an fhuinneog sin thall 

Tá mo thrua ag sileadh amach as mo chroí, dath fola ar a bhrollach beag dearg 

Is bogann sé giota le séideadh na gaoithe, ag stánadh go brónach, mo mhairg! 

Ní thuigeann sé cruachás an gheimhridh go fóill, an talamh sin crua, mar iarann 

Is an lochán beag uisce ‘tá reoite is lonrach, nach scaoilfidh a rún ach le grian 

Níl teacht ag an spideog ar bhéile trí chúrsa; fiodóir, feileacán, feithid 

Ná neaidín beag teolaí ar fhoscadh na gcrann, ní thiocfaidh sé riamh ar a leithéid. 

Is stánaim ar ais air trí radhare atá geamhach, mo shúile ag líonadh le deora 

ag smaoineamh ar sheanfhear a bhásaigh anuraidh ag siopaí an Chreagáin i nDoire 

Dúradh gur shíl siad nach raibh sé ach ólta, ina luí ar a chóta san fhuacht 

Duine indiúscartha dar leis an sochaí, ní fiú é a chur ar an nuacht. 

Is cuireann an spideog seo ‘Barney’ i gcuimhne, fear bocht gan aithne; marbh faoin aer. 

Domhan mór ag déanamh neamhaird ar a shaolsa; é imithe. 

Múchta mar chionnneal gan chéir. 

Scríobhaim in ómós do dhaoine sa chúlra, iad siúd ar a mbíonn do chuimhní cinn garbh, 

is scríobhaim in ómós don spideog bheag chroíúil. É reoite is gleoite, ina sheasamh, ach marbh. 

J.J. Ó Dochartaigh

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In honour of Barney and the robin

There’s a tremor in my hand with harsh cold of day, and frost in my glimmering eyes 

Snowflakes melting in through my hair; a robin on the window ledge yonder. 

Pity comes pouring out of my heart, blood colour on his little red breast 

And he sways just a little with the flow of the wind, 

Staring sadly, alas. 

He doesn’t understand the hardships of winter, the ground below hard, like iron. 

Or the puddle that’s frozen and light dances off,  

Won’t give up its secrets, but to sunlight. 

The robin, alas, has no access to three course meals: spider, butterfly, insect. 

Nor a warm cosy nest under shelter of tree. 

Something he’ll just never come by. 

I stare back at him through a glazed swelling eye, filling so softly with tears. 

I think of the old man who died last year at the creggan shops, in Derry. 

It was said that the people just thought he was drunk, lying in his coat in the cold. 

Dispensable man, in society’s eyes, not worthy enough for the news 

And this little robin reminds me of ‘Barney’, poor man not well known, 

dead in the open. 

Big world completely ignoring his existence; he’s gone. 

Snuffed like a waxless candle. 

I write this in homage to people in the background, those on whom your memories are sparse. 

And I write in homage to the little hearty robin. 

Frozen, beautiful, standing but dead. 

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