A number of Catholic blogs have recently publishing pro-life poems. I've noted the following:
J F Collins: The Cry of an Aborted Child (Linen on the Hedgerow)
G K Chesterton: By the Babe Unborn (Countercultural Father)
Spike Milligan: Unto Us (On The Side of the Angels)
This reminded me of the following poem which I came across a few years ago in the collection of modern Gaelic verse, An Tuil. It's written by Donald John MacDonald (translation by Ronald Black) and a version was first published in 1973 in the Stornoway Gazette:
The Voice from the Mother's Womb
Come close and give an ear to me,
All of you who have your health,
Listen to me and take pity on me
For you're about to have me killed;
Here I am, a developed child
Wrapped around in my mother's womb,
And the murderer standing close to me
With the Crown's consent to snuff me out.
He'll get no gallows, fine or prison
And no court will sentence him,
Even if he murdered thousands
He is quit of the country's law;
He will slaughter me tomorrow,
Anyway my mother has asked him to-
Isn't she herself the murderer
Of the very waif that's in her womb?
I have never harmed a creature
Under the sun throughout the world,
All I wanted was to join you there
And grow up and come of age there;
When my mother had conceived me
And I was saying, "She will love me."
But giving pleasure to her flesh
Was what she wanted, not a baby.
I'll never see a summer's day,
Fields alive with calves and stirks,
Nor the primrose of the streamlets,
Or flowers that grow in glen or garden;
I'll not hear in Maytime morning
The sweetstringed choir high in the trees,
I won't run, or jump for joy
With other children as they did themselves.
All my share came into being
When, weak and tender, I was conceived,
And if people did right by each other
No mouth on earth would suffer want;
But too many are amassing wealth,
Eating, drinking, vomiting,
While their brothers lack even the mouthful
To give them strength to reach maturity.
God made me in the usual way-
It was His hope that I would grow,
It wasn't in His mind at all
That I should be superfluous;
He created my eternal soul
Though stained by Adam's living sin,
But the Sacrament of Baptism
Was still going to show me glory.
But alas, my cause of sadness,
My right to it has been denied:
I've now no hope of the Baptism
Ordered for me by the King of the Elements,
But of course He will show me love-
An innocent loveless child
Denied all admittance to the world
And any chance to mature there in time.
Oh won't you take pity, mother,
On me the child that's in your womb,
Listen to me and hear me cry out
As a mother's love is denied me;
Since you so willingly conceived me,
Bring me to the world and bless me,
And my tongue won't seek your torment
When God comes in court to judge you.
And you who're waiting with the knife
To finish off my childhood,
Mind, though I cannot see your face,
I won't forget you, never-
When your soul's being sought from you
And you crying, "God have mercy,"
With a crown about my head
I'll shout, "Send him down to Hell, the fiend!"
"Thou shalt not kill" is what the Lord said,
When He created the commandments;
"You'll give," He said, "all love to me
And as to me, so to your brother."
And you who put the Act together
That murders children by the thousand,
If justice triumphs in the end
I pity you the day your die.
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An Guth á Broinn na Màthar
Teannaibh dlùth is thoiribh cluas dhomh,
Sibhs’ a shluagh a tha ’nur slàint’,
Éistibh riu is gabhaibh truas rium
’S mi air thuar mo chur gu bàs leibh;
Tha mi ’n-seo, ’nam leanabh saidhbhir
Paisgte cruinn am broinn mo mhàthar,
’S am murtair ’na sheasnamh dlùth dhomh
’S aont’ a’ Chrùin aige mo smàladh.
Cha téid croich no càin no prìosan,
Cha téid binn a thoirt le cùirt air,
Ged a mharbhadh e na mìltean
Tha e caoiteas lagh na dùthchadh;
Nì e mis’ a mhurt a-màireach,
Dh’iarr mo mhàthair air co-dhiù e-
Saoil nach murtair is’ I fhéin
Don aon dìol-déirc a th’air a giùlan?
Cha do rinn mi cron air creutair
Tha fon ghréin air feadh an t-saoghail,
B’e mo mhiann tighinn còmh’ ruib’ fhéin ann
’S a bhith ’g éirigh suas gu aois ann;
Nuair a ghineadh mi le m’ mhàthair
Bha mi ’g ràdha, ‘Bheir i gaol dhomh.’
Ach se sòlas thoirt dh’a feòil
A bha i’n tòir air, ’s cha b’e maoth-phàist’.
Chan fhaic mise latha samhraidh,
Laoigh is gamhna ruith sna pàircean,
Chan fhaic mi sòbhrach nan alltan,
Flùraichean an glean no’n gàrradh;
Ch chluinn mi air madainn Chéitein
Còisir theudach nan craobh àrda,
Còmh’ri cloinn mar a rinn àsan.
Chaidh mo chuid-sa chur don t-saoghal
Nuair a ghineadh maoth gun chlì mi,
’S nam biodh daoine ceart dha chéile
Cha bhiodh beul fon ghréin is dìth air;
Ach tha cus a’ càrnadh stòrais,
Ag ithe, ’s ag òl, ’s a’dìobhairt,
’S am bràithrean gun fiù an greim
A theireadh sgoinn dhaibh tighinn gu ìre.
Chruthaich Dia mi mar a b’àbhaist –
Se gum fàsainn bha ’na dhòchas,
Cha b’e bha ’na inntinn idir
Gun robh mise gu bhith chòrr ann ;
Chruthaich e m’anam neo-bhàsmhor
Ged bha peacadh Àdhaimh beò air,
Ach bha Sàcramaid a’ Bhaistidh
Dol a thaisbeanadh na glòir dhomh.
Och mo thruaighe, fàth mo dhòlais,
Chaidh mo chòir rithe dhòmhs’ a dhiùltadh:
Chan eil Baisteadh ann dhomh ’n dòchas
Mar a dh’òrdaich Rìgh nan Dùl dhomh,
Ach tha fios gun nochd E bàidh rium-
Neochiontach de phàiste diùmbaidh
Nach fhaigh cead tighinn chun an t-saoghail
’S cothrom tighinn gu aois ri ùin’ ann.
O nach gabhthu truas, a mhàthair,
Riums’, am pàist’ a th’air do ghiùlan,
Éist rium agus cluinn mo ràn
Is gaol na màthar dhomh ga dhiùltadh;
Bhon a ghin thu mi le d’shaor-thoil,
Thoir don t-saoghal mi le d’dhùrachd,
’S cha bhi m’theang’ ag eubhach pian dhut
Nuair thig Dia thoirt breith na cùirt’ ort.
’S thus’ tha feitheamh leis an iarann
Gus mo chrìochnachadh ’nam phàiste,
Cuimhnich, ged nach fhaic mi t’ìomhaigh,
S mi nach dìochuimhnich gu bràch thu-
Nuair bhios t’anam ort ga iarraidh
’S tu ’g eubhach, ‘A Dhia dian bàidh rium,’
Bidh mise agus crùn mu m’cheann
Ag eubhach, ‘Sìos don toll an t-À bharsair!’
Thuirt an Tighearna, ‘Na dian marbhadh,’
Nuair a dhealbhaich E na fàithntean;
Thuirt E, ‘Their thu gaol gu léir dhomh
Agus mar dhut fhéin, dha d’bhràthair.’
’S sibhse rinn an t-Achd a sgrìobhadh
A tha murt nam mìltean pàiste,
Mas e ’n ceartas a their buaidh
Och och mo thruaighe là ur bàis sibh.
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