Sbelyng

Colonel Kernel
caught this thought:
“I know, I'll go
around these islands, highlands, dry lands
and greet those I meet,
and treat them to tea replete with meat.

“I'll pester Leicester,
speak in Speke,
aver before a clerk in Derby,
‘Where would one, wearing wool,
have stood upon a stool?
Shoulder-to-shoulder? Should I?'
for I am a loser on the booze
too loose to soothe
the grieving leaves deceived by Eve.”

Tonight, a white knight
came, took aim,
knocked a nook
filled in by builders,
climbing and rhyming

Do you view too soon to chew? Shew
me the money.

Come in, Birmingham, yore thyme is up.
Mail this male to gaol for telling tales.

Later – eight days, maybe –
(now) Lieutenant Kernel left
the army, proud, allowed
to crowd his palms with crows,
his alms – florins – to foreigners,
sighing, “Lying twice in paradise,
I wish to motion, fashion
schools, scope my skull,
design nine
conkers, concur centrally,
confer control,
assimilate asymmetrically.
Perhaps,” he purred, “poor
peasants (eating peas and ants)
will learn to turn
their tone to God's own
wedge of language.”

Cerdd newydd / a new poem

EIRA MAWR 1962 – 13eg Chwefror

Distawodd y byd heno dan sibrwd ysgafn
yr eira'n ymlwybro dros fryniau,
bwrdd-deistrefi a chwadranglau;
eira cyntaf y gaeaf yn gwrlid
o gylch Neuadd y Dref
a Neuadd Pantycelyn,
yn gohirio'r pyllau pel-droed,
yn oer fel rhyfel.

Distawodd pob sgwrs heno dan blu
gwahaniaeth dibendraw; dim byd
ond atsain dweud y drefn yn diferu
o dudalennau cyfnodolion y gororau brau.

Gwn, mi wn, fod rhywun ar fai,
a dôf yn ddof i ymyl y dorf
i ddal dy gôt wrth i ti daflu'r
garreg gyntaf – Ond beth
oedd y swn a glywais tra'n cerdded
heibio i Barc y Blawd? Rhywun yn fy siarsio
am adeiladu fy hun ar bethau
mor wamal ag eira, iaith a phridd?

THE GREAT WINTER OF 1962 – 13th February

The world is silent tonight
under the soft whisper of snow snaking
over hills, boroughs and quadrangles;
the first snow of winter wrapping
itself around town halls
and halls of residence,
postponing the football pools,
as cold as war.

All conversation ended beneath flakes
of unending difference; nothing
but the echo of anger dripping
from the newspapers of the fragile march.

Someone’s got to take the blame,
so I’ll come, tame, to the edge of the crowd
and hold your coat whilst you cast
the first stone. But what
was the sound I heard
whilst passing Parc y Blawd? Someone
admonishing me for building myself on things
as fickle as language, land and snow?

Test the Nation

Delete as applicable – Race/
Religion/Culture (pick one)/Place
of Birth/Right to Work/Taxes Paid.

How many points did you score in the Citizens' Quiz?

Tell us what language you speak (please answer in English).

Who are you – yes
or no?

Enwogion o Fri

A glywsoch am yr actores
annwyd yn ysbyty'r Gors,
ei thad yn filwr yn Fali?

Neu'r film star dreuliodd hafau
yn hafod ei chyndeidiau?

A pheidied neb anghofio'r
campwr fu'n yfed coffi
mewn caffi ar y draffordd.

Yn yr ysbryd hwn, anogaf
henuriaid Rhydychen i godi plac:
Yma Ganwyd Y Prifardd Twm Morys.

Bydd cofeb yn Seion, gyfaill,
I gofio cyfraniad Ifor
At lendid y Diaspora.

A hyfryd fydd i Loegr gofleidio'i
Halltydfab ficeraidd hanner-hil.

What We Did With the Airy Christ

"For he does not wish that men should love him more than anything
Because he died; he only wishes they would hear him sing."
Stevie Smith

We threw the book at him. It bounced. Recoiling,
he laid down an elastic law pronounced
with parabolic arcs across the skies
of passing worlds. He sang a song of loss,
left quotes for his biography, and perished
for disturbing standard orthography.
At once our sects seized his song-book. Lacking voices
we could only stutter, could only look
at golden notes on silver staves, imagine tunes
whilst grim, ponderous essays etched on graves
set rubrics for the proper way to perform
the canon and appointed who could play.
Our music fills us with regret. Unconducted,
on clumsy thumbs, we stumble. We forget.

BLE MAE’R GYMRAEG?

Er yr emynau,
ni feiddiwn faddau.
Yn y gwyll, oddeutu’r
trydydd awr, mae
rhywun yn peintio
dros arwydd Peilat.

Despite the hymns,
we dare not forgive.
About the third hour,
as darkness covered the land,
someone is painting
over Pilate’s sign.

One poem for the price of two

Cân Holl Bobloedd Orthrymedig Ewrop

Cofiwn am y gâd annwyl
â galar addas i'w gwyl.
Cydawn i ddisgynfa drist
arwyr, ac yno canwn
am elynion digalon
dwyreiniol, lladron ein gwlâd.

Ni bia fan hyn, nid Nhw;
du fydd y dydd pan ddeffrown.
Du fel cwyn canrifoedd sur
neu lwch eu tai yn llosgi.
Du fel bol y poptai; fel
bedd tu cefn i'r cae ffwtbol.

The Song of the Oppressed Peoples of Europe

Let us remember beloved
battles with suitable grief.
Let us go again to the
holy graves of our brave boys, sing
songs of the heartless eastern
enemy, thieves of our land.

This land is for Us, not Them.
A dark day will dawn when we wake –
dark, like time's sour complaints
or the dust of burning houses;
the way closed ovens are dark;
like fresh graves by the football ground.

Dal Pwyll

Roedd hi'n ddigon hawdd dod hyd i fall guy.
Gwyddwn fod ei falchder yn fwy na'i bwyll,
felly mater bychan oedd gosod
rhwyd deniadol wrth ei draed.

Problem fwya pendefigion ydi'r grêd
fod popeth o fewn cyrraedd.
(Nid gwyddoniaeth roced ‘mo hyn).
Gyrrais y bwch o flaen ei gi,
gwelodd ei siawns, a daeth i mi ar blât.

Mae pobol yn rhâd, wyddoch chi?
Mi wnant unrhyw beth am fedal,
foliant neu fwyd.
Cymerwch y cymeriad bychan hwn –
"Laddi di ddyn i achub dy barch?
Mi gadwa i drefn ar dy gantrefi
rhag i neb sylwi dy absenoldeb."
Heb funud o feddwl, aeth ati.
Fel dwyn da-da o fabi.
Bron yn rhy hawdd.

Gellir cyfiawnhau hyn mewn llawer ffordd –
roedd y gelyn yn bygwth;
yn casglu arfau mawr;
yn drafferth;
rhaid cadw trefn ar bethau.
Coeliwch fi, mae pethau'n well erbyn hyn –
dyna'r unig dystiolaeth o werth.

Beth wnaeth Bwyll yn batsi?
Clôd, am wn i.

Caiff ddigon o hynny,
a llu taeog,
yn bendefig byd y meirw.