Showing posts with label Welsh. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Welsh. Show all posts

Saturday, 4 April 2026

4 - Yr Eos

Day 4 of NaPoWriMo and I made a spreadsheet to give me random prompts of form and topic. While testing it out the other night, it gave me “Blank Verse” and “Rhiannon”, who happens to be one of my favourite mythological figures. (I was once cast as her in an audiodrama and I nearly expired of excitement – the title for this came about because the sound designer used nightingale birdsong behind my voice.) She has no connection to inspiration/ the awen that I know of, being a shrewd stateswoman and strong woman associated with horses and sovereignty (and sarcasm), but her advice to go slow and her association with (healing) birdsong turned into an exploration of patience in association with creativity. And I thoroughly ignored the notion of blank verse and used a series of chained clogyrnachau instead…

If you’re subscribed to my Patreon, you can hear an exclusive recording of this (and other things) read aloud. The recording is here.


She is still with us, don’t you know?
She tells us: “Take your time, be slow…
“The trees are heavy
“with birds, so merry.
“Listen, let the words flow.

“Child, the muse exacts no levy,
“the fruit comes in its time, very
“generous and true,
“because it is you,
“and creation’s messy!

“Cariad, take the longer view:
“the words will come out when they’re due.
“If shy, you must coax,
“not lash them to yokes.
“Trust in patient virtue.”

Her voice lingers beyond the oaks,
I close my eyes, let it invoke
magic, sweet and slow
(she’s still here, you know).
Let her guide my penstrokes.

A scan of a black and white illustration in a lithographic style on slightly discoloured, greyish page, where letters from the other side show through faintly. A white woman with dark hair sits side-saddle on a pure white horse with a long mane and tail, which is rearing slightly. The woman wears a long, very dark overdress dress with lighter, looping, swirling patterns reminiscent of paisley shapes and a white wimple and underdress. She has a calm, determined expression, and her arms are adorned with several bracelets. She is controlling the horse lightly, with only one hand on the reins. They seem to have paused in front of a thickly briared hillock with a stunted, wind-bent tree on top. Beyond the hillock is a large hill with a few bushes and trees on it, and a large fortification at the top. Faintly visible in the background is what appears to be a male rider coming towards Rhiannon from the direction of the fortified hill. Beyond him is an uncertainty of scribble that may be suggestive of a large group of armed men on horseback. The sky seems to be quite cloudy. At the bottom of the picture is a name, which research indicates is S. Williams.
Image from the Lady Charlotte Guest translation of The Mabinogion, by S. Williams, via Wikipedia

If you’d like to try out a clogyrnach or two, why not use my Repeating and Concrete Forms spreadsheet, which also has some syllable-counting forms like this, to help you?

Friday, 28 April 2017

2017.28 - Flight

She’s rapt in jungle far away
Bright colours beg her: one more day
Water seems to sigh
Begs to know quite why
She’d quit its gentle sway

They’re wrapped in jumpers far away
While grey clouds blanket every day
April’s face a lie,
Changeable and sly
And driech seems here to stay

The time is spent; she’s on her way
Due North and East in half a day
Touch the shifting sky
Land to be shown why
Warmth blossoms here, dear stray.


A soppy, personal one, for once. My partner is currently 5,425 miles away. Every so often we get texts about snakes and monkeys and sloths and white water rafting at peculiar times of the day and night. She’s back in a few days’ time. Aww. Anyway, this is a clogyrnach; a Welsh poetry form.

Wednesday, 29 April 2015

2015.29 - Afon Tam

She says she wants to be a stone
The weight of care is hers alone
Tree calls out to sky
Water beckons why
My fire won't
Bring her home.

_________

I've been meaning to play with Welsh poetry forms for a while. This is a clogyrnach.

Sunday, 26 April 2015

2015.22 - Sea and Mountain Call

Home is where the heart is, so
I'm trapped in a limbo,
Rhapsodising on (at least) two themes,
Absent on a wing of thought,
Eddying in an echo of regret,
Tied with loving bonds,
Hand and foot and throat.

Wednesday, 30 April 2014

#30 Ave et Atque

Hello

We shake hands,
Duck and dance,
Try to remember
Do we hug?
A brief scent
A kiss of eyes


Bonjour!

It's so loud
That part of the evening
Where all is rush and flurry
Arms wide
Breath moist on necks
Bending to hear
Those words


Bore Da/ Hylô/ Helô

We had to steal words
From the outside
Until recently
Everything was
About the rhythm of days
Saying bathed in
What kind of light graced us
A whole day together
A whole day apart



Some things translate
Across boundaries
And there's nothing like a smile
To make your day

...

We are mirrors and circles
Turning, starting, ending
Breaking and mending
In the same breath,
Echoing: Again...




Nos da/ Hwyl/ Da bo chi/ Wela i chi

Au revoir

Goodbye

Tuesday, 23 April 2013

#22 Do the Little Things in Life

Some of my NaPoWriMo comrades and Facebook friends appear to be writing about their day’s saint today. With no offence intended, this is my take...

St. George says jack to me
A hackneyed archetype
All “look at me” with his
Smouldering Italian eyes
Fixed on a slightly dubious prize.

Maybe I’m bitter -
A feminist Welsh witch
Gritting old teeth at occupier fervour,
Nerve hit by symbolic pagan-killing.

He’s an interesting twist away from
The other fellas - remonstrators,
Snake-haters, hillock-makers, fishermen,
Kings and bones and gold-bound things,
All the big ones imports.

It seems I like my holy people local,
Vocal, quietly stubborn,
Humble, healing, proved
To have been breathing more than ink;
Psychopomps and gods and warriors
All have their place but not as saints.

I know it isn’t up to me, but
Yellow buds, a half-day holiday,
Dressing up and pungent vegetation,
Gwnewch y pethau bychain mewn bywyd,
Whispers more to me than violent adulation.

Thursday, 11 April 2013

#9 Lleu Llaw Gyffes' Woman

Imagine if she'd said no:
Don't give me claws -
I was given for loving,
I did only as you made me.

Imagine her saying it:
No, don't kill him -
Send us into exile,
Beyond sight,
Tell them I died.

Imagine if she'd refused:
No - let's just run away,
Let this be about you and me,
Not you and him.
Theft is better than murder.

Imagine if she'd said:
I never imagined men
Were like you - tender, attentive,
Bearing their own names,
Fragrant, unfettered by fate,
But first I need to leave him.

Imagine if she'd refused:
New-minted, the world glinting,
Let me touch it
With my softness first,
Then choose my own chains.

Imagine her saying it:
I will not turn,
I'll stay scattered, natural,
Making love to earth
And sunlight.

Imagine if she'd said yes:
My son, my own,
You'll grow to be a man,
And just a man,
Wound round with women's love.