Poem
Ifor ap Glyn
Quarry supper
The archaeology of eating’s a strange thing;our lunching in London
was fishfinger modern
like the plates on the placemats
but by just clearing the topsoil,
exposing the rock, and firing a fissure
through the layers of history,
we found we were still working
the same old “bargen”...
at mealtimes at least
Mam would summon us
for our suburban fare at five,
for that was expected of the wife
of a man for whom the rock was his life,
and some habits are as resilient
as those purple “dychis” and “ladis”
that were ferried formerly from Dinorwig
(although our family
had long since been driven
from their famine kitchen “bargen”
a and decamped to London
where stones of another ilk
could be split like silk...)
* * * * *
The archaeology of eating’s a strange thing;
It’s five once more, in Caernarfon this time,
and the spoons keenly sing
as they scrape the bowls...
“Hey!” I say, “you’re not in the quarry now!”
-my mother’s words in the London of my youth,
my grandmother’s words in Llanrwst before that,
and my great grandmother’s words
in the Fachwen of yore
relic-like words that have outlasted
my forefathers who once blasted
hewn rock from rough rock
and in the shed,
dressed slate into bread...
* * * * *
The archaeology of eating’s
a strange thing...
tonight in London
though knowing nothing of dirt clearing
and tramway – making,
I still cleave my ideas,
and dress them on my imagination’s edge,
because part of me
is still purple slate at heart
even tonight with my middle class haircut
and my Beaujolais teeth;
as I scratch new customs on an old slate
I know full well
I’m just a spit-and-hanky-wipe
away from a much harder kind of life;
seventy years
and two hundred miles down the line,
the sound of a closed quarry’s hooter
still calls us to table to dine
© Translation: 2001, Ifor ap Glyn
Swpar chwaral
Swpar chwaral
Rhyfedd yw archaeoleg prydau bwyd;roedd ein lluniaeth yn Llundain
yn fishfingar o gyfoes, fel y llestri ar y lliain;
ond o glirio'r brig, dinoethi'r graig
a saethu hollt trwy haenau hanes,
cawsom bod ni'n dal i weithio'r un hen fargen
o ran amser bwyd, fodd bynnag...
byddai mam yn ein galw
at ein bwrdd sybyrbaidd am bump,
am mai dyna ddisgwylid gan wraig
i ddyn fu'n trin y graig,
ac mae rhai arferion mor wydn
â'r dytchis a'r ladis porffor
a hebryngwyd o Ddinorwig gynt,
er bod ein teulu wedi hen ddiflannu
o'u bargen cegin lwgu,
a throi am Lundain,
lle 'roedd y cerrig yn hollti fel sidan.
* * * * * *
Rhyfedd yw archaeoleg prydau bwyd;
mae'n bump eto, yng Nghaernarfon 'tro 'ma
ac mae'r llwya'n canu'n frwd wrth grafu'r ddesgil...
"dach chi'm yn gweithio'n 'chwaral 'wan"
meddai fi...
Geiriau mam yn Llundain erstalwm...
geiriau nain yn Llanrwst gynt...
geiriau hen nain yn Fachwen cyn hynny...
creiria o eiria sydd wedi para
tu hwnt i ddyddia fy nghyn-dada,
fu'n troi clytia'n grawia
a cherrig yn fara...
* * * * * *
Rhyfedd yw archaeoleg prydau bwyd;
heno, nôl yn Llundain,
er gwybod dim am glirio baw, na chodi bona,
dwi'n hollti syniada,
a'u naddu ar drafal fy nychymyg,
am fod rhan ohona'i'n llechan borffor o hyd...
Hyd yn oed heno,
gyda 'ngwallt dosbarth canol
a 'nannadd Beaujolais,
wrth sgythru arferion newydd ar hen lechan,
gwn nad wyf ond pwyriad a chadach pocad
i ffwrdd o fywyd llawer mwy calad...
Saith deg mlynedd, a dau gan milltir i ffwrdd,
corn chwaral -'di- cau sy'n ein galw o hyd at y bwrdd.
© 2001, Ifor ap Glyn
From: Cerrdi Map yr Underground
Publisher: Gwasg Carreg Gwalch, Llanrwst
From: Cerrdi Map yr Underground
Publisher: Gwasg Carreg Gwalch, Llanrwst
Ifor ap Glyn
(United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, 1961)
Ifor ap Glyn is a writer, TV producer and since 2016, the National Poet of Wales. He has published five volumes of poetry in Welsh and in 2018 he published his first collection with English translation in a parallel text: Cuddle Call? An active performer, he's participated on many poetry tours including Lliwiau Rhyddid (The Colours of Freedom) and Y Gadair Wag (The Empty Chair). He has represen...
Poems
Poems of Ifor ap Glyn
Close
Quarry supper
The archaeology of eating’s a strange thing;our lunching in London
was fishfinger modern
like the plates on the placemats
but by just clearing the topsoil,
exposing the rock, and firing a fissure
through the layers of history,
we found we were still working
the same old “bargen”...
at mealtimes at least
Mam would summon us
for our suburban fare at five,
for that was expected of the wife
of a man for whom the rock was his life,
and some habits are as resilient
as those purple “dychis” and “ladis”
that were ferried formerly from Dinorwig
(although our family
had long since been driven
from their famine kitchen “bargen”
a and decamped to London
where stones of another ilk
could be split like silk...)
* * * * *
The archaeology of eating’s a strange thing;
It’s five once more, in Caernarfon this time,
and the spoons keenly sing
as they scrape the bowls...
“Hey!” I say, “you’re not in the quarry now!”
-my mother’s words in the London of my youth,
my grandmother’s words in Llanrwst before that,
and my great grandmother’s words
in the Fachwen of yore
relic-like words that have outlasted
my forefathers who once blasted
hewn rock from rough rock
and in the shed,
dressed slate into bread...
* * * * *
The archaeology of eating’s
a strange thing...
tonight in London
though knowing nothing of dirt clearing
and tramway – making,
I still cleave my ideas,
and dress them on my imagination’s edge,
because part of me
is still purple slate at heart
even tonight with my middle class haircut
and my Beaujolais teeth;
as I scratch new customs on an old slate
I know full well
I’m just a spit-and-hanky-wipe
away from a much harder kind of life;
seventy years
and two hundred miles down the line,
the sound of a closed quarry’s hooter
still calls us to table to dine
© 2001, Ifor ap Glyn
From: Cerrdi Map yr Underground
From: Cerrdi Map yr Underground
Quarry supper
The archaeology of eating’s a strange thing;our lunching in London
was fishfinger modern
like the plates on the placemats
but by just clearing the topsoil,
exposing the rock, and firing a fissure
through the layers of history,
we found we were still working
the same old “bargen”...
at mealtimes at least
Mam would summon us
for our suburban fare at five,
for that was expected of the wife
of a man for whom the rock was his life,
and some habits are as resilient
as those purple “dychis” and “ladis”
that were ferried formerly from Dinorwig
(although our family
had long since been driven
from their famine kitchen “bargen”
a and decamped to London
where stones of another ilk
could be split like silk...)
* * * * *
The archaeology of eating’s a strange thing;
It’s five once more, in Caernarfon this time,
and the spoons keenly sing
as they scrape the bowls...
“Hey!” I say, “you’re not in the quarry now!”
-my mother’s words in the London of my youth,
my grandmother’s words in Llanrwst before that,
and my great grandmother’s words
in the Fachwen of yore
relic-like words that have outlasted
my forefathers who once blasted
hewn rock from rough rock
and in the shed,
dressed slate into bread...
* * * * *
The archaeology of eating’s
a strange thing...
tonight in London
though knowing nothing of dirt clearing
and tramway – making,
I still cleave my ideas,
and dress them on my imagination’s edge,
because part of me
is still purple slate at heart
even tonight with my middle class haircut
and my Beaujolais teeth;
as I scratch new customs on an old slate
I know full well
I’m just a spit-and-hanky-wipe
away from a much harder kind of life;
seventy years
and two hundred miles down the line,
the sound of a closed quarry’s hooter
still calls us to table to dine
© 2001, Ifor ap Glyn
Sponsors
Partners
LantarenVenster – Verhalenhuis Belvédère