Poem
Ifor ap Glyn
Skin
We were reluctant pilgrims,in our school minibus to Rhosyr;
long seconds ticked off by its wipers,
the rain had stolen the view.
“Do ye not see...?” quoted Sir;
as he tried to conjure up the last storm of the princes
with their stars falling;
and how the vultures came to pick over the court’s corpse;
removed the ribs of the roof,
and carried the stones to Caernarfon.
But then, he said,
the very oaks clashed once more
the sea smote at the land,
till sand dunes mended the scars of the court,
smoothing an old wound into oblivion.
And that’s how it was, said Sir,
till the time when we were born;
and students from somewhere came to dig the sand,
peel back the centuries
with surgical precision;
and “look”, he said,
“Do ye not see...?”
So we looked (just to please him).
And we saw, through wipers and rain,
the stumps of walls
protecting emptiness;
we saw two lovers’ graffiti
who came here to be alone;
and we saw ourselves,
as if from a window,
like a people who lost weight too quickly,
and feel their history
hanging on them loosely.
© Translation: 2016, Ifor ap Glyn
Croen
Croen
Pererinion anfoddog oeddym,yn Rhosyr, mewn minibỳs ysgol;
a'i weipars yn marcio'r eiliadau hir,
a'r glaw wedi dwyn yr olygfa.
"Poni welwch chwi...?" meddai Syr;
a cheisio consurio storom ola'r tywysogion
a'u sêr yn syrthio;
a sut y daeth adar corff i flingo'r llys;
tynnu asennau'r to,
a chario'r cerrig i Gaernarfon.
Ac yna, meddai,
daeth y deri i ymdaro eilwaith
a'r môr yn merwino'r tir,
nes oedd twyni tywod wedi trwsio creithiau'r llys,
a'r hen friw yn llyfn, yn angof.
Ac felly bu, meddai Syr,
nes i ninnau gael ein geni;
a daeth stiwdants o rywle i rofio'r tywod,
plicio'r canrifoedd
yn llawfeddygol gysáct;
ac "edrychwch", meddai,
"poni welwch chwi...?".
Ac edrychasom (i'w blesio).
A gwelsom, drwy'r weipars a'r glaw,
fonion waliau
yn gwarchod gwacter;
gwelsom graffiti dau gariad
fu'n ceisio llonydd yma;
a gwelsom ein hunain, megis drwy wydr,
fel pobl a gollodd bwysau'n rhy sydyn,
yn teimlo eu hanes
yn llac amdanyn.
© 2016, Ifor ap Glyn
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
Skin
We were reluctant pilgrims,in our school minibus to Rhosyr;
long seconds ticked off by its wipers,
the rain had stolen the view.
“Do ye not see...?” quoted Sir;
as he tried to conjure up the last storm of the princes
with their stars falling;
and how the vultures came to pick over the court’s corpse;
removed the ribs of the roof,
and carried the stones to Caernarfon.
But then, he said,
the very oaks clashed once more
the sea smote at the land,
till sand dunes mended the scars of the court,
smoothing an old wound into oblivion.
And that’s how it was, said Sir,
till the time when we were born;
and students from somewhere came to dig the sand,
peel back the centuries
with surgical precision;
and “look”, he said,
“Do ye not see...?”
So we looked (just to please him).
And we saw, through wipers and rain,
the stumps of walls
protecting emptiness;
we saw two lovers’ graffiti
who came here to be alone;
and we saw ourselves,
as if from a window,
like a people who lost weight too quickly,
and feel their history
hanging on them loosely.
© 2016, Ifor ap Glyn
Skin
We were reluctant pilgrims,in our school minibus to Rhosyr;
long seconds ticked off by its wipers,
the rain had stolen the view.
“Do ye not see...?” quoted Sir;
as he tried to conjure up the last storm of the princes
with their stars falling;
and how the vultures came to pick over the court’s corpse;
removed the ribs of the roof,
and carried the stones to Caernarfon.
But then, he said,
the very oaks clashed once more
the sea smote at the land,
till sand dunes mended the scars of the court,
smoothing an old wound into oblivion.
And that’s how it was, said Sir,
till the time when we were born;
and students from somewhere came to dig the sand,
peel back the centuries
with surgical precision;
and “look”, he said,
“Do ye not see...?”
So we looked (just to please him).
And we saw, through wipers and rain,
the stumps of walls
protecting emptiness;
we saw two lovers’ graffiti
who came here to be alone;
and we saw ourselves,
as if from a window,
like a people who lost weight too quickly,
and feel their history
hanging on them loosely.
© 2016, Ifor ap Glyn
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