Tag Archives: Welsh verse forms

A Meeting is no Substitute for Progress: a cywydd llosgyrnog

Posted on April 13, 2004 by | Leave a comment

So much to do, and time so tight
that one would think to do things right
the first time might be thought wise;
but it’s a finger pointing game,
no one willing to take the blame.
Things stay the same. No surprise

there, I guess, but one can still work
to bypass the constant knee-jerk
reflex that lurks, just waiting
to derail some major meeting
and cause dissent, thus defeating
those who bring hope. Frustrating,

when it takes more hours than at hand
to craft and hone some kind of plan
that spans the project’s gamut.
Consensus is great, that is true,
but other times you just have to
Shut up and do it, dammit.

13 APR 2004

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Eliot’s Month, Not Mine

Posted on April 13, 2004 by | Leave a comment

cywydd deuair hyrion

April is the cruelest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
— T.S. Eliot, from The Waste Land

Again the winds are playing
like knives, and the steel wool gray
and ominous gathered clouds
have the horizon shrouded.
The spring that for a week warmed
winter’s bones is now forlorn
and hiding beneath the porch,
confused and quite out of sorts,

proud short-sleeved glory faded,
its sun-drenched dreams frustrated.
Like giants, groggy, half asleep,
the trees hang to their new leaves;
and tender young plants, untrained
and weak, lay flattened by rain
that keeps coming at odd hours
to chill the blooming flowers.

April, you promised sunshine,
but delivered a long line
of bitter squalls; now just half
spent, your span’s sad epitaph
will read of somber, bleak days
filled with dreary, wet malaise,
seeking in vain for some warmth
from your cruel unending storms.

13 APR 2004

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Night Rain: a cywydd deuair fyrion

Posted on April 11, 2004 by | Leave a comment

Awake by chance,
I watched a flicker
in the dark clouds
growing quicker.

Drawn, I watched this
fleeting wonder:
the dull sound of
distant thunder;

the dreamlike build
of slow suspense
in too calm air
still warm and dense;

the dry leaves’ dance
along the street,
edges scraping
on the concrete;

the slow advance
of mist and rain
that gently fogged
the window pane;

the sudden spark
of jarring bright
as lightning cracked
the grey-black night;

the numbing taste
of ions churned
that caused my throat
and eyes to burn;

the sudden gusts
of storm-pushed wind
that hissed and moaned
through the tree limbs;

and then, the whip
of sleet and wind
that chilled my bones
and soaked my skin.

It raged an hour
and then was gone,
leaving small pools
that dried with dawn.

11 APR 2004

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The Circling: a cyrch a chwta

Posted on April 11, 2004 by | Leave a comment

The past is now dead and gone,
its Doppler echo a song
that fades and yet lingers on,
palimpsest written upon
then erased with each new dawn
born as a wobbly legged faun
yet grown each night to a stag
whose hooves drag the forest lawn,

old and feeble, a weak king,
Day’s prince become an aged thing
that twilight’s wolves will soon bring
down. Each night as this hart sings
winter’s lament, dawn, as spring,
struggles from the womb and swings
the world again from abyss
to the bliss of beginning.

11 APR 2004

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Easter by Telephone: a cyhydedd naw ban

Posted on April 11, 2004 by | Leave a comment

In California after eating
they called up to offer a greeting,
their plates filled with beans and broccoli
ours with roast beef and mashed potatoes.
We passed the telephone back and forth,
discussing children and work; of course,

we spoke of weather and summer plans,
the price of groceries and minivans,
and then of mom, who now lives alone
in that big house, her children all grown.
We discussed if this year we would meet,
compared our schedules, and each month’s heat.

They want to visit, and spend a week –
catch up on all the news, so to speak.
I wonder sometimes if the link we share
is stronger because of distance there;
We meet rarely, just when someone dies,
and talks like these are a big surprise.

California, it has been so long
and I have grown up since I’ve been gone.
They just keep on talking in my ear;
although their voices are nice to hear,
I hand the warm handset to my wife,
thinking of Easter, and of new life.

11 APR 2004

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The Garden Seat: a cyhydedd hir

Posted on April 10, 2004 by | Leave a comment

A quiet place to sit,
think what I see fit,
and watch the birds flit
around the yard.

Not so much to seek
(a crumb, so to speak)
to make each work week
that much less hard.

And yet, through each day
small things block the way
and my time to play
cedes to something.

But when time is spare
I seek out that chair
and just sitting there
do great nothing.

10 APR 2004

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A Change of Syllabus: a byr a thoddaid

Posted on April 6, 2004 by | Leave a comment

There is no test today in class;
it’s been called off, and you all pass.
The lessons it addressed are tired and old,
I’m told – no more required.

But someday, classes might start up again;
Then those who now are smart
may search in vain for today’s loss,
and not find it, but only dross.

So it might serve you well to learn
what’s in these books that brightly burn.
For future generations might require
the fire’s fuel more than light.

The grades we earn from today’s inaction
one day may do us in;
For knowledge is built upon roots, not soot,
and much depends on where the seed is put.

06 APR 2004

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