Cŵyn y Gwynt– JOHN MORRIS JONES Cwsg ni ddaw i'm hamrant heno, Dagrau ddaw ynghynt. Wrth fy ffenestr yn gwynfannus Yr ochneidia'r gwynt. Codi'i lais yn awr, ac wylo, Beichio wylo mae; Ar y gwydr yr hyrddia'i ddagrau Yn ei wylltaf wae. Pam y deui, wynt, i wylo At fy ffenestr i? Dywed im, a gollaist tithau Un a'th garai di? Sooner tears Sooner tears than sleep this midnight Come into my eyes, On my window the complaining Tempest groans and sighs. Grows the noise now of its weeping Sobbing to and fro- On the glass the tears come hurling Of some wildest woe. Why, oh wind against my window Come you grief to prove? Can it be your heart’s gone grieving For its own lost love? Dacw long yn hwylio’n hwylus Heibio i’r trwyn ac at yr ynys, Os fy nghariad i sydd ynddi, Hwyliau sidan glas sydd arni. There beyond that nose of headland The ship sails on towards the island; If my darling is aboard her There are blue silk sails upon her. WARNING - Jenny Joseph When I am an old woman I shall wear purple With a red hat which doesn’t go, and doesn’t suit me. And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves And satin sandals, and say we’ve no money for butter. And gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells And run my stick along the public railings And make up for the sobriety of my youth. I shall go out in my slippers in the rain And pick the flowers in other people’s gardens. And learn to spit. You can wear terrible shirts and grow more fat And eat three pounds of sausages at a go Or only bread and pickle for a week And hoard pens and pencils and beer mats and things in boxes. And now we must have clothes that keep us dry And pay our rent and not sear in the street And set a good example for the children. We must have friends to dinner and read the papers. But maybe I ought to practise a little now? So people who know me are not too shocked and surprised When suddenly I am old, and start to wear purple. We Are Seven - WILLIAM WORDSWORTH I met a little cottage girl: She was eight years old, she said: Her hair was thick with many a curl That clustered around her head. ‘Sisters and brothers, little maid How many may you be?’ ‘How many? Seven in all, ‘she said And wondering, looked at me. ‘And where are they, I pray you tell?’ She answered, ‘Seven are we; And two of us at Conway dwell And two are gone to sea. Two of us in the churchyard lie, My sister and my brother, And in the churchyard cottage I Dwell near them with my mother.’ ‘You say that two at Conway dwell And two are gone to sea. Yet ye are seven! – I pray you tell, Sweet maid, how this may be?’ ‘Their graves are green and may be seen,’ The little maid replied, ‘Twelve steps or more from my mother’s door, And they are side by side. ‘My stockings there I sometimes knit, My kerchief there I hem; And there upon the ground I sit, And sing a song to them. And often after sunset, Sir, When it is light and fair I take my little porringer And eat my supper there.’ ‘How many are you then. ‘I said, ‘If they two are in heaven?’ Quick was the little maid’s reply, ‘O master! we are seven.’ ‘But they are dead; those two are dead! Their spirits are in heaven!’ ‘Twas throwing words away, for still The little maid would have her will: ‘NAY, MASTER! WE ARE SEVEN! LUCK IN SARAJEVO - Izet Sarajlić In Sarajevo in the spring of 1992, everything is possible: you go stand in a bread line and end up in an emergency room with your leg amputated. Afterwards, you still maintain that you were very lucky. I don’t cause my teachers trouble. My grades have been O.K. I listen to my classes and I’m in school every day. My parents think I’m average my teachers think so too. I wish I didn’t know that The Average ‘cause there’s lots I’d like to do. Child I’d like to build a rocket I’ve a book that shows you how MICHAEL or start a stamp collection BUSCEMI well, no use starting now ‘cause since I’ve found I’m average I’m just smart enough to see to know there’s nothing special that I should expect of me. I’m part of that majority, that hump part of the bell, who spends his life unnoticed in an average kind of hell. Old Age – JOHN MORRIS JONES ‘Henaint ni ddaw ei hunan’; - daw ag och Gydag ef a chwynfan, Ac anhunedd maith weithian, A huno maith yn y man. Old age never comes alone’ – it brings sighs, With it and complaining; And now a long lack of sleep, And, soon enough, long slumber. Pain its constant companion, - always weak, Always aching somewhere; Sore limbs and restless slumber, And before long so long to sleep. A Nest - ROGER JONES Ni fu saer na’i fesuriad – yn rhoi graen Ar ei grefft na’i drwsiad, Dim ond adar mewn cariad Yn gwneud tŷ heb ganiatâd. No viewing by surveyors – and no sight Of the city planners; Two plain and happy linnets Just building, knitting their nest. The Footpath - J T JONES ‘Rwy’n hen a chloff, ond hoffwn, - am unwaith, Gael myned, pe medrwn I’m bro, a rhodio ar hwn; Rhodio, lle gynt y rhedwn. Old and lame, I’m game to go – just once more, My youth’s path to follow; Just ambling, limping along, Limping where once I clambered. Scaffolding – SEAMUS HEANEY Masons, when they start upon a building Are careful to test out the scaffolding: Make sure that planks won’t slip at busy points, Secure all ladders, tighten bolted joints. And yet this all comes down when the job’s done, Showing off walls of sure and solid stone. So if, my dear, there sometimes seem to be, Old bridges, breaking between you and me. Never fear. We may let the scaffolds fall, Confident that we have built our wall. THE PLANTER’S DAUGHTER - Austin Clarke When night stirred at sea And the fire brought a crowd in, They say that her beauty Was music in mouth And few in the candlelight Thought her too proud, For the house of the planter Is known by the trees. Men that had seen her Drank deep and were silent, The women were speaking Wherever she went – As a bell that is rung Or a wonder told shyly And O she was the Sunday In every week. Rose From A Friend author unknown I would rather have one little rose I would rather have a loving smile From the garden of a friend, From friends I know are true, Than to have the choicest flowers Than tears shed 'round my casket When my stay on earth must end. When to this world I bid adieu. I would rather have a pleasant word Bring me all your flowers today In kindness said to me, Whether pink, or white, or red, Than flattery when my heart is still I'd rather have one blossom now And life has ceased to be. Than a truckload when I'm dead. Leisure - W. H. DAVIES What is this life if, full of care, We have no time to stand and stare?— No time to stand beneath the boughs, And stare as long as sheep and cows: No time to see, when woods we pass, Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass: No time to see, in broad daylight, Streams full of stars, like skies at night: No time to turn at Beauty's glance, And watch her feet, how they can dance: No time to wait till her mouth can Enrich that smile her eyes began? A poor life this if, full of care, We have no time to stand and stare. HUGS- author unknown There's something in a simple hug A hug is an amazing thing, That always warms the heart, It's just the perfect way It can welcome us back home To show the love we're feeling, Or make it easier to part. But can't find the words to say. A hug's a way to share the joy It's funny how a little hug And sad times we go through, Makes everyone feel good, Or just a way for friends to say In every place and language They like you 'cause you're you. It's always understood. Hugs are meant for anyone And hugs don't need equipment, For whom we really care, Special batteries or parts. From your Grandma to your neighbour Just open up your arms, Or a cuddly teddy bear. And open up your hearts. THOSE WINTER SUNDAYS - Robert Hayden Sundays too my father got up early and put his clothes on in the blueblack cold, then with cracked hands that ached from labour in the weekday weather made blanked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him. I’d wake and hear cold splintering, breaking. When the rooms were warm, he’d call, And slowly I would rise and dress, fearing the chronic angers of that house, Speaking indifferently to him, who had driven out the cold and polished my good shoes as well. What did I know, what did I know Of love’s austere and lonely offices? The View From The Window by R.S Thomas Like a painting it is set before one, But less brittle, ageless; these colours Are renewed daily with variations Of light and distance that no painter Achieves or suggests. Then there is movement, Change, as slowly the cloud bruises Are healed by sunlight, or snow caps A black mood; but gold at evening To cheer the heart. All through history The great brush has not rested, Nor the paint dried; yet what eye, Looking coolly, or, as we now, through the tears' lenses, ever saw This work and it was not finished? A MARRIAGE - R S Thomas We met ‘Come,’ said death, under a shower choosing her as his of bird-notes. partner for Fifty years passed, the last dance. And she, love’s moment who in life in a world in had done everything servitude to time. with a bird’s grace, She was young; opened her bill now I kissed with my eyes for the shedding closed and opened of one sigh no them on her wrinkles. heavier than a feather.
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