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.