#WelshWriters
Looking upon this tree with its qu… Of holding the earth, a leveret, i… Or marking the texture of its livi… A grey sea wrinkled by the winds o… I understand whence this man’s bod…
England, what have you done to mak… My fathers used a stranger to my l… An offence to the ear, a shackle o… That would fit new thoughts to an… Answer me now. The workshop where…
It is calm. It is as though we lived in a garden that had not yet arrived at the knowledge of
With her fingers she turns paint into flowers, with her body flowers into a remembrance of herself. She is at work always, mending the garment
When I was a child and the soft f… Quietly as snow on the bare bough… My father brought me trout from th… From whose chill lips the water so… Dull grew their eyes, the beautifu…
I have this that I must do One day: overdraw on my balance Of air, and breaking the surface Of water go down into the green Darkness to search for the door
Men who have hardly uncurled from their posture in the womb. Naked. Heads bowed, not in prayer, but in contemplation of the earth they came from,
She is young. Have I the right Even to name her? Child, It is not love I offer Your quick limbs, your eyes; Only the barren homage
The old man comes out on the hill and looks down to recall earlier d… in the valley. He sees the stream… the church stand, hears the litter… children’s voices. A chill in the…
We met under a shower of bird-notes. Fifty years passed, love’s moment
For the first twenty years you are… Bodily that is: as a poet, of cour… You are not born yet. It’s the ne… You cut your teeth on to emerge sm… For your brash courtship of the mu…
My father is dead. I who am look at him who is not, as once he went looking for me in the woman who was.
It seems wrong that out of this bi… Black, bold, a suggestion of dark Places about it, there yet should… Such rich music, as though the not… Ore were changed to a rare metal
I am, as you know, Walter Llywarc… Born in Wales of approved parents… Well goitred, round in the bum, Sure prey of the slow virus Bred in quarries of grey rain.
Dear parents, I forgive you my life, Begotten in a drab town, The intention was good; Passing the street now,