#Welsh #XXCentury
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
So beautiful—God himself quailed at her approach: the long body cur… like the horizon. Why had he made her so? How would it be, she said, leaning towards him, if instead of
All right, I was Welsh. Does it… I spoke a tongue that was passed o… To me in the place I happened to… A place huddled between grey walls Of cloud for at least half the yea…
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.
Shelley dreamed it. Now the dream… The props crumble; the familiar wa… Are stale with tears trodden under… The heart’s flower withers at the… Bury it then, in history’s sterile…
It was beautiful as God must be beautiful: glacial eyes that had looked on violence and come to terms with it; a body too huge
Too far for you to see The fluke and the foot-rot and the… Gnawing the skin from the small bo… The sheep are grazing at Bwlch-y-… Arranged romantically in the usual…
Dear parents, I forgive you my life, Begotten in a drab town, The intention was good; Passing the street now,
You go up the long track That will take a car, but is best… On slow foot, noting the lichen That writes history on the page Of the grey rock. Trees are about…
In Wales there are jewels To gather, but with the eye Only. A hill lights up Suddenly; a field trembles With colour and goes out
I emerge from the mind’s cave into the worse darkness outside, where things pass and the Lord is in none of them. I have heard the still, small voic…
And this was a civilization That came to nothing—he spurned wi… The slave—coloured dust. We breat… Thankfully, oxygen to our culture. Somebody found a curved bone
The salmon lying in the depths of… Secretly as a thought in a dark mi… Is not so old as the owl of Cwm C… Who tells her sorrow nightly on th… The ousel singing in the woods of…
We live in our own world, A world that is too small For you to stoop and enter Even on hands and knees, The adult subterfuge.
