#WelshWriters
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…
Davies thought life was long; there was a sameness in the song. Pugh thought it all too brief, the fruit ripe before the leaf turned. How is it with you
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…
And one said, This man can sing; Let’s listen to him. But the othe… Dirt on his mind, said, No, let’s Queer him. And the first, being w… Consented. So the Thing came
‘Poems from prison! About what?’ ‘Life and God.’ ‘God in prison? Friend, you trifle with me. His face, perhaps,
Moments of great calm, Kneeling before an altar Of wood in a stone church In summer, waiting for the God To speak; the air a staircase
I have been all men known to histo… Wondering at the world and at time… I have seen evil, and the light bl… Innocent love under a spring sky. I have been Merlin wandering in t…
It is this great absence that is like a presence, that comp… me to address it without hope of a reply. It is a room I enter from which someone has just
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,
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
I was vicar of large things in a small parish. Small-minded I will not say, there were depths in some of them I shrank back from, wells that the word “God”
Laid now on his smooth bed For the last time, watching dully Through heavy eyelids the day’s co… Widow the sky, what can he say Worthy of record, the books all op…
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
The poem in the rock and The poem in the mind Are not one. It was in dying I tried to make them so.
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