#WelshWriters
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
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
It will not always be like this, The air windless, a few last Leaves adding their decoration To the trees’ shoulders, braiding… Of the boughs with gold; a bird pr…
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…
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
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
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
The idiot goes round and around With his brother in a bumping car At the fair. The famous idiot Smile hangs over the car’s edge, Illuminating nothing. This is man…
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…
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…
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
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.
The poem in the rock and The poem in the mind Are not one. It was in dying I tried to make them so.
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
All my life I was face to face with her, at meal—times, by the fire, even in the ultimate intimacies