Pen Dinas,near Aberystwyth Today I received a certificate from Eisteddfod Dysgwyr Morgannwg 2012 for my poem 'Bro'. It was 'Ail' ( 2nd) in the competition for the Chair.
I'd have much preferred a chair, we need an extra one when my family drape along the sofas.
I don't like being second and I have to stop entering competitions, in English and Welsh.
I used to be a Compoholic, but I'm gradually managing to handle my addiction and, as a slow process of withdrawal, restricting myself to a few a year.
It's hopeless! I never win, though I have been commended for a couple.
I don't back horses (they should be running free and not end up getting shot after falling at fences) and after watching the tv drama 'The Syndicate' I am now an authority on just how miserable winning the Lottery can make you.
So, I back myself in the Verse Race instead.
If I were a horse I'd be called Live In Hope and always be pipped at the finish.
For that Eisteddfod (run by the Uni. of Glamorgan) I entered 'Croesi' the first year and came nowhere , though it did appear in the learners' magazine 'Lingo'.
This year I actually entered two under the title of 'Drysau' ('Doors'). One features on a previous blog. Yes, you guessed........came nowhere!
Like the poem 'Drysau' on my blog, 'Bro' opens a door to my own past, in this case my childhood.
'Bro' literally means 'region' and can be used in this way, as in 'Bro Morgannwg'. However, it also has very personal connotations and is much closer to the idea of a 'heartland'. Indeed, I was tempted to use that as the title of my translation, except that it sounds rather sentimental.
'Bro' can be a special word, evoking a strong sense of belonging. In terms of my childhood in Cymru, the countryside around Pen Dinas means so much to me.
The wild abandon I experienced at such an early age was exhilarating. I lived to be outside the house and roaming. It was as if the myriad dens in gorse; storm beach at Tanybwlch , place we called 'Devil's Gulch' (as from some Western film) and rivers we skimmed stones, all belonged to us.
I was at the same time sophisticated and a wild child : taking stories from films and tv (in its nascent years) to use in games, yet also vicious as we threw stones at each other in the streets.
I find it ironic revisiting Aber in Welsh, the language I sadly neglected at Uni. there and one my parents both dismissed.
My mother (outwardly sympathetic to Communism and CND) was hostile to a Welsh language school being set up in the 1950s. My father - a monoglot from Barry whose recent ancestors had all been Welsh-speakers - was equally antagonistic, due to his job and contact with Welsh-speaking farmers, who , he always claimed, mocked his lack of Cymraeg.
So, the Land of My Fathers goes back further, to other generations of coopers, hauliers and estate managers. My tentative steps reclaim their land and also, I sincerely hope, forge a different future ( one great-grandfather was a blacksmith, so I'm allowed this cliche).
No doubt I'll enter next year just for the challenge and not come anywhere.
I have read the poem which won and it was very well executed in rhyming couplets, with admirable patriotism. I'm afraid I could never write like that.
BRO
Yna, y gemau ar y bryniau:
hela cusan, hela afalau,
hela tatws yn y cae,
taflu nhw ar y tan,
blas fel y baw.
A nawr, dw i'n cerdded
a chwilio a gwrando
ar y gwynt sy'n cario
yr aderyn o'r cof
a fydd yn aros ar ben to.
Yna, doedd dim ffiniau ;
roedd eithin a drysien
yn lleodd i wneud gwalau,
ac roedd mor ac afonydd
hen barciau dwr i fi.
Nawr, mae'r gwylan yn screchian,
ond y barcud coch yn hedfan
uwch yr heol lle dw i'n rasio
a chwarae gyda phel :
unwaith eto y bachgen yno.
****************************
PENPARCAU
Then, games on the hills :
kiss chase and windfalls,
pulling up the potatoes
and throwing them on a fire,
they tasted of soil.
And now I'm walking
and searching and listening
for the wind that carries
the bird of memory
which will settle on the roof.
Then, no boundaries ;
bramble and gorse bushes
were places we made dens,
and the sea and rivers
were my ancient water-parks.
Now, seagulls are screeching
and the red kite is flying
above the street where I race
and play with a ball :
a boy once more.
I'd have much preferred a chair, we need an extra one when my family drape along the sofas.
I don't like being second and I have to stop entering competitions, in English and Welsh.
I used to be a Compoholic, but I'm gradually managing to handle my addiction and, as a slow process of withdrawal, restricting myself to a few a year.
It's hopeless! I never win, though I have been commended for a couple.
I don't back horses (they should be running free and not end up getting shot after falling at fences) and after watching the tv drama 'The Syndicate' I am now an authority on just how miserable winning the Lottery can make you.
So, I back myself in the Verse Race instead.
If I were a horse I'd be called Live In Hope and always be pipped at the finish.
For that Eisteddfod (run by the Uni. of Glamorgan) I entered 'Croesi' the first year and came nowhere , though it did appear in the learners' magazine 'Lingo'.
This year I actually entered two under the title of 'Drysau' ('Doors'). One features on a previous blog. Yes, you guessed........came nowhere!
Like the poem 'Drysau' on my blog, 'Bro' opens a door to my own past, in this case my childhood.
'Bro' literally means 'region' and can be used in this way, as in 'Bro Morgannwg'. However, it also has very personal connotations and is much closer to the idea of a 'heartland'. Indeed, I was tempted to use that as the title of my translation, except that it sounds rather sentimental.
'Bro' can be a special word, evoking a strong sense of belonging. In terms of my childhood in Cymru, the countryside around Pen Dinas means so much to me.
The wild abandon I experienced at such an early age was exhilarating. I lived to be outside the house and roaming. It was as if the myriad dens in gorse; storm beach at Tanybwlch , place we called 'Devil's Gulch' (as from some Western film) and rivers we skimmed stones, all belonged to us.
I was at the same time sophisticated and a wild child : taking stories from films and tv (in its nascent years) to use in games, yet also vicious as we threw stones at each other in the streets.
I find it ironic revisiting Aber in Welsh, the language I sadly neglected at Uni. there and one my parents both dismissed.
My mother (outwardly sympathetic to Communism and CND) was hostile to a Welsh language school being set up in the 1950s. My father - a monoglot from Barry whose recent ancestors had all been Welsh-speakers - was equally antagonistic, due to his job and contact with Welsh-speaking farmers, who , he always claimed, mocked his lack of Cymraeg.
So, the Land of My Fathers goes back further, to other generations of coopers, hauliers and estate managers. My tentative steps reclaim their land and also, I sincerely hope, forge a different future ( one great-grandfather was a blacksmith, so I'm allowed this cliche).
No doubt I'll enter next year just for the challenge and not come anywhere.
I have read the poem which won and it was very well executed in rhyming couplets, with admirable patriotism. I'm afraid I could never write like that.
BRO
Yna, y gemau ar y bryniau:
hela cusan, hela afalau,
hela tatws yn y cae,
taflu nhw ar y tan,
blas fel y baw.
A nawr, dw i'n cerdded
a chwilio a gwrando
ar y gwynt sy'n cario
yr aderyn o'r cof
a fydd yn aros ar ben to.
Yna, doedd dim ffiniau ;
roedd eithin a drysien
yn lleodd i wneud gwalau,
ac roedd mor ac afonydd
hen barciau dwr i fi.
Nawr, mae'r gwylan yn screchian,
ond y barcud coch yn hedfan
uwch yr heol lle dw i'n rasio
a chwarae gyda phel :
unwaith eto y bachgen yno.
****************************
PENPARCAU
Then, games on the hills :
kiss chase and windfalls,
pulling up the potatoes
and throwing them on a fire,
they tasted of soil.
And now I'm walking
and searching and listening
for the wind that carries
the bird of memory
which will settle on the roof.
Then, no boundaries ;
bramble and gorse bushes
were places we made dens,
and the sea and rivers
were my ancient water-parks.
Now, seagulls are screeching
and the red kite is flying
above the street where I race
and play with a ball :
a boy once more.
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