Wednesday, 9 June 2010

IWAN LLWYD - Bardd, R.I.P ( 15/11/57 -28/5/10)


It was with sadness that last Friday in Hay on Wye, I heard of the death of renowned Welsh poet, Iwan Llwyd. He was found dead at a house in Bangor, Gwynedd.lived in Tal-y-bont, Bangor. He was a formidable presence on the Welsh language poetry scene and published many a acclaimed collections of poetry.
I first encountered him when he played bass guitar with the Welsh Blues singer and guitarist Steve Eaves, and have since then followed his career as a poet, I was particularly impressed by a programme he made for S.4.c called " eldorado" made in collaboration in 1999 with another Welsh poet named Twm Morys, in which the two of them travelled through various parts of South America. I also remember seein' him perform some of his poems with the fine anglo Welsh poet Nigel Jenkins.
Prior to this he won the National Eisteddfod at the Rhymney Valley Eisteddfod , South Wales for his collection Gwreichion ( Spark). He was a graduate of the University Of Wales where he studied Medieval Sudies.
His poetry was translated widely into Spanish,Czech, Italian and Bulgarian and subsequently into English. His presence will be missed. He leaves a wife and daughter. The people of Wales and consequently the World ( Y Byd ) have lost another great voice.

FAR ROCKAWAY

Dwi am fynd a thi  i Far Rockaway
Far Rockaway, mae enw'r lle
yn gitar yn fy mhen, yn gor
o rythmau haf a llanw'r mor:
yn sgwrs cariadon dros goffi cry
ar ol taith drwy'r nos mewn pick-up du,
yn oglau petrol ar ol glaw,
yn chwilio'r lleuad  yn llaw,
yn hela brogaod ar gefnffordd wleb,
yn wefr o fod yn nabod neb:

dwi am fynd a thi i Far Rockaway,
Far Rockaway
lle mae cwr y ne
yn golchi'i thraed ym mudreddi'r traeth,
ac yn ffeirio hwiangerddi ffraeth,
lle mae enfys y graffiti'n ffin
rhwng y waiiau noeth a'r haul mawr blin,
lle mae'r trac yn teithi'r llwybr cul
rhwng gwen nos Sadwrn a gwg y Sul,
a ninnau'n dau yn rhannu baich
ein cyfrinachau fraich ym mraich:

dwi fynd a thi i Far Rockaway,
Far Rockaway,
lle mae heddlu'r dre
yn sgwennu cerddi wrth ddisgwyl tren
ac yn sgwrsio efo'u gynnau'n glen,
lle mae'r beirdd ar eu hystolion tal
yn cynganneddu ar bedair wal,
yn yfed wisgi efo'r gwlith,
yn chwarae gwyddbwyll a'u llaw chwith,
mae cusan hir yn enw'r lle-
Far Rockaway, Far Rockaway.


I will take you to Far Rockaway,
Far Rockaway,
the name strums
a guitar in my head, sings a choir
of summer and sea-tide rhythyms:
talks of lovers over black coffe
on a night-ride ii a pick up truck,
smells of gasoline after rain,
hand in hand on the trial of the moon,
hunting bullfrogs on a wet lane,
the thrill of that half -remembered tune:

I will take you to Far Rockaway,
Far Rockaway,
where the heavens' hem
trails in the muddied seashore
and trades witty lullabies,
where the graffiti rainbow is a frontier
between the naked walls and the simmering sun,
where the track follows the narrow path
between Saturday's smiles and Sunday's scowl,
as we both share our secret burdens
arm in arm:
I will take you to Far Rockaway,
Far Rockaway,
where the city police
are sketching poems as they await the train,
and the poets on their high-rise ladders
are daubing cynghanned on four walls
drinking whiskey and dew,
playing left-handed chess;
the name is one long drawn out kiss--
Far Rockaway, Far Rockaway.

Translated from the Welsh by Iwan Llwyd.
_

GER PONT RICHMOND

Unwaith, lle'r oedd Walt Whitman
yn ganolfan rhy beryg i barcio
yn New Jersey,

clywais feddyd o fardd
yn disgrifio anadl ysgyfaint heintiendig
fel miliynau o ser un malu:

mae'n anodd cipio delwedd felly
o awyr lwyd sryd Richmond
ar bnawn Gwener Llwm,

ac awyrennau
yn dangos eu botwm bol
wrth lanio tua'r gogledd;

'does gen i ddim cwmpaned yma,
dim cynefin
dim ond rhest ar resi

o strydoedd swberbia
ac Audis a BMWs
yn gadwynau am y gorwel:

'doedd gan hyd yn oed
ddynes y siop bapur nwydd
ddim sgwrs dros ben ei phenawdau;

ac nid yw llygaid y merched
sy'n paldaru yn i Ristorante Murano
ddim yn dawnsio'r salsa

fel genod Rio a Beunos Aires:
mentraf i ganol y mwg felly
a thanio sigar.
-

NEAR RICHMOND BRIDGE
Once, where Walt Whitman
was a cente too dangerous to park
in New Jersey,

I heard a poet who had a way with healing
describe the breathing of diseased lungs
as a million stars being crushed:

it;s difficult to snatch such an image
from the grey air of a stree in Richmond
on a dull Friday afternoon,

with the planes
showing their shining bellies
as they land to the north;

I have no compass here,
no habitat
only rows and rows

of suburban homes,
ans Audis and BMWs
chaining the horizon:

even the woman who ran
the newspaper stand
had no converstion over her headlines;

and the eyes of the girls
chattering away in the Ristorante Murano
are not dancing the salsa

like the girls of Rio and Beunos Aires:
I'll venture back into the smoke then,
and light a cigar

Madrid 30/10/99


Translation : Iwan Llwyd
- -
BORE SADWRN
Mae cariad ifanc
fel crww cynta'.
yn chwerw fel arfer,
a'r blas yn para':

ond wedi i'r blynyddoedd
dro'r chwerw'n felys,
wedyn mae cariad
fel tanio matsys
-
SATURDAY MORNING

the young love
like first beer
bitter like usual
and the flavour continues

but the years have turned
bitter sweet
after love
like carbons after matches.

Apologies translation my own

-
DYLAN THOMAS
Mawrnad

(i DLIW)

Yn rhy gall i farw, yn eiddil a dall y daeth
i'r lon dywyll, ac ni allai droi adre'n wyw;
gwr dirgel a chlen, a'i falchder yn ddewrser caeth

ar ddydd ei gymundeb mawr. Boedd iddo fyw
eto'n brasgamu, o'r diwedd, ar allt y groes
a'i nefoedd yn ifanc, dan y glaswellt a'r glaw,

oedd yn llwch ac yn lleddf; yn llaid oer
cyffredinedd mawrolaeth, na foed iddo gloffi ei gam
na gorffwys un eiliad, cyn derbyn bendith y lloer;

oedd fy ngweddi yn yr ystafell ger ei wely dall,
yn y ty di-gymun, un funud cyn i bob un
bore a golau a nos gyrraed. Roedd afonydd y fall

yn llifo drwy gledr ei law, a gwelais lun
yn ei llygaid pwl oedd yn dangos gwaelod y mor.
Dos i gagnefedd rhyfedd y graig, meddwn i

wrth yr anadl oedd yn ei adael o.
-

DYLAN THOMAS

Elegy

Too proud to die, broken and blind he died
The darkest way, and did not turn away,
A cold, kind man brave in his burning pride

On that darkest day. Oh, forever may
He live lightly, at last, on the last, crossed
Hill, and there grow young, under the grass, in love,

Among the long flocks, and never lie lost
Or still all the days of his death, though above
All he longed all dark for his mother's breast

Which was rest and dust, and in the kind ground
The darkest justice of death, blind and unblessed.
Let him find no rest but be fathered and found.

I prayed in the crouching room, by his blind bed,
In the muted house, one minute before
Noon, and night, and light. The rivers of the dead.

Moved in the poor hand I held, and I saw
Through his faded eyes to the roots of the sea.
Go calm to your crucifixed hill, I told

The air that drew away from him.
-

Aplologies poems missing tollbachs

Further Reading :-

Dan Anasthetig/ Under Anaesthetic, 1987.
Dan Ddylanwed? Under the influence, 1997.
Hanner Cant, Gwasg Taf 2007.
Eldorado with Twm Morys, 1999

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