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

MASKS OF DIVISION.

Under a clear sky
sitting next to Daily Telegraph reader
wondering how they bark,
am adrift in foggy insecurity
too much calm
not enough pity.
20 dead in international waters
maybe more,
12 more near Whitehaven shore,
dreams in shatters
no calm,
dirty tears are descending
driven mad men
carrying an army of pain.
Exit wounds blew away their skulls,
deaths tonque slips quietly into murky water.
Where is the Peace
falling, falling, falling,
crackling with gunfire.
Flotillas of hope will again set sail
carried on new waves of optimism,
far adrift in the ocean.
Gotta keep moving on
clouds of unchartered breaths
navigating away
from the darkness.
Free ourselves
from all this division
before it's far too late,
lets start tomorrow with Palestine.



Written 4/6/10

KEHLOG ALBRAN - 1933- 1927

The author was a lifelong member of the Diner's Club and did much of his most creative writing there. His style was that of a man with a much larger brain. Born in Brest-Litovsk, much of his earlier work was published in his native dialect in which language he is still greatly revered. In an area embracing several hectares in that city, he is still looked upon as a demi-god. His drawings and paintings have been exhibited in Quito, Ecuador. His artistic and literary style have been compared by Chester Gould to the work of Ernest Bushmiller and by Bushmiller to the work of Gould. Upon moving to America, his greatest desires were to write in his adopted language. English; to make a million dollars, and to retire from pseudo-philosophy so that he might open a chain of laundromats. It is the world's loss that he never succeeeded in writing in English.
During much of Albran's lifetime, he was widely thought to be dead. This confusion was the result of the trance-like state Albran affected at public appearances. Con-versely, as one might expect of so mystical a figure, after his death many of his followers continued to believe him still alive. Various schools or sects ultmately developed: the Alban Lives School, the Albran Never lived School, and the Two Albrans Faction.
Though a rationale for these conflictin factions can be attributed to Alban's erratic behavior and lifeless appearance in public, in private life Albran was a different person. Given to high camaraderie and practical jokes, he once commented that the Whoopie Cushion had done more for mankind's betterment than Marx, Christ and Oral Roberts rolled into one.
Though a man of spirit, he was also a man of the flesh. He especially enjoyed having a thin stream of his favourite beverage (Dubronnet and Diet-Rite) poured into his mouth by a lady friend while he lay in a transparent Plexiglas bathtub filled with Blueberry Yoghurt.
To the accusations that he was a whoremonger and womanizer, he frequently replied, "Oh, Yeah? Prove it." Or, sometimes, "So was Rasputin."
That he is indeed dead is now an undisputrd fact, though the date of death remains shrouded in mystery as a result of Albran's own diabolical scheme. His glossy but perfectly body was discovered months or perhaps years later by his literary agent in the tiny, austere room in which he spent his final years. Apparently sensing that the end was near, Albran had hung a five gallon plastic bag of shellac on the ceiling immediately over the chair where he spent so much of his time watching daytime television. As his hand slipped from the arm of the chair, it pulled a wire releasing the shellac which coated his entire body and most of the chair to a depth exceeding a quarter of an inch in many places. Thus, Albran contributed to his own immortality, as well as that of the chair.

"HIS POWER came from some great resevoir of distlled water, else it could not have been so transparent yet liquid, so apparently lacking sophistication while at the same time actually lacking sophistication. So tasteless, yet wet."
CLIVE RODNEY FARK.

Man will never penetrate outer space. - Albran, August 1942

Man will never penetrate outer space without a rocket. - Albran, August 1962.


FROM THE QUESTIONS.

I ran to the high Spot to think of the
oncoming perversions and prevailed upon
my subconscious to deliver artifacts of a
bigted perceptio. But, I was not asleep,
therefore... awake. And not alone.

A parent is a child, the child a parent.
A mother is a daughter, a father is a son.
A father is the son of a son,
the mother is the daughter of a maid.
A maid is the daughter of a child.
A turtle is a grasshopper.
A grasshopper is a worm.
A worm is icky.


AND an artist said,
Speak to us of Praise.
He then said:
Spinning Gold from words of Praise does
not require a maiden's hand, or the caco-
phonous stare of a blind frog.
But it would be a nice gesture.

AND a merchant asked,
What of Wheels?
The Master replied:
A Wheel is round, much like an apple.
Both have a simplicity in their nature.

A Wheel can rotate, which causes it to
move in a circle.
This I observed while quite young.
Some have yet to learn the wisdom of
the circle.

An apple can fall from a tree and
become unnotice as it rots and goes
back to earth.
A Wheel can fall from atree and will be
noticed immediately, for it is not natural
for wheels to grow on trees.
A cart with four strong Wheels soes not
deserve more than a passing glance, but a
cart riding atop four apples would cause
men to wonder.

What is normal to an apple is not normal
to a Wheel.
But both are like circles.
And both are very much alike.
Except for the Apple.



LONG LIVE THE GLORIOUS REVOLUTION.

A WELSH WORDSCAPE - Peter Finch.

1

To live in Wales,

Is to be mumbled at
by re-incarnations of Dylan Thomas
in numerous diverse disgiuses.

Is to be mown down
by the same words
at least six times a week.

Is to be bored
by Welsh visionaries
with wild hair and grey suits.

Is to be told
of the incredible agony
of an exile
that can be at most
a day's travel away.

And the sheep, the sheep,
the bloody flea-bitten Welsh sheep,
chased over the same hills
by athousand poetic phraces
all saying the same things.

To live in Wales
is to love sheep
and to be afraid
of dragons.

2

A history is being re-lived,
a lost heritage
is being wept after
with sad eyes and dry tears.

A heritage
that spoke beauty to the world
through dirty alcoholic mists.

A heritage
that screamed that once,
that exploded that one holy time
and connected Wales
with the whirlpool
of the universe.

A heritage
that ceased communication
upon a death, and nonetheless
tried to go on living.

A heritage
that is taking
a long time to learn
that yesterday cannot be today
and that the world
is fast becomming bored
with language forever
in the same tone of voice.

Look at the Welsh landscape,
look closely,
new voices must rise.
for Wales cannot endlessly remain
chasing sleep into the twilight.


FROM: Selected Poems 1987, Poetry Wales



The Preseli Hills

Damaged Gaza still not repaired one year on

ABOUT three-quarters of the damage inflicted by Israel in its war on Gaza more than a year ago has not been repaired or rebuilt the United Nations confirmed last weekend.
In a new report, the UN Development Programme observed that Israel continues to bar construction material from entering the coastal enclave as part of an overall blockade of the territory, which is home to over 1.3 million Palestinians.
It is said that Gazans have carried out small-scale repairs worth £120 million with recycled rubble or material smuggled through border tunnels that are frequently targeted by Israeli air strikes.



"Many members of the international community, including the UN, have refrained, thus far from utilising materials identified as coming through the tunnels, subsequently limiting their role in reconstruction, " the report continued.
It added that, while "some recovery is taking place, the realities on the ground show that the international community is by and large , rendered ineffective in addressing the needs of the people in Gaza".
Meanwhile thousands of wellwishers thronged Istanbul's port last Saturday as three cargo vessels loaded with aid set off to join in an International solidarity fleet bound for Gaza.
A total of 9 vessels were scheduled to cast anchor at Gaza docks today with 5,000 tons of construction material, medical equipment and school supplies, as well as around 600 people from 40 countries.
Yet the state of Israel has already made itself clear , telling their ambassadors that the flotilla will not be allowed to disembark in Gaza. This despite increasing criticism from the wider International Community.
Top military officials have stated that their navy will intercept these ships bringing much needed relief to a people under siege.
Israeli peace group Gush Shalom have urged the authorities not to interfere with the flotilla. We will have to wait and see.
"The whole world is watching" the group has said. " Israel has no interest in flooding international television channels with pictures of sailors and Israeli commandos fighting with peace activists and humanitarian aid activists many of whom are well known in their countries."
There are still a lot of people who don't realise how under siege Gaza is and the amount of their dire circumstances, perhaps this peace convoy might highlight the issue, I do hope so.
It is commendable too, that two musicians I much admire, Gil Scot Heron and Elvis Costello announced their intentions not to play in Israel recently, Costello recognising the message of his song -" Peace Love and Understanding " would possibly not be appreciated there, and joining with the internationalists in recognising the injustices bought about under Israel's name.
Progressive people within Israel are pressing from within, it is wrong to tar them all with the sins of their leaders. To these people and the people of Gaza I offer my voice of solidarity.

ALTERNATIVE QUEEN'S SPEECH

BRIAN HAW : PEACE CAMPAIGNER CRAPPEST ARREST OF THE WEEK

CALL THIS DEMOCRACY.

ANOTHER WORLD IS POSSIBLE.

Contradictions

Flame wind of poppies
music of colours
great nights returning
gathered from mindfrost.
We bask in brilliance
bright petals spring from this
the golden light dances upon the leaves,
idle clouds sail across the sky
the passing breeze leaving its coolness
upon our lips.
The afternoon light has flooded the day
slips still, holding everlasting breath,
run with the words, smash into shards of possibility.
Time now to revive old factions
as worldly realities refuse to fade
dreams flower new universes in the head
as earths atomic fingers point towards the stars.
Slyly, moons still awake
slip upon shifting spaces all around
ragged silhouettes restless in their lark.

WINSTON SMITH - When the lights go on Again all over the World ( 2008) .

YEUGENY YEVTUSHENKO - People.

No people are uninteresting.
Their fate is like the chronicle of planets.

Nothing in them is not particular,
and planet is dissimilar from planet.

And if a man lived in obscurity
making his friends in that obscurity
obscurity is not uninteresting.

To each his world is private,
and in that world one excellent minute.

And in that world one tragic minute.
These are private.

In any man who dies there dies with him
his first snow and kiss and fight.
It goes with him.

They are left books and bridges
and painted canvas and machinery.

Whose fate is to survive.
But what has gone is also not nothing:

by the rule of the game something has gone.
Not people die but worlds die in them.

Whom we knew as faulty, the earth's creatures.
Of whom, essentally, what did we know?

Brother of a brother? Friend of friends?
Lover of Lover?

We who knew our fathers
in everything, in nothing.

They perish. They cannot be brought back.
The secret worlds are not regenerated.

And every time again and again
I make my lament against destruction.

THE AMNESTY INTERNATIONAL ADVERT THE FINANCIAL TIMES REFUSES TO PUBLISH. SHAME!

CLICK TO ENLARGE