As I noted ages ago at the beginning of May, I was surprised that the swifts arrived here before I saw any swallows in our Bristol suburb.So today, two months on, I finally saw swallows over our street. Two sightings and a twittering. And not before time.
And now a bit more Welsh poetry, specially for Larry. This is by Hedd Wyn
Dim ond lleuad borffor,
Ar fin y mynydd llwm;
A sŵn hen afon Prysor
Yn canu yn y cwm...
Only the purple moon
At the edge of the bare mountain;
And the sound of the old river Prysor
Singing in the valley
Translation is given by Gwyn Jones in A Prospect of Wales
Hi Dru
ReplyDeletethere are a few Welsh poets appearing in your blogs recently - I was once a fan of Vernon Watkins as well as Dylan Thomas - Laugharne - I have visited, well, many times. Note: should we visit the homes and graves of literary people whose work we admire? I once drove from Miami to Key West to 'visit' Hemingway's house. Also, I spent some time in Monterey - Steinbeck country - there are others too long to list - but there is a certain fascination - yes/no?
Thanks, Dru! That's a keeper. I've seen some pictures of the river Prysor on google and can almost hear it swooning in its gorge---in Welsh, of course, just like Hedd Wyn heard and sang it.
ReplyDeleteGraves are there for public visitation, unless they're on private land; homes of the still embodied usually require more circumspection, and certainly no less respect. For me it has sufficed to be a pilgrim in their neighborhood, as when I drove to see the village and area Wendell Berry calls home (I thanked him later, and he sent a gracious reply). After writing Iowa poet Mary Swander and corresponding a couple of times, she came to visit me (I was recovering from surgery, and she was doing research in the area).
A lovely poem - even the Welsh, which I don't understand at all, looks poetic. Have you thought of going into stained glass? I couldn't help thinking what a lovely window your sun and swallows would make.
ReplyDeleteNo hard and fast rules, Neil, I'd say... I've been to Laugharne too, but didn't go into the boathouse, and wished I hadn't gone into the pub because it was so different to how it been when it was still selling flat, warm, thin, Welsh, bitter beer (it was, as I recall, now selling flat, warm, thin Stella lager), But I was glad I'd walked the coast there and admired the fishing-boat-bobbing sea, and all that. Genius loci. Like thinking about RS Thomas' poetry while up on Lleyn. Not like looking at the recreation of Thomas Hardy's study in Dorchester Museum.
ReplyDeleteAgreed, Larry. A poet friend of mine lives in a council flat, and, while it's nice calling in and drinking tea and watching the woodpeckers through the window while chatting, it would seem odd to go there simply because a poet lives there.
I like the sound of the Welsh poem better than I like the English translation, Anji, though knowing what the words mean is an important part of the appreciation, which is why I have to rely on the translation too. Funny, I'd pulled that picture out of my old pictures box because I remembered the swallows on it (I had to photoshop out some lettering, which is why the clouds look a bit scrappy- it had been an album cover design) and thought of stained glass. It oudl probably be a very fiddly window to make, though. But thank you for liking it! I was pleased with the effect; it had been the first time I'de used acrylic.