Reservoirs

There are places in Wales I don't go:Reservoirs that are the subconsciousOf a people, troubled far downWith gravestones, chapels, villages even;The serenity of their expressionRevolts me, it is a poseFor strangers, a watercolour's appealTo the mass, instead of the poem'sHarsher conditions. There are the hills,Too; gardens gone under the scumOf the forests; and the smashed facesOf the farms with the stone trickleOf their tears down the hills' side.

Where can I go, then, from the smellOf decay, from the putrefying of a deadNation? I have walked the shoreFor an hour and seen the EnglishScavenging among the remainsOf our culture, covering the sandLike the tide and, with the roughnessOf the tide, elbowing our languageInto the grave that we have dug for it.

R S Thomas

Nant yr Eira

Mae tylluanod heno yn Nol-y-garreg-wen, Mae’r glaswellt tros y buarth a’r muriau’nllwyd gan gen, a thros ei gardd plu’rgweunydd a daenodd yno’u llen.Tros fawnog lom Cwmderwen, mae’r plu ynamdo gwyn, a’r ddwy das fel dau lygaid nadydynt mwy ynghyn,a’r ser yn llu canhwyllau draw ar allorau’rbryn.Benwynion gwan y gweunydd, beth yw’rhudoliaeth flin a droes yn sgrwd bob atgofa’r rhostir hen yn sgrin?‘Dim, namyn gormes Amser a dry bob gwiwyn grin,’Ni ddychwel yr hen leisiau yn ol i Fiwla trwyFlin drais y ddwylath gweryd; bu’n ormodiddynt hwy.Bydd dawel galon ysig, a phaid a’u disgwylmwy.Y mwynder hen a geraist, ffoes arannychwel hynt, Diflannodd gyda’r hafaubereidd-dra’r amser gynt.Nid erys dim ond cryndod plu’r gweunyddyn y gwynt.

Iorwerth C. Peate

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Reservoirs

There are places in Wales I don't go:Reservoirs that are the subconsciousOf a people, troubled far downWith gravestones, chapels, villages even;The serenity of their expressionRevolts me, it is a poseFor strangers, a watercolour's appealTo the mass, instead of the poem'sHarsher conditions. There are the hills,Too; gardens gone under the scumOf the forests; and the smashed facesOf the farms with the stone trickleOf their tears down the hills' side.

Where can I go, then, from the smellOf decay, from the putrefying of a deadNation? I have walked the shoreFor an hour and seen the EnglishScavenging among the remainsOf our culture, covering the sandLike the tide and, with the roughnessOf the tide, elbowing our languageInto the grave that we have dug for it.

R S Thomas

Nant yr Eira

Mae tylluanod heno yn Nol-y-garreg-wen, Mae’r glaswellt tros y buarth a’r muriau’nllwyd gan gen, a thros ei gardd plu’rgweunydd a daenodd yno’u llen.Tros fawnog lom Cwmderwen, mae’r plu ynamdo gwyn, a’r ddwy das fel dau lygaid nadydynt mwy ynghyn,a’r ser yn llu canhwyllau draw ar allorau’rbryn.Benwynion gwan y gweunydd, beth yw’rhudoliaeth flin a droes yn sgrwd bob atgofa’r rhostir hen yn sgrin?‘Dim, namyn gormes Amser a dry bob gwiwyn grin,’Ni ddychwel yr hen leisiau yn ol i Fiwla trwyFlin drais y ddwylath gweryd; bu’n ormodiddynt hwy.Bydd dawel galon ysig, a phaid a’u disgwylmwy.Y mwynder hen a geraist, ffoes arannychwel hynt, Diflannodd gyda’r hafaubereidd-dra’r amser gynt.Nid erys dim ond cryndod plu’r gweunyddyn y gwynt.

Iorwerth C. Peate