Idyll

I’ll Not Forget
(From the French of Charles Baudelaire)

I’ll not forget, close to the town,
our little white house… so tranquil it was,
with its statue of Venus and the goddess of fruits,
their charms partly hidden by spindly leaves.
And the sunbeams at evening, streaming, superb,
through the panes of the window seemed to scatter like spray.
That great, curious eye, that inquisitive sky,
which quietly, silently, watched as we dined,
spreading wide their reflections in a candle-light glow
on our delicate linen and curtains of serge.


Je n’ai pas oublié, voisine de la ville,
Notre blanch maison, petite mais tranquille;
Sa Pomone de plâtre et sa vieille Vénus
Dans un bosquet chétif cachant leurs membres nus;
Et le soleil, le soir, ruisselant et superbe,
Qui, derrière la vitre oùse brisait sa gerbe,
Semblait, grande oeil ouvert dans le ciel curieux,
Contempler nos dîners longs et silencieux,
Répandant largement ses beaux reflets de cierge
Sur la nappe frugale et les rideaux de serge.


(From ‘Journeys in Time’)

THE ELEVENTH HOUR OF THE ELEVENTH DAY OF THE ELEVENTH MONTH (2)

This 2022 edition of Remembrance Day poetry is actually the third, and not the second in the series as advertised above. This is because when the 2020 edition, which was the first, was posted there had been no decision to adopt the ‘Eleventh Hour… ‘ as a series title. You will find the 2020 Remembrance Day poetry under the title Carnage and Aftermath.

This issue features the work of two guest poets. First we have Eric Bowen’s ironic repartee to WWI poet Herbert Asquith’s 1912 The Volunteer. Then follows Jenni Wyn Hyatt (Williams)’ translation from the Welsh of WWI poet Hedd Wyn’s 1917 Rhyfel / War.

The notes which accompany the poems are, this time, accompanied by one or two diversions – slightly picturesque, perhaps, Shakespearean and otherwise – which I trust will be found acceptable. One thing led to another, and the path strayed a little from the entirely solemn.


Herbert Asquith’s poem The Volunteer

Here lies a clerk who half his life had spent
Toiling at ledgers in a city grey,
Thinking that so his days would drift away
With no lance broken in life’s tournament
Yet ever ‘twixt the books and his bright eyes
The gleaming eagles of the legions came,
And horsemen, charging under phantom skies,
Went thundering past beneath the oriflamme.

And now those waiting dreams are satisfied.
From twilight to the halls of dawn he went;
His lance is broken; but he lies content
With that high hour, in which he lived and died.
And falling thus, he wants no recompense,
Who found his battle in the last resort
Nor needs he any hearse to bear him hence,
Who goes to join the men of Agincourt.


‘The Volunteer’ Revisited

And in his final hour, twixt life and death
He contemplates the folly of his dream
How duped, he spent his courage, strength, and breath
In serving some conceited prince’s scheme.

And falling thus, he sees too late of how
The glories of our mighty nations rise:
Not through the wars, the mindless battles now,
But builders’ hands with guidance of the wise;

How humble word on word, and brick on brick
Together raise our cities to their height;
One single entry in his ledger thick
Adds more to life than any bullet’s flight.


Eric Bowen




Hedd Wyn’s poem Rhyfel

Gwae fi fy myw mewn oes mor ddreng,
A Duw ar goll ar orwel pell;
O’i ôl mae dyn, yn deyrn a gwreng,
Yn codi ei awdurdod hell.

Pan deimlodd fyned ymaith Dduw
Cyfododd gledd i ladd ei frawd;

Mae swn yr ymladd ar ein clyw,
A’i gysgod ar fythynnod tlawd.

Mae’r hen delynnau genid gynt
Ynghrog ar gangau’r helyg draw,
A gwaedd y bechgyn lond y gwynt
A’u gwaed yn gymysg efo’r glaw.



War

To live with turmoil is my fate;
God’s far away – His voice is still,
and men, of low and high estate
impose their own nefarious will.

On sensing God no longer near
men lost no time in starting war;
the sound of battle’s in our ears;
it casts its shadow on the poor.

Harps that would once have soothed the mind
hang, silent, in the willow copse;
and young men’s cries now haunt the wind;
blood mingles with rain’s teardrops.


Jenni Wyn Hyatt (Williams)



Herbert Asquith (1881-1947) was the son of British Prime Minister Herbert Henry Asquith, whose office extended into the war years 1915-16, after which he was succeeded by David Lloyd George (* he knew my father. In fact, a popular song was composed to celebrate the friendship, with lyrics, though, which are exceptionally difficult to master). A captain in the Royal Artillery, Herbert Jr. served on the Western Front throughout the war years. Among his war poems are Nightfall and After the Salvo. The poem which appears here, however, was written some years before the start of the war, in 1912, when young Asquith was, like his protagonist in his poem, working among ledgers in the drab surroundings of a City law office. The poem tells us nothing of the reality of war; the hecatomb of which no-one had an inkling was yet to come – the carnage on such a vast scale, the barbed-wire forests, the vicious chatter of machine guns, the rats’ life in the trenches, the cadaver-littered craters, the mad, suicidal forward hurl through mud, bullets and blood to gain mere yards… the mind of the time was more geared to past, smaller-scale colonial escapades. Sword and lance, though the military scene was undergoing change, were still held in esteem. No, the poem tells us only of cavalry and lances, the glorious satisfaction of dying for companions and country, and as ever for the Englishman, the looking back, through minds inebriated by that fine Shakespearean account, to the field at Agincourt. Which the French, with wistful nods, were won’t to call ‘The Picardy Affair’.

Ah, Shakespeare… Did you mention the Welsh archer companies in your play, Wil? I don’t recall. Never mind. I know you had trouble with the old unvoiced alveolar lateral fricative, though, gave up trying to say ‘Llywelyn’ and decided on ‘Sue-Ellen’ or something of the sort, instead. 🙂 Something else I should mention about Wil, too, and that’s, surprising as it may seem to literary aficionados and especially to his admirers, that he actually had a problem with his feet. We’ve all heard of those smallest metrical units, the iambus, trochee, dactyl, etc., the ‘feet’ which give poetry its rhythm. Well, not those. I’ll tell you. It’s like this: When Shakespeare Wil took up his quill, okay, he gave us all a treat. But no-one knows that his greatest foe lay at his very feet – that the famous bard (his work unmarred) was plagued by sweatsome piggies; that there issued an odour that would bowl folk over from his littlies to his biggies. But genius perturbed will oft ungird divine poetic beauty – so he flourished his quill, did Shakespeare Wil, and did his bardic duty, and he penned those words you’ve so often heard, sublime, immortal, sweet: that toes, by any other name, would – truly – smell like feet. Well, that’s enough lambasting of Wil – Wil ‘Dallas’ Shakespeare. that is. Treat it as payback for all his lampooning caricatures of Glyndwr and Llywelyn by means of which he exploited for his audience the typical view of the English toward the Welsh during his day. We must also ask ourselves whether it’s changed much. Whatever, here’s to genuine, harmless, friendly banter; may it never be misconstrued.

To be serious, though… ! And to get back to Asquith. What is expressed in this poem is no more than naive romanticism, naive patriotism. But we must ask ourselves this: Was Asquith expressing his own thoughts, or projecting the thoughts of his young clerk-wannabe-cavalryman? Or both? Living, and sharing with his readers the young clerk’s dream of glory, but aware, and in his way warning, that death around the corner was always a reality? Do his lines contain the sense that tragedy underlies all the heroic romanticism? If this can be seen to be so, then the poet who wrote The Volunteer – not the volunteer himself – and the poet who has provided this alternative ending can be said to agree. Eric Bowen’s revisitation of the poem and his version of the young clerk-cavalryman’s dying thoughts give us an insight into this. Stylistically, the revisit echoes the elevated style of the original poem, using the same iambic pentameter, a similar rhyme-scheme, and the inversions of yesteryear as in ‘city grey’/ ‘ledger thick’ almost never used in poetry today unless for archaic effect.



Excursus: Eric wrote this rejoinder to Herbert Asquith’s poem as an answer to a challenge – a humorous jab with which he was presented when The Volunteer was sent to him online by a mutual friend of us both. This was Sergeant-Major Williams (not the Sergeant-Major Williams of ‘Oh, dear. How sad. Never mind’ fame, but another who came pretty darn close). This was CSM (Company Sergeant-Major) Gareth Williams, RWF (Royal Welsh Fusiliers) which was also my old regiment – and stick around, dear reader, as there’ll be more about this famous regiment, the 23rd Regiment of Foot, to come. Gareth, a native of Ynys Môn, served in Afghanistan and stayed on for a number of tours of duty when he took up a senior position on contract with an organization with responsibility for internal security in the country; much to do with processing intel, it seemed to me. In those days, if you’d ever wish for a pleasant walkabout in Kabul, Gareth would provide you with an AK-47-toting escort. But should you joke with him about his being ‘Sergeant-Major Williams’ he would shrug and say ‘No. There was only ever one Sergeant-Major Williams’. Gareth exited Afghanistan not long before the ensuing deluge, the callous and disastrous debacle, the desertion of the invaded country’s people when after 20 years of destruction the word among the victors had morphed into ‘Let’s make a deal and get the hell out of here!’ and the country was simply ditched and handed back to its former masters. A matter of hardly months later he was in Germany, in partnership with his former RWF Company Commander, recruiting volunteers, it seems, for what was apparently to be the next upcoming ‘show’. Don’t tell me that these things happen all of a sudden and nobody knows anything about them – well, except for the passive, patriotic populace, which, just as in 1914, lives on the daily diet of what is deemed fit for it. In that respect we’re back to the xenophobic atmosphere of the prelude to WWI, with protracted tensions being manufactured and the orchestrated equivalents of Archdukes being assassinated. Wars between major powers don’t begin spontaneously; they have to be instigated before they erupt. And the instruments of instigation are posturing and provocation; and the driving force behind these is the ‘King of the Castle’ mentality. Look back to what preceded the events of 1914; then look at more recent history. And be prepared to beat the drum slowly, again and again and again and again.

What this leads on to, though, is that I once almost – almost I say – met up with the real Sergeant-Major Williams – Welsh actor Windsor Davies, and it came about like this: At the time we lived in Essex, England, about 18 miles north of London. I was the Secretary of a small branch of Plaid Cymru which had been formed there, and used to fairly regularly attend meetings in London, where I had a good friend in John ap Rhys. Once, John came down to visit us in Tyddewi for a few days, and we did a lot of canvassing for Plaid in Fishguard. John then wanted to do some more in Carmarthen, but with everything arranged I had to opt out at the last moment due to feeling ‘under the weather’, so John went on his own to meet other friends of his in Carmarthen. Then on the way back he and one other – I can’t remember how – got stranded on the way to Llandeilo, and ended up in the evening at Llangadog, where they made their way to the Black Lion (pretty sure it was the Black Lion; that’s the one I remember from Llangadog, main street, and it’s only a small place). And what a story he had to tell when I saw him… one that made me green with envy and cursing that I’d not accompanied him to Carmarthen that day. Because the Black Lion was chock-a-block full of a merry band – there, going full belt that evening were actors Windsor Davies, Ray Smith, Philip Madoc and all the crew who had been filming the TV series of Richard Vaughan’s Moulded in Earth. So that places us in the summer of 1965. Ray we both knew well as he had been our Chairman at Plaid’s Rhanbarth Llundain, Philip Madoc I had been out with once to an Essex pub when we had both gone to see the Pendyrus Male Voice Choir perform locally (strange thing is that Philip’s address (he lived at the time in another town in Essex) and mine were almost identical; mine was 67 (Something) Croft – I won’t give the exact name as the house is no longer ours – and his was 67 (Something else) Croft, and the ‘Something’ and the ‘Something else’ were both of one syllable with the same vowel sound, like, say, ‘Stile’ and ‘Fyle’, the only real difference being the name of the town; extraordinary, I thought). Yes, those two were there, and then to top it all, Windsor ‘Sergeant-Major Williams’ Davies! And I had missed out on this happy meeting; what joyous company that would have been; I could have cried. Anyway, to some nowadays those names will not mean very much; but to those of us of a certain age they will be still remembered. All appeared in dozens of TV series and films. I remember Ray mostly as burly prize-fighter Dai Bando in How Green was my Valley; Philip Madoc mostly for his lead role in The Life and Times of David Lloyd George; and who could forget Windsor Davies as the magnificent, flamboyant Sergeant-Major Williams in It Ain’t Half Hot, Mum!’ Well, that’s the standard meandering extra-poetry excursion familiar to my regular readers done with.



Hedd Wyn (1887-1917) was the bardic name of Ellis Humphrey Evans, a native of Trawsfynydd, Meirionydd, Wales, and the first of eleven children of a farming family.. He started writing poetry at an early age, and by early manhood had become an accomplished poet, composing in Welsh but with a set interest in English Romantic poetry. He competed with much success in local eisteddfodau and on a national level, winning bardic chairs and being placed second at the 1916 National Eisteddfod. The onset of the Great War interrupted all this. At first there was in Wales no interest, as Robert Graves tells us in his wartime memories Goodbye to All That, of enlisting in support of any war effort; in rural, pacifist Wales of the 19th century leading into the 20th it was an alien notion. But as events in Europe intensified the pressure on all of Welsh society became greater; conscription was introduced; the chapels, around which Welsh communities were largely based, were persuaded to rally their congregations in answer to the call; things changed dramatically. Hedd Wyn’s (he is most usually known by his bardic name, which means ‘Blessed Peace’) young friends were conscripted into the British Army, and news began to reach home of their deaths. Hedd Wyn wrote a number of poems related to this. Congregations and communities were divided between pacifism and ‘patriotism’. Farming communities suffered as sons of military age were taken from their families and occupations to serve in the war. Although farming was a reserved occupation due to its importance to the ‘national’ economy, eventually the Evans family received notice from the War Office that they must provide one of their males of the requisite age, and this lot fell upon young brother Robert. Hedd Wyn, now approaching 30, made the decision to volunteer to serve in the ranks in order to spare his younger sibling.

So in February 1917 Hedd Wyn joined his regiment, the Royal Welsh Fusiliers, to undergo basic infantry training. February… in March, barely weeks later and a very raw recruit, he was temporarily released, as were many others, on government orders to return to the important work on their home farms. It was during this almost two-month period that he worked on a poem, Yr Arwr, ‘The Hero’ which he intended to submit as his entry to the upcoming National Eisteddfod. Weeks later, in June, he found himself with his battalion, the 15th RWF, in France, and on the way to the front in Belgium. It was from a village in northern France that he posted the final draft of his entry to the National Eisteddfod, signing it, possibly under the influence of his French surroundings, under the nom-de-plume ‘Fleur-de-Lys’. By the end of July his battalion had reached the Ypres Salient in Belgium, and on the last day of that month, during the first hours of the first day of the bloody battle of Passchendaele, he was killed.

In September, six weeks after his death, the National Eisteddfod was held. According to ceremony, the name of the author of the winning entry was called, and the recipient was expected to claim the honour by standing up. The name called out by the Archdruid was ‘Fleur-de-Lys’. No-one stood up, of course. The name was called three times. Then it was solemnly announced that ‘Fleur-de-Lys’ was in fact Hedd Wyn – Ellis Evans of Yr Ysgwrn. The chair was ordered draped in black and given the name Y Gadair Ddu, ‘The Black Chair’. It was removed to his home at Yr Ysgwrn, where it stands and may be viewed by visitors today.

Everything happened very quickly for Hedd Wyn – his war experience was compressed into a short period between June, 1917, when he joined his battalion in France, and July, when he was killed in Belgium. It’s said that he worked on his copy of Yr Arwr while in France before posting it home, but he wrote no poetry during his short time in the trenches preceding his death During the early stages of the war, while he was home on the farm and war was beginning to affect people’s lives and news came of the death of young men he knew, he had been moved to write some verse on the conflict, the most well-known being Rhyfel, ‘War’ (a translation of which appears above by Jenni Wyn). His most ambitious work, Yr Arwr, the one which won him the National Eisteddfod chair, has a classical, highly literary theme favoured in the day.

He is well remembered. A bronze statue of him stands in his home village of Trawsfynydd. Much has been written about him in Wales in both Welsh and English. In 1992 a Welsh-language biopic, Hedd Wyn, which during the next year went on to capture a host of awards, was released. The film was based on a screenplay by Alan Llwyd, Welsh poet and translator. It’s an excellent production dealing with the ultranationalism of the state, the jingoism of the influenced segments of the public, and, naturally, there’s a love story too. It’s a moving story well told on film, well worth watching, and highly recommended.


Other Welsh-language poets of WWI


Among these were Albert Cynan Evans-Jones, Thomas Hughes Jones, Saunders Lewis, and Robert Williams Parry (who wrote Englynion coffa Hedd Wyn in memory of Hedd Wyn.


English-language poets of WWI of Welsh descent or with connections with Wales

These are of course more well-known. Among them were Robert Graves (RWF), David Jones (RWF) ‘Dai Greatcoat’ who was on the same section of the line at Passchendaele as Hedd Wyn, Wyn Griffith (RWF), Siegfried Sassoon (RWF), and Wilfred Owen (What? Not RWF, Wilfred? With an ancestral name like that and a native of a Welsh-speaking border town? An honorary ‘RWF’after his name for this man is a must. In Wales, he’s very much regarded as one of us).



Eric Bowen is a 67 year old American living in the majestically scenic North-west, between Seattle and Vancouver, B.C. and in the shadow of the volcanic cone of Koma Kulshan (Mount Baker). His father’s stories about the family’s Welsh roots led him to join the Puget Sound Welsh Association and later to journey to Wales to find his ancestral village in Gower and attend the National Eisteddfod that year in Porthmadog. This visit led to his involvement in the campaign for the Welsh Assembly in the 1990s and three more extended trips to Wales.

Eric is thoroughly fluent in Welsh. He composes poetry in the language, and has put together a considerable repertoire of Welsh folk songs. The nearby Lhaqtemish Nation have invited Eric to perform at their Te-Ti-Sen cultural centre to give talks on Welsh songs and poetry, his Welsh heritage, and the question of unrepresented nations and minority languages.

His wife Sally shares his enthusiasm for both Welsh song and poetry and for long hikes in the surrounding Cascade Mountains. His daughters Rhiannon and Serena share his great enthusiasm for linguistics.



Jenni Wyn Hyatt (Williams) has appeared as a guest poet on The Igam-Ogam Mabinogion a number of times. A native of Maestêg in the western Valleys, she lived for long years in Aberystwyth, Wales, and in later years and at present, a village in the English Midlands.

Jenni writes in both Welsh and English. She has published two volumes of verse, Perhaps One Day (Rowanvale Books, 2017), and Striped Scarves and Coal Dust (R. Haigh & Sons, 2019), both with fine line drawings by illustrator Cathy Knight. Jenni has produced a prolific amount of poetry, and is a regular contributor to poetry journals.

Most recently, and most fittingly for this issue of The Ig-Og, Jenni provided the literal translation from Hedd Wyn’s original Welsh for Michael Dante’s book adaptation of Hedd Wyn’s winning Eisteddfod ode, The Hero (Amazon, 2022). The whole of Jenni’s word-for-word translation appears in the book, along with her translations of seven other of Hedd Wyn’s poems. Like the families of all small communities scattered throughout Wales, Jenni has relatives who fell in The Great War, and has honoured them by a number of visits to their graves in France. She has also made the journey and paid tribute at Hedd Wyn’s resting place at the Artillery Wood Cemetery, Boezinge, Belgium.

Two for All Hallows

Brief Night-time Trip to Transylvania
(A Dream Related)

‘Tis though it were
– I warn you, sir! –
I was some dark immortal Lord,
and held all others in my thrall:
They slept. I gorged.
And now confess.

A red stain on my bed remains


Note: Now I confess to having modelled the final line of this poem on one from Gérard de Nerval’s sonnet El Destdichado (Sylvie – souvenirs du Valois):

‘The star upon my scutcheon long hath fled,
A black sun on my lute doth yet remain’.

These are the third and fourth lines of De Nerval’s sonnet, from Andrew Lang’s fine translation. The first four in particular I’ve always found most powerful and impressive. They, and not the remaining lines, are the ones which have stayed locked up in my mind for long years, anyway. 

Gèrard de Nerval was very much a lost soul. Walter Pater said of him: ‘He has been a sick man all his life. He was always a seeker after something in the world that is there in no satisfying measure, or not at all’. He was, in other words, a true poet. – one who was subject to ‘those wounded thoughts of poets and of madmen, whose doom it was to ever tread as exiles in the landscapes of mankind’. (And in mediaeval Wales – quite where stated I can’t recall – at day’s end, when castle or town gates were closed and guarded, admittance was allowed to only three kinds of person – a skilled craftsman, a poet, or a madman). Another literary critic close to his time described de Nèrval’s pursuit of the same essential qualities in the different women he met. Things de Nèrval wrote in his travel journals certainly testify to this; and undoubtedly, Sylvie, for him, stood as a paragon of unattainable and unrequited love. Balkis (the Queen of Sheba) appears also to be a manifestation of his ‘Sylvie’ in his cleverly-constructed and fascinating story The Tale of the Queen of the Morning and Soliman the Prince of the Genii. I’ve briefly mentioned this story in notes to a previous post in The Ig-Og, but can’t remember where. As I said then, it was intended as a follow-up to the long article which accompanied Song of the Shulamite Maid (‘The Igam-Ogam Mabinogion’May-July, 2021) and was to have dealt with the Ethiopian version of the Solomon and Sheba story in 1 Kings. But here we go with a meandering note again… so let’s not venture any further from the spookiness with which this item is supposed to be concerned.



Incubus
(from the French of Charles Baudelaire)

Like an angel with a brutal eye
I’ll return to your chamber bye and bye
and, stealthy, glide up to your side
along with shadows of the night,

and, my dark one, give to you
kisses chilly as the moon;
caresses that are serpentine,
coiling round and round a tomb.

And when the blood-red dawn arrives,
you shall find my place is void –
and feel the cold till night is nigh.

Others might place their tender touch
upon your life and youth, my dear.
But I? I wish to reign by fear!


Le Revenant

Comme les anges à l’oeil fauve,
Je reviendrai dans ton alc
ôve
Et vers toi glisserai sans bruit
Avec les ombres de la nuit;

Et je te donnerai, ma brune,
Des baisers froids comme la lune
Et des caresses de serpent
tour d’une fosse rampant.

Quand viendra le matin livide,
Tu trouveras ma place vide,
Où jusqu’au soir il fera froid.

Comme d’autres par la tendresse,
Sur la vie et sur ta jeunesse,
Moi, je veux régner par l’effroi!


(From ‘Otherworld’)


Note: It is unfortunate for the lady in the poem to have experienced a visit from this ‘phantom which returns’ – this revenant incubus. Kisses and cuddles in the night are fine; but not in the ‘not nice’ spirit they are given here!

For the female equivalent of this night-time visitant – the succubus – well,a whole gang of them swoop down on some poor men trying to get a decent night’s sleep in The Stone  (‘The Igam Ogam Mabinogion’, Nov. 2019 – Jan. 2020). But forget about those succubi – it’s a quest poem. A noble quest. Concentrate on the quest.

She Beg She More

Bastet

Crashing headlong
Over the stone-toothed hills,
In thrall of the chase,
Clawed feet dancing over the land
Like fingers on sitar-strings;

The earth is her fret-board,
Upon which she plays
The savage and triumphant song
Of her ancestors

The ground falls away beneath her
She weighs up fifteen feet
In one heartbeat,
The rhythm unbroken,
She plummets,
Pounds the road,
Leaps again,

And lands primly on a fence-post
I draw in my breath,
And, like a gunshot,
The head spins,
and the beautiful,
Merciless eye pierces me
I am not your master, cat

Am I, then, your equal?
Perhaps, we are equal in this;
We see through the tarmac,
The concrete and the lies

And I leave my words
Like dead mice
Upon the doorsteps of the world.


Steffan Balsom




Note (1):   Bastet. The Egyptian Goddess of Cats. Probably pronounced more like ‘Basta’. No giggling at the back. The feminine suffix -t tends to be swallowed, a little like our British ‘glottal stop’. This came to me as I watched a particularly well-formed cat thundering down the hillside: above all, the way it negotiated the wall, and the drop to the road beneath it, reined itself in, and glanced momentarily in my direction before continuing the hunt, down the hill and towards the sea. I’m more of a dog person, but I always appreciate perfection when I see it. [Steffan]


Note (2):   Apologies are offered to any gentlemen readers who might have been misled by the article’s main title, She Beg She More.  Let me explain: This comes from Sí Beag Sí Mhór, a tune for the harp attributed to brilliant, blind Irish harpist Turlough O’Carolan (1670-1738). In Irish Gaelic, this is properly written (so I believe, and please correct me in the ‘Comments’ section if I’m wrong, as with anything else which pertains) as Sídhe Beag, Sídhe Mór, which may be translated as ‘Little Spirit, Big Spirit’, and refers to The People of the Goddess Dana. In Irish folklore especially, and in other Celtic cultures, these are those we have come to designate ‘The Fair Folk’ or ‘The Fairy Folk’ – in Irish, the Tuatha De Danann, or the Sidhe (pronounced ‘Shee’). So, as we have the great Egyptian goddess Bastet and her minuscule following, the multitudinous, mischievous race of the cat, we also have the great Irish Goddess Dana and her reportedly minuscule, mischievous race of ‘Faery’; in each case, – and as used in the title a late, popular corruption – it means (sorry, gents!) no more that ‘Little Fairy, Big Fairy’. I’ve seen it and similar variations used, particularly in the labelling of popular music of the ‘Celtic’ brand. On one CD, I noted that some enthusiastic but (unknowing?) musician took it a step further, and actually changed O’Carolan’s title to ‘She Begs for More’. Horrifying, but true. Same happened with the lovely Welsh melody Lisa Lân, ‘Fair Lisa’ on a CD I have. It’s a collection of English folk-music, and some bright spark has included among them this Welsh tune and changed Lisa’s epithet into a surname; she’s now Lisa Larne. Hopefully the culprit didn’t realize it was not an English tune, and/or had only heard the name, and not changed it after having seen the written form. Welsh bach and Irish beag, incidentally, are cognates, both meaning ‘little’, as are Welsh mawr and Irish mór, both meaning ‘big’.

O’Carolan’s big and little comes from two hills, situated close to each other and apparently one of lesser height than its companion, in County Leitrim, Ireland. If you haven’t heard O’Carolan’s harp pieces (there are very many) they are wonderful, and highly recommended. As far as reading goes, among the books on the subject with which I happen to be most familiar are W.Y Evans-Wentz, The Fairy Faith in Celtic Countries (1911), a classic thesis; Robert Kirk, The Secret Commonwealth of Elves, Fauns and Fairies (1690), an abstruse personal record; W. B. Yeats (ed.), Fairy and Folk Tales of the Irish Peasantry, (1888), a representative folklore collection; and Maureen Duffy, The Erotic World of Faery (1972); despite its somewhat misleading  title, a meticulously researched, erudite study in the history and literature of ‘faery’ belief.

So here, in Steffan’s poem, we have the assured grace of the cat, and within its overtly painted movement and subtly suggested part-rhyme there moves alongside her (for this is surely a ‘she’) the unseen shadow-spirit of her ancient tutelary goddess. Like Steffan, I have to say, I’m more of a dog person. I did have a cat stay with me for a while. One of her first acts was to swipe a Ch’ing Dynasty bowl (late 18th century) off its high shelf. Smashed to smithereens. She was quickly on the alert, deftly dodged me, and was gone!  I remember thinking, as I picked up the pieces, ‘Why, the little… Bastet!’ She was a good-natured little old lady, though, and nimble enough on such occasions. If you want to know my real, tongue-ever-so-lightly-pressed-into-cheek opinion of the tribe, there’s Triptych contra Felix in the Feb.-Apr. 2021 section. [Dafydd]



Steffan has made several appearances on The Ig-Og, in:


‘The Funny Five Days’ (a Christmas medley)            
Nov. 2019-Jan. 2020

‘The East Wind and the Crow’(a review of Steffan’s 2019 book of the same title)
Nov. 2019-Jan. 2020

‘Strife on the Borders’ (Excerpts from Steffan’s metrical version of the celebrated Middle Welsh poem ‘Y Gododdin’)
May-Jul. 2021

The Eleventh Hour of the Eleventh Month… (In memoriam: a selection for Remembrance Day)
Nov. 2021-Jan. 2022

Medley: The Sounds, Silence, and Scenery of Open Spaces

The seventeen short poems below are, apart from the first
one, a selection of ‘distillations’ – brief ‘Haikuesque’ pieces
intended, in the most minimal sequence of words, to express
the spirit of their subject. As is sometimes to be felt, such sounds, silences, and scenes
can emanate spectral as well as natural propensities.



Before

No, nothing on the mountain
but shadows; and in the air
immensity, and silence – no bird,
no creature there, when
the last rays, pale and tired,
presaged the evening chill.

No soul in sight…
but voices,
echoes, queer and thin,
wavered in the spaces…

The stones remember, still.



Communion

Hist! There still abide
echoes of long-gone hymns
upon the bare hillside.



Conversations

Wind walks; makes
grass talk; sends rumours
through the trees.



Empty

Chill sky. Leaves lie.
Wooded slopes stand clear and bare.
Echoes travel miles.



Ghost-acre

Weeds grow as they will.
The path that was can not be found.
No-one goes there now.



Hill Farm at Night

Log fire smoulders.
Talk murmurs on. Vast darkness
rules beyond the panes.



Homesteads

Darkness falls. Now
odd, terrestrial stars wake
on the mountainside.



Northern Night

Wild, windy dark.
The treetops clash. Serrated pines
tear up the moon.



Northern Sky

Air, chill and raw.
Up there the stars mass,
glittering like rime.



November Morning Climb

Carn Edeyrn top.
See, faint blue smoke from scattered farms
curls up.



On a Cold and Frosty Morning

Crows‘ croaking
admonitions cut through
lifeless air.



Pine

Amber tears flow from
the mountain pine. Wind sobs through
her tassels, and she sighs.



Solitude

Mist on the mountain.
Faint calling of a shepherd
to his dogs.



Squall

Great shadows shift
above the lake – steel surface, vexed
by fits of rain.



Still Autumn Night

Stars shine; clear sky.
No breath stirs anything.
On earth, time rests awhile.



Weather

Uncertain dawn, with
sea and sky the same –
a dash of rain.



Winter Sky Inscribed

Naked trees
on grey – pale, fanned fossils
pressed in shale.

Flying Free

Elevation
(from the French of Charles Baudelaire)


Above the lakes, above the vales,
mountains, woods, and clouds and seas,
beyond the sun and astral winds,
beyond remotest starry spheres

my spirit wanders with the utmost ease,
as the sturdiest swimmer revels in waves –
cleaves blithely through the boundless ways
with virile joy – exquisitely.

Fly! Far from all baneful pressures,
be cleansed in purest air.
Drink of its glorious nectar;
its lucid flame is everywhere.

Beyond all the cares and vexations
that weigh and obscure our lives,
happy the one who can steadily soar
through the peaceful fields of light –

the one whose thoughts, like skylarks,
in the morning sky take wing,
who skims over life and grasps with ease
the speech of flowers and voiceless things.


(From ‘Otherworld’ )





Élévation

Au-dessus des étangs, au dessus des vallées,
Des montagnes, des bois, des nuages, des mers,
Par delà le soleil, par delà les éthers,
Par delà les confins des sphères étoilées,

Mon esprit, tu de meus avec agilité,
Et, comme un bon nageur qui se pâme dans l’onde,
Tu sillonnes gaiement l’immensité profonde
Avec une indicible et mâle volupté.

Envole-toi bien loin de ces miasmes morbides;
Va te purifier dans l’air supérieur,
Et bois, comme une pure et divine liqueur,
Le feu clair qui remplit les espaces limpides.

Derrière les ennuis et les vastes chagrins
Qui chargent de leur poids l’existence brumeuse,
Heureux celui qui peut d’une aile vigoureuse
S’élancer vers les champs lumineux et sereins;

Celui dont les pensers, comme des alouettes,
Vers les cieux le matin prennent un libre essor,
– Qui plane sur la vie, et comprend sans effort
Le langage des fleurs et des choses muettes!



Acknowledgement: 

I don’t have much time to read poetry these days, and am grateful to a good friend who every week or so sends me on-screen poems to read, – classic pieces by famous poets we all know, as well as poems by many another modern writer of whom I have usually never heard. These are easy to go to, and it’s handy to keep up with what’s going on. Today the poem was ‘Elevation’ by Charles Baudelaire. I’ve done a few of Baudelaire’s poems into English, and remembered that this was one of them. Thank you, up there in the Welsh north, Gill Brown!

The poem Gill sent was translated by Timothy Donnelly, whose version can be found on the Poetry Foundation site at < https://bit.ly/3y69v8C > .

THE APOCALYPSE OF GWEIR (PART 2)

2 :  The Visions


And out of the night shot visions. Swift and relentless
and merciless they came, and I saw them as one who,
abandoned in the midst of an ugly dream
is suddenly assaulted by its teeming simulacra,
things substantial, and ephemeral, gigantic and infinitesimal –
an infinity of things.

A vast and withered heath I saw, and on the dull periphery thereof
thunder rumbled over-long, as might morose and ponderous thoughts of gods.
And away off I descried Time, tilling and reaping in his fields, a still, salt waste
inundulate, sheer-white with laden dust; yet did he till and reap,
and till and reap without surcease.
From him and his hostile hand did I turn to gaze into another, safer distance
(and ranged behind him had I spied his levies, still as stone? Faintly,
file on file, and white as bone?)

And far, far upon that other vague horizon lay
some vast and sprawling edifice all grey and indistinct, all mist and  cloud-enshrouded,
but huge beyond and spreading outward many a mile,
and many and many a mile, I deemed, it reached into the heavens.
And like it was unto – so was I minded – a windmill
of those ill-affected gods who grumbled hereabouts.
For movement I discerned – so did it seem – as of great and circling sails,
and a muffled groaning strain therefrom;
and with the vagaries of shifting air, methought, there came and went
the wailing and the moaning of a-many human voices,
as of the lamentation of the forest top beneath a gale.
But naught could I see nor hear that fell within my senses‘ satisfaction:
and soon did haze envelop all.
Then did a ghost of a wind arise to moan across the dun-drab grass,
and I bit my lip, for a little dog I saw, running with that wind;
my own little dead dog, whose grave was in my garden.
But where he had been, and where the sere grass shifted last
stood now four walls low and crumbled,
hearth open to the wind and rain, all canopied with moss
and rank with weeds, and woodlouse and snail with dominion over them.
And I knew it at once for the dear farmhouse wherein I had lived
and been loved in time forepast,
and tears flowed hot down my cheeks to see it so,
and how that it was set down unmercifully in this unhallowed place.
And I told myself that sly Time would not delude me with his trickery
and turned to curse him to his face
(albeit knowing his was a face I could not look upon)
but he and his fields were no more there,
and naught but that sullen outer edge of things.
And then it was as though I was myself plucked from where I stood
and lifted up,
and looked down upon the world as from a great height,
but was at one and the same time thrown in and among
and to be part of that which I beheld, yet entered
as one would step into a quiet pool, or through a breeze-blown veil.
And I beheld stupendous things…

I saw the thronged cities of the north,
and the vast and empty deserts of the south.
Poor, naked fishermen I saw, casting nets on a lonely shore;
a ragged line of hump-backed oxen, plodding, plodding in a snow-strewn waste;
pallid salamandine things, blind, and bound by blackness.
Old, old hands, mapped blue with veins, pressed fervently in prayer.
Plumed and painted warriors I saw, stamping dust to drum and sistrum –
Baal-fires burning in their high dark places;
bale-fires ablaze atop great earthen mounds.
I saw a man addressing a multitude:
I saw each of the thousand faces of his listeners.
Vestments pure and virginal I saw, draggled through the mire,
stained unto perdition and cast upon the midden.
Against a mud and wattle wall I saw the face of a boy,
and it was devoured by disease.
I could see – and oh, I was astounded  –
breath on the wind which carried the black jaws of the plague.
Other faces elsewhere there were, countless faces,
blank faces staring, blank faces in crowds
and in tunnels, and in tombs,
and pale as linen sleeves beneath the catafalques of kings.
Ghosts I saw, walking in a crowded market-place,
unseen by all but a lone, mad-yelping cur;
bones espied, deep underground, bones burnished-brown
at rest beside death’s jawless gibe.

And now must I marvel all the more  –
for to me in that moment were the minds of all men made an open book,
and the thoughts of man a chest unlocked.
I beheld the thoughts of hierophants and mystagogues,
and those of they who burned on iron braziers hellebore and aconite,
and their sigils and their cyphers wrote in bile;
yes, even those lofty thoughts of the most renowned among sages,
and those wounded ones of true poets and of madmen,
whose doom it was to ever tread as exiles in the landscapes of mankind.
I read the dreams of indomitable men
who fought with the gods and prevailed, and looked upon
the wreckage of those who prevailed not.
But the snaking deeps of sophists, even at midmost,
were a passing shallow babble.
And baubles and formulae alone upsprouted in the fields of the Sybarites
and of all the carnal
who whiled away their days, equations stiff and dull and petty carousels,
even unto the accomplished and the advertised among them  –
but lo you, ever and anon serpents wriggling thereunder, and blood trickling therethrough.
And oh, even so it was among all the disciples of Mammon,
where worms and raven’s-wine did lie a-bed with cold and dure glitterings.
For those, I saw, would make merchandise of their fellow man’s misfortune,
and suck his blood, and turn it into coin;
who by base art and impudence would rape the lands of every goodly bounty,
and make of it but revenue;
who were both ignorant and scornful of the past,
who lived only to make a pawn of all the present,
and who were heedless of and reckless of the future.
And by such art and impudence and ignorance and greed, I saw,
were better men than they confounded.
Fast following I glimpsed, as by the suddenness of lightning illuminate,
their final fevered minds, those ones who had sought and caught the Devil by the tail,
and not foreseen the price; 
and only then their utter mockery beheld,
for – with bloodied pen cast by and past reprieve – 
they sought them still to ease their debt,
to coax that lord, to bandy words, to fence with him and haggle.
There came to me the thoughts of men who scorned communion with the angels,
and who despised the brotherhood of humankind;
who abused the greater cousinhood of creation.
Those there were, too, of they who did seek that communion;
who did celebrate that brotherhood;
who did cherish that great cousinhood;
but few, few indeed were those of they who sought, and celebrated, and cherished
the sacred, life-shaped trinity thereof,
and shunned were they by the many, and by the crowd discounted.
With ease I gazed into the minds of the arrogant and of the intolerant,
unnumbered and untold,
wherein I found, and penned in flaming majuscules,
fear innate; contempt unbridled; ignorance unbounded –
so that I was wroth and repelled,
and pitied all that was humble in creation.
And as though thought itself were conjuror,
the peoples of the margin I saw, and heard the clarions and the baying
of the thousand-year hunting of them,
saw them subjugated and disinherited, and their laws annulled
for being worthless laws,
and their tongues riven from them for their own well-being,
and the voice of the singer stilled
and the hands of the musician snapped and bleeding;
and because naught of theirs was of any value save their land and their gold
did the scourge of Ascendancy with injustice describe its scarlet runes upon their flesh
and gallows dance to the music of his writ,
and the children of the margin impressed into alien servitude
and scattered among the kingdoms of the masterful.
Laid bare was the hypocritical logic of the torturer
and of those who played dice with the torturer 
– and here was I stung in my heart, for I felt that I had sat among them – 
his savage craft pursued behind his mask of sanctimony
only that the statutes of his own creed
be exalted beyond the narrowness of his demesne
and the articles of his kingdom’s catechism glorified
beyond his bounden borders.
And naked too were the minds of all the Lordly of State
and the thoughts of princes and potentates
and of all the high and mighty ones of the earth,
even unto the greatest and the most revered among them.
And the many were seen to be consummate in cunning –
yes, and to be versed exquisitely in deceit;
their lies to be refined until they bore all the semblance of truth,
and their treaties and decrees all inked in manicon;
that beneath their cloak of honour and integrity
they did with daggers of intrigue and untruth
play at spillikins with nations and with the lives of the people.
And I saw that behind gilded gates Liberty went heavy about her heels,
and that a man might not live to see his sons grow tall when Justice was his neighbour.
That Law was to bind the weak, but to be broken by the strong,
and oftentimes a hempen collar about the neck of the one,
but a cudgel in the hands of the other.
While the thoughts of the meek,
bent by the sweat of their brow, careworn and forspent,
were quiescent and uncomprehending, and it was made plain to my sight
that naught but the clods of the earth would they inherit
and a cold and narrow lodging-place therein.
And I saw again he who had addressed the multitude – and his mind was not of this world.
And now I found that I stood among his listeners,
and marked his countenance and the glory that shone therefrom,
and though they came drifting to me dreamlike,
now clear and distinct, now snatched away as by the turning of the wind,
I stood there rooted and spellbound by the wonder of his words,
and for him there welled within me a great, sad, unfathomable pity.
“But I tell you,” said he, and these his words,
these few and precious it was my privilege to be allowed
as though they were addressed to me alone of all the throng,
have I remembered and held unto my heart over all the many passing years:
“But I tell you,” said he, and laid his eyes upon me then,
“the book of God that men have yet to find,
and the holiest of books, I say, is this –
it is the sun which throws its miracle each day upon the hillside;
the glory on the wing of the butterfly;
the soil which brings forth the matchless beauty of the lily.
Through an understanding of this,
and this above all things,
may we gain at last unto the sight of God.”
But the voice of the multitude grew great about me,
and I could no more hear my teacher’s words,
but was astounded to behold, now that I stood among the many,
that each perceived his message in a different way,
for some there were who shed tears of joy, or raised their arms in adulation,
or prostrated themselves before him,
or pressed forward that they might touch the hem of his robe,
and raised a cry that he was the foretold prophet who would
lead them forth against the world; 
while others gave out great cries of sorrow and beat their flesh and rent their garments,
while some there were that smirked and jested, making light of all his words,
and others still stood sullen or grew wroth or shook their fists,
or left the throng with vexatious eyes and vengeful thoughts,
as though they would seek out the authorities that were, to silence him
and place him under duress to be led away in chains.
Plain and frightful unto me came the thoughts of these,
and fraught with muttered hate were they, which said:
“He abides not by the Law, and he desecrates the Book.”
And now was the clamour of the crowd a tempest,
and its movement a tossing sea wherein I was borne,
whether I willed it or no, hither and thither, and no more could I hope to see
him who spoke those holy words of wisdom.

Then was I alone again, and a quietude, and a sombre greyness gathering.
And awhile was there naught but the grey shadows all about me,
and the memory, yes, and queer echoes of those things I had but now looked upon.
Then did some thing draw my gaze to a point in all the shadows
where darkness, in conventicle, lay darker than all else round about.
And there now sat, in silent sad embrace, a man and maid
so young, scarce entered in the springtide of their youth.
And they, having found one in the other that thing of mystery
which is a fount of great gladness and a fire for all littleness
had come, they and their treasure, to this place of close-sealed darkness
– for they knew that on the morrow’s morn would come upon their world
a fury that knew not love, and that the fury could in no-wise be escaped;
but that there, for the few and precious passing hours,
was a place of blessed sanctuary and of peace,
And softly, and like unto the trickling of harp-strings in the dark
did the thoughts of those twain come to me,
and as a whispered, piteous litany.
And who it was that spake the first and who the second I know not,
but that there was gentle supplication, and like response:

Beloved,lest the world be lost
be by my side.
Should darkness darken more
and nightness burst,
be near me.
Stand with me now, console me,
ungird your strength
unto me.
Be by my side:
be near me.

My loved one,
if the world be lost
then by your side I’ll be.
Should darkness darken more
and nightness burst,
then near you I’ll be.
Stand with you then, console you,
ungird my strength
unto you.
Be by your side,
be near you:
and you with me.

Such, in the midst of mute despair, was the testimony of new-found love.
But for me, as on the morn of the morrow that they did yet await,
did the raging thoughts of those brutal ones who would scoff at love
and who would wrench apart those twain and all of they that live by love,
to ill-use them in body and in spirit,
dash furiously upon me and drave me backward and away,
with naught but vile derision as answer to my implorations
for the lives and the love of that poor maid and youth.
Thus to me were the minds of men an open book and a chest unlocked,
and many another undiscovered and unholy thing made manifest,
unseen beneath, and in wait beyond, the kenning of man’s mind.

But now in the brightness of a five-fold noon
was a great conglomeration of things ineffable thrust upon my sight,
and I must abide in awe:
For Truth I witnessed, Truth raised high on banners,
and trampled underfoot in blood.
I saw its thousand shades, and its impostors,
and its suffering;
saw it twisted and stretched on all the racks of righteousness;
saw it mangled by the cloven tongue of mischief.
And in its name false prophets and the scions thereof
I saw ensconced, effete and diademed.
Faith too there was, flaming and guttering withal,
proclaimed from marble fanes, and cowering in corners;
holding steadfast among the blazing branches;  unflinching beneath the hail of stones.
Imprisoned in dogma;  marching as to war. Tormented and tormenting;
sprung purblind from the seeds of fear and uncertainty;
and a million times betrayed.
The sycophants of holy writ I saw, those authors of pious misquotation
who would burn a man as zealously as swathe in flame his books;
shoulder to shoulder they walked, and their number was legion –
but the cross they bore before them no jot nor tittle holier
than a circled swarth gammadion,
their hymns all horned and cloven-hoofed.
And Good I saw, and Evil,
but where one did end and the other begin I saw not,
so ravelled were they, and entangled as fallen balls of twine
among the kingdoms and the ages of mankind.
For across their span did virtue become vice and wrong be seen as right,
and within themselves were shrouded in the vilest contrarieties:
I observed the machinations of evil in soft voices and flowered gardens.
I saw sarcoma in the hearts of saints.
I saw the flowing tears of Lilith,
and they were not of fire and gall but of the purest milk-chalcedony;
and I knew that these were the tears of all women.
(And oft there came Death in the guise of Beauty,
and crooked marvels made by the left hand of God).
And close upon these things poor hapless Love I saw,
and she was pale and beautiful.
And leading her by the hand there went a scrawny youth,
who leered at her and whispered:  “I shall have my will of you…”
and pressed into her hand three dice.
And this was Chance, assigned by his tutelary goddess
to be Love’s only guide.
Then did that sacred and lovely lady grow paler still.
But now was a thing most foul shown unto me:
For hard by enough to send me staggering aghast
a fearful goat-headed man did I see
of great and sturdy stature, shaggy and snarling,
with eyes of blackest flint that raged disastrously about him,
tramping to and fro, to and fro tramping
in a pit of his own fermenting dung and urine.
Without let did he convulse with glarings and with mutterings,
and a pounding of fists against great straining thews.
His snarling and his grunting were of no earthly speech –
yet did I understand those loathsome words, which said, unerring and repeatedly:
“There will come the day and you will know my name…”
And I blenched, for fear that he might arise,
and march about the world.
But then of a great sudden did I stand enshadowed by a thing as huge and high as Babel
that blotted out all hope of light and sky, and clear it was to me that I stood now
beneath that which I was minded from afar to be the windmill of the gods.
And I stood all mazed at this, and back and back my head did go upon my neck
as that on which I gazed went up and up, as, foot to spire,
would half a score cathedrals passing hazy into clouds.
And lo, it was a great and turning wheel, configured with a witchery to foil imagination,
and as no wheel conceived by Adam’s sons.
For wheel on wheel was built this titan mechaneme
and ring and ring encompassed those within;
and some would spin sustainedly, but others without harmony;
and some spun as the clock does spin, while others circled widdershins,
so manifold, and so divers, the telling thwarts the mind.
But midmost stout and strong was it contrived
built all of oblong beams of wondrous size, dense-grained and hard as stone
and endlong cut from Cyclopean trees.
And iron-shod were these in massy bands, and bolted overthwart
and through and through each one,
and beam and beam traversed and joined and left the eye perplexed.
Yet outward did these timbers minish thinner and more worn,
and midst the great ones of those girdles were there gaps
and broken struts, and rotting wood
ill-patched by slender slats and ties, and hung with rusting hasp and hinge
until the very outer worm-holed rim was ever loose, a-sway,
all frayed and ragged as the torn wings of a butterfly.
And if the mighty pile itself rebelled against the telling,
then that within was verily beyond the fantasies of gods.
For, God-a-mercy, were those wheels a-seething and alive with humankind!
Oh, faces pale and bodies wan! Womankind and man,
as countless as the maggot that infests the flesh corrupt,
inhabited – all swarmed within – the thing!   And wildered is my mind to treat
upon their outward way, such stern articulation seen
within such wanton wheels  –  the one concentric rote ordained
in ancient days gone by – here, stationed strict, of Adam’s rib, was every sort and kind!
Midmost, in motion imperceptible and slow, sat emperors and empresses
and queens beside their kings
(within that firm redoubt, all quiet and sedate;
vast ignorance prevailed therein of the world which spun without).
In noticeable motion next, great ministers and churchmen sat, and magnates of the land
(a-fingering chain and staff were they, and clutching crozier tight;
for they must please those ones above, yet watch proceedings down).
More quickly circling after them, the gownsmen and the knights
(most ill-at-ease – yet courteous. While manoeuvring around
with deep pretence of dignity, their jostling never ceased.)
And on did it articulate in ever faster motion,
through merchant now, and goodman, through giddy populations –
oh, ever with more motion and with greater consternation,
till to loose and rotten rim did the peasant and the pauper,
swept in great gyrations, cling in frantic desperation,
and lacerating air with wails and screams.
And came a grinding and a groaning from the dark of the machine,
and a shaking and a rattling of the strain, and a deep and painful hum
as the sound of stone-shot slung from a hundred kicking catapults-of-war –
and, grief! About that high rondelle fell lizard-birds did glide,
and not of scale or feather made, but slat and plate and cleat,
with ratchet-mounted beak and clanking wing!
They soared, those creatures fashioned of the wheel, they hung, they swooped.
With iron-bolted eye they held each body on the rim.
And well might a lord adjust his chain, and peasant curse his life –
for whiles would those ensorcelled wheels all screech, and slow,
and stop: and in a trice reverse their spin.
Then would the mightiest shudder pass through every thing that spun,
and kings and ministers be toppled from their place
to tumble with much hurt midst common-kind;
and haply would an emperor fall down;  a barefoot boy be cast into a throne;
and practiced climbers from the outer skirts push inward,
and accumulate thus dirt, and some acquire darker stains.
And folk then by the hundred be by heel and foretop flung
and land among stark strangers in the wheel;
and few with kindness be received, with rude suspicion more the rule;
and cuffings, scurvy words and castings-out;  or hiss and gleam
of quick-drawn steel.
And would those who clung to tatters of the great ramshackle rim
be hurled as sacks of grain up through the air…
and some firm-snapped in ratchet-jaws, while more fared stony to the earth.
And when I durst not look on this – for folk there were rained down
that lay all broke and bloodied at my feet – 
I turned abrupt away.
And then I pondered bitterly with palms against my face
how thrice and thrice a thousand years, this witch’s wheel
had held the race of man in thrall – since holy oil had sanctified
the rule of king and priest, men’s daily lives were governed
but by imposition – and a hag’s caprice.  
But, mercy!  Through the mist two figures moved apace,
and the first did lead the other in hot haste to the wheel.
And he that led was lanky, and clumsy in his gait,
and the one he led was light of flank, and in every whit a maid.
And I that watched, her mendicant, must stand and bar the way…
Then slyly did the fickle witch whose charge was that foul wheel
– bitch-tutor to yon lurching youth who led that hallowed lady on – 
draw back all apparitions to the mirk.
So too did the hag Fortuna will that I, as a stone-wrought statue, stand and stare;
and bade me stand and stare distraught.


And still a-daze, must stare at naught –
till from that same obscure space a mighty clamour broke,
and out from it a fleeing company of young and old did pour in wild-eyed terror,
and infants too, and babes in arms!
And, lo! Grey scaly-coated demons, wit-struck among them fled –
the wicked thoughts and deeds of that fine folk, at the apex of their fear
hurled forth incarnate out of them, were these!
And marvellous high above that throng there rolled a raging wall of ash
that rained it down upon them as might spears and darts of Satan
until not a one was fleeing, but all lay beaten into earth.
Whereat that wall did break but as as a wave upon the shore, and as a wave
did spend itself in shallow far-flung ripples; and anon naught seen but
the dumb and umber dust again.
But straightway did another host come by,
both beasts and humankind in strange array together,
as, for want, both predator and prey will gather at a water-hole;
and slow and silently and hopelessly came these.
Behemoth came, bleeding and tuskless; emaciated lion walked with little limping lamb.
Poor beasts of burthen too, all cruel-laden, as ever answering to goad and lash.

And these that came were of all nations, and all kindreds, and all tongues.
Women clutched their poor dead sucklings to their breasts
as others clutched their chattels;
men, recalcitrant, nursed still their rusted weaponry; incorrigible fools
went still with murder in their eyes.
The other eyes told only of the limits of despair.
And all – both man and beast – were scarred, and starved, and spiritless.
As silent, sorry skeletons they went, and went they knew not where.
As wraiths, they faded into ether at their passing,
and far away behind I glimpsed the land that they had made a sterile, burning waste.
And now a long grey catenation came of men with gutted eyes,
one and one, and each with a hold upon the shoulders of his fellow at his front;
thus held firmly each by other were these dismissed the battlefield,
a bleeding, blinded serpent creeping home, and its head was he
that was spared a single eye.
And others I saw who had awaked upon the field those poor sightless ones had left
and knew that they were broken, shattered men and close to death
perceived that an evil angel stood astride them, to inform them, from a gore-stained scroll,
that they had fought and bled and died for naught;
that they were but victims of ambitious and deluded men
whose certitude that they themselves and no man else was right
was so deep-graven in obsessive minds
that their word became for all the land a fixed law and an oracle;
that to such errant ends, and for such blinkered men
their good life’s blood was spilled unjustly and as sacrifice.
And there upon the bloodied field those souls had left
there lay a single huge black feather,
fallen from the clouds up-piled above the carnage
– so roared to me the mantic one who claimed it as his quill –
from the great dark clapping wings of Lucifer.
Carnage. I saw the carnage of unrecorded battles and of wars unsung
that shaped the unknown empires of the world.
Yes, horns I heard, the blare and the echo of them
winding down the immeasurable epochs
to summon men as insects and, as insects,
clash aloft the red pincers of war.
I heard the helpless death-gasps of those who were stricken
by the lightning of adversaries unseen,
and the glee and the gloating of those ones
who could with impunity deal death-strokes from afar.
And it was revealed
that the savage thoughts of conquerors and those ravaged of the dispossessed
were made one and the same
in that they were abandoned with naught but their own weakness as companion,
and their own weakness only to sustain them.
And this it was that brought, now clear, a picture to my mind,
obscured when first I witnessed it – so fast was my mind then whirled
by the sweeping and the churning of that many-peopled wheel  –
as how, hard by the perilled rim had some souls driven by distress
cast by their hopes and with them tossed their wits,
and as men who had bouzed them up to sullenness, were for light cause cursing all,
and threatening, and a-breaking of their neighbours’ bones;
some even to the scathing and the slaying of themselves.
And many a score of these, as in the grip of some infectious craze,
had taken up the pot and brush and painted, wildly,
vast portions near the rim in swathes of stark vermeil,
the hue of anger and of blood, and of violence and war,
so that up against the edge of all there ran a mad-inspired ring of fiery rampant red.
And as I remembered me this
so did I cross myself and cry mutedly in the name of holy Jesu, for I feared
– having but new-seen those utter madnesses of war – 
that a blood-red tide was the fated mark of Man.
But now did the troubled air recede and die,
and a calm settle upon all things, and a dusk to gather round about.
And I knew it to be ordained that I – would I, would I not – 
must bend my steps to follow all they that had passed me by into the ether.

And it seemed to me, then, that I walked a long white road in moonlight,
and at whiles the way would glimmer, now here, now there, with cold shinings,
and its surface shift and softly crack beneath my tread.
And I slowed my gait, and cast about, and saw that my road was
a road of fragments,
and that the fragments were of bone, broken and triturated
with here and there the glint of tooth and of thin and polished flakes,
and the interstices filled with white and finely powdered dust –
and I knew then, that he it was again, and that I walked upon the road of Time,
and that his road was fashioned as were his far-off winnowed fields.
And I sobbed a breath and stayed my steps,
and would, were mine own will master, go no further on that road.
And after a weary while, as I yet stood distressful and perplexed,
it seemed that Time mocked me from within the very dust whereon I stood, saying:
“Wherefore do you tarry so, you Man? I know you who you are.
There is naught for you, even unto the end.
You came without portent;  you made no name; you departed without epitaph.”
And, I fancied it, the dust itself did laugh unpleasantly beneath my feet;
but after a time the voice to say, now in a strangely tired tone and sad:
“Yet a portent will I give unto you;
and even as worse things await than did ever populate the direst of your dreams,
it shall speak louder than those petty things shown you heretofore.
And therein shall you see what is your calling – and who shall see
no carven grammar will there be to mark your passing.”

Then it was that I heard a low murmur gathering, low and afar,
as of some distant tide,
which swelled mightily in the gloom ahead, swelled with ever increasing turbulence
until, in a single moment, as a deafening and unimaginable immensity of resonance
it came rushing and crashing upon me in that place where I had stayed my steps,
rushing and crashing upon me as a great inundation,
and I knew – great God! – I knew that I hearkened unto the discourses of all time
and in all places as a flood!
Heard and understood their subtleties and their obscurities –
discerned even the lost and frantic voices of the dead.
And teeming from these myriad, myriad souls of the present and of the past,
the living and the dead,
there issued great words and little words, distinct and clear each one –
righteous and evil side by side, wiseards words and those of fools,
the ravings of demented souls with the entreaties of the oppressed  –
convoluted though they were in one single, vast discordant strain.
And I heard too in the midst of this
that scream which, it is written, struck the hearts of all men with terror
and caused them to forfeit their courage and their strength,
and their womenfolk to relinquish the unborn of their wombs;
that caused all creatures to abandon their senses,
and trees to shed their leaves and the land to become barren,
and the waters to become bitter and poisoned,
until the uttermost corners of the earth was filled with its pain.
And when I had heard these things
I became fully and completely aware of every wrong, and every loss, and every failure
that had ever visited the world in all its entirety
as though they were being suffered  at that very moment –
and I cried out in terror and in wrath,
cursing the callous god that had let me be party to these things
and held my hands to my ears
and tried to shut tight my eyes.
But there was naught that could blot out that sound,
and my eyes seemed held open as though forced wide by a quillon’s blade;
and so it was that I suffered
every silent and secret cruelty committed
in the closed, secluded places, in the dens of the offscourings of the earth,
and those, too, committed in the respectable places,
in the lands of, and at the hands of, the decent and the godly.
I felt the anguish of each individual happening
in the death-camps of all time;
saw fear heaped up in mountains, and anguish as an ocean; 
grief swelling as does the sea.
And blood. Blood written in the stars,
and starred on sand, and on snow, on the good earth,
and on the hands of the people.
In one fleeting moment of respite
I was able to look upon the dearest and innermost secrets of my heart,
and saw them to be weighed and found wanting,
my dreams and my desires to be illusions,
and counted among the deserts of my days.
And then it was that, for an instant, I beheld again the prophet,
he that had addressed the multitude,
and my heart cried out after him for he was bloodied and he was bound,
forsaken and derided by the crowd, and delivered into the hands of brutal men.
For one mercurial moment too, one winged moment of fearful dismay,
I saw the one that I had erstwhile seen – he that had paced the pit;
but now – God pity! – did he stride throughout the lands
and roar foul imprecations to the firmament, and his clenched fists shake terribly thereat,
and to strike the earth with a great spiked oaken bludgeon
and cause it to tremble with many and mighty concussions,
so that I lost my breath  and fell a-sickened and a-sobbing to the ground.
For in that single blighted moment had my heart been informed
– as had the hearts of all the race of man in seasons long foregone – 
that whenas that evil one had been finally released,
naught in the power of man nor creation was there
that could reverse his furious blind advance,
for that each time his tyrant tree-wrought club did strike the earth
his strength and his violence and his rage were an hundredfold increased.
And in such depths of terror and helplessness did my mind hark back
as to how I fancied me to have sat among the friends of torturers,
and to those demons that had dwelt within the very bodies of that fleeing folk,
and to the savage swathes of red upon the wheel…
and saw that some germ of the cast of the goat-headed one
had ever dwelt endungeoned within us all,
and appointed to be for the most part caged through all the ages,
but that by and by the people were too many
and the miasma pent within them multiplied and overflown
and become a contagion and a deluge that had at the last released the Rampager
whose nature and nourishment and name were known even from the ancient of days.
His name is Hatred – and Ultimate hisepithet.
Strife his nourishment.
His nature, a malady that is born and thrives in no place other but
the dark and sangliant soul of Man.

And then beneath a black, defeated sun
and in a world that fell inward upon itself
I looked upon a vision of Man’s suzerainty at its end,
upon the dying, spiteful groans of the weary, warring giants of his making,
and for them was left no door, and no key,
and the only justice lay in the triumph of oblivion.
But in my afflicted mind was I then borne through the icy skies of night,
until from immeasurably far away there came unto mine ears
only the long-drawn thunder of the avalanche;
and slow and dull within it, and echoing thereafter,
the deep and measured tolling of a mighty iron bell.
Long and very long it tolled, and long and long again.
And whenas that knell had sounded the last hour that there was to be for all my kind
was I allowed a vision of heaven’s blasphemy,
and there beheld the Jealous God decrepit on his throne,
harried by puny vassals, his empery usurped and shared among them
(and these were and are still among the great and the holy ones of the earth),
the god that dwelt in a darkened box, the god that smiled not nor forgave,
the futile, unemployed god, the erroneous god
that was created over-large by little men and, when his usefulness was
perceived to be at an end, was by them cast down.
And on that last day of heaven and of earth,
on that vast landscape of the slain of men and angels
did the wan worm Sarcotroctes – he who makes an economy of all things –
emerge rejoicing and victorious from his halls beneath the soil;
and did write, after his own especial fashion of curlicue and flourish,
a crimson epitaph for Man.
And lastly came one horsed out of a grey world,
and that upon which he rode was paler than the greyness round about.
In silence he came, and upon that field of bones there was no clop of hoof
nor ring of iron shoe.
He spake not, but left he coursed and right, as if surveying that all was
as should be.
No word he spake, but reining, seemed to hold me from beneath the shadow
of his cowl.
He uttered naught, but in my quaking thoughts did say:
“Yea, I am he.
I am he who cometh unto men in the quiet of the night,
and he who cometh unto them in the brightness of the day;
he that visiteth the peasant in his hovel, and entereth unimpeded
into the chamber of the king;
upon the infant in the cradle do I steal, and the infant babe unborn,
as much upon the eldern forward-treading in the vale.  
He who forgetteth no-one.
And whenas I pass, no thing shall be as it was before.

Yet, from the blood-red tide which is his mark, doth man rush forth to greet me.

And meseemed that this was none but Death himself whom I faced
across the field,
but scarce could I tell, so addled in the head was I and close to swooning…
and for that he stood there in the guise and in the very garb
as erstwhile I saw Time.
“Yea,” said he , “for he and I are brethren insomuch as we are one,
and unto eternity will we till and reap and ride the world;
but the race of Man shall we pass by no more – for it is at an end.
And the grass will grow where he, for the blinking of an eyelid,
held over-haughty sway;
and across white deserts will the winds of the ages amuse themselves
with his dust.”
And after I had been held and compelled to gaze on all of this,
and faint and pained unto the depth of me so that blackness upon blackness
swum before my eyes and hell’s flute whistled a long note in my skull,
it seemed – sweet Mercy! – in truth it seemed that I was transported and left
alone and shivering again
in the dark plain of the beginning –
but it was to me as though I stood now, still and dumb as a graven image

on the thin plain of skin that tightened
over the mad pulsations of my own heart.
I knew – merciful God! –
I knew that I had been allowed
for what reason I know not, nor will ever know –
in a place of unleashing where there were no walls and no ward
to keep all conceivable existence in check,
a glimpse of the edge, the borderland, the shadow
of that great, uncommunicable secret thing
which must forever remain unknown to mortal man;
and I was filled with a great and unbearable burden of sadness.


And when after a great while I took courage and opened my eyes,
I saw with joy that a dawn was breaking
among rose and saffron ribands to the east.
I did not dare to move.
But a voice rumbled in my head:
“Go now. Remember what you have seen.”
I walked out into the cold new day,
and at the first guiltless song of a small bird,
wept uncontrollably.
I would not forget.
The simplest things would never be the same again.





There is much in the way of notes which should accompany this poem – but notes take up a lot of time, and they have had a tendency to become rather cumbersome of late, both in the writing and, I fancy, the reading. Suffice to say that there are many references within this poem to ideas found in other works – philosophical, religious, mythological, historical, literary – some of which regular viewers may, in passing, recognise, and to which attention should really be drawn and their relevance discussed. I apologize for not properly going into this at present, but will point quickly to the presence of Jorge Luis Borge [The Aleph], the figure of Lilith, first wife of Adam [the flowing tears of Lilith‘ from my ‘The Tears of Lilith’ previously posted in The Ig-Og, along with ‘Eye Contact in Eden’ and the longer poem ‘Adam and Madam’]; the Roman Goddess Fortuna [and her wheel – ‘Fortuna Imperatrix Mundi’ in Carl Orff’s ‘Carmina Burana’]; the 1014 Battle of Clidium [the blinding of Tsar Samuel’s entire Bulgarian army by Byzantine Emperor Basil II]; Lludd a Llefelys, the 6th tale of The Mabinogion [the First and Second Plagues]; Branwen verch Llyr , the 2nd tale of The Mabinogion [the opening of the Forbidden Door]; and fleeting allusions to other things – Gurdjieff’s Law of Reciprocal Maintenance [the ‘sacred trinity’ of Nature’s cousinhood], my’Young Soldier among Torturers’ [previously posted in The Ig-Og], the Marwnad of Gruffydd ab yr Ynad Côch for Llewelyn ein Llyw Olaf [‘Nyt oes na chyngor na chlo nac agor’ and echoed in David Jones’ ‘Cara Wallia Derelicta’] along with other epitomized phases and phrases which must presently go without elucidation, derived from William Morris, Joseph Conrad, William Hope Hodgson, James Joyce, Dunsany, Daniel Corkery, Clark Ashton Smith, Russell Kirk, and I think others. An olla podrida, I know, of briefly alluded-to mixed thoughts and transient references. There is also a lion walking with a lamb, and this as we all know is from the figurative representation / two aspects of Christ we find when ‘you get the Holy Bible in the back of the Book’. Then there is the prophet, the ‘Jesus figure’, although, despite the similarity, not intended to specifically relate to that personage (or what we have left of him after the intervention of time and talk, which allows us, as is true of the evolution of all revolutionary ideologies, not the ‘first edition’ but the ‘revised version’) but to a like visitor who possesses such attributes as sometimes is to be seen in the more authentic ‘Messengers of God’. I have a series of three poems built around this figure which I hope to include in future issues of The Ig-Og. 

The language is archaic to fit the content, although not overly so; many expressions which, centering on and in common use in the 16th and 17th centuries characterize earlier English, have been avoided. Condensed excerpts from The Apocalypse of Gweir  have been published separately as independent poems elsewhere in The Igam-Ogam Mabinogion,  (The Angels of Mons, The Encounter with Time and his Brother) and regular viewers may recognise their fuller appearance here.The linear arrangement of the poem has been revised in order to make formatting as a post easier; many continuations of lines which were originally inset now appear left-margin aligned, and while this affects appearance to a degree, it does not really affect the flow of the reading. For any small mis-spacings which might appear I apologize. The poem was written a long time ago, and looking over it now I see that there remain, in the first third or so, one or two sequences the inclusion about which I have at various times since nursed doubt, but which I have, for the time it would take to play about with them, whether substantially revising or deleting and further playing about in order to meld reasonably with following sequences, decided to leave as they originally stood. This is also true of lesser parts of some later sequences.

What is the subject and centre of the Apocalypse? Well, it is a world we know only too well, and the expression of thoughts which may in this age of culmination be possibly found on the edges of many of our minds. And who is ’Gweir’?  If you Google the name you will be left, I think, with a variety of impressions, none of which will be satisfactory. You would do better by punching in ‘The Prisoner Gweir (or Gwair); this will lead you to a lot more. If you are then still interested, and wish to go further into the matter, Gweir as an entity is discussed again in my notes to The Bound God, which appeared earlier in The Igam-Ogam Mabinogion. 



The Opening of the Forbidden Door

To return for a moment to what was briefly mentioned above – the story of Branwen in the Mabinogi. In this tale, the seven survivors of the war with the men of Ireland made their way back to Wales and rested themselves in a fine palace on the island of Gwales (pronounced in two separate syllables – Gwâ-les). Here an enchantment was put on them; they forgot all the weary years which had preceded, all the intrigue and misunderstandings which had led to the bloody affair with the men of Ireland, and brought such death and sorrow on both peoples, and passed the time in enjoyment and happiness which lasted, though they did not know it, all of eighty years. However, when they had first arrived at the palace they had found two doors which were open, and a third one closed, with the warning that it was not to be opened; this was the door which faced south toward Cornwall. One day – naturally and of course! – the curiosity of one of the seven overtook him, and he opened the door. ‘And when he looked, they were as conscious of every loss they had ever sustained, and of every kinsman and friend they had missed, and of every evil that had come upon them, as if it were even then it had befallen them… And from that same moment they could not rest… ‘ [Gwyn and Thomas Jones’ translation]. This result has been greatly magnified in The Apocalypse… ‘ to cosmic proportions, as it has in The Third Door, below. If we are looking for literary parallels, we can find them in Pandora and her box and Eve and her apple (always women who are to blame, and this is an axiom to be found throughout Judaeo-Christian, Graeco-Roman and Mediaeval literature); here, and refreshingly, in this mediaeval Welsh story the rabbity culprit is a male.


The Third Door

What lies beyond
Omega Point’s green door
those seven saw.
Minute and vast, present,
past, emergent, cast;
living, dying,
first and last.
Convergent. Fused
in single stark procession –
majestically deciphered,
all and everything
confessed.
And from that time
they could not rest. 



So, although the subject here is the opening of the third door by one of the seven survivors of the Irish expedition, what met the eye is treated as a traumatic cosmic revelation rather than a return of a mass of bitter personal memories, bringing the experience in line with the totality of The Apocalypse… ‘.

‘Omega Point’ looms large in Tielhard de Chardin’s philosophy as a point in which all existence converges into one; it lies at the precise edge of the end of time, and the centre upon which all the forces of the Universe converge. ‘Omega’ will be recognized as the second part of ‘Alpha and Omega’ (the ‘Beginning and the End‘ as representative of the Christian God) in John’s Revelation (known also, it happens, but not nearly so generally, as The Apocalypse of John); the couplet being taken from the first and last letters of the Greek alphabet. Related to Alpha is Aleph, the first letter of the Hebrew and other Semitic alphabets, and in Jewish symbolism used similarly to represent the oneness of God. The Aleph is the title of a superbly imaginative and disturbing (1945) short story, and if you have not already read it a story not to be missed, by Argentinian writer Jorge Luis Borges. In Borges’ story, ‘the Aleph is a point in space that contains all other points. Anyone who gazes into it can see everything in the universe from every angle simultaneously, without distortion, overlapping, or confusion’. It is this fascinating, astonishing idea which is the basis of the Apocalypse. The ‘green door’ deserves a mention, too, thrown piquantly in as that secret, inaccessible place of which you might have heard from which tantalizing, never-to-be-shared laughter and music emanates; ‘green door’ is also somehow in keeping with the location of the island of Gwales. The line ‘all and everything’ is a reference to George Ivanovich Gurdjieff’s trilogy ‘All and Everything’.  Gurdjieff, already mentioned at the beginning of these notes, was an influential thinker in the early-mid 20th century, and who, as founder of ‘The Fourth Way’ system of inner development is still widely discussed and has many adherents today. His ‘Law of Reciprocal Maintenance’ while it deals with much of an esoteric nature, is also at base a thesis for respect and responsibility for what is above and what is below our human world. Gurdieff himself waxes very peculiar both in method and style, but much has been published to elucidate this. And if you have read Gurdjieff you will also have come across his collaborator, Pyotr Damienovich Ouspensky, and probably Ouspensky’s continuator, Rodney Collin. As astute observers and commentators on humankind’s place in the cosmos, all are worth reading.

The island of Gwales (Ynys Gwales) is identified with Grassholm, the rocky islet sitting so lonely out there in the Celtic Sea, the most westerly point of all Wales except for the wave-washed reef of The Smalls some miles beyond. It’s a high, bare sentinel white with guano from its breeding colony of North Atlantic gannets. But, hmmm… Just enough space on top there, I’d say, to build a small palace…

Now the old stone-built home of my early youth stood high atop a hill and hard by its gaunt grey-white, upthrust cap of dolerite (a ‘carn’, one of a number of such outcrops which dot the peninsula of Dewisland). It stood within a mile or so of the most westerly point in mainland Wales; it stood just 300 yards or so from the clifftop; the nearest building was a ruined Celtic chapel of the 6th/7th century; our nearest neighbours were a community of Irish monks whose small monastery was perched close by the cliff’s very edge. Every morning, when I woke up, through my bedroom window I would see the whole sweep of St. Bride;s (St. Bridget’s) Bay; there, to the south-east, lay the island of Skomer; then a wide stretch of open sea until out there, some nine miles to the south-west and outside the Bay, lay lonely Gwales. I would see it in summer sunshine or under autumn’s cloud-laden skies. Morning and evening, in its changing hues. In the wintertime it was mostly invisible. I used to go out in the fishing boats, then. Mostly we would follow the coast fetching up the lobster-pots (and their mixed company of starfish, spider crabs and sea-urchins), or do some line-fishing (mackerel were plentiful – we would literally catch one a minute; this I remember after bringing up, one day, sixty in exactly an hour). Rarely we would go out to the islands – nearby Ramsey, distant Skomer, and just once, far Grassholm. It was something of a strange feeling, coasting so close beneath that rock which had always appeared so remote as to touch the horizon. (Now, these days, boats go out there crammed with summer sightseers; then, in those days, no-one ventured out to lonely Gwales). And it was there, on that day, as we slowly moved beneath its shadow, that I made a fatal mistake. I thought to myself, ‘Why, we’re beyond St.Anne’s Head and outside the Bay! if I look to the south, way beyond there somewhere will be Cornwall’. A callow youth was I; I had no idea of what this island was identified with; I had not heard a word of the story. And it was that single, innocent, unknowing act which I firmly believe then and there utterly scrambled my brain and left me as I have been ever since and as I am today…

You can find out much more about this stretch of west Wales coast by going to ‘The Farthest Shore’, previously posted in The Igam-Ogam Mabinogion.


As to the final stanza of the poem, from the small handful of individuals who had read the poem either in manuscript or in typescript I recall particularly two responses. The first lady said it was ‘stunning’, which naturally pleased me no end and gave me a warm glow about the kidneys for days. The second said ‘Yes, but whose voice was that rumbling in his head?’. To which I was minded to reply: ‘Oh, that was Mickey Mouse’.

THE APOCALYPSE OF GWEIR (PART 1)

I  :  The Summoning

In sleep I trod a pitch-black plain
and nowhere could I seek the sod beneath my feet, nor feel
the air against my cheek,
and near nor far I could not know …
I walked in darkness, all alone.
And monstrous silence reigned.

A plain, I thought – but could not tell;
I trod, I thought, the Waste of Hell
Dimensionless – no touch, no sound,
no breath of wind, no near, no far –
bound by the void, devoid of sight.
A prisoner of the dreadful night.

I cast me down, I hung my head,
and in despair cried out in torrent madness, fell enough
to wake the sleeping dead.
There was no answer to the cry,
nor echo; it remained a stifled prisoner in my head
as I was in the plain.

A plain, I said. How was it then
there was nowhere to keep my body anchored to this place?
I stood athwart a deep!
I stood athwart a gaping maw  –
the blackness of the Pit! And poised upon some slender strand
that spanned the breadth of it!

But trust my steps or trust them not,
I knew that I must pass across.
An aspen voice within me gave
a tremulous command to cross the gulf and cross it now,
or perish on that strand.
As through my veins the dark blood raced
I ventured forward on that space
that hung across black Hell.

A bridge, was it? What bridge is it
that soars in sable space? Invisible, intangible,
across what cursed place?
And as man swims to save his life
and out of sight of land, and knows when mind surrenders hope
he sinks, I walked that strand,
step by wretched step – I thought
the steps would never cease – tremendous darkness piled above
and Sheol down beneath.

Across black Hell I walked, I thought,
I walked across black Hell …
until – God help! – there came some sound,
and glimmer from below unlike to hellfire’s livid red
and groans of tortured souls.
A soft, a gentle luminance,
a murmuring of air… dear God! I caught my breath and cried
as breeze played in my hair!
And I stood still, and stood amazed –
the moon stood in the sky! The silver goddess, sister moon,
and brushed by leaves, went by!
And flowers’ fragrance round about,
and lilies spread around, and any flower I could conceive
lay bright upon the ground!

But I would sacrifice my soul
a million times, and more, to exorcise them from my mind;
they’ll haunt me evermore.
Dimensionless … but now I know
dimensions warped and wild; and stark unhallowed consciousness,
and vast, unfettered time.
I know a truth that no man knows,
a truth he could not bear, revealed to me when first I saw
those flowers growing there.
What I beheld… how can I tell?
It will not suffer rhyme… and Lord, my heart is bursting –
all sanity a lie.

Each blossom was in motion –
a fascinating dance which wreathed within the bloom itself
and I transfixed, entranced
to see each petal moving,
each petal changing shape, and changing size and changing hue
within a moment’s space.
A lily was an orchid,
and then it was a rose, in subtle variations  –
a myriad of them posed
in countless transformations
until I thought I’d seen all flowers’ generations  –
all that had ever been
since the dawning of creation
in bewildering array… but as I stared, astonished,
all passed away… away.
Any I could conceive, I’d thought  – 
but not conceived for me; not in this way, this beauty
that changed too constantly.
They passed from sight. I touched my brow
and asked how it could be that nature’s flowering glory
could cast that spell on me.

The thought had barely come to me
when suddenly and near there came the hum of voices.
Yes, voices! I could hear
their gentle susurration
and laughter pealing through, and out of darkness people came,
and smiling, into view.
They came to me; they stood around.
I was struck dumb to see the loving kin of my lost youth
all crowding close to me,
the ones I loved from years gone by,
and I too youthful then to know how much they’d meant to me
until too late, and when
they’d gone I’d cherished them
and thought if time could bring back treasured old ones from those years
I’d relive everything
so differently, and all my words
be gentle words, and all my thoughts be kind, and all my acts
be generous, and small
or great they’d inculcate the love
that callow youth denied. I held them close.
And helplessly, I cried.

Oh, precious moments, gone from me
when scarcely had they come! For now my loved ones’ voices slurred,
their faces one by one
grew vacant and they shrank from me
into that cursed realm of dark that has no end to it.
God, help me! Overwhelmed
I sought to clutch them close again,
I strove to hold them tight. But one by one they slipped from me
into the awful night.
How can the grief be washed away
that cleaves the very soul? I faltered, shaking, to my knees
and gulped for breath. I knew
no words that could express the loss,
the feeling of such pain I felt when wretched darkness took
my dead kin back again.

The light of moon, of clean, dear moon
shone down on where I grieved. I looked to her to heal my grief,
but Christ! Oh, Christ! The leaves!
And then I knew that I was caught
in some infernal net where time and sense are riotous,
where borders break and let
unknown dimensions wander free
and aeons drift like sand, where death is life in puppetry,
and visions great and grand
in jugglery and argument
with insubstantial things, and lost, apostate splinters flee
the centuries, and fling
the phantoms of forgotten times
with spectres yet to come. And then I knew that I was caught
where naught and all are one.

The leaves roared high and clashed against
the moon, now ashen-grey, and wrapped in ragged cerements
of cloud, she passed away.






The second part
of The Apocalypse of Gweir, entitled The Visions, will shortly appear in The Igam-Ogam Mabinogion. 

Part 1, above, was initially inspired by a recurring dream in my young manhood, in
which I walked across a bridge, it seemed only inches wide, invisible, and which could not be distinguished in any way from a black, yawning, limitless abyss below. Some two-thirds of the way through, ‘The Dream of the Dead Kindred’ is an account of another recurring dream experienced in more mature years. The imagery and metre  are both to an extent influenced by my readings of Scottish poet James Thomson (1834-1882): i.e., by his remarkable XXI canto poem The City of Dreadful Night. It is indebted in no small way, too, to William Hope Hodgson’s 1908 tale of cosmic displacement, The House on the Borderland.

Dialogues without Words (5)

The Meeting at Midnight

She slid from under the car at night,
from out of a pool of oil,
Slithering, black, and up she rose,
first wavering, flat, then taking a form
so rounded, so sensuous – and standing
so close! I saw her beneath that
coiled-up hair – her whole naked self
only inches from me. She was all polished jet…
and yet, no, not so. For with every small movement,
the slightest she made – the breath of her breasts,
their quick rise and fall, the fingers that toyed with her thighs,
the flicker of lashes, her balance adjusted –
brought to life a succession of startling hues,
a swirling and ripple through sinews and limbs,
of sapphirine blues, of glowing wine-reds,
pinks of coralline, salmon; there was sulphurine gold –
emerald, smaragdine green of the Nile;
she was rich-veined and shot through with
lustrous designs that leapt, coalesced, and vanished again…
but behind that display, that mosaic in motion,
a fine, lacquered ebon, her midnight, won through.
With her gloss and her gleaming, my emotions spilled over;
I murmured some nonsense, stepped back in confusion.
She advanced! And with coolness, held me with eyes
of a tigress’s topaz, compelling, ablaze; in a moment,
though, softened to saffron and maize.
And a brave, laughing confidence danced in
those eyes, and I know that she noted, content,
my surprise – that they spoke, wide and silent,
that she knew of my kind. Oh! Her lips, fullest carmine,
and the richest of spoils, now an inch from my own!
And I knew, if they kissed mine, in that kiss I would know
the touch and the taste of moist, ancient soils; of a world
scarce connected with the one that I knew. What did she
seek in me? Why had she come? I shivered. I flushed.
And next – on my cheek – heated breath, brushing, light
Then she passed me, black shadow,
and was lost in the night.


(From ‘Mysteries: Poetic Reflections on Womankind and Love’ )



It wasn’t my intention to post this poem for some little while yet, for some four or five poems and maybe as many months hence, as it seems to me that so many items in my output are concerned with ’the fair sex’ – and I don’t wish to give the readership of The Ig-Og the idea, especially if they have encountered my appraisal of all that is feminine which accompanies the most recent post and are familiar with others which have preceded, that there is some conspicuous preoccupation here. (I am not so inveigled as to realise that ‘There also be women in the world that are but the handsome sepulchres of iniquity’; they undoubtedly are there, but fortunately few, and far from representative of their kind. So although it hasn’t quite happened I wanted, really, to somewhat spread out the poems which follow this theme of the female – which is, in fact, concerned with ‘womankind’, with that unique combination of the intellectual and the visceral in woman, together with the parallel search for/representation of The Eternal Feminine as it appears imprinted upon the European mind, from the untutored to the classical, in mythology, history, and literature. ‘She’ and her ways, along with the related theme of Love, are two things which I confess to have always had a lean understanding and therefore an acute interest; so for this reason, well, yes, it seems likely that at base there is a level of unfeigned preoccupation! The Meeting at Midnight does not, though, adhere nicely to this main theme – it is, unreservedly, an outright celebration of the sheer physical wonder of her, as well as, upon encountering it, the inferred reversal in store for the nympholeptically afflicted soul (inversely, a pitiful blessing it is, too, for those who can receive the gift in no more than self-complacency, a gift looked upon as accepted and commonplace as the ever-recurring miracle of sunrise). So this is an ‘interim’ poem along with its apology, chosen as the kind of ‘undiluted’ item I felt was needed in a hurry just now as a replacement for the poem which, apart from some time-consuming fiddling with its characteristically over-long notes, I already had in hand. It is also the final poem in the Dialogues without Words series.

A Tale of Two Women

It’s my pleasure to introduce to readers of The Igam-Ogam Mabinogion the work of guest poet Emlyn Roberts:


The Shadow of Hope

Pain wrapped its arms around her
and held her close.
She did not cry out,
there were no tears.
She sought for a remnant of herself
from a mind box of her own making.
She stood for a long time in darkness;
she had no permission for light.

She went to the kitchen
just to touch her hope.
Her hidden hope she named it.
He did not know of it
and so could not take it away.
She held it inside her arms
tight against her chest,
seeking comfort from it.

It took an age to mount the stairs
for she knew every creak
that might awaken the beast.
He was sprawled on the bed,
snoring softly,
his reek filling the room
his body a lump in the moonlight,
fat-rolls moving gently.

Holding her breath
she watched until
she could see the merest flutter
where his heart beat
with misbegotten life.
Slowly she took a deep breath,
cautiously
she raised the knife –

and then her shadow ate her.


Emlyn Roberts




True Story
( News item, Sunday, 16 December 2012 )

There were no presents
at Kadi’s six weddings that night
no settlements for her six divorces
one husband outraged her virginity
the others paid their wedding fees
and waited in eager turn
there were no wedding clothes
only her abused skin
there was no feasting
just the taste of horror
there was no headdress
no water to cleanse
no ring to bind
Kadi did not say yes
she could not say no
her husbands only cared
that it was not rape
for that would have been a sin
Kadi grieved for a blessing
but God’s tears dried
before they could reach her


(The name ‘Kadi’ is fictional)

Emlyn Roberts




These are two ‘dark’ poems from Emlyn Roberts – poems reflecting a grimly shadowed side of humanity with which we might prefer not to occupy our daily thoughts, but which nevertheless exists, often beyond our least suspicion and almost always closely hidden, all around us. We have all come across reports, some sinister beyond belief, which pierce us to the heart when we are suddenly confronted with them; reports which can leave, perhaps for years, perhaps for a lifetime, an indelible picture of base cruelty and suffering on our minds (there is the face of one young woman, pitiful and abused to the point of death, which will never cease to haunt me; I wish I had never seen that poor woman’s face in a photograph or read the report which accompanied it, because I know it will at odd unsuspected moments of day or night come back to me, and come back to me always). Here in two poems we have degradation starkly thrust upon us – the one seeking a final way out of endless desperation, the other surrounding an ill-used, defenceless and unknowing child. And such abominations, sometimes prolonged over many years, are silently and secretly committed and suffered in closed, secluded places, not only in the dens of the offscourings of the earth but in the respectable places, in the lands of and at the hands of the decent and the godly.           

Here, in these poems, we glimpse examples of the deliberate maltreatment of part of no less than half of humankind, and furthermore that half which should be revered as sacred – womankind – as Mother, Sister, Wife and Lover, continuator of the species, the womankind which has so often proven, thanks be, capable of enduring and combating the many anguishes to which she has been unjustly subjected. Woman, fashioned so as to be physically unmatched to man, but by no means otherwise unmatched and substantially superior in the more esoteric realms of thought and in emotive-intuitive attributes, possessing that ‘x-factor’ which has been a long-time mystery to him and which he has striven to understand but failed, and having failed, resorted to his physical advantage. He has been suspicious of her, has even feared her, throughout history allotting her a position of subservience, as all our sacred texts and the majority of our historical literature inform us. What is it that sets her apart? Something ‘God’-given? Something inseminated by Mother Nature into her soul to act as – what? Some kind of safeguard for the species? The peacemaker? It must surely always remain a mystery unsolved. In this respect, that is as far as the species are concerned, man- and womankind could be said to be only one in two distinct ways – wholly complementary by role, but strangely counterposed in nature. What such an augmentation is worth, and given my own mindset – which upon the reading was sent at once into rapid, perhaps idiosyncratic you will say, acceleration – these are nevertheless some implications and associations I personally extrapolate from these two compelling poems. But what do I know about the veriest evils of misogyny? I was raised in quietude and chapelry by two lovely, angelic even, Welsh ladies who enjoyed their youth and young womanhood in the last quarter of the 19th century, as their elegant beauty beneath piled-up Victorian coiffures in their photographs from the 1890s attest.  Wait …  Perhaps that has everything to do with it.      

Emlyn is a native of the Welsh north. Of himself and his work he has this to say: ‘I am an old poet who was once a young poet. I try to make my poetry say something, and to matter’. We see from this that he has been composing poetry for a long time, and as is obvious from the two examples above, writes poetry with a clear message – poetry which speaks to us here in no uncertain terms of the unfathomed and disturbing vagaries which can lie deep within the human condition.