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Old Ianto now, could tell a tale.
He had the knack. His ancient mouth
would twist this way and that,
his eyes would jest – they’d glint like anthracite –
and always half-suppressed, that laugh
which masqueraded as a smile
would catch you unawares;
infectious, and you half collapsed
in gales before the joke was out.
He’d dig you in the ribs to make a point,
hang on to your lapels,
slam down his pint to imitate
a toff. He’d have us all
in stitches, rolling in our seats,
clutching at our sides and all.
But hear him talking serious, too –
oh, such a mellow voice, if only he was telling
of the time that he’d been passed
a dud ten-bob, or fleeced when he bought
that pile of junk he called a bike,
or thought he’d lost his milgi on the hill.
Then, he’d make a lump come to your throat;
I tell you straight, it was like you listened
to the pleading of a harp. Aye, Ianto was the boy.
Ianto had the power
to make you laugh or cry at will.

From ‘Welsh Past and Present’

(From the Welsh of a time-honoured englyn).

The old man in the corner told me
‘From my tâd I heard a story.
From his hendâd he had heard it.
After him I too recount it’.

From ‘Welsh Past and Present’

                   I

We dwelt in halls of porphyry
where crystal fountains flowed
among tall columns overlain
with ivory and gold.
Our raiment was all sendaline
and slashed with sarcenett,
and on our shoulders rested fine
bejewelled carcanets.
And jewelled were our drinking-horns
with many a costly gem,
and jewels were our women-folk
(yea, I remember them
of slender frame and stately mien
and finely-braided tress,
adept in song and poesy –
each word a soft caress).
And peace there was, and plenty,
and good throughout the realm.
And sword and lance lay idle,
and cast aside, the helm
that we had donned in years gone by
when on our skirts had hung
the fell hosts of the eastern lands
and many a deed was done,
when lads once clad in sendal
all slashed with sarcenett
had traded all such finery
for shield and basinet.
And peace was sweet and lasting.
The pastures teemed with kine,
the markets teemed with produce,
the grapes teemed on the vine.
Aye, peace there was, and plenty,
and many a month we spent
in idle play and gaiety
as seasons came and went.
Then spake that king, Menezdes,
that young and foolish youth,
that brave hearts must be banded
to seek the Stone of Truth.
‘For though all’s well about us,
yet must we seek for some
most marvellous and holy thing
or all that we have done
is naught’, quoth he, ‘and Holy Truth
is what men far and wide
have searched for through long centuries;
I would that it abide
with us. And sacred seven among us
will swear an oath this day
to band and search the utter earth
for Truth, so that it may
be brought in glory to our folk’.
And all the young and brave ones
flocked close about their king,
that they might number in the seven
to seek the Stone for him.

                   II

And many a year we roamed the world,
ah, many a weary year
and sought, and fought, and bled and died –
and never were we near
the Stone. But ever, when our hearts
were low, when hope seemed far
away, some deeper urge would speak
to us, to seek some star
that shone beyond the barren land
that stretched and stretched away
in chasms deep, and mountains steep,
in forest, lake, and bay.
Till, one day, in a city’s throng
stood out an ancient one
with hoary beard and eyes that blazed
as fierce as the sun.
They stared at me, those blazing eyes
and though his lips moved not,
I heard  ‘Seek ye the amaranth,
and the Land of Tenebros’.
Then others passed before that one –
of a sudden he was gone;
and nothing else before me
but the babbling, surging throng.
And sundered were my thoughts that day
and reeling in my head
and pondering too for many a year
on what that old one said.
But seasons came, and seasons went,
and I could not descry
a meaning in those silent words.
The years were passing by.
The first to fall was Jacomel
– he of the red-gold hair –
in the skirmish with the goblin-kind;
he took an arrow there
while urging us to speed away,
that he would guard the pass.
It pierced his good brave lion-heart,
and there he breathed his last.
Then Hellebrand was reft from us
when we crossed the raging flood  –
stout Hellebrand who saved us all
and spilled the dragon’s blood
when that fell beast had leapt on us
by the Haunted Mere’s side,
and stood his ground and cast the dart
that pierced the monster’s eye.
We searched the banks for many a mile
downstream from dawn to dusk,
but never found the doughty soul
the torrent tore from us.
And one black night when all was still
came the siren-succubi,
and prowled among us sleeping five
so surreptitiously
we heard them not until the die
was cast, and felt their flesh
– ah, poison warmth! – yet four of us
escaped their dread caress.
But they took our stalwart Mechos who,
for all his lusty ways,
sobbed piteously, a frightened babe,
as they carried him away.
Giradion and Corandes both
by pestilence were borne –
that, six and two-score winters since
we set out for the Stone.

                   III

Only young Yvein and I
still seek the elusive thing
as ordered by that foolish youth,
that young and thoughtless king.
We rest beneath a cedar’s shade
and Yvein, lying there,
has troubled eyes, and how his face
does match his whitened hair.
I think, now, Truth may not be found
this side of what we know;
but then I hark back to those years,
those many years ago,
and think – ‘twas with us all the time;
in friendship, and in peace,
and marking how our children grew,
and feeling love increase…

‘Yvein, do you remember girls
with finely-braided tresses,
who laughed and sung, read poetry –
their words were their caresses?
Yvein, do you remember lads
in raiment sendaline,
who joked and laughed in joyous years –
and all we might have been?
Yvein… don’t you curse that king
who bade us seven leave –
who broke that world, that joyous world,
and left us here to grieve?’
Then Yvein gripped my hand and said
in whispered, laboured breath
‘Ah, nay, old friend. He was my king.
It was a noble quest’.
Young Yvein’s face is peaceful now;
across his breast his hands
are clasped. His eyes are closed. He dreams,
I know, of far-off lands.
And spread out far around I see
an amaranthine plain;
and at its farthest edge I see
a darker shade again.
It is the Land of Tenebros,
and, o, that shade is deep.
And I that am Menezdes
will lay me down, and sleep.

From ‘Otherworld’

(Flanders, Aug.23-24,1914)

And those who awoke upon that field and knew that they were broke
       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
from the great dark clapping wings of Lucifer.

Excerpt from ‘The Apocalypse of Gwair’

And if, then, you can still remember me,
my love, go to the old stone bridge close by
the cloister wall. Feel again the softness of the moss
which rests upon its top – it will run cool, as on that day so long ago,
beneath your touch. Then look into the shadow-dappled water,
and to the canopy of green where on that youthful day
we saw the King of Fishers watching from his slender perch.
And if he sits there still, then you will know that it is I
who wait for you, and all, again, be healed.
No other one will trespass there, but we alone will stand
in quiet peace and know again those moments
which will have lived and lived within the soul
no matter what the gods decreed… for moments such as they
are indestructible, and will surpass the silence of the long dark years
that will have passed between. Think not of any unquiet time –
intrusions, those, of not the least account when time and you
will see again the bright bird waiting on his perch; and yes,
it will be I who wait, though mayhap in some manner changed,
upon the old stone bridge close by the cloister wall.

From ‘Of Goddesses and Women’

Matthew, Mark, Luke and John
wrote some gospels – got them wrong.

Paul wrote letters, in frustration,
with a chic interpretation.

Constantine – oh glory be! –
converted Christianity.

The Fathers, not to be outclassed,
doctored everything, en masse.

Schisms then became the fashion –
dissecting minor points with passion.

(And when the pagans got the boot
the heretics soon followed suit).

But Councils flunked their math, you see;
well, one is one, and can’t be three.

Soon, anchorites and cenobites
took flagellation to new heights,

till loot and pillage took the stage.
Hurrah for all those great Crusades!

(While monasteries had learned to equate
their simple prayer with real estate

and friars and abbots, plain to see,
took vows of strict obesity).

The troop of Popes still came and went;
but Martin Luther stopped their rent.

Inquisitors, though, persuaded well –
the Engineering Corps from Hell.

Still, big trouble – tiffs and fights,
as both the “isms” claimed they’re right.

Splinter groups then had a ball –
today’s a #?!!@$#?! free-for-all.

Jesus, come and help us out!
Explain again what it’s about!
(and speak slowly this time).

From ‘Of Gods and Men’

It’s true that in this place, today,
heroes are in short supply,
and deeds of valour done no more.
But still it’s told
that in these domed and watching hills
– how many years ago? –
armour sparkled in the sun
and banners cracked in answer to the wind,
shafts were notched and bows were bent,
and in these very vales were bred
a race of men who would pursue their cause
unto the bitter end.
And were they wrong,
to stand against the storm,
these men who sleep
– and who knows where? –
beneath green ferns and golden gorse?
The bells of seven centuries
have rung out since that day.
Our armour’s rusted through and through,
and it’s not done
– I wonder why?  –
to say too much in praise of them – those men.
But the valleys and the hills remain.
The crows still circle, just the same.

From ‘Welsh Past and Present’

They say we think too much,
too often of the past.
This may be so.
We were beaten to our knees,
it’s true;
though neither by their numbers
nor their steel,
but by their gallows and their writs
and, in the course of time,
by our foolish, dumb quiescence –
till we became complacent guests
within our native land.
Still, I nailed my colours to the mast
long years ago.
And what would I not have done …
ventured all and everything, I know,
to have moved the gaming pieces,
to have moved across the board
with the fortitude of those who came before.
But if the hills look down on me, today,
well, I can understand.

From ‘Welsh Past and Present’

In gladsome mood they wandered down the mountain,
both holding hands, with radiant smiles
exchanged. ‘And what’, said he,
‘could find two hearts and bind them?
I did not know I’d meet my love today’.
‘Dame Fortune smiled’, said she,
‘up on the mountain. She smiled on us,
and made us meet this way’.
And down they went,
who met upon the mountain, and to
the maples where the green fields lay.

One waited in the shadow of the maples.
On a white horse, with a black one
held at rein. ‘Good morrow, sir’,
she offered, brightly smiling, ‘Why wait you here,
so early in the day?‘ ‘I wait here for
the rider of this black steed. ‘Twas ready for
the first to pass this way. But you two
come abreast to me, as lovers – and so must choose
who comes, and who will stay’.
‘A stately steed, sir’,  fenced the maid’s companion,
‘for Charlemagne or Hector, of the lays’.
‘Aye, true’,  the horseman breathed within the shadows,
‘and both of those he bore
in ancient days. A handsome steed – an old one
and a tireless – a strong steed that will
carry all away. Men grumble though, and say
he is not faultless. He takes, indeed; but
brings not back again’.
Their hands clasped tight. She whispered to him faintly,
‘Fie that we met, and walked abreast today… ‘
‘Come – choose now’,  growled the rider on the pale horse.
‘It must be one. Who comes with me? Who stays?’

From ‘Otherworld’

The day was dull. The air was dank,
and on my hill the grass was rank
and autumn-brown.
A wind complained among the boughs.
Round about my feet was spread
the thick-massed mould of autumns dead,
and on the boles of ancient trees
lichen ruled in verdigris,
and each stone wore its emerald cap
of moss. Upon the midmost slab
in silvern trail
there clung the gleaming citron snail.

And in the twilight long ago
I lingered on this stone, I know,
and felt her oread arms entwine
my helpless soul, and drank the wine
of ancient eves; felt Lethe flow
within my veins.  And I would know
that dream again – if dream it were –
and I would ministrate to her
as on that eve when first she swayed
against the stars, and met my gaze.
Her limbs were soft, and warm, and lithe,
and pagan fires were in her eyes;
flowers wound her darkling fleece
and corybantic pulses beat
the drums of time. Her moon-round breasts
pursued my chest,
and love diffused its gramarie.

But some Cybelean devilry
took her, and all, away –
and rising in cold light of day,
I stood alone
beside the stone.
And no nephenthe
would assuage the cleaving memory.
That bitter morn I can but grieve.

As, languorous, I strove to leave,
from sullen shadows – bleak, morose,
the faint notes of the syrinx rose.

From ‘Otherworld’