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The Wakened Rose
(Nemõné’s Song)

She awoke to the night,
walked the darkened room,
in the light of the moon
set a hand to her cheek.
Tears shed in sleep
lay wet on her face,
and she strove to recover
the dream – again to find
that vanished vision
of her mind.
‘Come, sit we where the roses glow’.
No more. No more remained.
What could she make of it?
The dream had flown.
‘Come, sit we where the roses glow’:
that sole refrain in place of it…
and the redolence of roses
at the window. Her hand reached out –
one faded flower fell in petals
at her feet. She took its heart,
and held it in her palm.
The heart remained, complete.
And calmed, she knew.
One morning, slow to dawn,
every rose would stay a rose,
and not become a thorn.


Seasons with my Lady
(Senerys’ Elegy for Nemõné)

I loved you
and you pitied me
for loving you so much.
I touched you
and you came to me
not trembling at the touch.
I kissed you
and you honoured me
as paper honours pen…
I watched you,
and you smiled at me –
and loved a little, then.
And only then I read your heart.
In its pages I could see
a calendar of quiet pain
had marked your days with me.
And only when I read your heart
and quiet seasons passed,
you loved me – and I pitied you
for loving me at last.

From ‘The Lost Manuscripts’

The grass grows long among the graves
but paths have been beaten between, narrow and rank,
like animal trails, trodden by those respectful souls
who have searched and pacified in parts
islands in that encroaching overgrowth of green.
How well I know each carven name
upon the older stones – a face, each one, to me.
And I despise the stubborn grass,
allowed to grow so wild; am saddened
by so many stones left listing, cracked,
or ivy grown, protective railings
rusted through, sagging on their sunken plots
where thorns and nettles thrive,
and saplings, too, reach down their desecrating roots
to test what lies beneath the soil.
Brambles clamber over some; luxuriant berries
gleam in autumn sun – but no-one picks from here.
And everything succumbs.
Some older headstones have been hauled away
and lean against the chapel wall;
I pause. I put a face to each. I knew them all.
But oh, they’ve faded year by year… become forgotten,
and I feel that I myself am out of place, have been – mislaid.
Black marble, new, shines here and there,
with crisp incisions, rounded metal lids
like colanders, with holes for flowers; surrounds of
scattered calcite glisten white,
laid there to keep away the weeds, but were,
in days no longer here, sought keenly by
marauding teams of boys intent on scavenging
for five prize pieces, each of a chosen size
with which they’d play their ancient game.
I have quietly approached quite close, and halted
at their side; looked on. But never a need to say a word.
They would stand and stare with frightened eyes
and scatter like small birds.
They come no more. What fun in stones?
Perhaps, these days, they’ve more substantial toys.
I stand in the gap in the graveyard wall, where the stones
have tumbled down, and look along the grey back lane
to slate roofs stretching out for miles…
my up-and-down, my terraced town, with the
sleeping hills beyond. But it changes,
changes, year by year, in ways I cannot understand.
Not many walk the narrow lane these days.
I’ve heard it said by those that do there’s ‘something about’
this old back lane flanked by the graveyard wall,
some ‘presence’ hereabouts. I smile.
In all the bygone years I’ve encountered no such thing.
But superstition will abound.
When the wind blew chill one winter day
and snow lay heavy on the graves, I sought
the chapel’s sanctuary. And in the dark interior
ran my hand where the light fell weak
upon the pulpit’s wood, the old oak box
from which – how long, how long ago? – I’d sermonised.
My empty old oak box…
The heavy doors of my retreat were suddenly pushed wide.
Snow sped through and in the gloom
two women bearing pail and broom stopped dead;
they stared; they blanched; their buckets clashed upon the tiles
as they sought each other’s hands.
I wondered what could cause such fright, and turned round in surprise.
The empty flatness of the wall. No more.
And none stood there but I.

From ‘Journeys in Time’

Ewozzaspan ishnei tovowld
oozorswoz sordaboni.
Izlan swozrusti anizelm,
anewoz Donkey Hotey.

From ‘Of Poetry and Song’

Whatever, then.
The birds will still be busy by the window,
the grass still grow too fast along the path;
within it and above small things
will chirp and flutter, and on the twigs
young buds will form and break.
The Goppa will remain aspiring skyward
(and cheeky, leaping downward, Nant-yr-Allt )
with fields that fasten close, and blackthorn
scrambling up it; and silly sheep will wander
on its sides. And the ancient wind
will whisper by them always, and sun or stars
look down upon them all. The east
will still be where it was this morning,
and evening rose and gold lie in the west.
Whatever, these will be the same as always –
and nothing else will matter, will it, then?

From ‘Welsh Past and Present’

A Farming Family
(From the Chinese of Fan Ch’ang-ta, 1126-1193AD)

In daylight they go to hoe the fields;
at night they spin their flax.
Every village lad and lass
is busy at some task.
And tots who can’t yet understand
how to plough or weave
can practise planting melons
by the shade of mulberry trees.


The Farmer’s Day Begins
(From the Chinese of Mei Yao-ch’en, 1002-1060AD)

The cock crows thrice. The sky’s getting light.
Fixed up, flasks of tea, bowls of rice.
Good people, all anxious for an early start ploughing.
I pull up the window blinds. Dawn stars still gleaming.


Bamboo in Rock
(From the Chinese of Chang Hsieh, 1695-1765)

Holding firmly to the mountain,
not loosening that grip
from the first time rooted, fixed
in fissures of the rock.
Though stricken time and time again,
such strong and sturdy stems;
the winds of all four quarters
of no concern to them.


Chi Le Plain
(Anonymous, 420-589 AD)

Chi Le plain, below Yin Shan.
Sky like a tent, envelops the land.
Sky darkest grey, steppe so vast.
Wind beats grass low. See the herds pass.


Grass on the Ancient Plain
(From the Chinese of Pai Chu-yi, 772-846AD)

Grass spreads across the plain.
Each year the same recession and rebirth.
Wildfire cannot burn it up entirely –
when spring winds blow, it grows again.
From far away its scent will reach the ancient road,
its new, fresh brightness hug the ancient Wall.


From ‘Beneath the Silver River: Translations of Classical Chinese Poetry’

Upon Reflection

There is a touch of frost,
I see, among my curls.
So one would imagine that by now,
whatever gods there be
might have shown a little kindness,
and endowed me with a measure of integrity.
But they have not  – 
the churls. No… inwardly, I fear
I have not changed.

But outwardly…
Again, that winter-tinged,
that sullen gaze
stares out at me.
One thing, at least, is plain:
They don’t make mirrors
like they used to
in the good old days.


To be Gonzales

I never thought I’d see the day,
and Lord, I ask you why
I totter around the geraniums
while my grandson whizzes by.

From ‘Musings on the Merry-go-Round: A Medley of Verse for us Riders of the Earth’ 

(From the Chinese of Chao Chia, 9th century AD)

Alone I mount the riverside tower,
alone, and with a sigh.
The moon is reflected in the stream –
the stream becomes the sky.
Ah, where is she who came with me
to watch the moon just so?
Apart from this the scene is such
as it was long years ago.

From ‘Beneath the Silver River: Translations of Classical Chinese Poetry’ 

I walked
where city lights
conspired to
eclipse the stars.
But, Lord! Hung high
above them all,
pulsing in the southern void,
there burned
the fiery mountings
of Orion’s
thrice-nailed belt.

From ‘Nature’

A slender shaft of light that pierces the gap
where the curtains can’t quite close, just at the top,
a shimmering of sun, a dappling upon the wall …
succeeds, at last, and casts back sleep.
Bells!
In rising then descending peals, time upon time
they flock, and break, and slide.
Time and time again they reel,
in tumbling, falling, thrilling flight.
And close by the window seagull shadows wheel and glide,
their calls cascading down the scale
in soulful imitation of the distant, dreamy, singing bells.
Then laughter, clear and fair,
and the glorious sound of female voices from downstairs,
in communion with the most alluring incense known to man:
bacon, frying in the pan.

From ‘Welsh Past and Present’

(from the French of Charles Baudelaire)

Sheltered by the sombre yews
the owls are perched abreast in rows,
just like outlandish deities.
They dart their orange eyes, and muse.

Without a movement they remain
until that tristful time arrives
when fading sunset at last fails,
and all about them darkness reigns.

From ‘Nature’