Traethmawr Odyssey
Did that wave-cast wanderer feel like this when he awoke
upon that splayed Phaeacian shore?
Did sand and sunlight filter through his fingers
and did he see a sideways world
of crashing salt and sparkling foam –
this spinning, stilling, many-coloured,
sunny, sandy, shimmering world?
The plaint of gulls, the lull of waves play lilting in my ears –
I hear the things he must have heard.
Must I run the gauntlet
of Scylla and Porthstin… but that in no way fits!
Ramsey and Charyb… my senses, sleeping, still… that isn’t it…
Those low black islets – waiting: Mercy! They could… I know they house
for all their innocence, a Circe!
O Gods! I must break free! No siren song
will lure me should I wake!
Arise, fresh winds to lift me high
and fetch me to some other place – yes, look! There’s lonely Gwales’ isle –
I could go there – though for, I fear, no longer than a spell –
just biding till there’s time to spread these flashing, newborn wings
I feel will spiral me elsewhere!
Soar, man! Fly, though startled, scattered gulls protest and stare you in the eye.
High and higher still – plunge on
through rafts of cloud to airy, unimagined heights
till, when near its tented end the sky’s exultant breeze
will leave you laughing loud and clear!
Look! All Dewisland spread out!
This is my dominion: I am lord and king
of this below to shape it how I will, as suits my hand!
Five Argive ships, their sails unfurled,
windbillow in a wine-dark sea…
Carn Llidi sprawls adream, reclining giant-like
below. Will no man stir him from his counting sheep?
In scattered stones about his flanks
my fairy forts are marked out in the sun as neat as on some magic map;
and from the spreading, mazy miles of turf and tilted slab beyond
come faintest echoes of that fair folks’ lovely, long-forgotten song,
and the sweep of time-stilled harp-strings lingers on.
My mounds of gorse bloom heady gold
as far as can be spied. Where Gwyddno’s sunken kingdom rests
the lazy kelp swings with the tide. And, lo! Far at the end of the gleaming sea
all Erin’s ancient kings have sighted me and, shouting out, amazed,
are proffering brimmed cups of heather ale!
All ears and scuts the rabbits rush in distant Skomer’s ferns;
its cliffs at once a couchant, cruising and exploding mass of guillemot and tern,
and look, there’s heraldry high-perched – the parrot of the sea’s emblazoned beak.
But closer by on Ramsey’s open ocean side disguised as elongated, storm-flung stones
the morlo mermaids catch my eye when, now and then,
they shift a mite or turn, or obey the aeons’ urge to slip and slide on bellies
to the rough inviting surge.
Small crabs climb briskly over pebbles in Melgan’s rock-bound cove
while Lisgi guards the silent, passive lives that fill his tidal pools.
Concealed beneath the tablecloth, the outspread jigsaw leagues of hedge and field I hold in sway,
a thousand furry little long-tailed fellows run, and climb,
and play alongside bright-shelled snails that very slowly slide; and sharing in this
richest soil and tangled green I see the busy millions of my winged, thin-limned and fragile,
humming, spinning subjects toil: and toil away the fragments of their secret, hectic lives.
And now, aloft by many a mile, to marvel at my fiefdoms, great and small –
I poise.
But… Silence!
Do I fly or fall?
A reeling head, a sickened heart.
Held, stricken dumb and terrified,
aghast and frail and small –
I fall!
Wind rends! My breath escapes and screams!
My shattered senses fail!
A weighted sack of raven’s wine,
hurtling down, hell-bound to meet
an unsung end in the senseless deep –
a sea, a sea with my good red blood
a stain in the drifting tides!
Three miles, two – one only – still dropping like a stone!
Gods! White-caps shock the splintered rocks below…
incisors and the maelstrom both whirling round and round.
Yes, Scylla and that other one – I see you clearly, now:
Some knavish laugh-crazed look-out in my mind shouts ‘Land Ahoy!’
So the Bitches will have me after all.
Then let it be… Make space there, Icarus, my boy!
Then – gentleness. No rushing near,
no blinding sear, but – gentleness.
And a world of crashing salt and sparkling waves,
spinning, stilling, many-coloured,
sunny, sandy, gladly wakening world
in Ithaca that’s Wales.
(From ‘Memories, Moods, Reflections’ )
Note: It was intended that this dream sequence be accompanied by a hefty raft of words, but in these days of long-honours on the chin and creaking in the jimmers, I’ll be glad for once to give all such addenda a pass. Suffice to say it’s trusted that the scattering of classical/mythological puns and innuendos, whether Hellenic or Cymric, won’t be missed, nor the intimacy of homed-in topological detail. The anointed will need no clues. To get most out of the poem it’s best if the reader is familiar with that magical peninsula where the very stones of the shore are an episcopal purple – that Dewisland which is bordered in the east by the sprawled dyke of Ffôs y Mynach, and by the wild ramparts of Penmaen Dewi in the west. There is much more that the poem could say of that land of castellated upthrusts of grey-white dolerite, and brooks which fret and gurgle to the sea, and the whole capsized calligraphy of its landscape; there are some dozen lines, I’m sure, which need still to be included.
This is an extended and reworked version of a poem written all of sixty years ago, bar one. It appeared in Wales’ premier literary magazine of the time, and this then young pen-pusher was pleased as Punch to see that it was nicely placed in the table of contents as the third entry, immediately below two poems by R.S. Thomas and Alun Lewis’ letters to Robert Graves. Those were the days.
Tag: nature
Three Yuan Dynasty Song-Poems
Bleak Horizon
( From the Chinese of Ma Chih-yuan [ ?1260 – ?1334 CE ] )
Shrivelled vines, aged trees; crows there in the dusk.
A little bridge, a dribbling stream, now someone’s hut.
An ancient road, the west wind, his emaciated horse…
past this heart-stricken man at the edge of the sky,
westward the twilight sun departs.
Clear River Song
( From the Chinese of Ma Chih-yuan [ ?1260 – ?1334 CE ] )
Woodman, astir! The mountain moon hangs low!
The old fisherman has come to call on you!
You cast aside your firewood and axe.
I’ll take my time and beach my boat.
Let’s find a cosy corner to relax!
Plum Blossom Chant
( From the Chinese of Mei-hua Ne [ Yuan: no dates available ] )
Till the end of day I searched for Spring,
but Spring could not be found,
my shoes of grass worn out by treading
the mountain-tops in cloud.
When I returned I gave a smile,
for toying with plum-blossom, smelled,
already at the branch’s end –
Spring1 Multiplied ten times!
( From my collection ‘Beneath the Silver River: Translations of Classical Chinese Poetry’ )
Note: The Yuan was the Mongol-led dynasty which ruled over China 1280-1368 CE.
The first two ‘Song-Poems’, by Ma Chih-yuan, were originally taken from Yuan period drama. The tune title of the first is Sky-Clear Sand. To accord with its uncompromisingly drear content I’ve given it the poem title which appears above (this poem I took as the basis for … to Seek, at Last, The Hollow Land which appeared very recently in The Igam-Ogam Mabinogion under the main article title Westward Walking). The title of his second, welcomingly brighter-themed poem remains that of the befitting tune-title, Clear River Song; this is one of the many early Chinese poems which extolls rustic companionship.
The third song-poem, Plum Blossom Chant, is an engaging piece which stands on its own. The poet’s name, Mei-hua Ne, translates as ‘Plum Blossom Sister’, and in the sole example I’ve come across of this poem, John Turner refers to her as ‘a Buddhist nun’, which seems appropriate and plausible enough.
The Sixty-six Distillations
‘Distillations’ – These are Haikuform pieces, brief three-liners intended to express the core essence of a subject through using the most minimal sequence of words. The main heading of the article says there are sixty-six, and as it has a nice sound to it the title has been kept, although I see that on the last count there were seventy-seven; it’s possible that by now, a good while later, there are eighty-eight. The sixty-six and the nine or ten additions were written within a short period toward the end of last year and the beginning of this, when circumstances determined that my poetry-posting field should lie fallow awhile. I must have over five-hundred of these ‘distillations’ altogether; but ’the sixty-six’ were fresh recruits hurriedly mobilized to serve in an interim February article – and now it’s June. [*Of the main five-hundred, sixteen were posted under the title Medley: The Sounds, Silance, and Scenes of Open Spaces in the Aug.-Oct. 2022 section of ‘The Ig-Og’]. The term ‘distillations’ I borrowed from Clark Ashton Smith, who assisted Japanese literateur Kenneth Yasuda in his superlative study of traditional Japanese Haiku in the West, and which persuaded Smith to experiment further with minimal forms. ‘Haikuform’, ‘Haikuesque’, ‘Haikutype’ … anyone who is fully acquainted with traditional Japanese Haiku will soon see that the majority of the short pieces which appear below are not at all Haiku in the 17-syllable 5-7-5 arrangement (which continues to persist among a fair number of English language Haiku aficionados) although some may either by serendipity or with overall result in mind fall in with the pattern. Many of them, though, do conform to some of traditional Haiku’s more important – and for effect very necessary – conventions. Traditional Japanese Haiku’s adaptation into an English-language setting has not come without various transformations.
Minimal poetry demands that a great deal must be concentrated in a very small space, and a successful, truly effective economy of words is not all that easily attained. Some of those below will be seen as less successful than others. Before dipping in, then, as I hope you will, I’d just like to say this about these short and simple-seeming poems: Many of the topics are very ordinary, it’s agreed; but how often do we home in upon the core dynamism of an ordinary moment, actually take hold of it and weigh our thoughts, or half-thoughts, or fleeting sensations, or those of any passing, mundane happening? The crystallization of such moments – their intrinsic, unexpressed meaning most often overlooked – is what these short pieces are about. Some, no doubt, even with this as a goal, fall short of the mark: others, those outside the immediately experiential, such as those wholly imaginary or of flippantly humorous intent, can be seen as foxes in that fold; but If just a small number of the ’sixty-six’ cause you either to knit your brows contemplatively for a second or so, or raise a small smile, or give you the feeling of ‘Yes, that’s how is’, then I feel those will have succeeded.
Now and again in these posts I’m prone to include a word – most often a name – which by virtue of its outlandishness and hopefully its unfamiliarity to most is calculated to puzzle, the strategy being to propel the inquisitive into an impassioned investigation of the obscure (‘Victor’ and his geometric smile will almost certainly be well-known enough to be dismissed this role). Bowing, now, to a superstition about favourable and unfavourable numbers and at a final count having seen that there were indeed an inauspicious eighty-eight of these ‘distillations’, I’ve looted the original five-hundred for a further few in order to hurriedly head for ninety-nine. But just to be on the safe side – Dalmatians.
****************
Journeyman
The Shadow’s chasing you.
You have to move!
Find, poor fool, your love.
Neighbours
Mrs.Black meets
Mrs.Brown. Eyes
in every window spy.
Looking Back
Patches of sunlight.
Chances not taken – Piper, please!
A different tune …
Autumn Evening
Fields, trees, houses
stand out stark, till … gone!
The night takes hold.
Studying the Flames, and Thinking
Nice, by the fire.
Glad I’m not in it,
tied fast, screaming.
Travellers
We drift into sleep …
closed shadow-world. While Earth
ploughs deep through the void.
Loan
Winter sun
just setting – lends fire
to my face.
Roof
Cat lies on the tiles …
all swaying tail
and cunning eyes.
Accomplice
Night’s cloak, party to
the trysting of all lovers …
and all rogues.
Lost in France
School French? The natives
twig it! Why’d they reply
in rapid gibberish?
Clocktor’s Orders
My clocktor says
to get some sleep.
My book says not.
Not Invited
‘It’s really warm’,
winks the clock to the fire.
Rain hammers at the panes.
Paramour
Print’s dancing.
Please, a para more before …
Book’s on the floor.
Gatherings
We sit; we laugh.
Loved tales repeat. But
daylight hovers to go.
Ingrates?
I treat my books
respectfully. But do they care
a toss for me?
Ecstasy
Picking bogies
in the sun. Flicking them
at everyone.
Gion Geisha
Samisen
sedately tinkles. Sensual
Geisha giggles.
Not Fair!
Clocks tick in the dark.
Oi! While we’re asleep?
They gaily squander time?
Light Sketch
Grey pencil strokes
upon the world. And dawn
comes timidly.
Uprising
Ashes getting restive.
Nothing that a taste of flame
won’t tame.
Fearsome Me
Angry, swearing,
stamping upward … !
Each stair trembles.
Old Violin
Dust-filled attic…
Silence reig – Plaaanng!
Too-tautly-strung.
Bedtime Challenge
Turn off the light.
Face, fool, the secret
terrors of the night.
Spirit Moon
Mist-covered moor.
November Moon’s a
pale masked pearl.
Indifference
I spoke into the fire
of my plight. Damn flames
laughed heartily.
Herald
Quiet dawn.
Stars swept away. Then …
throbs on the horizon.
Old Garden
There, against mellow
lichened red of brick … Rich
orchard burdens ripen.
Surprise
The chisel chips. My
name’s being writ! Okay … I’ll
lie here for a bit.
Interruption
Grandfather Clock swung
tick and tock. ’Twas Time stopped
still the pendulum.
Lieutenancy
The curate comes,
subauditum – the clergy’s
duteous subaltern.
Display
Coins on
a collector’s velvet blue.
So lie the stars tonight.
Incoming
An imploration,
sky. Let me just
get home in time!
Wasted
Yes, there was the thing
called Youth. Summers
were much longer, then.
The Shortest Distance
I smiled. She smiled.
It was exactly
as good Victor said.
Interval
November’s emptiness …
The playground
when the bell has gone.
Entering the Glade
Sun strikes.
Russet shall be topaz,
Green? Why, emerald!
Rising
Near ruling Moon,
Venus, kindling silver,
wakens.
Encroachment
Writhings, small,
in glowing caves, till –
solid logs, ablaze.
Development
Happy old houses …
staring with regret
on change.
Sunday
Bells summon all.
Rooks flap and caw, all unaware
of Sunday.
All in Black
Jackdaw processions
up chapel hill? Well, I dunno,
sez Mr. Crow.
Roofscape
Streets lie shrouded.
Moonlight’s searching
roofs and chimneys.
New Llanelli
The good old town
still speaks to me … though not
to my heart anymore.
Timidity
Roomful of anger,
quarrels and shouts. Clock,
alarmed, ticks quietly.
Something to Say
Cold distance. Chill glarings
fill the room. How rude,
that deafening tick and tock!
Neighborhood Moon
Take care, you million
glitterers! The reaper’s
sickle’s poised!
Clock
The fateful finger points
and says ‘Remember!’.
Us? We giggle on.
Faint
He calls
to his dogs. The hunter who
has passed beyond the brow.
Pick and Catch
Leave flowers and butterflies
alone.
The world’s too fair. You hear?
The Compleat Astrophysicist
Once, they say, was
a great big bang. But
nobody there to tell …
Time Out
Back in The Big Bang
seconds were sent sprawling.
Clocks soon captured them.
Escapade
Firelight leaps to
ceiling’s corners. Escape
the room … ? No, no.
Seventeen Years
My brave old dog
gazed up at me … Oh! I could see
his spirit gone!
Restless
I couldn’t sleep.
The night passed by. It took
about a year.
Earthbound
Icarus, hurtling
past his dad:
‘Shut up about the Sun!’
Fireside Quiet
Firelight and silence.
A murmur, an answer.
The falling of an ember.
Play
Children clamber
in a tree. Two bump heads –
laugh helplessly.
The Defence
Draught’s brisk!
Candle-flames! Aux Armes! Stand fast
upon your wicks!
Winter’s Eve
A glow and crackling logs
within. Without
all’s chill and dumb with snow.
The Bright Side
Smile when you pay
the ferryman. He who looks like
Nosferatu.
Cares
Wind dies – then
rises; slaps me in the face.
Like hope.
Waiting
Night’s almost done.
Above, the scattered stars pale,
expectant of the sun.
Thingness
All’s a kindled fire
in every state. So stir the coals
with care.
Young Moon
Lazy Miss,
on her back, napping in
her hammock …
Desiderata
Laugh, yes, and be merry.
Be kind; show love.
Time is an outstretched hand.
Assault
Willow heaves her load
against the wind.
She’ll not give in.
The Poker’s Touch
The Master Log’s upon
the embers. The poker’s touch.
A merry blaze.
It’s Hot
Damn hot! Sleeping cats’ll
fall off windowsills. Great toads’ll
die of thirst.
Night Watch
Night waters. So, you stars?
Look down upon yourselves!
So many millions deep!
Tiddler
Ten million scattered stars
shine. Damn! My puddle’s
caught just one!
Imagination?
Dark street.
My footsteps. They sound like…
footsteps following.
Damascened
Spied, through the crowd,
a shapely, dazzling ecstasy!
Floored like Saul – that’s me.
Diadem
Gorse tops
the mound. A sleeping warrior’s crown
of gold.
What they Boast About in Valhalla
‘And last I clove the mantichore
his head. He rained hot gore.
And thus I burned and bled’.
Lull
When table-talk stops short –
that weird moment’s silence!
All swap smiles.
Journey
The lame child
limps and lingers. The lane
runs on.
Diminishing
Talk at twelve; logs spit.
Murmurs at three; red segments.
Four o’clock – the parting.
Sol Invictus
Scorching in the
veg patch. Heat waves skip along
the cabbages.
The Armada
Washing’s at hoist.
Ballooning blouses!
Knickers ahoy!
Ode to the Sun
Yield, glorious orb of gold,
go down … Don’t take
too long kow-towing, eh?
Koshtra Belorn
Her matchless contours …
created solely to compel
men’s adulation.
Glee
A silly little thing.
But our eyes met – and we laughed,
and laughed again!
Thoughts
There the mountains, there
the sea; the great sky … the
dot of life that’s me.
Linings
Soft stuff lines
li’l warblers nest: As it does
the big bad hawk’s.
Alchemy
A world once beautiful …
Transmuted thus
by wars and lust!
The Silence from Horeb
We know you like
to hide your face, but – God!
To look away!
Moody
Grate’s deep in ashes.
Embers, few. Blow on them.
They’ll glow.
Lemme Alone!
A hermit’s life for me,
I swore: Uh-oh. Not so, thought
he girl next door.
Master Rat
Young rat’s small, yet.
But, bold? Cares not a jot
for etiquette!
Small Suns
A sunless alley’s
end. There, though,
dandelions glow.
Vacant
A small house, frail,
unoccupied.
The snail long gone
Hesperides
The veil slips:
Lifts life’s colours from all
earthly things.
Stealth Merchant
Thrush, on the wall,
sings joyously. Below glides Tom,
with evil eye.
Alone
Nightfall – time
of mockeries. That tree? Those rocks?
Grim fantasies!
Ongoing
Rain beats a rhythm
to the old clock’s tick. Dark blood
courses through my veins.
Play, Weigh
As years go by
come imps
to play upon the mind.
Blackberry Picking
Lazing in the sun
high and out of reach
the best ones hung.
Those Summers
Young, standstill summers
those, my love! But the days
were running away.
Naked Moon
Keen wind unwinds
her cloud-wraps, and, undressed,
the goddess smiles.
Youth
Live, lads and lasses – now!
Heed not
the hungry ticking of the clock.
Home
The place wells up within me,
now. Like a lost love’s
whispering still.
F I N I S
© 2024 Dafydd Hughes Lewis. All rights reserved. 