A lot of my writing this year has been towards an art/word project inspired by The Black Book of Carmarthen, a small, handwritten manuscript containing poems collected over a lifetime by one person. It is the oldest known manuscript written in the Welsh language. A mixture of ancient bardic poems and prayers, it is at once mundane and transcendent, simple and utterly baffling. The words that come to me are either reflecting some of the imagery or subjects of the fifty odd pieces, or dwell on the nature of the author and the continuity of language and writing. The art works I am making mainly combine parts of the manuscript pages overlain with my own woodblock prints from decades ago. There will, probably, be a book that combines text with image. It is in no way a translation of the original text. It is one artist’s reflections of the magical mirror and timelessness of ancient books.
MER KERTEV KEIN (Black Book)
(The marrow of fine songs)
It is a river
Uncurling in caves,
A white torrent on dark slick rocks.
It is a shoreline cave where mystery is born by echoes,
Far from comfort, where opposites couple in the roaring of it.
Spanning centuries each word tumbles combining elements.
Shadow worlds are dressed in time to shatter and rebuild the fragments.
Oh, speckle-breasted thrush,
Thrice the song to sing.
Morning rain.
Rain of morning.
Dawn storm.
Eternal song.
A river where meaning slips like fishes,
A flash, a flank, and gone.
The next ripple, the next wave, the scintillating light.
Umbral echoes.
It dances from sound to sound.
A juggler slipping from stone to stone
In the midstream rush. Where next? Where next?
And the foaming roar of it:
The world dancing elements and prophecy
And the arc of words cast up and caught, too fast for the eye.
A stream, a stream, of passion itself.
Sound clothed in the names of things,
The naked, naked sound.
A river of God’s being,
A bowstring caught and released,
The mouth’s harp
And its breath drum rhythm song.
—
There are spirits here
There are ghosts
Where I see these landscapes,
Familiar, sunlit, wild
I have never been.
I am haunted by the names
And by the meanings
Within the meanings I know.
Other pages in other hands:
Mirrored, pushing through.
I am become a palimpsest of prayer-
The angels with clawed feet
Offering golden torcs.
—
A language of waves,
Of echoing empty hills.
My eyes water the seeds of words,
Grow vast forests.
The dance of sounds:
Lost timeless for a while,
We dance and dance.
The memories are not ours
That lodge in our hearts.
My soul fragments to the four quarters
As though I am already buried.
There is a cold wind from the north.
A woman who is not a woman
Moves at the edges of my sight
Whispering rhymes with berry-stained fingertips.
One of Three and Three in One.
Before Eden we quake.
The Tower was too high,
The Tree was too bright.
The Flaming Sword
That drove us outwards
We stole for shovels and mattocks.
—
simonhlilly 