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Posts Tagged ‘photography’

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An attempt at translation from English into Welsh using iTranslate. Some words were altered to find correlates – it didn’t like ‘held’, ‘unbelonged’, ‘lorn’, ‘furled’. I would welcome any comments from Welsh speakers- apart from a few words that I recognise, I do not know how well the software has worked, but would be interested in finding out how close or far from the mark it is!

Sleepless, I must wait
Tight-wrapped,
Held white and unresolved,
Dissolving,
An unbelonged thing.

Di-gwsg,
rhaid i mi aros
Dynn-lapio,
Cipio gwyn a heb eu datrys,
Diddymu,
A beth nad ydynt yn perthyn.

Wait, and I shall meet you
Down by the bridge, by the ford.
Where the river always murmurs sense.
In twilight, in evening,
Furled suspended time,
Honeysuckle warm
And the whisper of moths.

Arhoswch, a byddaf yn cwrdd â chi
i lawr ger y bont, gan y rhyd.
Lle mae’r afon bob amser yn si synnwyr,
Yn cyfnos, yn y nos.
Amser plygu atal dros dro,
Gwyddfid cynnes
A sibrwd o wyfynod.

But lorn I am
On this longest shore.
White, cold white, the horizon.
The far breakers’ withdrawn roar
Leaving naked the still, black rocks,
A salt taste of wheeling gulls.
A spun void.

Ond gwan wyf
Ar y lan hiraf.
Gwyn, gwyn oer yw’r gorwel.
Rhuo Mae’r torwyr bell ‘tynnu’n ôl
Gadael noeth y dal, creigiau du,
Blas halen o gwylanod gwthio.
Mae gwagle nyddu.

—-

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LLANHIFANGEL ABERGWESYN

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Heather, royally purple, clothing the hillsides above.
Around the circles of Llanhifangel Abergwesyn,
The silver, sanding shores of Irfon, curved and rippled.

Sheltered from sheep, this round silent shield
Is where they are gathered, where they are splintered,
Where they are woven.

United, divided, leaning into the storms of Time.
Hausers swinging between centuries
Binding sun and earth, to heaven, even.

Knitted light revolved and spun,
Wheels in wheels, a thousand eyes
Open and closing, a blink of orbital rhythm.

These trees, these towers, these castles roaring upwards.
Ladders of chant and silence,
Spilt shade.

Bow ye down,
Bow ye graceful between the gravestones,
Flaked and moss green.

Bone and mind incorporate,
Reawoke, voiceless and benign
In speckled sunlight, sublime.

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YEWS OF LLYWEL

1
Older than theologies,
Blood grail holder
A taste of cinnamon and rust.
He would have stood here shaded,
Llywel, eyes following your dark spirals,
Hands and back against your rough dragon skin,
Watching the rain sweep in across the valley trees.
The little stream growing loud then quiet again,
The nod of measowsweet and hawkweed,
A thick, potent prayer tasting on his lips.

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2
Lidless, you seeing yews,
Eyes fast on eternity,
Shrugging off days and years.
Time, (even), kneels down in your shade
Forgetting all but this one moment,
Head bowed, long-veined hands
Like the valleys of the Epynt,
River full and throbbing green,
Bending seawards, bending to the lowlands,
Bending to the silence, to the confluence of breath,
An instant of clarity, wordless, bubbled, weightless.
The chambered heart, rope and sinew,
Knotted, released, a stretched tympanum quivering.
One vowel, one consonant, one tree.

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3
My tongue a rolling mist,
A down feather aimless,
Unable to approach nearer
The in and out of your mighty, inexorable breath.
Time’s golden apples fall ripe and fall rotten,
Lapsed thought imcomprehensible.
A simple vastness, single, resounding,
A parliament of photons.
Woven thickly, red, hard, etched water.
A held swirl, thirled moments,
Nailed, transfigured, an apotheosis
Beyond good or bad, beyond purpose,
Beyond meaning,
An etymology of divinity.

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We are living now in a taller silence.
Settled down to a rhythm of hymnals,
Level with the swallow’s breast.
On the edge of long valleys winding northwards
Where the skies divide and clouds battalion,
(The sheep-cleared highlands where ghosted soldiers thunder).

Grey walled are the lichened churches, hunched and hummocked,
Grey walled the farms, grey walled the cwms,
Silver and green the streams under grey spanned arches.

Time turning back to itself, not a straight but a winding road.
Time, as patient as a ripening sloe, taking hues from each twilight.
Time measured in the names of saints, in their prayers and footsteps.

We are living now in subtler skies, rhymed, alliterate, nuanced.
Between threaded rivers: alder-toed Dulas among the sedge grass;
Oak-vaulted Irfon where Llewellyn stumbled never to rise again;
The Bran, the Gwyddon, the Cledan, the Cammarch,
All matched by the paths of stars in the tall, silent night.

The rain sweeps colour from the distance now,
The sun blesses this and then that field with light.
Hills melt and reappear, the ashes sway in a westerly wind.
We settle deeper yet and become still, edged with moments,
Wrapped and whispered, between the syncopated grazings of sheep.

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Fragments from a Long Road

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In the blue shadows:
White bindweed moons.
Indescribable fragrance,
This August, summer air.

How the hills
Swell with rain,
Rise pale and loiter
At the edge of sight.

Chicory, wide-eyed
by the roadside,
Ragged blue
as the windy sky.

Even through these warm still days,
The scot’s pines, ever singing
Of storms and roaring seas.

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CONVERSATIONS 15

REWRITE
Convincing ghosts rewrite our certain pasts,
or bitter to the last, at least try to inject their dying voices,
inject their reasons, their stories.
We all, full of hunger, scurry for validation,
deny our small wickednesses, rewrite, remember.

SHADED
In that
Green shade
We are made
And unmade.
Click of insect moments.


COUPLET
The demons of eloquence
are not always right,
but their arguments
should always ruffle and delight!


HARMONIC
What each we are,
A note plucked once and dying.
Attack, sustain, release, delay.
That harmonic wave is what we are,
How we intrude,
How we linger.


SMALL
Over that hill it is always dawn, always midnight.
The smell of dew on hay,
The rising insects floating silent.
All this is uniquely ours –
This dawn, this sunset,
A moment fashioned and nested.
An egg of memory, in this small circle.


SUNLIT
The pillars of the sky:
Skylark’s song.
Morning stillness.


NOT QUITE
In you…
Nothing moves
That is not world’s spin,
Past’s voice.
A wind’s will,
A wisp,
Not quite a nothing
Not quite a quite…


EDGE
One star remaining
White edge of the summer night
Rimmed, restless, drawn out.


BINARY
Alert
Or asleep, on
or off,
The eye
Of the I,
Blink, unblink,
Blink.

—-
VALEDICTION
The vale of now.
We move in and out of it
Hardly touching,
So caught up we are:
The sounds of our own echoing,
Fading footprints.
Mouthing alphabets
And times-tables.
Numerate, literate,
Dust dressed in story,
Veiled whisp, regardless.

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ROOSTED

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Between the light stream and the dark stream,
Upon the ridge road blessed in sun, washed by rain,
We have settled now near the gentle dead,
(Slate heads ivy-wrapped, whispering praises
In the old, long language, name and age and date).

Crumbled, crumbling, the dried yarrow, ground ivy,
Under the green candled boughs of the arbor vita,
Under the arc of apple and yew and hazel.
Wings folded, feathers shaken, we roost.

Reacquianted with the arc of silence,
With the certain thickness of stone walls,
With the roaring call down tall chimneys,
The voices choired, remembered, grass green.

Under the oakwoods and under the ash,
Along honeysuckle and rose-cooled evenings,
Into moon-swept, singing midnight.

Swept up, returned by chance.
Become hills, become vales,
Become the smooth, rolling road.

—-

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A new project based on Images from Exeter Cathedral. Ambient interiors.

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Spera octava – spera stellata

The circle of stars, a silvered scum, a foam, a detritus,
A flotsam of teleologies, nub-ends of endless parties,
A whispered recital from dust-gnawed cities.
Shall we savour their strangeness, the fruit of centuries?
A wish
The tomb
The roof
The old man.

The tent
Al Tard, the end.
The apes
The south gate
A pillar
The old folks.

The raven’s neck
The falling cross
The long sandbank
The wolf.

Al Kaid, the eggshells
The embracer
The green hill
The changer.

Kakkab Mulu-izi, the star-man of fire.
The magician
The golden well
The spectre’s head
The first frog.

Al baluh, the city.
The azure dragon
Crown of the forehead
The southern sea
Announcer of invasion on the border.

Narrow cloudy train of female stars
Golden cluck hen and her five sisters.

Temennu, the foundation stone
Al wasat, the central one
Saptar shayar, the seven anchorites
The white of the poplar tree.

San Tsze, three instructors
Antasurra, the upper sphere
Drag-blod, the fire tail.
Pivot of the planets
The nail
The bright one
Ishtar
Bethulah
The defenceless
The virgin’s girdle
The lady of heaven
Taygeta
Atrami
Segin
Aludra.

And so we fly past the whispering lights,
souls and stories,
wished-for and longings,
The indicators of time and movement,
a slightest of lost taste,
A melting of bright ice.
Silence returns.

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Spera solis, sol

The ghost that circles our borders,
The glory rolling on our horizons.
The lord of brilliance
To whom we dance and bow.
We follow and weave
Amongst his messengers of shadow,
His pillars of light.
Day is woven thereby
And life is shaped,
Ordered in waves of delight,
The wake from his wheels.
The red bull of morning
Roaring with the dawn.
Boat of heaven, chariot of fire,
Wagon of deliverance.
To him we turn our heads,
To him we bow.
Sustained and warmed
We are pulled up,
Flower, fruit and wither
Under his round sight.
A map of heaven,
An intimation of beyond,
Unfathomable, a cipher,
A sign, a blaze.

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Spera martis, mars

Here he is –
Certain gaze,
Certain smile.
All the girls (despite themselves)
Twist their hair, bite their lip.
Bright eyed amongst themselves
With giggled whisper,
(But they will never, ever tell
Of those desires that are so deep hid).
They will all, we will all,
Trail after him
Blaming ourselves for every scar,
Every wound, every bruise.
Who cannot match up to such as he,
So sure he is
Of justice and victory,
So fierce and radiant.
We have become the red planet,
Enslaved by bold and noble action,
Unwilling to reflect,
But act, react.

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