Gelli Fach

Gelli Fach

I'm a cell, I'm fragmented, I change my form;
I'm a repository of song, I'm a dynamic state.
I love a wooded slope and a snug shelter,
and a creative poet who doesn't buy his advancement.

Wyf kell, wyf dellt, wyf datweirllet;
wyf llogell kerd, wyf lle ynnyet.
Karaf-y gorwyd a goreil clyt,
a bard a bryt ny pryn y ret.


From: Legendary Poems from the Book of Taliesin, edited and translated by Marged Haycock





Showing posts with label Verses of the Months. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Verses of the Months. Show all posts

Tuesday, 5 July 2011

July


The month of July, the hay is under cover,
the sunshine is hot, the hailstones melt;

Mis Gorffennaf, hyglyd gwair,
taer tes, toddedig kessair;

Verses of the Months, Welsh c 15th century


I had an unexpectedly nice morning on July 1st repotting some sunflowers for a friend as well as some fennel which had seeded itself - just as well because the parent plant didn't survive the harsh winter. I also dug up my purple sage and put it in a pot for the time being. It has been nibbled by something again this year and isn't thriving - the same with a lungwort. I'll let them get to a good size in the pots and then find a congenial place for them. They are already perking up and taking more of an interest in life.




I've also  repotted one of the small hazel sapling which seeded itself in a friend's vegetable patch. There were two and I've put the other,bigger one at the top of the garden next to the plum tree where it's doing well. I'm still not sure where to put this one and it was complaining about its confinement. So now it is in an old split bucket giving me a chance to decide.



Lest you think all in my garden is lovely, here is a rather ugly,untidy, dirty corner. But of course if it were not for this, the growth and healing and blossoming could not take place.

There are less than pleasant areas of my life too... and I often think that in spite of them, something lovely grows and blossoms. Perhaps it is not in spite of, but because of?

Oh, the dwarf beans have perked up too and seem to be thinking about fulfilling their potential.

Metaphors...


Wednesday, 1 June 2011

June



Verses of the Months

The month of June, beautiful are the lands,
the sea is smooth, the strands are gay,
long and fair is the day, women are lively,
the flock is abundant, the bogs are passable;

Mis Mehevin, hardd tiredd,
llyfn mor, llawen marianedd,
hirgain dydd, heinif gwargedd,
hylawn praidd, hyffordd mignedd;

Welsh c. 15th century


Monday, 2 May 2011

May and Canu Haf/Summer Carols




Verses of the Months 

The month of May, the ploughman is extravagant;
every dyke is shelter to the destitute;
joyful is the lightly clad old man;
the wood is leafy, the wanton is glad;
reconciliation is easy where there is love;
tuneful are the cuckoo and the hound;

Mis Mai, difrodus geilwad,
klyd pob klawdd i ddigarad;
llawen hen diarchenad;
hyddail koed, hyfryd anllad;
hawdd kymod lle bo kariad;
llafar koc a bytheiad;

Welsh, c. 15th century


Canu Haf/Summer Carols

The Middle English word 'carol ' comes from Old French 'carole', meaning 'a dance in a ring' or a 'joyous song' and it wasn't until 1502 that it was first noted to mean a Christmas hymn. Summer carols seem to have been more popular in Wales than in England and were sung in houses as well as churches and chapels; some of the old carols call on friends and neighbours to sing together a song of thanksgiving for summer days.

Here's a summer carol called Mwynder Mai/the Sweetness of May. The tune was first published in The Welsh Harper in1848.  T. Gwynn Jones wrote a song to go with it:




(I've just realised that the second note should be a C and not a D!  Unfortunately I don't have the software to change it any more. Click to enlarge.)

 
The Sweetness of May

The wizard of May is out riding unseen,
He captures the land with a network of green;
Soft waves of bright sunlight sweep over the leas,
And summer-time songbirds make merry the trees.

Though summer must languish and winter be long,
Though brief be the season of sunshine and song,
Though sorrow still tarries when happiness dies,
Sweet May is the promise of God's Paradise.


Mwynder Mai

Daw dewin y Mai heb ei weled, fin nos,
Gan wasgar ei liwiau ar weirglodd a rhos;
Bydd heulwen y bore yn dawsnio ar dwyn,
A daw ar adenydd lawenydd i lwyn.

Er oered fo'r eira, er garwed fo'r gwynt,
Er byrred ei rwysg fydd yr haf ar ei hynt,
Mewn byd sy mor gymysg o fethiant neu fai,
Rhyw awr o Baradwys yw mwynder Mai.

Written and translated by T. Gwynn Jones

Thursday, 7 April 2011

April, Hares and St Melangell


Leaping Hare: original limited edition print  © Jenny Fell
prints and cards available from the artist

from The Verses of the Months

The month of April, the upland is misty,
the oxen are weary, the earth is bare,
feeble is the stag, playful the long-eared (hare);

Mis Ebrill, wybraidd gorthir,
lluddedig ychen, llwm tir,
gwael hydd, gwareus clusthir...

Verses of the Months, Welsh c.15th century


excerpt from Pilgrimage to Melangell's Healing Centre by Noragh Jones

Third day -  arriving at Melangell's shrine and Cancer Help Centre, nestling at the head of a green valley. The church stands in a pre-christian circular enclosure. There was a healing well nearby, but now it's been fenced off and privatised by a new owner.

This is the end of my solitary pilgrimage. I meet friends and talk too much the way you do when you've been alone. Then we catch ourselves out and sit quietly in the church for an hour - praying or not praying according to our lights.

On the oak rood screen Melangell is saving a hare from the Prince of Powys's hunting party. All around the church are carvings of happy hares finding sanctuary under the saint's cloak. (The locals call hares wyn bach Melangell - Melangell's lambs).

I read in the visitor's book a moving record of hundreds of pilgrims who have come here and found the help they needed - to go on living or to face dying. I am lost for words. I go and sit in silence at Melangell's shrine.

ar ei allor                                   (on her shrine
hen gath yn eisted                       an ancient cat sits
ac yn canu grwndi                       purring)

Later we go out into the churchyard. The yew trees they say are two thousand years old. Their broken trunks bleed red sap. But they go on offering shelter to whoever comes - faith or no faith.

rym ni'n cymry ein tro                 (we take it in turns
profi tragwyddoldeb                     trying on eternity
yn yrywen gau                               in the hollow yew)


From Stone Circles: Haiku and Haiku Prose by Noragh Jones;

Wednesday, 9 March 2011

March and Dewi Sant




from The Verses of the Months

The month of March, great is the pride of birds,
bitter is the cold wind over the end of the ploughed field;

Mis Mawrth, mawr rhyfic adar,
chwerw oerwynt ar ben talar;
Welsh, c 15th century


Dewi Sant

Mosaic in Westminster Abbey

March 1st, the day of his death, is the feast day of St David or Dewi Sant - the patron saint of Wales. Tradition states that his birth was foretold to his father, Sant, by an angel while he was out hunting one day. The angel prophesied that he would find a stag, a salmon and a hive of bees by the river Teifi. He was told to take these to Maucannus’ monastery where they would be kept for David. In the Latin lives, the interpretation of this is that they signify David’s power over ancient serpents, his wisdom and his abstinence. Linked with this is the story that Patrick wanted to settle in Glyn Rhosyn but was told by an angel that he must, in the words of a cywydd by Ieuan ap Rhydderch, “leave the land which was kept by holy God for blessed Dewi” (gadu’r tir a gadwyd/ O Dduw lân I Ddewi lwyd). Patrick departed in tears but was given the care of Ireland instead.

No-one is sure how David came to be patron saint of Wales but it is recorded in his Lives that he was chosen as the chief saint at the Synod of Brefi. This Synod was attended by the great and good, religious and secular, and it was decided that each of the clergy would preach in turn and the one who could be heard by everybody would become the chief and would be made archbishop. David didn’t attend at first, but after repeated messages and the threat of fasting, he went. None of the others had been able to be heard by the crowd, in spite of standing on a pile of garments. David merely stood upon a handkerchief (or perhaps a shroud) belonging to a young boy he had raised from the dead and the land rose under him, forming the hill in Llanddewi Brefi where the church now stands. He was renowned as a preacher and being raised up, everyone could hear him. A dove sat on his shoulder while he preached at the Synod and doves had taught him his books. Not surprisingly, the Dove is one of his symbols.


In the Armes Prydein or the Prophecy of Britain, an early 10th century Welsh poem from the Book of Taliesin, David is the only saint to be named. The poem relates how the Brythonic people allied themselves with the Scots, Irish and Dublin Vikings and, under the Welsh leaders Cadwallon and Cadwaladr, vanquished the Anglo-Saxons from Britain. The author is thought to have been a member of one of St David’s monasteries so this may be why David is given such prominence. Possibly this poem helped to place him in a leading position in Wales.

Leeks are another symbol of St David and have been associated with Wales since at least the time of Henry VIII. There is a tradition that David told the Welsh soldiers to wear a leek in their hats when they fought a battle against the Saxons and were victorious. Another tradition says that the Black Prince gave them to the Welsh soldiers to wear at the battle of Crécy. (I am sure that I have read an account, possibly in a herbal or medical text, that leeks worn in battle would make the warrior invisible or impervious to injury. As yet I’ve been unable to locate it but if I have remembered correctly, it might explain this use of them. I’ll keep searching.)

When he decides where to settle in Wales, David has an encounter with a prince called Boya which is somewhat reminiscent of Patrick’s confrontation with the druids at Tara in Ireland. It is said that David lit a fire and the smoke encircled the whole of the island, extending even to Ireland. Lighting a fire in this way was a recognised way of staking a claim to land. The Welsh laws call the right to dwell on inherited land dadannudd, the uncovering of the fire, and into comparatively recent times, someone who could build a house overnight, a tŷ unos, and light a fire in it making smoke rise out of the chimney by dawn, would have the right to the land. In Ireland too, the lighting of a fire on the land was a prerequisite to claiming ownership of it.

A new mosaic of St David, by Welsh artist Ifor Davies, at Westminster Cathedral was blessed by Pope Benedict XVI when he visited the UK in September. The stone at the bottom of the mosaic is from Llanddewi Brefi, the spot where the miracle of the rising of the land is supposed to have happened.



The Pope, who had been unable to visit Wales, blessed the mosaic with water from the holy well of St Non, David’s mother, and had this to say about St David:

Saint David was one of the greatest saints of the 6th century, that golden age of saints and missionaries in these isles, and he was thus a founder of the Christian culture which lies at the root of modern Europe. David's preaching was simple yet profound: his dying words to his monks were, 'Be joyful, keep the faith and do the little things'. It is the little things that reveal our love for the one who loved us first and that bind people into a community of faith, love and service. May Saint David's message, in all its simplicity and richness, continue to resound in Wales today, drawing the hearts of its people to renewed love for Christ and his Church.
He ended with a few words of Welsh: Bendith Duw ar bobol Cymru! God bless the people of Wales!

Germaine Greer, writing about the mosaic in the Guardian, was not happy. She lamented that church art is now “feeble, derivative and kitsch” and thought that people “who are capable of the heroic acts of faith required of today's Catholics should not be mocked by being fed such meretricious pap.” I won’t comment on the art (except to say that I’m a sucker for things that sparkle!) but it’s nice to see a young St David with a contemporary face.

There’s a rather lovely Green Man carving in St David’s Cathedral in Pembrokeshire, under one of the choir seats.


And to end, as I've mentioned before, there's a picture of Dewi as a boy with St Non, his mother, in the double window in the church of Llansantffraed in Llanon, alongside Ffraed. (Click on any of these pictures to enlarge them.)




Wednesday, 1 December 2010

December and an Irish Poem about Winter



The month of December, of short days and long nights,
there are ravens among the young plants, rushes on the moor,
the bee and the nightingale are silent…

Mis Rhagfyr, byrddydd, hirnos,
brain yn egin, brwyn yn rhos,
tawel gwenyn ac eos..

Welsh, Verses of the Months, c.15th century



                          Photo: Angela

Irish Poem about Winter from The Guesting of Athirne

In the black season of deep winter
a storm of waves is roused
along the expanse of the world.
Sad are the birds of every meadow-plain
(except the ravens that feed on crimson blood)
at the clamour of fierce winter;
it is rough, black, dark, misty.
Dogs are vicious in cracking bones;
the iron pot is put on the fire
after the dark black day.

Dubaib rathib rogemrid
robarta tond tūargabar
īar tóib betha blāi.
Brōnaig eōin cach īathmaige
acht fīaich fola forderge
fri fūaim gemrid gairg,
Garb dub dorcha dethaite.
Dīumusaig coin cnāmchomaig,
Curt[h]ir ar æd īarnlestar
īar lō dorcha dub.

(Original early Middle Irish edited by Kuno Meyer, English translation by Kenneth Jackson)

Tuesday, 2 November 2010

November and a Poem for the Ancestors



The Verses of the Months

The month of November, the fool grumbles,
The wethers are fat, the woods are half-bare…

Mis Tachwedd, tuchan merydd,
bras llydnod, llednoeth koydydd…

Welsh, circa 15th c




For the Ancestors at Nos Galan Gaeaf



As life’s hours tick beyond autumn
and winter shadows the far hill,
bats gather where once swallows played
and the birch lets fall her golden leaves.

I sit with you, silent ones, to share this meal,
however harsh our words once were,
however discrete our lives,
our worlds leach now one into the other – a gentle confluence -

and like blood the dark ale carries your spirit
to rest, in this small circle of light
where united we gather strength to nurture
whatever future may be born.

Outside the marigolds glare down the approaching dark
While beyond the river, the crane is flying with my wings.



Friday, 1 October 2010

October and an Irish autumnal poem

The month of October, the axle is hard worn,
the stag is wanton, the wind is swift…

Mis Hydref, hydraul echel
chwareous hydd, chwyrn awel…

The Verses of the Months, Welsh, circa 15th c


Irish poem about Autumn from The Guesting of Athirne

A good tranquil season is autumn,
there is occupation then for everyone
throughout the very short days.

Dappled fawns from the sides of the hinds,
the red stalks of the bracken shelter them;
stags run from the mounds
at the belling of the deer herd.

Sweet acorns in the high woods,
corn-stalks about cornfields
over the expanse of the brown earth.

Prickly thorn bushes of the bramble
by the midst of the ruined court;
the hard ground is covered with heavy fruit.
Hazelnuts of good crop fall
from the huge old trees of mounds.



R[aithe] fō foiss fogomur
feidm and [for cech] ōenduine
la tóeb na llā lāngarit.
Lóig brecca [a broin]d osseilt
Dītnit rūadgaiss raithnigi.
Ret[h]it daim a dumachaib
[f]ri dorddān na damgaire.
Derccain suba a ssithchailtib
Slatta etha imm ithgurtu
Ós īath domuin duind.
Draigin drissi delgnacha
fri tóeb in lāir leithlessi,
lān do mess trom tairnith[ ].
Tuittit cnōi cuill cāinmessa
do robilib rāth.

(Original early Middle Irish edited by Kuno Meyer, English translation by Kenneth Jackson)