#Welsh
One night of tempest I arose and… Along the Menai shore on dreaming… The wind was strong, and savage sw… And the waves blustered on Caerna… But on the morrow, when I passed…
For the first twenty years you are… Bodily that is: as a poet, of cour… You are not born yet. It’s the ne… You cut your teeth on to emerge sm… For your brash courtship of the mu…
With her fingers she turns paint into flowers, with her body flowers into a remembrance of herself. She is at work always, mending the garment
Moments of great calm, Kneeling before an altar Of wood in a stone church In summer, waiting for the God To speak; the air a staircase
‘Poems from prison! About what?’ ‘Life and God.’ ‘God in prison? Friend, you trifle with me. His face, perhaps,
I have this that I must do One day: overdraw on my balance Of air, and breaking the surface Of water go down into the green Darkness to search for the door
Like a painting it is set before o… But less brittle, ageless; these c… Are renewed daily with variations Of light and distance that no pain… Achieves or suggests. Then there…
It will not always be like this, The air windless, a few last Leaves adding their decoration To the trees’ shoulders, braiding… Of the boughs with gold; a bird pr…
She is young. Have I the right Even to name her? Child, It is not love I offer Your quick limbs, your eyes; Only the barren homage
It was beautiful as God must be beautiful: glacial eyes that had looked on violence and come to terms with it; a body too huge
Evans? Yes, many a time I came down his bare flight Of stairs into the gaunt kitchen With its wood fire, where crickets… Accompaniment to the black kettle’…
And this was a civilization That came to nothing—he spurned wi… The slave—coloured dust. We breat… Thankfully, oxygen to our culture. Somebody found a curved bone
Laid now on his smooth bed For the last time, watching dully Through heavy eyelids the day’s co… Widow the sky, what can he say Worthy of record, the books all op…
We’ve nothing vast to offer you, n… Except the waste of thought Forming from mind erosion; No canyons where the pterodactyl’s… Falls like a shadow.
We live in our own world, A world that is too small For you to stoop and enter Even on hands and knees, The adult subterfuge.