En.Citatepedia^®.ro

When The Welsh Of Wales Go Home

There’s a distant drift of tides
That pitch at your troubled stare
And songs of a deep Welsh valley
Howl out from your wild, grey hair;
Then you sit, bright-eyed at the moonlight,
And you cry, bright-eyed at dawn,
There is no rest for the weary
When the Welsh of Wales go home.

You ride that distant country
While your eyes are mad with grief,
And you search for the things you lost there
Or you search for a long dead thief;
I speak, but get no answer
I question, cajole, implore,
You nod with an ancient wisdom,
And wake at a cottage door.

You knock, but find it empty
The thatch lies thick on the floor,
The shutters are hanging open
The latch, long torn from the door,
The sounds of distant children
You sense in the wind and weeds;
All gone, as if in an instant,
All scattered, like burdock seeds.

All gone, the lives you left there
Were storms that passed in the trees,
A light on the far horizon
Is all you have left of these,
For soon, you’ll go to my father,
Where he went, so bitter, so far,
And the Wales of the Welsh will claim you
At the last ‘Nos da.’

2 May 1994

poem by David Lewis Paget
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A Welsh Testament

All right, I was Welsh. Does it matter?
I spoke a tongue that was passed on
To me in the place I happened to be,
A place huddled between grey walls
Of cloud for at least half the year.
My word for heaven was not yours.
The word for hell had a sharp edge
Put on it by the hand of the wind
Honing, honing with a shrill sound
Day and night. Nothing that Glyn Dwr
Knew was armour against the rain's
Missiles. What was descent from him?

Even God had a Welsh name:
He spoke to him in the old language;
He was to have a peculiar care
For the Welsh people. History showed us
He was too big to be nailed to the wall
Of a stone chapel, yet still we crammed him
Between the boards of a black book.

Yet men sought us despite this.
My high cheek-bones, my length of skull
Drew them as to a rare portrait
By a dead master. I saw them stare
From their long cars, as I passed knee-deep
In ewes and wethers. I saw them stand
By the thorn hedges, watching me string
The far flocks on a shrill whistle.
And always there was their eyes; strong
Pressure on me: You are Welsh, they said;
Speak to us so; keep your fields free
Of the smell of petrol, the loud roar
Of hot tractors; we must have peace
And quietness.

Is a museum
Peace? I asked. Am I the keeper
Of the heart's relics, blowing the dust
In my own eyes? I am a man;
I never wanted the drab role
Life assigned me, an actor playing
To the past's audience upon a stage
Of earth and stone; the absurd label
Of birth, of race hanging askew
About my shoulders. I was in prison
Until you came; your voice was a key
Turning in the enormous lock
Of hopelessness. Did the door open
To let me out or yourselves in?

Submitted by Andrew Mayers

poem by Ronald Stuart Thomas
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John From Fishguard

Sing old John a song of his Hometown of Fishguard in Wales by the sea
The Town he left when he was in his mid twenties in the Spring of nineteen sixty three
With his wife Jenny and their only child Garett who then only had just turned four
They went south to sunny Austrealia thousands of miles from their Homeshore.

His wife she is with the departed she passed on a few years ago
A victim of intestinal cancer her end it was painful and slow
He took care of her when she was bed bound a greater love he never knew
To each other they were devoted and to each other they remained true.

A gray haired man in his late sixties his better days he surely has seen
His son Garett who lives in New Zealand has a son of twenty and a daughter of nineteen
And though he lives on his own he seems happy at the local pub he is known to all
He enjoys his beer and the sing song and he loves to talk of football.

I once heard him ask the ballad singer sing a song of Fishguard for me
The old Town I left in my twenties in Wales by the Atlantic sea
The ballad singer did not know any Welsh song so he handed John his guitar
And John in his fine singing voice sung a song of Fishguard in distance from here very far.

The Welsh accent it is still with him and with him doubtless it will stay
Until the Grim Reaper will claim him the one we all must fall to one day
He enjoys a drink at the local pub where he is well liked and well known
And he never does seem dejected though he is one who lives on his own.

poem by Francis Duggan
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Distant Light

Distant light flickers an invitation of hope.
In reaching it, there will be sanctification.
Dimness that surrounds the eyes
will be forgotten.
Black holes that open the heart
will be discarded.
Let the distant light come closer.
Let the distant light be a friend.

Shallow water cannot drown soul.
It can only hinder the passage.
Dampening the spirit as it frolics
like a moonbeam across the mind.
Distance lends unhappiness.
Let the distant light shine bright.
Let the distant light be a guide.

In closets of blackness the hands
seek an opening in the shadows.
They find nothing, but the eyes
focus on a distant light that
calls like a radio in the night.
Let the distant light embrace.
Let the distant light be closer.

In an emptiness of broken glass
there is a pattern to salvation.
Frame the light like fire in the glance,
walk towards it. Find escape.
Let the distant light be strong.
Let the distant light shine forever.

What is the distant light that shines?
What is its meaning in a journey?
This is an answer not easily explained.
This is a hope not readily known.
Let the distant light continue.
Let the distant light always shine.

poem by Chris G. Vaillancourt
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The Lost Path

The garden's full of scented wallflowers,
And, save that these stir faintly, nothing stirs;
Only a distant bell in hollow chime
Cried out just now for far-forgoten time,
And three reverberate words the great bell spoke.
The knocker's made of brass, the door of oak,
And such a clamor must be loosed on air
By the knocker's blow that knock I do not dare.
The silence is a spell, and if it break,
What things, that now lie sleeping, will awake?

Are simple creatures lying there in cool
Sweet linen sheets, in slumber like the pool
Of moonlight white as water on the floor?
Will they come down laughing and unlock the door?
And will they draw me in, and let me sit
On the tall settle while the lamp is lit?
And shall I see their innocent clean lives
Shining as plainly as the plates and knives,
The blue bowls, and the brass cage with its bird?

But listen! listen! surely something stirred
Within the house, and creeping down the halls
Draws close to me with sinister footfalls.
Will long pale fingers softly lift the latch,
And lead me up, under the osier thatch,
To a little room, a little secret room,
Hung with green arras picturing the doom,
The most disasterous death of some proud knight?
And shall I search the room by candle-light
And see, behind the curtains of my bed,
A murdered man who sleeps as sleep the dead?

Or will my clamorous knocking shake the trees
With lonely thunder through the stillnesses,
And then lie down--the coldest fear of all--
To nothing, and deliberate silence fall
On the house deep in the silence, and no one come
To door or window, staring blind and dumb?

poem by Elinor Morton Wylie
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The Water Tower

I sit and stare at this empty page,
The wind howls long at the winter eaves,
The cloud is heavy, and black with rage
As squalls dance in through the myrtle leaves.

While deep inside in the cottage gloom
My love lies weary, cocooned in dreams,
I hear her cry in the darkened room
Call out one name from a nightmare scene.

‘Michelle, ’ she mutters, then groans aloud
I grit my teeth at the open door,
The wind it eddies in dust and leaves
And echoes long at the water tower.

‘Michelle, Michelle, ’ it grumbles and groans,
‘Michelle, ’ it whispers, then skips and howls;
My love rolls over in deepest sleep
While I keep watch through the early hours.

The storm comes in and the rain drives down,
Batters at windows and roof in vain,
The wires whine in a humming frown:
‘Michelle, Michelle, ’ is its one refrain.

And tears roll at my weathered cheek
The clock chimes five at the early hour,
Michelle once crawled from her bed, asleep,
And went to climb at the water tower.

Her hair was black as a raven’s coat
Her eyes set back in that tiny face,
Three winters long was her spell of dreams
Before she crept to that dreadful place.

Three winters long was our fairy child
Who lisped and chattered from heart to heart,
The cottage door had a faulty latch –
I’d always meant to replace that part.

But now, awake from her nest of dreams
I see my love at the open door,
I wait in hope, but her eyes are ice;
She’s staring out at the water tower.

Then I look down, and the page is full,
I’ve scribbled the words of an ancient rhyme,
Over and over and over again –
‘I’ll fix the latch when I get the time.’

And she goes back to her bed to cry
While I sit frozen beside the door,
The latch still rattles, the door’s ajar;
I’ve punched three holes in the water tower.

13 June 1999

poem by David Lewis Paget
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Lingers

The rain is gone,
It's pitter patter silent,
It's accompaniment of thunder quiet,
It's ensemble of lightning dark,
but the smell still lingers.

The soft breeze carries the scent,
A cool night with damp grass,
The animals hide in dry brush,
The people tucked away at home,
The air thick with the weight of silence,

The thunder once so loud and startling,
Now distant and still moving further,
The lightening once so bright and threatening,
Now a distant glow that illuminates the horizon,
The storm has passed.

And like the rain,
you are gone for now,
Too far from my grasp,
For now my arms are empty,
But your smell still lingers.

The breeze from the open window carries your scent,
A cool night with warm sheets,
The restless hearts calmed,
The racing thoughts slowed,
The air thick with new memories and feelings.

The sounds once so crisp and real,
Now the silent rise and fall of chests,
The light in our eyes once so bright and alluring,
Now hidden behind closed lids,
The storm has passed.

The rain now as calm as our dreams,
And the storm as silent as our breathing,
Until once again the lightning will strike,
And our eyes light up again,
But for now, the smell still lingers.

poem by Bethany Maxwell
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Catch The Shadow

I crawl through the back door
Catch the shadows
Wake up from my depression to hear the gamelan sounds
Flute, drum, ending,
Saw the puppets shadows
Which able to open the spirit traveling
Behind the suffering of meal
From the historical stage of man

When I went home, my father were angry
And my father ask why I saw the puppet shadows
Through the back door
Like a thief
I shut my mouth, no answer
When I answer this question, am not polite and get angrier
I recognize, it is dangerous to left the door
Left the door unlocked
But the God could came like the thief
Through the back door which unlocked
Or the locked in front of the door

At that time, I really did not know
Why my father always looking me
When I saw the puppets shadows
Although I crawled into the mass
My father always found me
In addition, ask me to go home
In the middle of the show
And then to live over my worry
Leave some question, what kind of the end of the story
To echo in my ear and to pound on
In my hearth wall
Then flow and crawled in my blood
To the whole my body
Became my life story
And leave the big question who always
Remainder me

Every step in my life
Always remained me to the sound
Of gamelan music where
Fluid, drum and xylophone like
Sturdy
Become dreams
In my slept

Until my life regarding
To pursue the shadows

Prasetya Utama
Bogor, Friday, January 13,2006

poem by Prasetya Utama
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The Welsh Rugby

The Welsh have feelings about rugby

No other Nation can describe

They sing all their rugby songs

To keep the game alive.

We hate to lose at rugby

And cannot stand defeat

Their songs are sang much louder

As they stand out of their seats.

The Millennium Stadium

Is their National rugby ground

You need to see a Welsh rugby match

To enjoy the immense sound.

The Three Feathers as a logo

Sits right above Welsh hearts

They sing their National Anthem

Before the Rugby starts.

So come on the Welsh rugby teams

Play the game like a proper side

Because the Nation is behind you

So play the game with pride.

poem by Katie Evans
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Wild Eyed Southern Boys

Its a hot night at the juke joint
And the bands pumpin rhythm and blues
Gonna spill a little rock and roll blood tonight
Gonna make some front page news
And the ladies hate the violence
Still they never seem to look away
Cause they love those
Wild eyed southern boys
Wild eyed boys
Wild eyed southern boys
Its a southern point of honor
You got a get right in on the action
You can hear the outlaws holler
Fight for the lady in black
And she's just one in a million
But she's all I need tonight
Cause she loves those
Wild eyed southern boys
Wild eyed boys
Wild eyed southern boys
Wild eyed boys
Oohhh yeah
Wild eyed boys
A man of wealth and power
Is out on the dance hall floor
He got a champagne Eldorado parked outside the door
And he's looking for a honky tonk angel
But he don't stand a chance in hell
Cause he ain't no wild eyed southern boy
Wild eyed boy
Wild eyed southern boy
Wild eyed
Wild eyed southern boy
Wild eyed southern boys
Wild eyed boy
Wild eyed southern boy
Wild eyed boy
Wild eyed boy
Wild eyed southern boys
Wild eyed boys

song performed by by 38 Special
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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My Wild-Eyed Child

My wide-eyed child
So sweet are you
Innocent and pure
Untouched by the filth of man
A Baby's Breath for you

My wild-eyed child
With eyes so bright they shine
Open to the world
Open to the universe
A Red Carnation for you

My sleepy-eyed child
Close your little eyes
Drift off to rest
Sleep soundly and well
A White Poppy for you

poem by Autumn Winds
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A Distant Smile

Sunrise, Sunset,
Warm night, regrets.
Summer night dream,
What dream may come?

Life, lies, crime,
live your life the same.
Your destiny will prevail,
From nowhere a distant smile.

Lost love, lost war, life in slow motions,
Lust, attractions, deep night of passion.
Still your destiny will prevail,
From nowhere a distant smile.

Togheter, two soul in this dull begin,
fire on us, but in this holy night will win.
but still your destiny will prevail,
From nowhere a distant smile.

The deep blue see on this horizon,
Will bring to us high terrifying tides,
I can see on the way the perfect wave to ride,
I can see come to us, is a bit far, maybe just a mile,
And from nowhere will appear a distant smile.

poem by Gianni Pintus
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Www.

At night, I sit in this darkened room
And stare at the hollow screen,
The World-Wide Web is a crystal ball
Of tides, and hopes, and dreams,
Though the world goes on outside my door
And time, it flows like the sea,
I have no truck with reality
When the web washes over me.

For I dredge the depths with a grappling hook
And I haul my catch on board,
Then I read the thoughts of a million minds
That were left on the furthest shore,
While the colours swirl and the lights go dim
And the sounds fade from without,
I float in the mass of cyberspace
'Til the light of the moon goes out.

Then emails beat at my cyber door
To ask if I'll let them in,
I cast my net for the viruses,
And choke the Recycle bin,
I stare at faces I've never seen
That float on a cyber wave,
Which disappear as the next comes near
For two are never the same.

But one returns, and it stares at me
And I see the limpid eyes,
Like pools in deep lagoons offshore
Where the mermaid lives and dies,
While the lips are full of promises
As false as the deepest sin,
I reach on out to the screen, but find
That the screen won't let me in.

Then night on night, like a dread parade
Those pictures come again,
From some lost ancient URL
Long gone from the world of men,
I search and Google in cyberspace
In hopes that you're somewhere there,
But all I have are those limpid eyes
And the bands in your dark brown hair.

One night, I'll leap right through the screen
And swim to your blue lagoon,
I'll take bright garlands of pretty flowers
To gladden the cyber gloom,
We'll live forever behind the screen
And our faces will go online,
For the stares of the grim night dwellers
Who are surfing the Web, World-Wide.

10 June 2008

poem by David Lewis Paget
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Restoring the Welsh language in Wales is nothing less than a revolution. It is only through revolutionary means that we can succeed.

quote by Saunders Lewis
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Beyond The Distant Hills

The sun is shining for me,
beyond the distant hills.
Where my love is waiting,
for my return.
The water is sweet to drink,
beyond the distant hills,
where a warm fire is waiting,
for my return.

The grass bends in the breeze,
beyond the distant hills.
Where my love’s heart yearns
for my return.
A candle lights a window,
beyond the distant hills.
Where someone keeps a watchful eye,
for my return.

Beyond the distant hills,
where no clouds gather,
and no storms darken the sky.
Beyond the distant hills,
bright eyes wait for my return.
Beyond the distant hills,
my dreams will come true,
and I promised myself one day I will get there.

25 April 1988

poem by David Harris
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On My Mother's 80th.

There are no answers to your questionings;
If eighty years have not revealed the truth,
Then how could I, this child of your imaginings
Begin to comprehend your loss of youth.

Perhaps you let it slip and lose all meaning
When time last yawned, and you did fall asleep,
Then youth took flight while you stayed still and dreaming
Within some sepia’d year you once did keep.

Wild eyed and worn, you always look about you
And wonder what dismay has brought to this,
The thread of age has tied and bound and caught you
And thoughts of death now tremble at your lip.

But yet, your youth may still be seen and found there
Way back beside an old welsh village pit
Where long dead miners carol ‘Men of Harlech’,
And fresh young girls in neat white pinnies sit;

To wait the miners singing at the darkness,
To wait the steelmen, wandering from the shift,
Until your brothers chaff you in the moonlight
And you go in, sit by the hearth, and sleep.

There are no questions now that I can answer,
There are no harvests left for us to reap,
For youth is spent and wasted on a moment
And age is all that we have left to keep.

9 October 1993

poem by David Lewis Paget
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My Father He Was A Fisherman

MY father he was a fisherman,
That wrought at the break o' day,
And hither and thither the long tides ran
I' the long blue bay.

'The tides go up and the tides go down,
But what do you know of the sea ?'
Her voice, i' the long gray streets o' the town,
Is singing to me.

'What do you know of the sails at dawn,
What of the shell-white foam ?'
Cheerly and sweet, from a world withdrawn,
They are calling me home.

'What is the grief you fain would tell
When your eyes are turned on me ?'
O, well it was taught and I learned it well,–
The grief o' the sea.

'Where do you travel and where do you sleep,
Where shall you take your rest ?'
At the inn that shelters my father, deep
I' the seas o' the west.

poem by Marjorie Lowry Christie Pickthall
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Gulls

When the mist drives past and the wind blows high,
And the harbour lights are dim--
See where they circle, and dip and fly,
The grey free-lances of wind and sky,
To the water's distant rim!

Like spirits possessed of a fierce delight,
A courage that cannot fail,
They face the breakers--they face the night--
The mad storm-horses are silvery white,
They ride through the bitter gale!

They seem like the souls of the long, long lost,
Who breasted the ocean-main--
Vikings whose vessels were tempest-tossed,
Voyagers who sailed, whatever the cost,
And never came home again.

Or stranger and wilder fancy--it seems
As I hear their wind-torn cry,
No birds fly there through the sun's last gleams,
But the wraiths of hopes--the ghosts of dreams
That the old sea-gods saw die.

When the mist drives past and the wind blows high,
And the harbour lights are dim--
See where they circle, and dip and fly,
The grey free-lances of wind and sky,
To the far horizon's rim.

poem by Virna Sheard
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Hiraeth and Chewing Gum: Tropical botanist Llewelyn Williams 1901-1980

The clans are splintered
Evans Williams Griffiths Price
title bearers of half-dark past,
side by side, alike
yet individual as the trees

We crossed roads not to meet
sweet hidden goosegogs,
illicit pleasures of the boys
while our sisters learned sewing,
décor and decorum.

Ach y fi! In the docks
the lame, the beggars
grimy from engine coke,
Welsh speaking, Portuguese speaking.
Tea-clippers. Hiraeth.

Llewelyn went to Assam.
Already scholar, already
naturalist. Those goosegogs,
scratchy bilberries,
dirt-frilled daffodils.

Assam to Wales, Chicago to Wales,
Venezuela to Wales,
from Thailand to Chicago.
His life fills these 56 boxes,
76.2 linear feet of shelves.

A poet of the camera,
in pages of threescore years
he photographed lush plants,
jasmines, coffees, exotics
of doubtful spread.

He strode, sailed, flew
with greatcoat and briefcase,
trunks of equipment,
bold information-runner,
intelligence botanist,

committed recorder
at the zenith of industry
of leaves through a pinprick,
vistas in the plantations,
shuttered light.

These Welsh words are simples.
No names for tropical trees
in our hemmed-in language
Of the heart and hearth.
English the passport.

Botanical Latin
(which is often Turkish)
set over the poetry
of our lives, their secrets
arcane.

Oh she met him, she'd have loved
Chicago Taffs, the Venezuelans,
Patagonians, inroads in Thailand.
She'd have breathed in
the excitement of the tropics.

This love affair of the tree-juice,
latex, the warm sun-sap
that sets all elastic.
There's money and honour
in this kind of drug-running.

Chile, chile, gutter percha,
couma, jelutong
set against hallucinogens,
white wicked milk
of sleep-bearing poppies.

But Welsh is for poetry,
for tradition and goodness
from Dafydd ap Gwylim
to englyn, cynganedd
and the bawdy penillion.

Travel letters to Mary,
stay-at-home wife like a sister,
paper pulped from pine,
commercial tree products.
A life-work's demands.

Chewing gum. Long riding, hard
dancing, the youth cult.
Mucky and sweet, gum arabic
with spearmint, the sharp plant,
penetrating flower.

We cannot eat grass.
There is need for this substance,
grey in spittle, imported.
There is need for the scientist,
Welsh world patriot.

I believe this puzzled world
that begins in the valleys
and stretches out everyway.
The same at seventy-five
as at twenty-five.

Da Iawn, Pob Hwyl.
In Time's trapped classroom
Llewelyn of the chewing gum
still sips his Assam, as he
nods to his friends,

Welsh still on his tongue,
in his archive, his own forest
waiting, the trees named
in their order, surviving
careless and confident.

poem by Sally Evans
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Jewel Eyed Judy

Written by danny kirwan, mick fleetwood, and john mcvie.
Moonshine time
Thoughts of you
Spinning round
As thoughts do
I just wondered if
Your eyes still shine
As they did
When you were mine
I can see
In a dream
Thougts so clear
And jewels that gleam
Would your eyes
Still sparkle then
If we were, once again
Jewel eyed judy please come home
Jewel eyed judy dont leave me alone
Jewel eyed judy please come home
Jewel eyed judy dont leave me alone
Lovely judy
Can you see
Where it is
Youre meant to be
Where you lay
Your head tonight
May the stars
Find your light
So am i
Sitting here
Moonlight glistens
On my tears
Is this all
That we could find
Chains of memories
Left behind
Jewel eyed judy please come home
Jewel eyed judy dont leave me alone
Jewel eyed judy please come home
Jewel eyed judy dont leave me alone

song performed by by Fleetwood Mac
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Encore: Foreplay/Long Time, Free Ride

Daytona Beach y'all want some more?"**
"We're gonna take you back in time Daytona."
**Foreplay/ Long Time**
It's been such a long time
But I think I should be goin', yeah
Cause time doesn't wait for me, but it keeps on rollin'
So Sail on, on a distant highway
Well I've got to keep on chasin' a dream
But I've gotta be on my way
Well I guess there is nothing left to say.
Well I'm takin' my time, I'm just movin' along
You'll forget about me after I've been gone
And I take what I find, I don't want no more
It's just outside of your front door.
It's been such a long time, It's been such a long time. Yeah
**Free Ride**
The mountain is high, now the valley is low.
And if you are confused on which way to go.
So Rascal Flatts is here to lend you my hand
And lead you into the Promise Land.
So come on and take a free ride. (Free Ride)
Come on and take me my by my sides ya
Oh come on and take a free ride. (Free Ride)
(Daytona take one with us)
All over the country, Said there is nothing the same.
And if nobody is winning yea this kind of game.
We gotta do better,Say its time to give in.
You know all the answers................
So come on and take a free ride. (Free Ride)
Come on and take me by my sides yea.
Come on and take a free Ride.
Well Im taking my time.
Yes I'm just taking my time.
Yes Im taking my time.
Im just taking my time.
**Daytona you better hold on cause here they come**
**We hope y'all enjoyed Free Ride**WOOOOOO
**Daytona That Rides On Us**

song performed by by Rascal Flatts
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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