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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Related quotes
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
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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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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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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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True Welsh
We talk about our origins
For some they are unknown
We talk about our grandfathers
And the places they had grown.
We ask about our Welshness
This is right close to our heart
But we need to go back centuries
To make a truthful start.
So many of our ancestors
Did travel many miles
Some came from Ireland, Scotland, England
And across the waters miles.
They came with hope inside them
To get their families better wealth
But many had employment
This ruined their health.
So as long as you were born in Wales
Keep it closed inside your heart
For you possess the passion many want
From the day that your life starts.
It don't matter where you came from
Or where you're going to
Like Porthcawl rock you're stamped for life
And you're Welsh, through and through.
poem by Katie Evans
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O! Cardiff
I recently took a weekend trip to the country of Wales. I stayed in Cardiff and I was simply blown away by the beauty of the countryside of Wales that I decided that it was about time for me to take up my pen again and write a little poem about Cardiff and Wales.
O! Cardiff
In a twist of tales
I took a trip to the Country of Wales
Slapped from side to side by windy gales
I could not help but bite my finger nails
O! Cardiff
I speak with love blindly
You taste like a sweet wild cherry
The never-ending hills of houses are a beauty clearly
Through the land of valleys known as Methyr Tydfil
I saw sights of green imposed on me without tariffs
There was the largest city called Cardiff
Enticing me luxuriously to a weekend of mischief
A parcel of Castles
Castle Coch, Caerphilly Castle and Cardiff Castle
Reminds me of those days when soldiers battled
Surrounding green makes me ponder about sheep and cattle
I just desire green tea brewed from a pot of metallic kettle
O! Cardiff
My stomach now sings a soft jelly
As I think of a sweet girl called Kerry
Right now I'm in an ecstatic state of being merry
Cardiff the city of exuberant style
I gaze at the Millennium stadium touching the skies
And a 150ft clock elongates with a smile
Wile the Severn cross-way seems to go on for miles
With my fortress of endless wild dreams
The musical festivals tempts me with boozy steam
As I meet a young toothless fairy
Whose chest is so hairy and scary!
The Museums, the Welsh accent and jack union flags
The Cardiff bays, the Mermaid Quay are Cardiff's tags
Spectacular restaurants and the day passes without a drag
O! Cardiff what else do you have in your mystery bag?
The reggae men sing about a one night stand
Women think they are stallions each time they try out new positions
And I with wonder can all but understand
For those who shoot the Sheriff are on a mission
O! Cardiff
The alcohol has made eyes blurry and weary
I like to buy a house and dog named Kerry
Today I'm in an ecstatic state of being merry
The Welsh people are oh, very friendly
The wetlands, historical cinemas and films
And though with a friendly broken leg I limp
O! Cardiff you are still here to fulfill all my dreams
Copyright 2010 - Sylvia Chidi
www.womenball.com\sylviachidi
poem by Sylvia Chidi
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Chicago Sestina
I am surprised by the streets of Chicago
when the palm of winter grips them with snow
as if to forgive the city’s mistakes
and give it a canvas that’s new, white, and clean–
its fingers, the branches on all of the trees
kneading the air that blows in from the lake.
I’ve never lived next to the pulse of the lake
(until I set foot down the side of Chicago)
breathing in through the streets and out through the trees
welcoming the cool of the wet, numbing snow.
It lets my mind slip into thinking it’s clean
as if to personally forgive my mistakes.
“But what have you done to forgive your mistakes? ”
Did I ask this? Or is that the voice of the lake?
Some days, not even does it appear clean,
worn down from its tall standing neighbor, Chicago.
It scrapes at the sky, asking it for more snow
to stick to and freeze the trunks of the trees.
If I were a branch on one of these trees
incapable of making a single mistake,
I’d grab at the sky as it shook out the snow
and grow my roots thick till they tasted the lake.
But I wouldn’t bend to the force of Chicago
that’s constantly keeping me from being clean.
And what does it mean to try to be clean?
I don’t understand the stillness of the trees
when they’re being attacked by the size of Chicago
as if to glorify the city’s mistakes
that glisten like stars at night on the lake
before it all froze and was covered with snow.
Ah! To imagine how long there’s been snow.
How can something this old still feel so clean
and dance through the wind that swoops in from the lake?
Is it the kneading by the spiny branches on trees
trusting that there will be no more mistakes
that leaves these the only pure thing in Chicago?
Here comes the snow that seeks out the trees
Am I now clean? Where are my mistakes?
Chicago belongs where it lay with the lake.
poem by Brian Maloney
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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
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Chicago
Chicago, chicago, that toddlin town
Chicago, chicago, Ill show you around (youll stay around)
Bet your bottom dollar you lose the blues in
Chicago, chicago, the folks who visit
All wanna settle down. (all wanna settle down in my hometown)
On state street, that great street, I just wanna say,
They do things they dont do on broadway,
Youll have the time, the time of your life
Bring all your friends, all your kids and your wife to
Chicago, chicago my hometown. (hey now baby--)
(oooh baby)
Youll have the time, the time of your life
Bring all your friends, all your kids and your wife to
Chicago, chicago my hometown.
Oh, to chicago, chicago my hometown (yeah)
song performed by by Chicago
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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My Kind Of Town
My kind of town, Chicago is
My kind of town, Chicago is
My kind of people too
People who,smile at you
And each time I leave, Chicago is
Tugging my sleave, Chicago is
One town that won't let you down
It's my kind of town
My kind of town, Chicago is
My kind of town, Chicago is
My kind of razzmatazz
And it has, all that jazz
And each time I rome, Chicago is
Calling me home, Chicago is
One town that won't let you down
It's my kind of town
Chicago is
The Wrigley Building, Chicago is
The Union stock yard, Chicago is
One town that won't let you down
It's my
My kind of town
song performed by by Barry Manilow
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Man and Dog
''Twill take some getting.' 'Sir, I think 'twill so.'
The old man stared up at the mistletoe
That hung too high in the poplar's crest for plunder
Of any climber, though not for kissing under:
Then he went on against the north-east wind--- Straight but lame, leaning on a staff new-skinned, Carrying a brolly, flag-basket, and old coat,---
Towards Alto, ten miles off. And he had not
Done less from Chilgrove where he pulled up docks. 'Twere best, if he had had 'a money-box',
To have waited there till the sheep cleared a field
For what a half-week's flint-picking would yield.
His mind was running on the work he had done
Since he left Christchurch in the New Forest, one
Spring in the 'seventies,---navvying on dock and line From Southampton to Newcastle-on-Tyne,---
In 'seventy-four a year of soldiering
With the Berkshires,---hoeing and harvesting
In half the shires where corn and couch will grow.
His sons, three sons, were fighting, but the hoe
And reap-hook he liked, or anything to do with trees.
He fell once from a poplar tall as these:
The Flying Man they called him in hospital.
'If I flew now, to another world I'd fall.'
He laughed and whistled to the small brown bitch
With spots of blue that hunted in the ditch.
Her foxy Welsh grandfather must have paired
Beneath him. He kept sheep in Wales and scared Strangers, I will warrant, with his pearl eye
And trick of shrinking off as he were shy,
Then following close in silence for---for what?
'No rabbit, never fear, she ever got,
Yet always hunts. To-day she nearly had one:
She would and she wouldn't. 'Twas like that.
The bad one!
She's not much use, but still she's company,
Though I'm not. She goes everywhere with me. So
Alton I must reach to-night somehow:
I'll get no shakedown with that bedfellow
From farmers. Many a man sleeps worse to-night
Than I shall.' 'In the trenches.' 'Yes, that's right.
But they'll be out of that---I hope they be---
This weather, marching after the enemy.'
'And so I hope. Good luck.' And there I nodded
'Good-night. You keep straight on,' Stiffly he plodded; And at his heels the crisp leaves scurried fast,
And the leaf-coloured robin watched. They passed,
The robin till next day, the man for good,
Together in the twilight of the wood.
poem by Edward Thomas
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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I wanted to capture the excitement of house music, almost like a four-four beat, and the best way to do that was to use a language that was rhythmic and performative.
quote by Irvine Welsh
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Take Me Back To Chicago
Take me back to chicago
Lay my soul to rest
Where my life was free and easy
Remember me at my best
Take me back to chicago
Where music was all I had
I tried to be good as I could
And sometimes that made me sad
Take me back to chicago, to chicago
Why dont you take me back
Take me back, take me back
To chicago
I still dream of the lake of peacefulness
The warm summer breeze
cause my life was so much simpler then
Street corners and tastee freeze
Take me back to chicago
cause hustlins not my style
L.a. was just a bit too hard
I wish I could be a child
Livin back in chicago, in chicago
Why dont you take me back
Take me back, take me back
To chicago
Take me back to chicago
Lay my soul to rest
Where my life was free and easy
Remember me at my best
Take me back to chicago
cause hustlins not my style
L.a. was just a bit too hard
I wish I could be a child
Livin back in chicago, in chicago
Why dont you take me back
Take me back, take me back
To chicago
Take me back, take me back....
song performed by by Chicago
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A World Poetry Day!
Everyday is ever poetry day for poet!
World poetry day is poetry celebration
Especially for world people to honour
Poetry of all writings of the world ever!
Novels, stories and articles are in vogue
But poetry cannot be ever left as vague!
Matter of a book, a few pages of story or
An article of length Poetry says in a line!
Poetry is the essence of matters in nutshell,
A seed that grows into big tree with leaves,
Flowers and fruits to please and guide all
To live life better loving Nature and lives!
Sans the inspiration of religious philosophy
Said in echoing verses of world where is it
One can get solace and wisdom to face woes
Struggling on the ocean of life to swim or sink?
Poetry is oldest of old medium yet a modern one
Brief as telegraphic language conveying message
Beautifully, musically and echoingly as mantra
In avatars new ever using words and forms old!
World celebration of poetry day today is wonder
For poets and lovers of poetry on modern websites
Just as enjoying old wine in new bottles all over
World of human beings unique in whole Universe!
poem by Ramesh T A
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I'd always liked to read, but when I picked up books I wasn't getting the same kind of excitement from them that I was from going out clubbing. I wanted to get the same kind of feel.
quote by Irvine Welsh
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Welsh Hymn
Bron Dilys Teashop
Of Threadneedle Alleyway,
Swaddled in a pinafore
And cosseted in lace,
Soon charmed the borough boys
When she sang long for the scallywags
Or served up sweet tyshan lap
With her famous welsh cakes.
Her soft-breasted menu
Of cariad and comfort,
Her short tacky temper
Emblazed her blue eyes,
Dai Jones ate those long legs
Alive in the bara brith
And deep-delved her laverbread
With his brandysnap lies.
Then was Tilly Tongue-fit
Sweet cuddled in the marigold
With muddling Tom Tiddle-O
And his calico cat,
Dan Rees called for 'cave-o'
As Tom stoked the middle-up
To watch for the Billy Boyo
And Moll Thunderclap.
Long years now I've wondered
At the conjure of your alleyway;
Does Bron Dilys Jiggle-O
Still sup bara caws,
Does Willy the Wag now
Still wriggle in the coal-hole
With a mouth full of marigolds
And a handful of yours?
I spend my mind dreaming
Of cariad and comfort,
Of tight fitting pinafores
In parlour and bower,
Her bonnet up-ended
In the spell of welsh rare-bits
Sweet tasted, willy nilly-o
Back when, in Bryn Mawr.
19 February 1981
poem by David Lewis Paget
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The Heart May Be A Lonely Hunter
thick grass
a forest of trees
a man lives there
and his heart is the lonely hunter
maybe
and may be for a time
when the grass is thick and the forest of trees lush
there is a time
for opening
for going and going back home
where mother and father keep the waiting
and your one and only
smiling
waiting for the warm embrace
the sad one
thinking always for your coming
back home
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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My Cupboard
Behind the Welsh Dresser,
fine china,
dinner plates
and an old vase
is a cupboard.
It is a place I store
dark secrets,
shame,
hidden love
and
old memories.
Its walls are shelved
where books
turn towards me
so as to hide their titles.
My jewels
are housed in
cardboard boxes
so as to hide
their worth.
and old photo's,
in black and white
hold my
memories
The cupboard door
is white
and the door
has panels.
You can see the
grain of the wood
through the paint
and even though
I paint it
every year,
the grain
shows through.
I've tried to reveal,
to show
and tell
my secrets,
those unmasked
truths
but somehow
I never can.
I will have to
keep the key
and even when I die
my secrets,
they will die with me.
Here is my cupboard,
my life,
my memories.
Only go there
if you dare
for the truth
will pierce your heart,
challenge your beliefs
change you
rearrange you
and
your ideas
of me.
poem by Ruth Walters
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Once more unto the form fair friends
Take pen in hand and you shall see
verse true to celtic poetry
wit writ by me conquers time
with virtuosity on line
as words with sense intense align
the welsh design draws raw rhyme
(23 January 2008)
poem by Jonathan Robin
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