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Poems


Valley Villanelle

I see that it’s to journey that we go;
I’m starting to discern the spirit’s way,
I see it’s only faith if you don’t know.

The daily comradeship of men brought low,
the dole-queue jokes while waiting for your pay,
I see that it’s to journey that we go.

The jobless kids who help the language grow,
the Valleys voting ‘Yes’ to have their say,
I see it’s only faith if you don’t know.

A walk up to the mountain for a blow:
the mother takes the baby out to play;
I see that it’s to journey that we go.

I see, through grief, the grace that lies below,
and how, to live, you give your life away;
I see it’s only faith if you don’t know.

The burning blessing when the answer’s no;
the stinging balm of silence when I pray.
I see that it’s to journey that we go.
I see it’s only faith if you don’t know.



Rough Guide

It happens inevitably,
like water finding its level:
every time I open a travel book,
I sail past the capital cities, the sights,
and dive straight into the backstreets of the index
to find that in France, I’m Breton;
in New Zealand, Maori;
in the U.S.A. - depending on which part -
I’m Navajo, Cajun, or black.

I’m the Wandering Welshman.
I’m Jewish everywhere.
Except, of course, in Israel.
There, I’m Palestinian.

It’s some kind of a complex, I know,
that makes me pick this scab on my psyche.
I wonder sometimes what it would be like
to go to these places
and just enjoy.

No, as I wander the continents of the guidebooks,
whatever chapter may be my destination,
the question’s always the same when I arrive:
“Nice city. Now where’s the ghetto?”



Red

You set the olives down beside the feta,
and make sure the ciabatta’s looking nice.
You light the perfumed candle for the meeting,
open the red wine, put the white on ice.

A little antipasti to begin with;
a French baguette, a slice of Danish Blue;
this is the way we meet to save our nation
in CF One in two thousand and two.

I wonder what he’d make of this, your grand-dad,
who risked a prison cell for Stalin’s sake,
the one who raised the red flag in the valleys,
the man the hungry thirties couldn’t break?

The one who got invited out to Russia
to get the Soviets’ thank-you face to face,
and came back with a little bust of Lenin,
that’s now an ornament above your fireplace.

The one who earned the local rag’s displeasure
for calling meetings to arouse the mass,
I wonder what he’d make of his descendant:
Welsh-speaking, nationalistic, middle-class?

I wonder. But you’re still so like your grand-dad:
cut from the same cloth, just by different means,
trying to cure the evils of injustice
by painting all the world in red - or green.

The Mountains.

Your silence angered me,
meeting my questions with a stony face,
remaining impassive before my pain.
The emptiness of the sky,
the coolness of the wind across the moor,
the indiscriminate heather scents,
and, like an angry son, I cursed your stark indifference.
Now, when I come to you,
carrying my cares to the high country like sacrifices,
my breath shorter,
the path more rocky,
it is your very silence that I seek:
the quiet counsels of the mist among the ferns,
the wordless empathy of the earth's touch,
and I appreciate, now, the wise restraint
that keeps its silence before man's complaint.

Grau

Grau ist alles, was dauert
Am Ende des Tags, die Wolken im Tal.
Sie bleiben, wie die Zeit auch erschauert.

Die Flut vom Hafen ummauert
Die Flechte, die am Felsen nagt ihr Mahl.
Grau ist alles, was dauert:

Die Dämmerung in die Straßen gekauert
Der Regen malt die festen Schiefer fahl.
Sie bleiben, wie die Zeit auch erschauert.

Im Regen die Reviere, versauert
Und die Asche der Öfen von Flammen kahl.
Grau ist alles, was dauert:

Das Meer, in dem die Flotte zaudert
Die Möwe flegelnd über dem Kanal.
Das bleibt, wie die Zeit auch schaudert.

Dies Haus aus Stahl, darin ein Quader trauert
Gehaun aus Schwärze und weißem Strahl.
Grau ist alles, was dauert.
Das bleibt, wenn auch die Zeit erschauert.

(Translated from the Welsh by Volker Braun)