Please note that the work on this blog is the copyright of the writers and may not be reproduced without their permission.
Thursday, 31 December 2009
Monday, 21 December 2009
It sounds like one
Continuing our tradition of Other Stuff musical offerings at Christmas - here are some Bulgarian ladies with a song which isn't a Christmas carol but sounds as if it should be:
Tuesday, 15 December 2009
Young Son Looks On -- by File
[POV: forgotten omniscient]
[fade in] fragrant, folded boy stares out from linen basket
at man, intent on mirror, shaving, at an angle
[cut to] hidden, protected contemplation from inside wardrobe
of me, as I try to write a poem
[reveal] earnest, herb-flecked eyes from warmest kitchen corner
where I stir the Bolognese
[voiceover] The surveillance
of the ordinary by the oughtn’t be there really.
[man turns to squint through blinds]
[pan to flat horizon]
Tuesday, 8 December 2009
Abercuawg: translation of a Welsh poem of the 9th or 10th century -- by Captain Ned
there would be comfort
but I do not stir
from this desolation
there's no grazing
bitter winds
scour the summer
of all but brightness
I am stiff I am old
I cannot get about
no retinue aids me
but let the cuckoo sing
Cuawg's cuckoo sings
on flowery branches
I hear its mocking
but I'll not ask for respite
Cuawg's cuckoo sings
on flowery branches
what pain would come
hearing it no more
once I heard the cuckoo sing
and I forsook my shield
left it sleeping by a tree
the cuckoo's song
the cuckoo's song
left it sleeping by a tree
a tall and rustling oak
the home of jostling birds
there I left my shield
and the cuckoo
wounds me still
the moon shines
my mind is raw
I do not sleep
I look to the hill-top
white against the dark
it is cold
I do not deny
I am sick tonight
the birds are raucous
old age should bring rest
leaves fall
from the ash tree
in youth I was loved
broad wave in the estuary
the wave is broad and bright
ebbing wave in the estuary
the wave ebbs
on Edrywy Hill
the birds are raucous
while in waste-lands
the dogs bark
now it is May
when all the land is fair
this is the young men's time
this is the soldiers' time
but I am old
my wounds sear me
I do not go to battle
I am old
rain soaks the pathway
the moon brings affliction to my heart
a far wave ebbs
sickness has chosen me
bring me my mead-bowl
bring me my ale
the cattle are sheltered
shield me from the rain
I speak now of treachery
of deceit while cups were raised
of an evil deed
done when men were glad
but atonement has come
and now the warrior is ragged
trading a little in exchange for much
there's no reward for the wretched
branches are high oak and ash
cow-parsley's sweet
the wave laughs
God's not merciful in this world
my sighs betray my sickness
good is not permitted me
hated here and in heaven
the wave strikes the shingle
the sea flays the shore
I look to the hill-top
and the cuckoo sings
.