Tears of joy roll down cheerful cheeks
Knowing now that this journey end
A bursting heart that’s filled with love,
Too all around happiness it sends.
Time will answer for us to meet,
My angel, my princess
You are my soul,
The question I asked is finally done,
My family’s together,
Total and whole.
By Graham Mitchell who says, “I have realised that things are not as bad as I thought, all we need is time”. 12/7/2010.
(A chwestiynau difyr eraill)
Y Llinell, nid y linell.
Yllong, y llinyn, y llyfr, y llwyn.
Mae Sali Mali’n cirri’s brechdanau.
Un, dwy, tair, pedair,
Gan mai benywaidd y w brechdanau ynte?
Ond pam fod brechdanau’n fenywaidd?
A sut mae gwybod pryd I dreiglo -
A phryd I beidio?
Meddal. Trwynol. Llaes. Cysefin.
Mae gen I’r tabl ym mlaen fy ngeiriadur,
Ond waeth iddo fod am fecaneg cwantwm ar y blaned Siwenna wir!
A beth am yr acen grom te?
A’r symbolau deniadol eraill?
Maen nhw’n edrych yn neis iawn ar y dudalen,
Ac yn ychwanegu ryw Je ne se quoi at enwau pobl,
Mae’n rhaid I mi gyrated,
Sion, Sian, Llyr ag Andrea.
Ond dwi’n methu’n glir a chofio’r rheolau,
Ac maen nhw’n niwsans I’w teipio ‘fyd -
Codau cymhleth fel rhyw fath o semaffor hunllefus,
Mae’n ddigon I gadw rhywun rhag blogio
A sut mae sgwennu’r dyddiad hyd yn oed?
-af, -fed, -ydd, -ed,
A pam fod rhai pethe yn un-deg-tri,
Tra bod eraill yn dair-ar-ddeg?
Rwyn ddiethryn I iaith fy nghalon -
Mewn pob ffordd “cywir” beth bynnag.
Ag eto, mae yna brydferthwch I’r cymhlethdod.
Hen iaith urddasol, swynol, cyfriniol,
A’I idiom pert a’I eiriau barddonol.
Mae yna ddyfnder sy’n deillio o’I hanes maith,
A’r traddodiadau morffolegol yang ngwreiddiau ‘r iaith.
Y mai cyfoeth yn deillio o’r tafodieithoedd inferus.
A sioncrwydd yn yr yenned pan fo Cymraeg ar y wefus.
Ac felly rwy’n fodlon straffaglue a marciau diacritic,
am yr anryhydedd o ‘sgrifennu yn yr iaith fendigedig.
Anwesaf yn awr y teg, teach, a’r teced,
A’r drud, y drutach, y drutaf, a’r dryted.
Y mae’n bleser I ddysgu sut I gwywiro fy ngwallau,
A dysgu’r ffordd orau I gyfrif brechdanau.
The above poem was written by Sara Louise Wheeler in Welsh in a similar style and spirit to “The Wife of Kava” by Patience Agbabi and “Over the Dishes” by Aled Lewis Evans. Originally written in Welsh, Sara has attempted a translation into English (see below). Sara suffers from dyslexia.
(And other interesting questions)
The llinell, not the linell
The llong, the llinyn, the llyfr, the llwyn
Sali Mali is counting the sandwiches,
Un, dwy, tair, pedair,
Because sandwiches are feminine aren’t they?
But why are sandwiches feminine?
And how to know when to mutate -
And when not to?
Meddal, trwynol, llaes, Cysefin.
I have the table in the back of my dictionary,
But it may as well be on quantum physics from the planet Siwenna!
And what of the acen grom?
And other decorative symbols?
They look very nice on the page.
And add a Je ne se quoi to people’s names.
I must admit.
Sion, Sian, Llyr and Andrea.
But I can’t for the life of me remember the rules
And they’re a nuisance to type as well.
Complicated codes like some nightmarish semaphore,
It’s enough to keep someone from blogging!
And how to write the date even?
-af, -fed, ydd, -ed,
And why are some things un-deg-tri,
While others are dair-ar-ddeg?
I’m a stranger to the language of my heart -
In every “correct” sense anyway
And yet there’s a beauty which lies within the complexity,
Of the old tribal language shrouded in mystery.
With its pretty idioms and poetic phrases,
Steeped in history which continually amazes.
Morphological traditions which contemporaries respect,
And the richness derived from each dialect,
A vivaciousness of spirit when Cymraeg is spoken,
So proud are we that it has not been forsaken.
And thus I am willing to study diacritics,
For the honour to write with their added aesthetics.
I’ll embrace now the teg, tecach and teced,
The drud, the drutach, the drutaf, the dryted.
It’s a pleasure to learn how to correct my gwallau,
And to learn the correct way to count the brechdanau.
The Prestatyn Flower Show displayed more than the average talents and crafts. Despite the spasmodic rain, many cheery faces were seen to be enjoying themselves amongst the various stalls.
A children’s entertainer provided fun for the younger visitors while others enjoyed refreshments in the open air. Rhyl Silver Band played delightfully, looking like flowers themselves in their bright red jackets. In the Marquis were displayed flower arrangements and other classes.
Dave Bowden's and Pat Coope's Paintings - Far left and far right respectively
Both members of Jim Taylor’s art class, Dave Bowen and Pat Coope, took first and third prizes respectively in the art competition. Their work, and that of our Editor Hazel, with her first attempt at an acrylic, was exhibited amongst some lovely pictures of a high calibre in the Scala Theatre and Serino’s Cafe, Prestatyn.
Another lady who also had her work on display was kindly conversant regarding the challenges and achievements as a sufferer of Parkinson’s Disease. She watched over each individual’s entry in the large Marquis as a proud mother over her children. A delightful conversation ensued with Hazel learning much about the good works and charity set up in support of this debilitating condition. A jazz band played accompanied by an impromptu dancer, which was wonderfully followed by singer, Chloe, who appears at Rhyl Pavilion Theatre in September.
Air Cadets weaved their way between the throng, checking everything and everyone was looked after and keeping the Vicarage Grounds tidy.
The winning garden photograph, in the ‘Framed’ class, entitled “Magical” was taken by Wendy Rhys Jones. Later these photos were displayed in Rhyl Library and Arts Centre where they enhanced a performance of poetry and a suite of music entitled “The Garden Suite” by Dave Hopkins and Ian Stopes.
Wheelbarrows overflowing with colour, having survived the onslaught of a downpour overnight, extended graceful necks to show their now sunlit flowered faces. Hand-crafted jewellery abounded, stone work, woodwork, homemade cakes and to the Editor’s delight, a wonderful display of classic and vintage cars arrayed the entrance gates.
Earlier in the week other classes were held which included the intriguing “worm-charming” competition. Unfortunately, Editor Hazel missed that one! Very many thanks for a wonderful two days where many volunteers gave freely of their time and talents. Here’s to the sixteenth annual Prestatyn Flower Show, North Wales.
By Hazel Usher-Jones
Dave Hopkins, wife Mary, and Ian Stopes
Like turning the key to unlock a door to this wonderful “magical place” Dave Hopkins and Ian Stopes of “The Hot Foot Jazzmen” successfully show their audience this delightful movement of music with recited poetry, aptly entitled “The Garden Suite”. Whilst Dave pleases us with his flautist butterflies and wind, sonetimes the clarinet/saxophone pouring water away from a fountain, reflecting in the gentle rain, Ian swiftly compliments and surprises with his deft use of Spanish/acoustic guitar. We become entranced with a tangoing statue and it’s shadow as it dances amongst wind and leaves to be replaced by a gentle rain as we move into the soothing evening song.
Dave and Ian play The Garden Suite, accompanied on this occasion by Dave’s wife reciting poetry, also written by the pair on Wednesday 11th August at the Rhyl Library and Arts Centre. The exhibited photographs from Prestatyn Flower Show flank Dave and Ian, who have been together fo a number of years in a professional capacity. They sometimes include a double bass in the suite. Also Bangor and Bodnant Gardens have rung with the sounds of their various suites. This, The Garden Suite, in their words is “music written to be performed and discovered in the setting of a garden, formal or otherwise”. Dave and Ian can be reached on 01745 582412, or 886319.
By Hazel Usher-Jones
One of the great joys of my life was walking with my dogs. Spring, summer, rain, hail or shine, it was the highlight of my day. When my wife died, all my friends expected me to walk my grief away. There were even quips about the dogs becoming dachshunds as I wore their legs off. It was not to be, however. Caring for my wife had been the final straw for my back and joints, and I was no longer able to walk any real distance. For a while I was very depressed, but the one thing about difficulty in walking is you can’t run away from it.
I had a garden, and some plants, but didn’t do a lot except keep it tidy. Now I was ‘confined to barracks’ I decided to spruce it up a bit. Digging and even bending to weed was difficult, but I found that I could cultivate flowers in pots relatively easily. Didn’t need to bend, and nothing could spread and infest the whole garden. I was given a lot of advice over what would grow in pots, but found that, in fact, nearly anything will. I started with the usual carnations and busy lizzies, but then I started to get ambitious.
As long as I could get the empty pot where I wanted it, nothing was really a problem. Plastic pots are lightest, or stacking tubs, and children’s toy tubs make wonderful flower pots with a few holes drilled in them. I bought a child’s set of garden implements, bucket, watering can, etc, and found I could move compost to my pots, and puddle my plants in, as long as I persevered. Sat in my chair I could reach larger pots, and put the little ones on my knee to weed and seed. My garden started to bloom, and my dogs enjoyed being outside with me. They were getting elderly, so friends would take them for short walks, but most of the time they stayed in the garden with me.
I had the grass taken up from half the garden and put down a barrier sheet and gravel, so the weeds would not grow between the pots. Then I started to experiment. I grew apple and cherry trees from pips, and even had a mandarin bush from a seed found in a tin of mandarin oranges. Encouraged, I broke bits off plants and grew them, and tried orange and grapefruit pips (it works). Suddenly I was surrounded by little trees and bushes, and tiny plants in pots. Help! I had a bench built down the side of my home, and production blossomed. Neighbours came for help with their plants, or to see if they could have a bit of this and that. Suddenly I was too busy to mope about walking dogs. I ‘discovered’ fuchsias, and produced hundreds of little ones from cuttings to donate to the village May Day plant stall. At its height, my garden had 300 pots or hanging baskets with various plants and trees in, not including all the little cuttings and the seedling ‘orchard’.
John Shillito's Potted Garden
So if you like flowers and plants (or haven’t tried gardening yet), and you can’t get about too well, pots may be your answer. One pot or 300, window box, barrel with a palm tree in (yes, it works), horse chestnut in a dustbin, or just a fancy pot and an indoor purple shamrock, you can decide just how much is enough. If it gets too much, just dispose of a few pots. A concrete yard can be a flower bed, without digging or bending, and once plants are growing the wildlife will follow. Buddlea are called butterfly bushes and they will grow anywhere. Foxgloves are made for bumblebees. An old dustbin lid buried in gravel is a pond. Slugs bring frogs and hedgehogs, and snails attract thrushes. Honeysuckle will attract wrens, robins and blackbirds to nest, especially if the pot is next to a wall or fence to grow a nice tangle, and the scent is wonderful. My old dogs are no longer here to walk with me, but in my potted garden I have my own country ‘walk’ every day.
John Shillito
My name is John Shillito and I live in the countryside in Lincolnshire on a small mobile home park. I retired some years ago when arthritis and some old injuries caught up with me, and my eyes started to misbehave. I have always written poetry, although never exposed it to the cruel world until this year. My poetry lost its sparkle when my wife died, and became quite sad last year when my two old dogs died.
The poems have cheered up lately, partly due to my granddaughter, and also due to Jet, an old rescue dog who felt sorry for me and moved in to supervise the cats. The result is a bit of a mixture, from dragons and pixies to dogs, cats and (almost) the meaning of life.
The sky has just a hint of grey, one breath before the dawn
I hear a rattle from the cat flap, then touch of velvet paw
You tell me your adventures, where you have been tonight
the mysteries, the triumphs, how you had an awful fright
I listen to your meow and chirps, understand each gentle purr
your fearless explorations, how brave you were out there
You tell of hunting mighty prey, of monsters in the dark
the sounds and scent of moonlight, and that awful, sudden, bark
I scratch behind your ears, stroke your slightly ruffled fur
my intrepid correspondent how I wish I had been there
Then the world bursts into life, serenades the first sunbeams
and we slip down beneath the covers and drift quietly into dreams
When pain first stole my morning walk, crippled limb and mind
All I could think was what I’d lost, of how fate was so unkind
Then like a sunbeam in my heart, cutting through the gloom
a spark became a beacon, and poetry began to bloom
So now I run to greet the dawn, I soar through endless skies
All the mysteries of time and space, revealed before my eyes
The pain that ate me up, made me so miserable and terse
is now lost against the splendour of the poetic universe
My words can paint a panorama, full of colour, fire and life
An antidote to realities, to our modern, soul-less strife
Can lift spirits on clouds of laughter, light fires in your heart
Bring the strongest to their knees, or break a world apart
Paint spots dropped on canvas, seeds in a forest glade
Rewriting our conceptions, transforming feather into blade
Poetry spreads and merges, ever bringing a different hue
Open your eyes and heart, and let magic flow right through
Your breathing, soft, beside me in the night
catches, stops my heart with sudden fright
Frozen, I wait, sudden dread has seized my will
You breathe, and all my foolish fears are stilled
The experts all say terminal, the doctors all say soon
So I await that moment, when your breath does not resume
I lay beside you, listening, through the night so endless
greet you, waking, with soft caress, and smile so careless
I see you growing weary of this endless fight
Behind the brittle smile, yearning for endless night
My craven heart quails, I cannot face that dawn
When I must face the endless days – alone
For my Noeline
Hazel’s choice for September is “Driftwood”, a new book by an accomplished and prolific author, tutor, poet, and friend to many. Aled Lewis Evans has once again excelled in producing short stories and monologues originally written in Welsh and in this collection, translated into English for enjoyment beyond language barriers. He has a great perception of the workings of minds and trials of the great public, both as individuals and as a body.
With each page being an absolute delight in insight into the lives of others, my personal choice has to be “Early at Service”. Guaranteed to make one smile in recognition of the characters portrayed in this edifying observation. Thoroughly recommended. E-mail Hazel for details.
Having attended the book launch of “Driftwood” in Wrexham Library, North Wales, a fellow member of Rhyl Writers’ Group Carolyn A Davies has written a poem describing Aled’s virtues and talents, entitled, of course “Aled Lewis Evans”….
A – Accomplished Author. Acquiescent Adjudicator
L – Literary Leader and Linguist
E – Eminent Eisteddfodwr
D – Devotee of the Divine
L – Laid-back Listener
E – Enthusiastic Educator
W – Wales’ own Writer of Welsh
I – Inspirational and Imaginative
S – Sentient Scribe yn Saesneg
E – Engaging Erudite Enigma
V – Valuable Vanguard
A – Affable Acquirer of Achievements
N – Natural Native Narrator
S – Skilled and Savant Sage
C. A. Davies
June 2010
Aled Lewis Evans and Carolyn Davies
(L-R) Aled Lewis Evans, Alice and Carolyn at booklaunch of Driftwood
“Listen”
In the silence one hears
The fingers of light as they reach forward
Gently
Cradle our fearful heart, calm the pounding
Massage pain of broken, find a chink in closed
Gently
Prize open to remove darkness from night-filled chambers
Move along corridors to replace with odour-filled light,
Dispel stillness of dark to reveal morning brightness.
In the silence one feels, slowly, a recovery, a wonder
Of renewal. Finger of light, lift malignant dark,
Replace with white, reach, smooth, tenderly caress,
Until a fearful pound becomes replaced by
Still, secret voice of comfort, quiet grace
Of potential-filled desire.
Fingers retreat, pause,
Close a tear in the heart,
Now fixed, smoothed and soothed
Gently
Withdraw until clamour of fear is noise no more, but
Treasure-attended Word – Jewel drops of prayer.
Hazel Usher-Jones
(written after her vision during a dream)