I've had a lot to think about the past couple days, and I really don't feel like getting into the nitty-gritty of all of it in my blog, not really in any language. It's all too close to me still for me to be expounding upon it. Nonetheless the events of the past several days, generally positive, although periodically depressing to me in an entirely personal way, in ways which are difficult to communicate to friends or blog-readers, have reminded me that wisdom often comes from unexpected places, and even from undesirable places. Case in point, the story of St. Oran:
According to this very old island legend, Columba and his monks tried to build a chapel on Iona, but could not get the walls to stand. Frustrated, Columba turned to his friend Oran, who knew the old ways of the island. Oran suggested that he be thrown into the footers of the building to appease the ancient energies of the island. Columba did as he was told and the walls stood.
But three days later, Columba had Oran dug out of the foundations. Very much alive, Oran said that he had traveled to the Other World and began to describe the many strange things he had seen. (thumbnail of dragons book of Kells) Oran ended his story with a bit of cautionary advice for his friend, Columba. Leaning over to him, Oran whispered, "The way you think it is may not be the way it is at all."
Columba, the proud son of an Irish chieftain, did not take the advice very well. He promptly had Oran re-interred. But the incident survived in legend and islanders enshrined Oran's words as folk wisdom. Fourteen centuries later pilgrims who ponder Iona's mysteries are still likely to hear, "The way you think it is may not be the way it is at all." In the Hebrides and Ireland, when someone mentions an uncomfortable subject, it is still common to silence them with the phrase "Throw mud in the mouth of St. Oran."
The inscription in the St. Oran Bell Tower recalls this old legend and challenges the easy certainties of our modern world. Each time the bell rings it echoes Oran’s timeless wisdom:
"The way you think it is may not be the way it is at all."
(from: http://www.columcille.org/inspirations.html)
I'm never terribly fond of quoting Christian saints, but I'm not any more fond of quoting aspiritual cynics, and yet, again I find strength in the wisdom of another whom I would not generally cite. His name is Jerry, and he is so "devout" a cynic that he utterly refuses to concede even the possibility of a "higher power", and darkly embraces a kind of pragmatic nihilism that borders on oblivion. Jerry often points out that we live "in a world of sub-opitmal outcomes."
Add to Jerry's the words of Carlos Casteneda's nagual, a powerful native shaman, in The Second Ring of Power, who reminds the other characters and the reader that we "must accept our fate," presumably if we are to find anykind of inner peace, and I walk away from the events of the past couple days with three pieces of advice from unlikely quarters.
Tonight I fancy I will enter the dreamspeak plain of my mind and vision the Old Barn, and in it, Jerry, the Nagual and St. Oran, and we shall have a conversation. After which, I shall enbibe an unspecified number of imaginary Grey Goose martinis...
diumenge, d’abril 24, 2005
dijous, d’abril 21, 2005
Useless, funny, and remotely interesting tests... (English)
Your Brain is 53.33% Female, 46.67% Male |
Your brain is a healthy mix of male and female You are both sensitive and savvy Rational and reasonable, you tend to keep level headed But you also tend to wear your heart on your sleeve |
dimarts, d’abril 19, 2005
Buen día (English / French / Spanish)
Today was the kind of day that every day of my life should be like, if I had the energy to pull it off. I got up in a timely fashion and trotted off to Brueggers, gobbling up my usual egg-sausage-and-cheese honey grain bagel sandwich and orange juice. Next I arrived at work and managed to get to be at my 8 o'clock class right on time. It was productive, in fact all three classes went well, no minor miracle when teaching at a community college. This high level of output from the students in the first two classes was due in large part to their mystification at the hands of that old devil, the Subjunctive, once in Spanish, then again in French. At the end of the day, the subjunctive in Spanish is much more interesting, a beguiling mistress, where in French it's an old whore with fancy wrags and Chanel Nº5.
After class, it was off to lunch with colleagues in the cafeteria, delightful in its simplicity and comradery. I finished my lunch, took care of some minor errands in my office then rushed home and mounted my bike rack and Avalon 7-speed on the back of my Saturn, changed my clothes and went off to the Niskayuna bike path, choosing the trailhead at the old Niskayuna train station. Here the bike path follows the Mohawk closely, and the weather was, as we say in French, ravissant. Nearly 80, sunny and dry, the blooms beginning to show color on the trees and the water foul returning to the river-cum-canal, the day could not have been more radiant for a bike ride. I journeyed eastwards past the Colonie Town border where the path is more varied with slight ondulations.
After about two and half miles the trail turns away slightly from the river and climbs serenely, gently about 90 feet in altitude, the top of the rise easily attainable in 4th gear. Along the way, you can observe at various occasions the Twin Bridges over the Mohawk, a massive crossing barely a stone's throw from the confluence of the Mohawk and the Hudson. Additionally, along this stretch of the trail, the Mohawk is once again, more or less, a real river, the barge canal having been laid in a deep trench cut through the rock half mile or so to the north. East from this stretch of the river, Mother Nature still holds the trump card. The voracious Cohoes Cataract, sometimes called the Niagara of the East, lies down river, roiling and spuming on the southern side of Peebles Island. From the top of the rise, it is exactly four miles from the parking lot at the trailhead, and the ride back is imprescindible; you can lock the bike in 7th and coast down nearly two miles. The prevailing angle favors the entire return trip however, and today with the bright sun, the blue sky, the warm, dry air on my face and the river to one side, it was really great way to pass part of the afternoon.
Next, I returned home, with just enough time to spare to get a laundry in the washer, and then hang it up to dry outside. This weather is great for clothes drying; even heavy jeans or corduroys dry in under an hour, less time than they would take in my aging dryer, and at no-cost to the environment. I whipped the clothes up on the line, and then stowed my yoga gear in the Jag and drove off to Yoga class. After the eight-mile bike ride, Yoga class seemed like kindergarten tonight. I was still flexible from my earlier exertions. I returned home and prepared supper, took care of some household tasks, and now here I am, sipping a mint julip on a very warm Spring evening, recording some last thoughts for the day before retiring to my slumber...
After class, it was off to lunch with colleagues in the cafeteria, delightful in its simplicity and comradery. I finished my lunch, took care of some minor errands in my office then rushed home and mounted my bike rack and Avalon 7-speed on the back of my Saturn, changed my clothes and went off to the Niskayuna bike path, choosing the trailhead at the old Niskayuna train station. Here the bike path follows the Mohawk closely, and the weather was, as we say in French, ravissant. Nearly 80, sunny and dry, the blooms beginning to show color on the trees and the water foul returning to the river-cum-canal, the day could not have been more radiant for a bike ride. I journeyed eastwards past the Colonie Town border where the path is more varied with slight ondulations.
After about two and half miles the trail turns away slightly from the river and climbs serenely, gently about 90 feet in altitude, the top of the rise easily attainable in 4th gear. Along the way, you can observe at various occasions the Twin Bridges over the Mohawk, a massive crossing barely a stone's throw from the confluence of the Mohawk and the Hudson. Additionally, along this stretch of the trail, the Mohawk is once again, more or less, a real river, the barge canal having been laid in a deep trench cut through the rock half mile or so to the north. East from this stretch of the river, Mother Nature still holds the trump card. The voracious Cohoes Cataract, sometimes called the Niagara of the East, lies down river, roiling and spuming on the southern side of Peebles Island. From the top of the rise, it is exactly four miles from the parking lot at the trailhead, and the ride back is imprescindible; you can lock the bike in 7th and coast down nearly two miles. The prevailing angle favors the entire return trip however, and today with the bright sun, the blue sky, the warm, dry air on my face and the river to one side, it was really great way to pass part of the afternoon.
Next, I returned home, with just enough time to spare to get a laundry in the washer, and then hang it up to dry outside. This weather is great for clothes drying; even heavy jeans or corduroys dry in under an hour, less time than they would take in my aging dryer, and at no-cost to the environment. I whipped the clothes up on the line, and then stowed my yoga gear in the Jag and drove off to Yoga class. After the eight-mile bike ride, Yoga class seemed like kindergarten tonight. I was still flexible from my earlier exertions. I returned home and prepared supper, took care of some household tasks, and now here I am, sipping a mint julip on a very warm Spring evening, recording some last thoughts for the day before retiring to my slumber...
dilluns, d’abril 18, 2005
Quantum Springtime Musing (English / French / Welsh)
Warm summer-like breezes blow through my office window
and I count blessings
better to count what you have
than to count on what might come along
These days have been for thinking
for reflecting,for penser de, for meddwl wrth
consulting the gazetteer of my errs
and the ways between them
This road map leads to interesting places
Yet it is true
some were better off uncharted
the torment of the journey hardly worth the reward
Still I cannot help but revel in the splendor of now
appreciating every day
the roiling tumult of the unifying experience of God
of everything, of Life, of whatever
Experience
perfect in its faults
enjoyable in its decadence
debauching as the cosmos entropizes
all that was, shall be
all that shall be is gone
all that is shall be and has been
God is lovely in his many faces
some solace comes to me knowing that while I
whatever I might be
remain with certain dreams unrequited...
In some other part of this ultimate experience
the same God in me, is in accomplished rapture
in passion, in the thralls resplendent joy
and somehow since he and I are one...
I too take joy in the relative potential
sit back
entreat the warm spring breeze into my lungs
as my next breath might be my last...
and I count blessings
better to count what you have
than to count on what might come along
These days have been for thinking
for reflecting,for penser de, for meddwl wrth
consulting the gazetteer of my errs
and the ways between them
This road map leads to interesting places
Yet it is true
some were better off uncharted
the torment of the journey hardly worth the reward
Still I cannot help but revel in the splendor of now
appreciating every day
the roiling tumult of the unifying experience of God
of everything, of Life, of whatever
Experience
perfect in its faults
enjoyable in its decadence
debauching as the cosmos entropizes
all that was, shall be
all that shall be is gone
all that is shall be and has been
God is lovely in his many faces
some solace comes to me knowing that while I
whatever I might be
remain with certain dreams unrequited...
In some other part of this ultimate experience
the same God in me, is in accomplished rapture
in passion, in the thralls resplendent joy
and somehow since he and I are one...
I too take joy in the relative potential
sit back
entreat the warm spring breeze into my lungs
as my next breath might be my last...
dissabte, d’abril 16, 2005
Tristement, on se rend compte (French)
Un nouvelle onde, l'ancienne est morte...
Je suis fatigué, profondement. Pas de la vie, mais d'un certain aspect de la mienne. Ma cherche, ma quête, la chasse pour l'autre, alors c'est une vieille histoire, plaintivement racontée par des millions à chaque tour. Moi, je suis comme eux, exaspèrement banal dans mon désir, et aussi ignorant qu'eux en même temps. Et pourtant, je mérite mes blessures. Je savais mieux, mais je suis sortie quand même comme Don Quixote, en sortant pour engager les moulins de vent à bataille. Mais, heureusement, parmi les traces des feux du passé, il me reste une restauration, un renouvellement, un nouvel embrassement d'un sentier relativement ancien.
C'est le moment, c'est l'aube de la journée - en fait c'est presque comme mon amie ancienne et moi somme liés dans une danse ancienne où elle prend son tour et moi le mien. Maintenant elle commence à découvrir de nouveau les plaisirs du corps - c'est à dire, de l'amour charnal, et moi, je les rejette peu à peu. Je rentre dans les abîmes obscures de mon propre passé où je peux être à l'aise dans le noir, dans ma solitude.
Hier, tu vois, je me suis laissé être séduit, et maintenant je me sens un traître. Qu'est-ce que j'ai fait alors? Est-ce que j'ai ouvert mon coeur à des blessures si graves? Est-ce que je me suis donné à l'autel des imbeciles?
Ou bien, est-ce que j'ai trouvé le vrai amour et je suis trop idiot de le reconnaître?
Mais même si c'est le vrai amour, est-ce que j'ai même la capacité de l'absorber? Cela, je doute. Je n'ai plus de capacité. Je suis crevé. La faim créée par la faute de vraie jouissance, de vraie romance pendant non seulement des mois, ou des années, sinon les décenies, a tué une certaine zone de mon être. Je n'ai que la capacité de jouer un rôle, et cela même cela, temporairement.
On peut vivre quelques mensonges, mais pas d'autres.
Tout évidemment, je ne peux pas être le sien. Je ne peux pas être l'amant de personne, pas l'amant total. Je n'ai plus la capacité, si jamais je l'ai eue. C'est une perte, une faute de mon existence. J'ai perdu mon chemin au long de mon éducation sentimentale. Je n'ai jamais aimé ma mère comme Proust, quand même je suis presqu'aussi abîmé que lui.
Le cerveau crée des ponts, des liens entre des pensées, des concepts, mais les plus durants sonts les plus épais, les sentiers, les ponts les plus developés. Si longuement j'ai dormi seul. Si longuement j'ai joui des étrangers, si longuement je me suis plaît aux chaleurs banales que maintenant je n'ai plus de force à accepter les vraies émotions d'un amant.
Oui, peut-être avec du temps mon cerveau pourrait se configurer de nouveau. Mais, où c'est l'aube d'une nouvelle vague d'un côté, il faut que je me rende compte du fait qu'il y a, essentialement, très peu de jours qui me restent.
Mon destin c'est de rentrer dans la terre aussi seule que quand j'y suis entré. Il n'est pas juste de faire semblant d'aimer où on n'a plus la capacité de le faire. Si cette personne reste seule sans moi, elle est de meilleur état qu'avec moi à ses côtés.
L'absence vaut mieux que la torture présente....
Je suis fatigué, profondement. Pas de la vie, mais d'un certain aspect de la mienne. Ma cherche, ma quête, la chasse pour l'autre, alors c'est une vieille histoire, plaintivement racontée par des millions à chaque tour. Moi, je suis comme eux, exaspèrement banal dans mon désir, et aussi ignorant qu'eux en même temps. Et pourtant, je mérite mes blessures. Je savais mieux, mais je suis sortie quand même comme Don Quixote, en sortant pour engager les moulins de vent à bataille. Mais, heureusement, parmi les traces des feux du passé, il me reste une restauration, un renouvellement, un nouvel embrassement d'un sentier relativement ancien.
C'est le moment, c'est l'aube de la journée - en fait c'est presque comme mon amie ancienne et moi somme liés dans une danse ancienne où elle prend son tour et moi le mien. Maintenant elle commence à découvrir de nouveau les plaisirs du corps - c'est à dire, de l'amour charnal, et moi, je les rejette peu à peu. Je rentre dans les abîmes obscures de mon propre passé où je peux être à l'aise dans le noir, dans ma solitude.
Hier, tu vois, je me suis laissé être séduit, et maintenant je me sens un traître. Qu'est-ce que j'ai fait alors? Est-ce que j'ai ouvert mon coeur à des blessures si graves? Est-ce que je me suis donné à l'autel des imbeciles?
Ou bien, est-ce que j'ai trouvé le vrai amour et je suis trop idiot de le reconnaître?
Mais même si c'est le vrai amour, est-ce que j'ai même la capacité de l'absorber? Cela, je doute. Je n'ai plus de capacité. Je suis crevé. La faim créée par la faute de vraie jouissance, de vraie romance pendant non seulement des mois, ou des années, sinon les décenies, a tué une certaine zone de mon être. Je n'ai que la capacité de jouer un rôle, et cela même cela, temporairement.
On peut vivre quelques mensonges, mais pas d'autres.
Tout évidemment, je ne peux pas être le sien. Je ne peux pas être l'amant de personne, pas l'amant total. Je n'ai plus la capacité, si jamais je l'ai eue. C'est une perte, une faute de mon existence. J'ai perdu mon chemin au long de mon éducation sentimentale. Je n'ai jamais aimé ma mère comme Proust, quand même je suis presqu'aussi abîmé que lui.
Le cerveau crée des ponts, des liens entre des pensées, des concepts, mais les plus durants sonts les plus épais, les sentiers, les ponts les plus developés. Si longuement j'ai dormi seul. Si longuement j'ai joui des étrangers, si longuement je me suis plaît aux chaleurs banales que maintenant je n'ai plus de force à accepter les vraies émotions d'un amant.
Oui, peut-être avec du temps mon cerveau pourrait se configurer de nouveau. Mais, où c'est l'aube d'une nouvelle vague d'un côté, il faut que je me rende compte du fait qu'il y a, essentialement, très peu de jours qui me restent.
Mon destin c'est de rentrer dans la terre aussi seule que quand j'y suis entré. Il n'est pas juste de faire semblant d'aimer où on n'a plus la capacité de le faire. Si cette personne reste seule sans moi, elle est de meilleur état qu'avec moi à ses côtés.
L'absence vaut mieux que la torture présente....
dijous, d’abril 14, 2005
Casgliad o feddyliau amrywiol (English / Cornish / Welsh)
Today has been exhausting, but good - well suffice to say it has had its ups and downs. Here are the varied things which I have accomlished today:
1) I taught my normal 4.5 hours this morning, Elementary Spanish, Intermediate French, then finally Intermediate Spanish. Real progress actually seems to have been made in the latter two. The former was rather slow and pokey at producing material, but did manage to get them laugh a little, no small feat for 8AM. At the end of the day they seemed to have accomplished some small recognition of their tasks as well.
2) At 12:30 I began playing the movie "Hero" for the language club, and then went to lunch.
3) By 2PM I was in a 15 passanger van full of a colleague's Bio students headed for what I like to call "Willy Wonka's" Marsh. The real name is the Willye Road Marsh under the care of the New York DEC and it lies about three miles outside of Gloversville and Johnstown. The weather was lovely, and the walk through the woods and along the boardwalks through this man-made marsh wer quite pleasant. I got my muddy sneakers a little muddier and chuckled at the city kids acting like wussies when the branches from small trees and bushes smacked them. I also learned the difference between a marsh and a bog, but I'm not telling what it is.
4) I returned to the college by 4PM, changed my shoes and proceeded back to Johnstown in the company of four of my colleagues to Union Hall, the tiny city's most reputable eatery where I enjoyed a relatively light supper and three Grey Goose martinis.
5) The reason we were going to Union Hall (several more colleagues joined us there) was to commiserate and fortify ourselves before the Board of Trustees Meeting at 7:30. Commiserate? Yes, we have gone all year without a new contract, and we went to the BOT to show solidarity and annoy them.
At last I am at home, enjoying a tall cold Yuengling, and thinking about tomorrow. Life is, no matter how you slice it, damn weird. Ha py tra rag avarow? Den. Ia, den noweth. Den dew. My re vos dhe chy dybri gans un den nos Sul dhewetha, mes war y wolyow yma ev lemmyn. Yma'n den-ma ha vy wosa bos ow kewsel er dydhyow war'n post-tredanek ha'n pellgowser mebyl. Den da yu ha my a wra gwaytya y weles nos avarow - nos pur da vydh, py my a wra trestya!
A pheth anhygoel - rwyf wedi bod yn meddwl am gegin Mary Jones Tai'n Lôn heno, am ba mor cyffrous ydw i yno ac yn ei thy. Mae'n od i'w ddweud, a does dim hawl gen i i'w 'neud, ond rwyf yn teimlo fel mae ty Mary wedi dod yn gartref arall imi, rwyf mor gyffrous yno. Wrth gwrs, rwyf yn edrch ymlaen at ei gweld hi a'i llwyth hefyd!
1) I taught my normal 4.5 hours this morning, Elementary Spanish, Intermediate French, then finally Intermediate Spanish. Real progress actually seems to have been made in the latter two. The former was rather slow and pokey at producing material, but did manage to get them laugh a little, no small feat for 8AM. At the end of the day they seemed to have accomplished some small recognition of their tasks as well.
2) At 12:30 I began playing the movie "Hero" for the language club, and then went to lunch.
3) By 2PM I was in a 15 passanger van full of a colleague's Bio students headed for what I like to call "Willy Wonka's" Marsh. The real name is the Willye Road Marsh under the care of the New York DEC and it lies about three miles outside of Gloversville and Johnstown. The weather was lovely, and the walk through the woods and along the boardwalks through this man-made marsh wer quite pleasant. I got my muddy sneakers a little muddier and chuckled at the city kids acting like wussies when the branches from small trees and bushes smacked them. I also learned the difference between a marsh and a bog, but I'm not telling what it is.
4) I returned to the college by 4PM, changed my shoes and proceeded back to Johnstown in the company of four of my colleagues to Union Hall, the tiny city's most reputable eatery where I enjoyed a relatively light supper and three Grey Goose martinis.
5) The reason we were going to Union Hall (several more colleagues joined us there) was to commiserate and fortify ourselves before the Board of Trustees Meeting at 7:30. Commiserate? Yes, we have gone all year without a new contract, and we went to the BOT to show solidarity and annoy them.
At last I am at home, enjoying a tall cold Yuengling, and thinking about tomorrow. Life is, no matter how you slice it, damn weird. Ha py tra rag avarow? Den. Ia, den noweth. Den dew. My re vos dhe chy dybri gans un den nos Sul dhewetha, mes war y wolyow yma ev lemmyn. Yma'n den-ma ha vy wosa bos ow kewsel er dydhyow war'n post-tredanek ha'n pellgowser mebyl. Den da yu ha my a wra gwaytya y weles nos avarow - nos pur da vydh, py my a wra trestya!
A pheth anhygoel - rwyf wedi bod yn meddwl am gegin Mary Jones Tai'n Lôn heno, am ba mor cyffrous ydw i yno ac yn ei thy. Mae'n od i'w ddweud, a does dim hawl gen i i'w 'neud, ond rwyf yn teimlo fel mae ty Mary wedi dod yn gartref arall imi, rwyf mor gyffrous yno. Wrth gwrs, rwyf yn edrch ymlaen at ei gweld hi a'i llwyth hefyd!
dimarts, d’abril 12, 2005
Distance Makes the Heart Grow Fonder (English / Welsh)
Spring has returned to the land
and so my thoughts to you
I remember you so clearly
time has not erased your images from my mind
they are not paler with passing years
if anything they are clearer now
Eleven springs have come and gone
since you travelled into the quantum
into the question mark
Eleven springs and I still dream of you
still remember your smile
your hair, your perfume
I can still feel the rough wool of that old brown sweater
your tiny boney frame as I embraced you
your look of confusion on the day I drove you to the hospital
your stalwart determination to return home
your acquiescence to god
your last anguished moments
But I remember not just those last moments
your laying in that antisceiptic room
away from 111 N. 9th Street
where you had lived for 70 years
your body convulsing in its death throes
your eyes staring out blindly with no soul left to guide them
your tongue bloodied because in a last fit of life you bit it
I remember the long hot summer afternoons
the rain falling on the flagstone walk
I remember the Waldorf Red Velvet cakes
and the sound of your heels clanking on the cellar steps
I remember the canaries' songs and the smell of your apron
when I was a little boy
I remember the long walks through town
Our little town, our little world
I remember trips for toys to Teddy Bear
and to Lee's for ice cream
I remember the feel of your old red winter coat
and the glint of your silver horn-rimmed glasses
I remember your fit of anguish after Marggie died
I remember your plaintive cries at the side of Sue's coffin
I remember the lone country road that March with mother
The snow melting and the sky heavy and yellow
I remember your voice, a magnetic artifact from weeks before
Playing on the answering machine just hours after you died
"Barbara, where are you?" you called out forlornly to my mother
From the machine, from the past, from the quantum
Was that god's way of telling us time is immaterial?
I remember the peach rose bush that grew alongside Ott Thomas' garage
the peach rose your cold hands clasped in the casket
the flowers we planted on the graves in Stroudsburg cemetery
And all these remembrances play in my mind
Eleven springs on and I remember it all
Seeing your demise did not weaken my memory of you
rather its sad portent has reinforced the lovely rose moments we had
Eleven springs on and I confess
In absence I may love you more now than when you were alive
Er cof Arwilda Elizabeth Hagerty, 1908-1994
and so my thoughts to you
I remember you so clearly
time has not erased your images from my mind
they are not paler with passing years
if anything they are clearer now
Eleven springs have come and gone
since you travelled into the quantum
into the question mark
Eleven springs and I still dream of you
still remember your smile
your hair, your perfume
I can still feel the rough wool of that old brown sweater
your tiny boney frame as I embraced you
your look of confusion on the day I drove you to the hospital
your stalwart determination to return home
your acquiescence to god
your last anguished moments
But I remember not just those last moments
your laying in that antisceiptic room
away from 111 N. 9th Street
where you had lived for 70 years
your body convulsing in its death throes
your eyes staring out blindly with no soul left to guide them
your tongue bloodied because in a last fit of life you bit it
I remember the long hot summer afternoons
the rain falling on the flagstone walk
I remember the Waldorf Red Velvet cakes
and the sound of your heels clanking on the cellar steps
I remember the canaries' songs and the smell of your apron
when I was a little boy
I remember the long walks through town
Our little town, our little world
I remember trips for toys to Teddy Bear
and to Lee's for ice cream
I remember the feel of your old red winter coat
and the glint of your silver horn-rimmed glasses
I remember your fit of anguish after Marggie died
I remember your plaintive cries at the side of Sue's coffin
I remember the lone country road that March with mother
The snow melting and the sky heavy and yellow
I remember your voice, a magnetic artifact from weeks before
Playing on the answering machine just hours after you died
"Barbara, where are you?" you called out forlornly to my mother
From the machine, from the past, from the quantum
Was that god's way of telling us time is immaterial?
I remember the peach rose bush that grew alongside Ott Thomas' garage
the peach rose your cold hands clasped in the casket
the flowers we planted on the graves in Stroudsburg cemetery
And all these remembrances play in my mind
Eleven springs on and I remember it all
Seeing your demise did not weaken my memory of you
rather its sad portent has reinforced the lovely rose moments we had
Eleven springs on and I confess
In absence I may love you more now than when you were alive
Er cof Arwilda Elizabeth Hagerty, 1908-1994
diumenge, d’abril 10, 2005
Dyddiau Llawn a dyddiau da (English / Welsh / Cornish)
So many days without a post. As always, since I began this blog, this comes about, not because I have nothing to do or say, but because I have been so busy, and really, again, all with lovely things. Today was a perfect example. I got up, went to Brueggers for breakfast, then off to church. The sermon was good, poignant and stimulating. Next we had a church meeting that went well, and then I proceeded to the supermarket which was blessedly uncrowded. I returned home with my provisions, and then did some yard work. My neighbor's Annie and Mary were both outside as well, so we all had a nice visit while getting working done, an advantage to small city lots. Then Carolyn came over and helped me finish some clean up, then we tooled over to the Nisky bike path and she roller bladed while I biked - we clocked about 6 miles before Carolyn, who had to work a lot harder than I, gave up. Then I came home and had a lovely meal out with a friend, and now here I am, updating my blog and sipping a cool beer. Dydd llawn a da ydyw - ha'n den hanev a-neth, den jentyll yma ev ha hir y ver. My a vyn den avel ev...
dimarts, d’abril 05, 2005
A post, a post, a pole? (English / French / Cornish / Welsh)
Yes, it's true, I haven't posted in days. Well, that's not entirely true. Since "Fy Nghariad Cwantwm," I did make one lovely post brought on in a haze of mid-snot-cold male hysteria (dammit, I do so hate feeling things, bring me another beer - py den, den yu gwell a lour) anyway, all kidding aside, blogger conveniently lost that post, and so now it's lost for ever - nothing more than a quantum event. I have no energy to post something tonight of any profundity. I was sick for five days last week with a head cold that provoked my nose to run like the Yangtze, but I have been emailing my little fingers off. Hence, I have cut and pasted todays emails for shits and giggles, x'ing out the names of the innocent...
On Cornish and Welsh, to a Cornish listserve:
Yth esov vy wosa bos ow klappya Kembrek dres moy es ugens bledhynnow, mes martesen my a yl un a'n davasow erel studhya ;)
RJJ On Tue, 5 Apr 2005 05:31:59 -0700 (PDT) xxxxxx writes:
> Robert,
>
> Give TeachMe! Welsh a try.
> I think you would be very impressed.
> www.linguashop.com
>
> David
> > --- Robert J Jones <rjones6901@juno.com> wrote:> >
> > Lowena dhis Deinol!> >
> > Robert Jones yu ow hanow ha yth esof vy ow tysky
> > avel ty! Studhya gans
> > Cornish Now!, Teach Me Cornish ha'n Gerlyver Noweth
> > Kernewek. Redya
> > gwiasvaiow Kernewek yn-venough ave
l> > http://www.geocities.com/cornishnews/
> > ha http://www.cornish-language.org/ gans henna. My a
> > veu yn Amerika, yn
> > Schenectady, Evrek Noweth, mes dos dhe Gembre
> > yn-venough, ha my a wra dhe
> > Gembre an hav-ma dos, dhe'n Tai'n Ltn y'n North.
> > Pleth esosta yn Kembre ena? Dyskajor
> > tavasow ov vy, kens oll
> > Frynkek, Spaynek ha Almaynek.
> >
> > Martesen ny a yl yn Kembre metya a Kernewek kewsel!
> >
> > Hwyl,> > RJJ
Since you are one of my fellow English/old car aficionados, you might be interested in what have learned about "Blodwen" - yes, that's what I call her. Anyway, Blod is one of only 18,000 or so SJ6 Series III Vanden-Plas's ever made. She's an '86, when they made around 5,400, but '87 was the last production year, and only about 500 were made, making me assume they were back orders from the previous year. 1986 was also one of the last years that Jag was still Jag. Evidently, Ford bought them in 89, and production of various Jags has gone up to around 120,000/year, which is, as you prolly know, killing the old Jag reputation.
Having learned of the relative rarity of Blod, I'll feel a little less irked at the somewhat ridiculous amounts of money I will be putting into her this summer. Next up, the body shop for some little spots of rust, and a ding, then the upholsterers to have new fabric on the roof where it's come too lose to effect a classy repair.
April 29 or so there's actually a Jag rally in Endicott, I doubt Blod will be rally-ready, but I might bring pictures nonetheless ;)
-----Original Message----- From: XXXXXX To: Jones, Robert Sent: 4/5/05 6:08 PM Subject: RE: Anyone willing to give me a lift?
Robert,
Hi all,
Any of you going Schdy way after the Pro-Staff meeting today willing to give me a ride to Fogg's in Glenville? I actually need to drop car one off at home, then collect car two. Moreover all this is contigent on the work being done, of course...
RJJ
****
On Cornish and Welsh, to a Cornish listserve:
Yth esov vy wosa bos ow klappya Kembrek dres moy es ugens bledhynnow, mes martesen my a yl un a'n davasow erel studhya ;)
RJJ On Tue, 5 Apr 2005 05:31:59 -0700 (PDT) xxxxxx writes:
> Robert,
>
> Give TeachMe! Welsh a try.
> I think you would be very impressed.
> www.linguashop.com
>
> David
> > --- Robert J Jones <rjones6901@juno.com> wrote:> >
> > Lowena dhis Deinol!> >
> > Robert Jones yu ow hanow ha yth esof vy ow tysky
> > avel ty! Studhya gans
> > Cornish Now!, Teach Me Cornish ha'n Gerlyver Noweth
> > Kernewek. Redya
> > gwiasvaiow Kernewek yn-venough ave
l> > http://www.geocities.com/cornishnews/
> > ha http://www.cornish-language.org/ gans henna. My a
> > veu yn Amerika, yn
> > Schenectady, Evrek Noweth, mes dos dhe Gembre
> > yn-venough, ha my a wra dhe
> > Gembre an hav-ma dos, dhe'n Tai'n Ltn y'n North.
> > Pleth esosta yn Kembre ena? Dyskajor
> > tavasow ov vy, kens oll
> > Frynkek, Spaynek ha Almaynek.
> >
> > Martesen ny a yl yn Kembre metya a Kernewek kewsel!
> >
> > Hwyl,> > RJJ
****
Sounds good! Oh, and welcome back to the flu/cold yucky shits that's going around. I was sick over most of the break with it, yay!! It was soooo much fun. At least now my immunity is really good, with all those white corpusels, or whatever they're called, running through my veins, having just beaten back my crud from last week.
Hopefully see you tomorrow,
RJJ
On Tue, 5 Apr 2005 18:38:31 EDT XXXXXX writes:
yes, not only did they get be back when promise, the airline even got me back 15 minutes early. yippee. be careful with giving too much info about its "specialness" to your jag or you'll never be able to live it with it! it'll act up just because it knows you'll give it whatever it wants! i'm thinking the newsletter won't be done til thu night possibly....i got some done last night and may get more done tonight but i'm just not sure. i'm feeling miserable with a cold and my 18 year old cat is very sick and i'm not sure what i'm capable of. but i will discuss the copying,etc with you tomorrow night at class.
Hopefully see you tomorrow,
RJJ
On Tue, 5 Apr 2005 18:38:31 EDT XXXXXX writes:
yes, not only did they get be back when promise, the airline even got me back 15 minutes early. yippee. be careful with giving too much info about its "specialness" to your jag or you'll never be able to live it with it! it'll act up just because it knows you'll give it whatever it wants! i'm thinking the newsletter won't be done til thu night possibly....i got some done last night and may get more done tonight but i'm just not sure. i'm feeling miserable with a cold and my 18 year old cat is very sick and i'm not sure what i'm capable of. but i will discuss the copying,etc with you tomorrow night at class.
****
;) It's the though that counts. Actually Jag-baby is still at the doctors for her spring time maintenance. I had them really give her a thorough going over to find what needed to be replaced, calibrated, and otherwise tinkered with. They weren't able to finish today, but should be able by tomorrow. Bill has agreed to chauffeur me around in any case.
Since you are one of my fellow English/old car aficionados, you might be interested in what have learned about "Blodwen" - yes, that's what I call her. Anyway, Blod is one of only 18,000 or so SJ6 Series III Vanden-Plas's ever made. She's an '86, when they made around 5,400, but '87 was the last production year, and only about 500 were made, making me assume they were back orders from the previous year. 1986 was also one of the last years that Jag was still Jag. Evidently, Ford bought them in 89, and production of various Jags has gone up to around 120,000/year, which is, as you prolly know, killing the old Jag reputation.
Having learned of the relative rarity of Blod, I'll feel a little less irked at the somewhat ridiculous amounts of money I will be putting into her this summer. Next up, the body shop for some little spots of rust, and a ding, then the upholsterers to have new fabric on the roof where it's come too lose to effect a classy repair.
April 29 or so there's actually a Jag rally in Endicott, I doubt Blod will be rally-ready, but I might bring pictures nonetheless ;)
See you tomorrow, RJJ
-----Original Message----- From: XXXXXX To: Jones, Robert Sent: 4/5/05 6:08 PM Subject: RE: Anyone willing to give me a lift?
Robert,
I didn't pick this message up until I got home. The office "confuser" is locked up. I would have been able to do it. Sorry.
-----Original Message----- From: Jones, Robert To: Professional Staff Sent: 4/5/05 8:25 AM Subject: Anyone willing to give me a lift?
Hi all,
Any of you going Schdy way after the Pro-Staff meeting today willing to give me a ride to Fogg's in Glenville? I actually need to drop car one off at home, then collect car two. Moreover all this is contigent on the work being done, of course...
RJJ
****
(In French, mostly, without accents, I was too tired to fiddle with them tonight on my American keyboard!)
Vivi :D
Desole de ne pas avoir ecrit avant maintenant, mais le temps passe si vite!
Et alors le marche de travail? Ca marche, ce marche? J'espere bien que tu pourras trouver un job satisfaisant et bien payant en meme temps, et un qui te permet de rester ici en plus! La cherche d'un emploi n'est pas drole. Avant d'avoir tenure a FM, je cherchais aussi un autre poste, en general pour voir tout simplement si "la pelouse etait plus verte" ailleurs. Je ne vais jamais le savoir, comme je ne pouvais pas trouver un autre poste, mais moi aussi, j'ai eu un peu cette experience de sauterelle. Et la these, heuh, ne m'en parle pas, je t'en prie, j'en ai marre aussi, quelle punition celestiale, quelle honte. Seigneur, delivrez-moi de cette torture! Ok, ca va, c'est exprime en plein air. Oui, on est des confreres...
JoAnn va bien, je crois. Elle est, comme toujours, completement partout. Elle travaille toujours trop et j'ai l'impression qu'elle essaie de maintenir une espece de presence a Montreal. Alors, si elle n'est pas au boulot en vendant des tuxedos, elle joue avec la bande, elle voyage a Montreal, ou elle essaye d'etablir sa creperie. La, elle a eu recemment comfirmation d'un vrai succes: elle va avoir sa "grande ouverture" le premier mai. Chez Daisy va etre la premiere creperie bretonne/francaise a Schenectady (c'etait quand meme annonce dans le journal local!!). Elle a trouve un assez bel endroit dans une zone pietonne au centre-ville de Schdy. La, il y a deja de la circulation a pied avec pas mal de nouveaux bureaux de l'etat, du comte, etc pendant le jour, et le soir on survit de la circulation resultante des spectacles a Proctors. Quant a eux pourtant, ils vont etre fermes pendant plusieurs mois pendant une grosse renovation de l'etage et une plus grosse expansion des espaces dramatiques et artistiques en consommant tout le carre; donc apres leur re-ouverture, le downtown va sauter avec beaucoup plus d'animation nocturne ce qui aidera sans doute notre amie.
Et moi, oui, tout va bien, hors de la putain these... hehe. Oui tout va bien. Mon boulot me plait - les etudiants ne sont pas parfaits, et il y en a quelques uns qui sont totalement NULS, mais hors de ca, pas de tragedie. J'enseigne beaucoup, trop meme, mais je gange plus de fric comme ca aussi, alors je ne peux pas trop plaindre. J'attends maintenant avec impatience la fin du semestre et ma liberation et mon retour a ma vraie vie de me lever tard, de me promener, de prendre du cafe, et de voyager. J'adore mon job, mais j'aime mieux ne pas le faire :)
En plus, tout va bien avec la maison, et je pense, si c'est faisible, d'en acheter une autre comment JoAnn l'a fait pour cueillir des "rentes." On verra ce qui se passe avec ce projet.
Et cet ete, je serai de voyage encore, une semaine a Rennes (si tu es la en meme temps peut-etre qu'on pourra se voir), du 11 juillet au 15, en faisant un stage de langue bretonne. Puis, j'irai, en principe, en Allemagne pendant une semaine, et puis, enfin, aux terres ancestrales pendant deux semaines.
Et oui, j'aimerais bien que tu me rendes visite a Schdy un de ses jours, et je suis certain que JoAnn l'aimerait aussi!!
Ok, ca suffit pout le moment, je me suis promene en velo 6 miles cet apres-midi, puis, j'ai fait du yoga pendant une heure et demie, je suis pooped.
Bisous,
RJJ
PS: Cofia fi at bawb yn Llydaw : Remember me to everyone in Brittany, comme nous le disons en gallois. Je pense a eux frequemment!
PPS: Dites-leur aussi que je qui desole de ne pas avoir ecrit une lettre, je suis horrible avec snailmail :(
Desole de ne pas avoir ecrit avant maintenant, mais le temps passe si vite!
Et alors le marche de travail? Ca marche, ce marche? J'espere bien que tu pourras trouver un job satisfaisant et bien payant en meme temps, et un qui te permet de rester ici en plus! La cherche d'un emploi n'est pas drole. Avant d'avoir tenure a FM, je cherchais aussi un autre poste, en general pour voir tout simplement si "la pelouse etait plus verte" ailleurs. Je ne vais jamais le savoir, comme je ne pouvais pas trouver un autre poste, mais moi aussi, j'ai eu un peu cette experience de sauterelle. Et la these, heuh, ne m'en parle pas, je t'en prie, j'en ai marre aussi, quelle punition celestiale, quelle honte. Seigneur, delivrez-moi de cette torture! Ok, ca va, c'est exprime en plein air. Oui, on est des confreres...
JoAnn va bien, je crois. Elle est, comme toujours, completement partout. Elle travaille toujours trop et j'ai l'impression qu'elle essaie de maintenir une espece de presence a Montreal. Alors, si elle n'est pas au boulot en vendant des tuxedos, elle joue avec la bande, elle voyage a Montreal, ou elle essaye d'etablir sa creperie. La, elle a eu recemment comfirmation d'un vrai succes: elle va avoir sa "grande ouverture" le premier mai. Chez Daisy va etre la premiere creperie bretonne/francaise a Schenectady (c'etait quand meme annonce dans le journal local!!). Elle a trouve un assez bel endroit dans une zone pietonne au centre-ville de Schdy. La, il y a deja de la circulation a pied avec pas mal de nouveaux bureaux de l'etat, du comte, etc pendant le jour, et le soir on survit de la circulation resultante des spectacles a Proctors. Quant a eux pourtant, ils vont etre fermes pendant plusieurs mois pendant une grosse renovation de l'etage et une plus grosse expansion des espaces dramatiques et artistiques en consommant tout le carre; donc apres leur re-ouverture, le downtown va sauter avec beaucoup plus d'animation nocturne ce qui aidera sans doute notre amie.
Et moi, oui, tout va bien, hors de la putain these... hehe. Oui tout va bien. Mon boulot me plait - les etudiants ne sont pas parfaits, et il y en a quelques uns qui sont totalement NULS, mais hors de ca, pas de tragedie. J'enseigne beaucoup, trop meme, mais je gange plus de fric comme ca aussi, alors je ne peux pas trop plaindre. J'attends maintenant avec impatience la fin du semestre et ma liberation et mon retour a ma vraie vie de me lever tard, de me promener, de prendre du cafe, et de voyager. J'adore mon job, mais j'aime mieux ne pas le faire :)
En plus, tout va bien avec la maison, et je pense, si c'est faisible, d'en acheter une autre comment JoAnn l'a fait pour cueillir des "rentes." On verra ce qui se passe avec ce projet.
Et cet ete, je serai de voyage encore, une semaine a Rennes (si tu es la en meme temps peut-etre qu'on pourra se voir), du 11 juillet au 15, en faisant un stage de langue bretonne. Puis, j'irai, en principe, en Allemagne pendant une semaine, et puis, enfin, aux terres ancestrales pendant deux semaines.
Et oui, j'aimerais bien que tu me rendes visite a Schdy un de ses jours, et je suis certain que JoAnn l'aimerait aussi!!
Ok, ca suffit pout le moment, je me suis promene en velo 6 miles cet apres-midi, puis, j'ai fait du yoga pendant une heure et demie, je suis pooped.
Bisous,
RJJ
PS: Cofia fi at bawb yn Llydaw : Remember me to everyone in Brittany, comme nous le disons en gallois. Je pense a eux frequemment!
PPS: Dites-leur aussi que je qui desole de ne pas avoir ecrit une lettre, je suis horrible avec snailmail :(
****
dissabte, d’abril 02, 2005
Amazing Grace - Pererin Wyf (Welsh / English)
Heno roedd chwerthin a wylo, chwerthin am ben gwrthuni'r byd, a wylo dros golledau fy mywyd, colledau bywyd, stop llawn.
Roeddwn yn gwrando ar raglen CMT, 20 Greatest Country Songs of Faith, a dechreuais i feddwl am fy ngorffenol ynhylch yr eglwys gristionogol. Cefais fy medyddu mewn Eglwys Lwtheranaidd oherwydd ganwyd fi mewn ardal Almaenig yn Mhennsylfania, ond nid oedd fy nheulu fi'n grefyddol yn wir. Roedd teulu fy nhad yn Gymry tepyg yr oes, yn drwgdybio cred mwy na'i chredu, ac i fod yn Lwtheranaidd yn ein ardal ni oedd yn meddwl yr un peth â bod yn ddyn neu'n ddynes, neu anadlu, neu gachu - roedd pawb oedd yn berson go iawn yn Lwtheranaidd. Felly nid oedd cred ddim yn beth mor bwysig i ran fwyaf ein teulu, tu hwnt i un chwaer fy nain; hithau oedd y Cristion mawr yn y teulu, y Credwr, a hithau oedd yr oedd i'm tywys fi tuag at y "golau." Ond dim Lwtheraniad oedd hi, ond Methodistiad felly hyd yn oed yn ei Christionogiaeth oedd yn ddynes ysgymun. Wrth gwrs, doedd y swyn ddim yn gweithio, diolch yn fawr i'r Iaith Gymraeg.
Pwnc llosg i flog arall, ond oherwydd y Gymraeg, dechreuais i droi fy nghefn ar Gristionogiaeth ac o'r diwedd i lwybr yr Hen Gred a'r Undodwyr. I ddweud y gwir yn onest, dwi ddim wedi bod yn Baganiad da ers talwm rwan, ers imi golli bob ffydd yn ystod yr Oes Panico. Rwyf wedi bod ar ymchwil ers y tro hwnnw, dim i ailganfod fy ffydd, ond i ganfod y gwir. Ymchwil pob bod sy'n meddwl tybed, a fi heb fwy o lwc na neb arall wrth gwrs, ond fel Undodwr, dwi ddim yn gallu, hyn yw, rwyf yn ffaelu credu'r syniad syml sy'n cael eu canu yn y cerddi hynny, gwaetha'r modd.
Un peth y dysgais i hyd lôn oedd mae dealltwriaeth yn dod â thangnefedd; mae gwybodaeth yn dod ag atebion a mwy o gwestiynau. Does dim ond dy galon di hun, y dewis yn wir, sydd yn dod â bodlondeb, ac mae hyn yn mynd ac yn dod yn igam-ogam trwy'th oes.
A pha mor hyfryd y byddai petaswn yn gallu rhoi'r gorau i'm holl wybodaeth a chredu fel y maent, neu yn well i ganfod tangnefedd trwy dderbyn y bydysawd fel y mae a chanfod yn wir dealltwriaeth.
Pererin Wyf
Pererin wyf mewn anial dir
Yn crwydro yma a thraw,
Ac yn rhyw ddisgwyl bob yr awr
Fod ty fy Nhad gerllaw.
Ac mi debygaf clywa' i swn
Nefolaidd rai o'm blaen
Wedi concwero a mynd trwy
Dymhestloedd dwr a thân.
Tyrd, Ysbryd sanctaidd, ledia'r ffordd,
Bydd imi'n niwl a thân;
Ni cherdda' i'n gywir hanner cam
Nes elost o fy mlaen.
Mi wyraf weithiau ar y dde,
Ac ar yr aswy law;
Am hynny arwain gam a cham
Fi i'r Baradwys draw.
Mae hiraeth arna' i am y wlad
Lle mae torfeydd di-ri
Yn canu'r anthem ddyddiau'u hoes
Am angau Calfari.
- William Williams Pantycelyn (fersiwn Cymraeg Amazing Grace)
O.N. Pa mor ddiddorol ydyw bod teitl y gân hon yn meddwl mwy i mi n'ar fersiwn Saesneg, lle mae gynnon ni Amazing Grace mae Pererin Wyf yn meddwl, "I am a pilgrim."
Roeddwn yn gwrando ar raglen CMT, 20 Greatest Country Songs of Faith, a dechreuais i feddwl am fy ngorffenol ynhylch yr eglwys gristionogol. Cefais fy medyddu mewn Eglwys Lwtheranaidd oherwydd ganwyd fi mewn ardal Almaenig yn Mhennsylfania, ond nid oedd fy nheulu fi'n grefyddol yn wir. Roedd teulu fy nhad yn Gymry tepyg yr oes, yn drwgdybio cred mwy na'i chredu, ac i fod yn Lwtheranaidd yn ein ardal ni oedd yn meddwl yr un peth â bod yn ddyn neu'n ddynes, neu anadlu, neu gachu - roedd pawb oedd yn berson go iawn yn Lwtheranaidd. Felly nid oedd cred ddim yn beth mor bwysig i ran fwyaf ein teulu, tu hwnt i un chwaer fy nain; hithau oedd y Cristion mawr yn y teulu, y Credwr, a hithau oedd yr oedd i'm tywys fi tuag at y "golau." Ond dim Lwtheraniad oedd hi, ond Methodistiad felly hyd yn oed yn ei Christionogiaeth oedd yn ddynes ysgymun. Wrth gwrs, doedd y swyn ddim yn gweithio, diolch yn fawr i'r Iaith Gymraeg.
Pwnc llosg i flog arall, ond oherwydd y Gymraeg, dechreuais i droi fy nghefn ar Gristionogiaeth ac o'r diwedd i lwybr yr Hen Gred a'r Undodwyr. I ddweud y gwir yn onest, dwi ddim wedi bod yn Baganiad da ers talwm rwan, ers imi golli bob ffydd yn ystod yr Oes Panico. Rwyf wedi bod ar ymchwil ers y tro hwnnw, dim i ailganfod fy ffydd, ond i ganfod y gwir. Ymchwil pob bod sy'n meddwl tybed, a fi heb fwy o lwc na neb arall wrth gwrs, ond fel Undodwr, dwi ddim yn gallu, hyn yw, rwyf yn ffaelu credu'r syniad syml sy'n cael eu canu yn y cerddi hynny, gwaetha'r modd.
Un peth y dysgais i hyd lôn oedd mae dealltwriaeth yn dod â thangnefedd; mae gwybodaeth yn dod ag atebion a mwy o gwestiynau. Does dim ond dy galon di hun, y dewis yn wir, sydd yn dod â bodlondeb, ac mae hyn yn mynd ac yn dod yn igam-ogam trwy'th oes.
A pha mor hyfryd y byddai petaswn yn gallu rhoi'r gorau i'm holl wybodaeth a chredu fel y maent, neu yn well i ganfod tangnefedd trwy dderbyn y bydysawd fel y mae a chanfod yn wir dealltwriaeth.
Pererin Wyf
Pererin wyf mewn anial dir
Yn crwydro yma a thraw,
Ac yn rhyw ddisgwyl bob yr awr
Fod ty fy Nhad gerllaw.
Ac mi debygaf clywa' i swn
Nefolaidd rai o'm blaen
Wedi concwero a mynd trwy
Dymhestloedd dwr a thân.
Tyrd, Ysbryd sanctaidd, ledia'r ffordd,
Bydd imi'n niwl a thân;
Ni cherdda' i'n gywir hanner cam
Nes elost o fy mlaen.
Mi wyraf weithiau ar y dde,
Ac ar yr aswy law;
Am hynny arwain gam a cham
Fi i'r Baradwys draw.
Mae hiraeth arna' i am y wlad
Lle mae torfeydd di-ri
Yn canu'r anthem ddyddiau'u hoes
Am angau Calfari.
- William Williams Pantycelyn (fersiwn Cymraeg Amazing Grace)
O.N. Pa mor ddiddorol ydyw bod teitl y gân hon yn meddwl mwy i mi n'ar fersiwn Saesneg, lle mae gynnon ni Amazing Grace mae Pererin Wyf yn meddwl, "I am a pilgrim."
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