Mae tangnefedd o rywfath wedi dod ataf i heddiw. Mae'n anodd i egluro'n fanwl, ac rwyf yn siwr na fydd yn byw am amser hir, dyna ffordd tangnefedd yn fy mhrofiad i. Ta waith, roedd y teimlad yn bleser. Nid wyf yn siarad am rywfath o 'yswtyth' ychwaith, ond des i at fy nghoed, a thrwy ddod et fy nghoed, canfyddais i'r tangnefedd rwyf yn siarad amdano.
Roeddwn i gwrdd â dyn prynhawn 'ma. Dyn arall, dyddiad arall, un mwy mewn cyfres hir o fethiad sy'n tarddu o'm ieunctid a sydd wedi parhau tan heddiw. Ond y gwir oedd, pan godais i bore'ma, roeddwn yn teimlo fel na fyddai'r dyn hwn ym ymddangos. Rwyf wedi cael y fath hon o syniad o'r blaen, math o chwefed synhwyr ydyw, ac mae'n iawn fel arfer. Wrth gwrs, heddiw hefyd, roedd fy chwefed synhwyr yn hollol cywir. Ymddangosodd o ddim.
Ond beth sydd yn fwy rhyfedd, doeddwn i ddim eisiau iddo ymddangos ychwaith. Efallai oherweydd dwy wythnos o ddioddef efo'r annwyd hwn, doeddwn i ddim yn teimlo'n rhy sywnol, ond yn nirgel ddyn fy nghalon, rwyf yn credu y tyfodd blinder y proses yn rhy uchel yn fy mod, timod, y proses, y gêm, yr hen hela, y mynd yn ôl ac ymlaen, ac i beth? Byddai y chwedl hwn wedi dod i ben yn yr un ffordd â'r unau eraill. Mae hwn yn sicr o'r olwg, oherwydd cychwynodd fel cymaint ohonynt! Dyma ryw ddyn sydd am gwrdd â fi. Mae o'n dweud 'mod i'n edrych yn sbesial, yn wahanol, fel rywun fyddai'n ei ddeall, ayyb... Dyna ni, rydyn ni'n siarad arlein a thrwy'r e-bost, ac rydyn ni'n trefnu adeg i gwrdd am y tro cyntaf. Sawl gwaith (fel heddiw) mae'n ffaelu ymddangos yn y lle, ac heb ffonio i ddweud fod yn ddrwg ganddo. Sawl gwaith, does dim yr un gair oddi wrtho eto byth!
Felly heddiw, roeddwn yn teimlo blinder yr hen frwydr yn eistedd yn drwm yn fy nghalon. Ta waith, mi es i le'r dyddiau yn gynnar, ac yfais i paned o de. Ac arhosais i. Bron tri chwarter awr. Roedd y te'n dda ta waith. Ac wedyn mi es i ymaith i'r archfarchnad. O leiaf daeth rhywbeth da o'r dydd hwn: roedd yr oergell yn wag.
Ar y ffordd o'r caffi i'r archfarchnad, teimlais esmwythâd mawr, tipyn bach fel pan fyddi di'n mynd i'r meddyg i gael prawf, ac mae'r atebion yn dda. Roeddwn yn falch na ddaeth o, nad oedd rhaid imi bryderu am chwarae'r gêm efo fo. Ac wedyn, yr eiliad o dangnefedd...
Y gwir yw does dim rhaid imi gael cymar. Dwi ddim eisiau magu plant, does dim rhaid imi ddibynnu ar unrhywun arall am arian. Mae gen i dŷ a cheir, cyfeillion a phrofiadau da erbyn byn. Meddyliais am yr hen gymdoges pan roeddwn yn tyfu yn ôl ym Mhennsylfania, Millie. Dywedai hi, "does dim angen dyn arna'i, pam dylwn i briodi? Mae gen i jobyn, mae gen i lestri a dodrefn, mae gen i gar, pa ddefnydd yw dyn?"
Roedd hi'n gywir wrth gwrs, ond ar y llaw arall roedd gan Millie rhywbeth sy ddim gen i. Roedd ganddi gymar, a'y henw hi oedd Helen. (Hon yw stori am dro arall, stori Millie a Helen, yn fy marn i, stori serch fwyaf sydd heb ei dweud...) Ond mae ysbryd neges Millie yn iawn o hyd. Mae gen i bobeth sydd yn rhaid. Pa ddefnydd yw dyn?
Mae gen i le yn fy mywyd o hyd i un, lle sydd yn canfod ei wreiddiau yn yr hen freuddwyd ardegol sydd wedi fy melltithio (a bydd rwyf yn siŵr am flynyddoedd i ddod). Ond heddiw, derbyniais i'r posiblrwydd taw dim ond breuddwyd ydyw. A dywedodd neb bod breuddwydion yn dod yn wir...
Do, derbyniais i'r posiblrwydd ac yn lle bod yn drist, doeddwn i ddim. Roeddwn i'n teimlo'r tangnefedd a'r esmwythâd hyn, ac mi es i ymlaen i'r archfachnad yn hapus.
diumenge, de març 12, 2006
divendres, de març 10, 2006
Ain't You Proud (English / Spanish)
It's been years
time has moved on
all the while in harmony with Earth's lamentations
it has been many years since you held my hand
and lied
I was a child, and I wanted to believe
in your love
your kindness
in the history and integrity of our ancient order
now you're nearly all dust
or dying
broken stories on crumbling cuneiformed clay
I remember our Enkidu
our Gilgamesh
our Ishtar
our heroines, so Austenian in guise
more like Celestina or Trotaconventos in heart
No es verdad
el engaño no es la hermosura
sino el amor
you all smiled politely at me
Black Ewe's precocious child
smiling back I believed you would always love me
you were my tribe
I wanted to stay with you forever
and yet
have you not all abandoned me
one by one
falling alseep and melting into the ground
or, consumed by extreme heat
your ashes drifted away on breezes
and turned to cement under mudpuddles
little dessecated bits of your personas
lodging in trees and wild blueberry bushes
and on clothes drying on wash lines
and where was I then
adrift in your riches
your houses that once pretended to love me
now strangers live in them
in our town all I see are ghosts around every corner
dark eyes from white faces peak out from misty yesterdays
your tight and wrinkled fists
offered little when your breath was sweet
your banks offered nothing when you breathed no more
so there I was, poor
Poor for having lost you
Poor again for having lost your cash
Still, I was not the one you loved so well
I was not the little boy who stole your heart when Kennedy was President
I was the boy from the woods
smelling of swamp mud, fern fronds and chicken coops
I was the little Black Eewe's boy
Black Ewe, she was not your best project
her gypsy hair and her sagging tits
tho worse still her selfish zeal
an afront to your clannish ways
"I always swore, as long as I lived, I would never sacrifice anything for my children!"
So she sinned again and again against your theses
but it was I who suffered
Black Ewe still lives on her knoll
her tits have sagged even more
and her hair is a color unknown to God
Did you ever stop her
make her mind
hell you did
you just kept fucking dying
my back broke from the digging and bearing
but still the earth received you
not one of you was spit back out
And sometimes
when the stupidity in me grows strong and proud
I go to commune with your ghosts
supposing for a moment that you are still out there
some-fucking-where
and there I am amid the well-meaning shipwrecks of Spiritualism
so Daisy's grandma comes to her
and Denise's little brother
and the Spirit gives a gift to Ben
but me
no one visits me
you left me on this Earth even tho I loved you
even tho you did not earn that love
and if you do still exist
your dreams have come true
Black Ewe's little boy can't bother you now
and you don't have to put up with me
I can walk all those old halls
and remember you all more fondly than I should
and I can weep for you
but you are long gone from here
just gone
or still too concerned with yourselves to look in on me
I can't tell
When I die
I hope there is an afterlife
'cos inspite of you, my life has been good
but I won't count on seeing any of you
if I'm lucky
some kind stranger will guide me along
to my reward
since a little like Blanche Dubois
I have always depended on the kindness of strangers
time has moved on
all the while in harmony with Earth's lamentations
it has been many years since you held my hand
and lied
I was a child, and I wanted to believe
in your love
your kindness
in the history and integrity of our ancient order
now you're nearly all dust
or dying
broken stories on crumbling cuneiformed clay
I remember our Enkidu
our Gilgamesh
our Ishtar
our heroines, so Austenian in guise
more like Celestina or Trotaconventos in heart
No es verdad
el engaño no es la hermosura
sino el amor
you all smiled politely at me
Black Ewe's precocious child
smiling back I believed you would always love me
you were my tribe
I wanted to stay with you forever
and yet
have you not all abandoned me
one by one
falling alseep and melting into the ground
or, consumed by extreme heat
your ashes drifted away on breezes
and turned to cement under mudpuddles
little dessecated bits of your personas
lodging in trees and wild blueberry bushes
and on clothes drying on wash lines
and where was I then
adrift in your riches
your houses that once pretended to love me
now strangers live in them
in our town all I see are ghosts around every corner
dark eyes from white faces peak out from misty yesterdays
your tight and wrinkled fists
offered little when your breath was sweet
your banks offered nothing when you breathed no more
so there I was, poor
Poor for having lost you
Poor again for having lost your cash
Still, I was not the one you loved so well
I was not the little boy who stole your heart when Kennedy was President
I was the boy from the woods
smelling of swamp mud, fern fronds and chicken coops
I was the little Black Eewe's boy
Black Ewe, she was not your best project
her gypsy hair and her sagging tits
tho worse still her selfish zeal
an afront to your clannish ways
"I always swore, as long as I lived, I would never sacrifice anything for my children!"
So she sinned again and again against your theses
but it was I who suffered
Black Ewe still lives on her knoll
her tits have sagged even more
and her hair is a color unknown to God
Did you ever stop her
make her mind
hell you did
you just kept fucking dying
my back broke from the digging and bearing
but still the earth received you
not one of you was spit back out
And sometimes
when the stupidity in me grows strong and proud
I go to commune with your ghosts
supposing for a moment that you are still out there
some-fucking-where
and there I am amid the well-meaning shipwrecks of Spiritualism
so Daisy's grandma comes to her
and Denise's little brother
and the Spirit gives a gift to Ben
but me
no one visits me
you left me on this Earth even tho I loved you
even tho you did not earn that love
and if you do still exist
your dreams have come true
Black Ewe's little boy can't bother you now
and you don't have to put up with me
I can walk all those old halls
and remember you all more fondly than I should
and I can weep for you
but you are long gone from here
just gone
or still too concerned with yourselves to look in on me
I can't tell
When I die
I hope there is an afterlife
'cos inspite of you, my life has been good
but I won't count on seeing any of you
if I'm lucky
some kind stranger will guide me along
to my reward
since a little like Blanche Dubois
I have always depended on the kindness of strangers
dilluns, de març 06, 2006
Tempus Fugit (English / Welsh / French / Latin)
Wow, tempus fugit...
St. David's Day has come and gone, but I did celebrate it commiting a Welsh act: Menna Elfyn read from her poetry at Union College on Wednesday. I got someone to cover my Wednesday night class, and off I went to sit with about 15 other people and listen to her cerddi. Her work really is quite lovely. I only wish she were more vivacious in her readings. She was nothing in person as I imagined her to be. I had conjured in my head an image of Marianne Faithfulesque femme d'un certain âge, but instead found myself confronted with a whisp of a late middle-aged woman from Llandysul, who despite her small size and quiet voice, was one of the main agitators for Cymdeithas yr Iaith back in the 60's. I'm sure she has more stories to tell, and woe to me that I did not suggest that she bring her coat and brolly to Pinhead Susan's for an unspecified number of vodka orange juices so she could tell me all about it. Sadly, Thursday was a school day, and I was to leave for Buffalo with colleagues on a SUNY conference.
Incidentally, the St. David's Society will be having our dinner on March 19th, and I will be the guest lecturer... no rest for wicked, nor even for me.
The conference went well, for SUNY conferences, interesting points, most of which I agree with, aside from the over indulgence in enabling touchy-feely clap-trap. Luckily I don't seem to lose my students due to my insensitivity, however. To the contrary, they seem to enjoy my back country coarseness which sleeps in the most untoward way with my bourgeois Euro-influenced mores. I mean for fuck's sake, I call a goddamn sonofabitch a goddamn sonofabitch, but I do it with a glass of 18 year old Islay single malt in one hand, a sweet stoagie in the other and plate of stilton drenched beef in front of me. If they're not really sure what to think of me, I've done my job. I mean, it's one thing to be predictible, it's another to be boring!
I can't really complain about anything these days, except the usual, does dim blydi gariad ffyddlon yn fy myd, o hyd! Mae blydi Nick 'di rhoi sylw'n hwyrach, yn gofyn a dipyn bach, ond chafodd o ddim byd, y ffycar - o wel, ddylwn i ddim fod yn rhy galed arno fo, 'mond pishyn ifanc yn chwilio'i ffordd yn y bydy mae o. Ond petaswn i'n grefach, sai ei swyn o ddim yn fy hudo fi o hyd. Fy mai i ydy hwnnw, a dim yn hollol ei fai o.... Mae chemeg yn felltith. O ia, chafodd o ddim byd oherwydd doedd o ddim yn ddigon cyflym. Mae rhwyun arall 'di cyrraedd y post cyn iddo fo.
Ond mae'r dyddiau'n mynd yn hirach o'r diwedd hir. Mae'r gaeaef 'di bod yn ddigon hir ac yn ddigon du yn barod, rwyf yn barod i'r dyddiau poeth a chwyslyd gynhesu celloedd fy nghalon oer... a'r haf hwn, ddaw cariad cywir?? Pwy a wyr? Rwyf yn ei hamhau. Rwyf wedi byw yn amser rhy hir rŵan rwyf yn ei gredu, i ganfod hwn. Rwyf yn ceisio o hyd ta waith. Pam lai? Rwyf wedi cael bywyd da erbyn hyn, rwyf wedi 'neud fy ffordd fel roeddwn i eisiau, does dim rheswm i beidio ceisio, ac os ffaelaf i? Wel, sdim ots, mae'r gwanwyn yn cyrraedd yn fuan, a bydd yr hogia yn ymnoethi a bydd golwg hardd i'm llygaid ac antur gwych i'm cala... addawiad yr haf, gobaith am gariad cywir, ac os na ddaw, hwyl hyd ffordd i'r bedd!
Byddaf yn fuan yn Orlians Newydd hefyd - rwyf yn edrych ymlaen at hynny. Rwyf am weld y llefydd câr a theimlo curiad y ddinas honno eto. Rwyf yn siŵr y bydd yn wanach, ond ta waith mae'n curo o hyd. Byddaf yno yn ystod diwedd mis Mai, yn ystod tywydd poeth, ond bydd yn wych i deimlo'r wlypter ddofn boeth cyn imi fynd ar draws y môr i Gymru ac i'r Almaen oeraidd...
St. David's Day has come and gone, but I did celebrate it commiting a Welsh act: Menna Elfyn read from her poetry at Union College on Wednesday. I got someone to cover my Wednesday night class, and off I went to sit with about 15 other people and listen to her cerddi. Her work really is quite lovely. I only wish she were more vivacious in her readings. She was nothing in person as I imagined her to be. I had conjured in my head an image of Marianne Faithfulesque femme d'un certain âge, but instead found myself confronted with a whisp of a late middle-aged woman from Llandysul, who despite her small size and quiet voice, was one of the main agitators for Cymdeithas yr Iaith back in the 60's. I'm sure she has more stories to tell, and woe to me that I did not suggest that she bring her coat and brolly to Pinhead Susan's for an unspecified number of vodka orange juices so she could tell me all about it. Sadly, Thursday was a school day, and I was to leave for Buffalo with colleagues on a SUNY conference.
Incidentally, the St. David's Society will be having our dinner on March 19th, and I will be the guest lecturer... no rest for wicked, nor even for me.
The conference went well, for SUNY conferences, interesting points, most of which I agree with, aside from the over indulgence in enabling touchy-feely clap-trap. Luckily I don't seem to lose my students due to my insensitivity, however. To the contrary, they seem to enjoy my back country coarseness which sleeps in the most untoward way with my bourgeois Euro-influenced mores. I mean for fuck's sake, I call a goddamn sonofabitch a goddamn sonofabitch, but I do it with a glass of 18 year old Islay single malt in one hand, a sweet stoagie in the other and plate of stilton drenched beef in front of me. If they're not really sure what to think of me, I've done my job. I mean, it's one thing to be predictible, it's another to be boring!
I can't really complain about anything these days, except the usual, does dim blydi gariad ffyddlon yn fy myd, o hyd! Mae blydi Nick 'di rhoi sylw'n hwyrach, yn gofyn a dipyn bach, ond chafodd o ddim byd, y ffycar - o wel, ddylwn i ddim fod yn rhy galed arno fo, 'mond pishyn ifanc yn chwilio'i ffordd yn y bydy mae o. Ond petaswn i'n grefach, sai ei swyn o ddim yn fy hudo fi o hyd. Fy mai i ydy hwnnw, a dim yn hollol ei fai o.... Mae chemeg yn felltith. O ia, chafodd o ddim byd oherwydd doedd o ddim yn ddigon cyflym. Mae rhwyun arall 'di cyrraedd y post cyn iddo fo.
Ond mae'r dyddiau'n mynd yn hirach o'r diwedd hir. Mae'r gaeaef 'di bod yn ddigon hir ac yn ddigon du yn barod, rwyf yn barod i'r dyddiau poeth a chwyslyd gynhesu celloedd fy nghalon oer... a'r haf hwn, ddaw cariad cywir?? Pwy a wyr? Rwyf yn ei hamhau. Rwyf wedi byw yn amser rhy hir rŵan rwyf yn ei gredu, i ganfod hwn. Rwyf yn ceisio o hyd ta waith. Pam lai? Rwyf wedi cael bywyd da erbyn hyn, rwyf wedi 'neud fy ffordd fel roeddwn i eisiau, does dim rheswm i beidio ceisio, ac os ffaelaf i? Wel, sdim ots, mae'r gwanwyn yn cyrraedd yn fuan, a bydd yr hogia yn ymnoethi a bydd golwg hardd i'm llygaid ac antur gwych i'm cala... addawiad yr haf, gobaith am gariad cywir, ac os na ddaw, hwyl hyd ffordd i'r bedd!
Byddaf yn fuan yn Orlians Newydd hefyd - rwyf yn edrych ymlaen at hynny. Rwyf am weld y llefydd câr a theimlo curiad y ddinas honno eto. Rwyf yn siŵr y bydd yn wanach, ond ta waith mae'n curo o hyd. Byddaf yno yn ystod diwedd mis Mai, yn ystod tywydd poeth, ond bydd yn wych i deimlo'r wlypter ddofn boeth cyn imi fynd ar draws y môr i Gymru ac i'r Almaen oeraidd...
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