Poems to Ponder

1. Poems to Ponder Interskola Conference Stawiska, Poland 2009 Selected by Phil Mostert

2. Cŵyn y Gwynt– JOHN MORRIS JONES Cwsg ni ddaw i'm hamrant heno,Dagrau ddaw ynghynt.Wrth fy ffenestr yn gwynfannusYr ochneidia'r gwynt. Codi'i lais yn awr, ac wylo,Beichio wylo mae;Ar y gwydr yr hyrddia'i ddagrauYn ei wylltaf wae. Pam y deui, wynt, i wyloAt fy ffenestr i?Dywed im, a gollaist tithauUn a'th garai di?

3. Sooner tears Sooner tears than sleep this midnight Come into my eyes, On my window the complaining Tempest groans and sighs. Grows the noise now of its weeping Sobbing to and fro- On the glass the tears come hurling Of some wildest woe. Why, oh wind against my window Come you grief to prove? Can it be your heart’s gone grieving For its own lost love?

4. Dacw long yn hwylio’n hwylus Heibio i’r trwyn ac at yr ynys, Os fy nghariad i sydd ynddi, Hwyliau sidan glas sydd arni. There beyond that nose of headland The ship sails on towards the island; If my darling is aboard her There are blue silk sails upon her.

5. WARNING - Jenny Joseph When I am an old woman I shall wear purple With a red hat which doesn’t go, and doesn’t suit me. And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves And satin sandals, and say we’ve no money for butter. And gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells And run my stick along the public railings And make up for the sobriety of my youth. I shall go out in my slippers in the rain And pick the flowers in other people’s gardens. And learn to spit. You can wear terrible shirts and grow more fat And eat three pounds of sausages at a go Or only bread and pickle for a week And hoard pens and pencils and beer mats and things in boxes. And now we must have clothes that keep us dry And pay our rent and not sear in the street And set a good example for the children. We must have friends to dinner and read the papers. But maybe I ought to practise a little now? So people who know me are not too shocked and surprised When suddenly I am old, and start to wear purple.

6. We Are Seven - WILLIAM WORDSWORTH I met a little cottage girl: She was eight years old, she said: Her hair was thick with many a curl That clustered around her head. ‘Sisters and brothers, little maid How many may you be?’ ‘How many? Seven in all, ‘she said And wondering, looked at me. ‘And where are they, I pray you tell?’ She answered, ‘Seven are we; And two of us at Conway dwell And two are gone to sea. Two of us in the churchyard lie, My sister and my brother, And in the churchyard cottage I Dwell near them with my mother.’ ‘You say that two at Conway dwell And two are gone to sea. Yet ye are seven! – I pray you tell, Sweet maid, how this may be?’

7. ‘Their graves are green and may be seen,’ The little maid replied, ‘Twelve steps or more from my mother’s door, And they are side by side. ‘My stockings there I sometimes knit, My kerchief there I hem; And there upon the ground I sit, And sing a song to them. And often after sunset, Sir, When it is light and fair I take my little porringer And eat my supper there.’ ‘How many are you then. ‘I said, ‘If they two are in heaven?’ Quick was the little maid’s reply, ‘O master! we are seven.’ ‘But they are dead; those two are dead! Their spirits are in heaven!’ ‘Twas throwing words away, for still The little maid would have her will: ‘NAY, MASTER! WE ARE SEVEN!

8. LUCK IN SARAJEVO - Izet Sarajlić In Sarajevo in the spring of 1992, everything is possible: you go stand in a bread line and end up in an emergency room with your leg amputated. Afterwards, you still maintain that you were very lucky.

9. The Average Child MICHAEL BUSCEMI I don’t cause my teachers trouble. My grades have been O.K. I listen to my classes and I’m in school every day. My parents think I’m average my teachers think so too. I wish I didn’t know that ‘cause there’s lots I’d like to do. I’d like to build a rocket I’ve a book that shows you how or start a stamp collection well, no use starting now ‘cause since I’ve found I’m average I’m just smart enough to see to know there’s nothing special that I should expect of me. I’m part of that majority, that hump part of the bell, who spends his life unnoticed in an average kind of hell.

10. Old Age – JOHN MORRIS JONES ‘Henaint ni ddaw ei hunan’; - daw ag och Gydag ef a chwynfan, Ac anhunedd maith weithian, A huno maith yn y man. Old age never comes alone’ – it brings sighs, With it and complaining; And now a long lack of sleep, And, soon enough, long slumber. Pain its constant companion, - always weak, Always aching somewhere; Sore limbs and restless slumber, And before long so long to sleep.

11. A Nest - ROGER JONES Ni fu saer na’i fesuriad – yn rhoi graen Ar ei grefft na’i drwsiad, Dim ond adar mewn cariad Yn gwneud tŷ heb ganiatâd. No viewing by surveyors – and no sight Of the city planners; Two plain and happy linnets Just building, knitting their nest.

12. The Footpath - J T JONES ‘Rwy’n hen a chloff, ond hoffwn, - am unwaith, Gael myned, pe medrwn I’m bro, a rhodio ar hwn; Rhodio, lle gynt y rhedwn. Old and lame, I’m game to go – just once more, My youth’s path to follow; Just ambling, limping along, Limping where once I clambered.

13. Scaffolding – SEAMUS HEANEY Masons, when they start upon a building Are careful to test out the scaffolding: Make sure that planks won’t slip at busy points, Secure all ladders, tighten bolted joints. And yet this all comes down when the job’s done, Showing off walls of sure and solid stone. So if, my dear, there sometimes seem to be, Old bridges, breaking between you and me. Never fear. We may let the scaffolds fall, Confident that we have built our wall.

14. THE PLANTER’S DAUGHTER - Austin Clarke When night stirred at sea And the fire brought a crowd in, They say that her beauty Was music in mouth And few in the candlelight Thought her too proud, For the house of the planter Is known by the trees. Men that had seen her Drank deep and were silent, The women were speaking Wherever she went – As a bell that is rung Or a wonder told shyly And O she was the Sunday In every week.

15. I would rather have one little rose From the garden of a friend, Than to have the choicest flowers When my stay on earth must end. I would rather have a pleasant word In kindness said to me, Than flattery when my heart is still And life has ceased to be. I would rather have a loving smile From friends I know are true, Than tears shed 'round my casket When to this world I bid adieu. Bring me all your flowers today Whether pink, or white, or red, I'd rather have one blossom now Than a truckload when I'm dead. Rose From A Friend author unknown

16. Leisure - W. H. DAVIES What is this life if, full of care, We have no time to stand and stare?— No time to stand beneath the boughs, And stare as long as sheep and cows: No time to see, when woods we pass, Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass: No time to see, in broad daylight, Streams full of stars, like skies at night: No time to turn at Beauty's glance, And watch her feet, how they can dance: No time to wait till her mouth can Enrich that smile her eyes began? A poor life this if, full of care, We have no time to stand and stare.

17. There's something in a simple hug That always warms the heart, It can welcome us back home Or make it easier to part. A hug's a way to share the joy And sad times we go through, Or just a way for friends to say They like you 'cause you're you. Hugs are meant for anyone For whom we really care, From your Grandma to your neighbour Or a cuddly teddy bear. A hug is an amazing thing, It's just the perfect way To show the love we're feeling, But can't find the words to say. It's funny how a little hug Makes everyone feel good, In every place and language It's always understood. And hugs don't need equipment, Special batteries or parts. Just open up your arms, And open up your hearts. HUGS- author unknown

18. THOSE WINTER SUNDAYS - Robert Hayden Sundays too my father got up early and put his clothes on in the blueblack cold, then with cracked hands that ached from labour in the weekday weather made blanked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him. I’d wake and hear cold splintering, breaking. When the rooms were warm, he’d call, And slowly I would rise and dress, fearing the chronic angers of that house, Speaking indifferently to him, who had driven out the cold and polished my good shoes as well. What did I know, what did I know Of love’s austere and lonely offices?

19. The View From The Windowby R.S Thomas Like a painting it is set before one, But less brittle, ageless; these colours Are renewed daily with variations Of light and distance that no painter Achieves or suggests. Then there is movement, Change, as slowly the cloud bruises Are healed by sunlight, or snow caps A black mood; but gold at evening To cheer the heart.  All through history The great brush has not rested, Nor the paint dried; yet what eye, Looking coolly, or, as we now, through the tears' lenses, ever saw This work and it was not finished?

20. We met under a shower of bird-notes. Fifty years passed, love’s moment in a world in servitude to time. She was young; I kissed with my eyes closed and opened them on her wrinkles. ‘Come,’ said death, choosing her as his partner for the last dance. And she, who in life had done everything with a bird’s grace, opened her bill now for the shedding of one sigh no heavier than a feather. A MARRIAGE - R S Thomas