Ifor ap Glyn

валлийский

Ifor ap Glyn, Geraint Løvgreen

английский

Hen gapel

‘Cysgant mewn Hedd’ meddai cofeb y colledigion,
ond ar y jiwcbocs heno, nid oes emynau, 
ddim hyd yn oed Rhys
nac Ebenezer,                         
wnaeth gathrain y milwyr o’r ffos...                           
 
Codaf beint wrth y bar lle ces i medyddio.
Mae’n amser cwrdd; 
mae merch yn hel gwydrau cymun y p’nawn;
mae’n rhoi gwên yn adnod i’r barman.
 
Cyfodaf fy llygaid tua’r oriel chwil
lle bu nhad yn hel casgliad,
lle cyfarfu gyntaf â llygaid fy mam
a hithau’n rhoi einioes gyda’r swllt yn ei blât. 
                                      
‘O ba le y daw fy nghymorth?’
Plethaf ddwylo am fy nghwrw.
Cau llygaid. Plygu pen.
Cyfri bendithion....
ond methu â mwynhau
fy mheint cableddus.

© Ifor ap Glyn
Из: Cuddle Call?
Gwasg Carreg Gwalch, 2018
Аудиопроизводство: Wales Literature Exchange

An old chapel

‘They Rest in Peace’, says the plaque to the fallen,
but there are no hymns, on the jukebox tonight, 
not even Rhys
or Ebenezer,
that exhorted those troops from the trench... 

I lift a pint at the bar where I was baptized.
It’s time for the service;
a girl collects the communion glasses;
she gives the barman a sermon smile.
 
I will lift up mine eyes to the vertiginous gallery
where my father took the collection,
where he first met my mother’s glance,
her lifelong commitment 
with the shilling in his plate.
 
From whence cometh my help?
I fold my hands around my beer.
Close my eyes. Bow my head.
Count my blessings ...
but cannot enjoy
my blasphemous pint.

Translated by Geraint Løvgreen / Ifor ap Glyn