Awake again I search my phone,
My thoughts and fears are not my own,
Who is listening ?
I look and hope that tides will turn,
Whilst inside memories slowly burn,
I feel I'm drowning.

Walk the night til light returns,
Find purpose to lingering concerns,
Is this all that I am ?
Idling time with trivial chores,
Finding things to do to run the course,
They can't fill the void.

Meandering themes come and go,
Through recollections that are always so,
Is that you speaking?
Listening to what they bring,
In every word that slowly sings,
I'm still here alone.

Is that our song that's playing?
Can I still feel your soul?
What message are you sending?
Will I ever understand?

Neverending torment chases,
Thoughts and dreams that come in phases,
Wherefore might this end ?
Ripples in the sands of time,
Trace a path that once was mine,
But that trail is gone.

A chastened heart emerges from,
The long dark silence eating all,
What is happening ?
Perceiving all but feeling numb,
It changes daily but only some,
Is this what I've become ?

In solitude again I muse,
My mind can drift and trace my past,
No-one knows I'm here.
I slowly glance around the room,
In hope of glimpsing through the gloom,
But there's only me.

Was that a shadow moving ?
Is there someone else in here ?
Are you here to see me ?
Can't you please set me free ?

There's so much left I've got to do,
But sadly regret it won't be with you,
The future's mine alone.
So many need me to move along,
To leave this melancholy song,
Find my voice again.

The rapture in my heart must end,
The pain I feel will surely bend,
I must now let you go.
To do so will be cruelly hard,
But hope you forgive the mournful bard,
He will still show you tears.

I breathe the air of morning deep,
The sunrise finally ends all hope of sleep,
The morning chorus greets my day.
Another night has passed with langour,
So too has ebbed the lingering candour,
Time to start again.

I catch the sunbeam passing,
Is today the day I turn the corner?
Will I feel better somehow ?
While you are no longer here ?

​

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This is simply something I penned during the summer and I trust it is a fitting introduction for me to this subreddit

In the bustling city square, where time and motion intersect, Nestled among steel giants, life’s whirlwind we reflect. Silent watcher am I, the eyes behind a weathered pane, A bystander to the dance, to the rhythm of urban refrain.

The sun sets, its luster replaced by a neon embrace, And stardust, usually so aloof, permeates this place. Subtle in its influence, woven through the ebb and flow, In the flicker of a stranger's smile, in a friendship's gentle glow.

The market seller’s call, once robust, now a tender lull, And the eager morning rush, by evening a quiet pull. The artist with his guitar, strumming tales of love and woe, The lovers strolling, hand in hand, as soft city breezes blow.

Under the awning of the night, under constellations afar, Life is but a spectacle, I am but its avatar. We, the players in this cosmic theater, intertwined, Each a star adrift, in the city square we find.

The play is fleeting, curtains fall, yet the city hums its song, A testament to our transience, to the stardust from which we belong. Each a spark, a moment, a fragment of the grand design, Yet, oh, how brilliantly we shine in our allotted time.

Through the lens of the observer, the city takes its shape, Its stardust unveiled in the shared smile, in the fleeting landscape. From the rise and fall of the sun, to the neon’s gentle glow, I am but a mirror to the dance, to the rhythm of life's show.

As the day wanes, its energy spent, I retire from my reverie, The city square, now silent, under the blanket of a starry sea. Tomorrow, again, will the dance begin, new stories will unfold, And I, the silent watcher, their reflections will behold.

The Sleeping Poet.

There's an irony, is there not, in how bonds can bind and shape our souls like the rolling valleys and lofty hills of Wales. They appear stationary, solid, yet ever moulded by the sly whispers of the wind and the slow erosion of rain, just as we are formed by those we tether to. See how we nestle into the folds of love and friendship, shaped by the strain of distance, the push of life's necessities.

Here, in the hearty stews of Cardiff, in the wind-struck faces of Aberystwyth's seaside town, the bond of community, stretched over miles of sheep-dotted landscapes and slate-grey roofs, is shaped by shared sorrows and joys, the tapestry of stories spun in snug pubs. Yes, as ubiquitous as the choir's sound in the chapel, the smell of seaweed on the coast, the unspoken understanding that binds us in quiet empathy, in our shared love of a homeland where dragons once dreamt.

Yet, note the humour, the prophetic irony, in how easily these bonds are worn away. No, not by betrayal or bitter quarrels, but by the innocent waves of time, by the silent echoes of forgetfulness. We find the profound in the broad strokes of irony, the monumental triviality of it all. Life's lessons, my friend, are not in the grandeur of mountains or the fury of the sea, but in the minutiae of our bonds, in the simple realisation that while we may come and go, while we may change and grow, Wales remains, a constant amidst our fleeting dances, bound to us as we are to it, in an eternal and ironic embrace.

Jimmy 7's

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https://preview.redd.it/1q3e20r0tpbb1.jpg?width=677&format=pjpg&auto=webp&s=1283ba71dfec3032b808978a57d1f33d489beb38

a murder has been committed, a body lies dead

And so many questions are going around in my head

It’s a murder mystery that would make Agatha Christie proud

with Poirot to the rescue, he's not brash or loud

His little grey cells get to work looking for a clue

Interviewing suspects finding out who is who

Will the plot be the same as murder on the orient express

Will there be another victim filled with fear and distress

Or will it be another death on the Nile, I’m filling up with suspense

Poirot knows what’s what, he’s gathered the evidence.

Everyone is in the same room and the red herrings are worked out

I know who the murder is , Poirot begins to shout .

We all wait in anticipation, come on give us a clue

And poirot declares then and there the murderer is You !

Hello anyone in here with an interest in Annwn the Welsh underworld?

There are days that I just sit there and stare. My mind wanders before tumbling down the metaphorical stairs. It crashes to the ground only to look up and it's right there. My reflection, holding their arms crossed wearing nothing but a glare. They hold their hand out and loudly declare, "You're a waste, a disgrace; do you really think they care? Anytime they reached put was only when you declared, you're broken and won't be there. Why must you be the one that always reaching and struggling for their ear? You've done something to make them blind, deaf, to not fucking care. You've done some crime, lay there don't you even fucking dare." My mouth was left gaped; I was forced to ponder their words, is this even my fate? Sitting there, the world shifted and changed; the once happy go lucky state, soured.

Was my personality just too demanding? Was I being crude and crafty? Did my honesty become a brutality? I sat there to really think; should I reach out to check for my own lacking? Before long it dawned. I acted like the friend I so wanted you to be. Then when I put my foot down and disagreed; you turned like a ravenous dog and mauled me. I've tried my best to be to be the friend you falsified to be. Your words are horribly empty. You preach about being a being of empathy but you fucking nearly ended a life preemptively. Fuck you, emotional predator. You're nothing but vile waiting for any excuse to become violitle. Look at yourself, to those around. You do nothing but disrespect their boundaries, then wail when you've been called out. Your "woe is me" mentality is narsacistic beyond reality. Grow the fuck up and check yourself into reality. Don't throw friends away simply because they won't agree with your demented reality.

Man, you're sure becoming the next pirate in this party.

Hard fact is they sold you. And no one wants to mold you so they Told you if you try too hard it'll Scold you, want to hold you back for Though you want to get right back They fold your arms behind your back, And tell you there's no going back. But I will hold you. Find clay to mold you. Thought I told you I wont fold you Stay, hopeful. Light and boostful. Promises of babes with hearts full I will hold you.

The paradox of stupidity.First, you must find out if YOU are an asshole before you can decide if someone ELSE is.

THEN you must find the humbleness to decide whether you are ENTITLED to CLASSIFY someone else as an asshole.

One must find the asshole WITHIN and decide if he or she is ENTITLED and HUMBLE enough to classify ONESELF an asshole

ONLY then the SELF-ENTITLED asshole in oneself is CERTIFIED by HIS god to classify OTHERS as assholes.

Only after an HONEST conversation with his God can she conclude whether you are BOTH assholes, OR if you are not as NEAR an asshole as he OR she may be.

I guess MY GOD is a real asshole. And MOST people are lovely, WELL-HEARTED folk, an asshole here and there. Sometimes major assholes, myself NOTexcluded.

This is an ASSHOLE PARADOX. Freud called it "the Uber Ich" which is, to my understanding,

One's INNER VOICE which enables us to analyze OUR inner Asshole. Have a GREAT and LOVING life, my loved ones, my inner self and ALL self - aware - assholes!

Geert Rutten. written 5-5-2022. (performed at PATRONAAT, Netherlands. open mic.

https://discord.gg/NU3JbfaNwb

i'm currently writing a piece about my connection to wales through my heritage - a long line of wonderful, strong and independent welsh women.

I'd like to title it in welsh and i wanted to riff on Hen Wlad Fy Nhadau, except have it be 'land of my mothers' instead of 'fathers' . I speak a little welsh but not fluently - so 'Hen Wlad Fy Mamau' is my working title but I wanted to check that it is actually grammatically correct and not clunky.

I also wanted to pepper in some welsh words within the piece - obviously 'hiraeth' was an immediate contender (even though it's a little cliche, it's a lovely word). I also found 'treftadaeth' to convey heritage and generations passing down (i'm hoping that's what it means anyway) and was hoping to find words that convey the concepts of legacy/legend/story.

It's tricky to try to create poetry using a language you're barely conversational in so any help would be greatly appreciated!

Diolch yn fawr!

A friend of mine is very curious about an old nursery rhyme that his grandfather taught him, which he believes has Welsh origins. We can't find any information on it, but that may be because he doesn't know the proper spelling of the words.

It begins like this:

As I went down the reeraw,  I met a petafaugo

A turning up a thumbling-- a thumbling a thago

I called my peterwelskin to catch the petafaugo

A turning up a thumbling - a thumbling a thago

Does anyone recognize this?

I am heartily ecstatic that this group exists. I do not encounter many people who know a thing about Welsh poetry. I am from America and actually encountered "In Praise of a Girl" by Dafydd ap Gwilym entirely by accident when reading a romance novel. (Stormswept by Sabrina Jeffries. Shocking, I know.)

How did you get into Welsh poetry? Who is your favorite poet? What is your favorite poem?

At present I am really enjoying the work of Gwerful Mechain, who I also discovered by accident when researching Gwilym's "Ode to the Penis." I am enchanted by her work!

https://vocal.media/authors/valerie-ramirez

I bought a card with the poem for friends, thinking the English translation would be included, but cannot find a translation of it!!

How many people know that the world famous International Welsh Poetry Competition began life in a small, independent pub, tucked away down a quiet side street in Pontypridd? Founded by Welsh poet Dave Lewis in 2007 the contest has been run and organised from the town ever since, is now in its thirteenth year and is the biggest poetry competition in Wales!

But what makes this competition so special? Some would say the judges, others the sheer quality of the winning entries but one thing is for sure the competition is here to stay.

Famous Welsh writer, filmmaker and environmental activist John Evans has played a big part. He judged the first two years and has returned on four other occasions choosing poems with subjects as diverse as 'the brutality of war', ‘the plight of captive killer whales’, ‘Munch’s The Scream’ and ‘vegetarianism’.

https://preview.redd.it/powncxutogr21.jpg?width=600&format=pjpg&auto=webp&s=c90a1baa73dc9b7b269f33eaf2b53f883452d94c

Other judges have included Sally Spedding, twice winner herself and a respected crime novelist. Celebrated children's writer Eloise Williams and Cardigan-based Bridport Prize winner Kathy Miles can also be counted amongst the competition’s excellent judges. This year, one of Wales' best poets, Cardiff City fan Mike Jenkins, returns for his second time at the helm.

But maybe there is another reason why writers from all over the world love this humble contest that began life as a drunken conversation between Dave Lewis and John Evans in a Clwb Y Bont backroom at one o’clock in the morning, and that is its honesty and integrity. Unlike many competitions your poems are judged anonymously and no filter judges are used. This means a complete beginner can compete against a seasoned veteran. A successful, traditionally published author can fight it out with a newly self-published blogger.

“We offer true equality,” says organizer Dave Lewis. “In a time when corporate greed and influence seem to infect every aspect of our lives and ruin the opportunity for the little guy to succeed the Welsh Poetry Competition is a rare beacon of hope,” he continues.

“Both myself and John love the underdog and coming from a no-nonsense town like Pontypridd you know you’re not going to get given anything for nothing, especially by the establishment that control the purse strings in Wales, so it’s best you just strike out on your own and go for it.”

The competition organizer, Dave Lewis, shuns the limelight however. A well-respected poet himself he continues to self-publish his often avant-garde work rather than seek acceptance from the mainstream just so he can continue to push the boundaries of his art. He also runs a small self-publishing company, called Publish & Print, where he helps other writers get into book form and realize their own ambitions.

This year’s judge, Mike Jenkins, needs no introduction of course being one of Wales’ top poets, famous for his lively performances and writing workshops. He has performed at the Hay Festival, won an Eric Gregory Award from the Society of Authors and has co-edited Red Poets for 25 years, an annual magazine of left-wing poetry from Wales and beyond. His latest book is ‘From Aberfan t Grenfell’ (Culture Matters) with artist Alan Perry.

With entrants from over 40 countries having taken part in the past this year promises to be no different and with £500 on offer to the winner, plus many other prizes for the chosen runners-up, the International Welsh Poetry Competition will once again punch above its weight in the literary calendar. If you want to enter just check out this year's contest on the official website - www.welshpoetry.co.uk

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International Welsh Poetry Competition 2019

www.welshpoetry.co.uk

1st Prize - £500, 2nd Prize - £250, 3rd Prize - £100, plus 17 runners up published on our website and in a future anthology.

Judge - Mike Jenkins

Starts - 1st Feb 2019

Closing date - 26th May 2019

Poems in English, 50 lines maximum

Entry fee - £5 (£6 PayPal)

Entry forms, rules and details on our website:

www.welshpoetry.co.uk

Competition Web site - www.welshpoetry.co.uk

Competition Judge – www.mikejenkins.net

Organiser Web site – www.david-lewis.co.uk

Twitter - @welshpoetrycomp