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Medieval Welsh storytelling for the modern world.
Showing posts with label chair. Show all posts
The two side panels of the Cruachan chair (or throne) are carved with bulls. this is left panel (from the point of view of someone seated in the chair).
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As I mentioned in May, Cwrs Cymraeg Cymdeithas Madog has an eisteddfod - a literary competition in Welsh - at the end of the course each year. The winner of the upper division competition wins the Chair - Cadair Eisteddfod Cymdeithas Madog. It's a traveling prize - he or she has to give it back in time for next year's course - but one much desired. The chair itself stands 14.5 inches tall. Its design is based on that of the chair given at the National Eisteddfod of Wales in 1988, and it was made by the same craftsman, using a piece of oak from a house over 600 years old. This year I won it for the first time, using the bardic name "Hebog". My entry is shown below, followed by a fairly literal translation. There are a few errors in the Welsh, but I have let them stand for now. The round thing in front of the chair in the picture is an engraved piece of slate from North Wales, which carries the name of the course and the year; and this I get to keep.
“A fo ben, bid bont.” Gwerthfawr
Nid i ŵr gwan bach ydyw
gario llwyth sydd bod yn lyw.
Dros ei gorff ei hun cerddant
a’i waed goch torriff eu chwant.
Brenin uchel un dydd daeth
codi bont dros môr llydan.
gwnaeth y bont – bu’n bensaer.
gan ei gŵr elai adref.
Ond yr oedd hi’n aberth prid:
Yn eu pont yr oedd gwendid.
Bron â collwyd holl eu hedd:
Torrodd sylfaen wan eu gwaith,
ond nid oeddynt heb obaith.
Aeth heb bryder dros y don
y pâr priod i Iwerddon.
Ond parhâi, wedi’r hen ddig,
A pwy oedd dechreuodd sôn
am y tal yr ebolion?
A pwy cymhellodd y gred
Ef yr oedd gan gelwydd hon
Ond ys bai i’r brenin ffôl
am ei farn gamsyniol.
Bob dydd cosbodd cigydd cas
Branwen gan bonclust diflas.
Dagrau hallt ar ei boch fain
syrthient yn boeth heb udain.
Cloesid pyrth yr wlad i gyd;
bu dim dianc o’i thristlyd.
Dan y dŵr heb lef heb don
cwympasai’r bont yn ddison.
Wedi amser, neges daeth
i Brân am ei chaethwasaeth.
I’r orllewin hirbell las
bu’n ei feddwl – llifoedd gwaed
talai am boen ei gydwaed.
Nid oedd nawr bont – croesi’r môr,
bai’n rhaid iddo bod blaenor,
a cherdded trwy’r dyfnder mawr
yn tynnu’i longau llwythfawr.
Gwelodd Gwyddelod ei ben
gan ddial ar ei dalcen.
Rhedodd pob un gan y gair
i’w brenin ar ei gadair.
Dweudodd wrthynt torri i lawr
pont dros afon llifeirfawr.
Byddent yn ddiogel iawn
er eu bod yn anghyfiawn.
A sut dweud yr hanes ddu
o Iwerddon a’i tyngu?
Pan daeth nifer Brân i’r min
bu dim obaith i’w gwerin.
Tân, cleddef, angau mawr,
Dim ond saith y gwŷr ddaeth n’ôl
ar ei llwybr hen amdrist:
pump o wraig i lenwi gwlad;
Gwelodd Branwen beth y bo;
y môr hwn nad all pontio.
Torrodd chalon cryf yn dwy;
ddaeth ei ysbryd yn ddrudwy.
Gan waed byw coch fel offrwm
gwyd pont, nid maen ar faen trwm.
“A fo ben, bid bont,” meddai
yr hen gawr; yr oedd heb fai.
Aeth Brân yn bont yn lawen:
daeth adref dim ond ei ben.
“He who would lead, let him be a bridge.” Valuable
are the words of the old giant.
Not for a small weak man it is
to carry the burden of being a leader.
Over his own body they will walk
and his red blood will slake their thirst.
A high king one day came
through marrying a pure maiden
to build a bridge over a wide sea.
Brân the Blessed with his sister
made the bridge – he was chief builder.
Beautiful Branwen would be strong,
with her husband she would go home.
But she was a costly sacrifice:
in their bridge there was a weakness.
Almost lost was all their peace:
Efnissien came to the feast.
He broke the weak foundation of their work,
but they were not without hope.
To repair the sick bridge
Without worries, over the wave
the married pair went to Ireland.
But there persisted, because of that discord,
deep unseen cracks [in the bridge].
Who was it began the rumor
about the payment of the colts?
Who was it compelled the belief
that it was necessary to punish an innocent woman?
He it was who with this lie
broke the realm of Ireland.
But there is blame for the foolish king
because of his mistaken judgment.
Every day a hateful butcher punished
Branwen with a nasty ear-box.
Salt tears on her thin cheek
fell warmly without wailing.
All the ports of the land were closed;
there was no escape from her sorrow.
Under the water, without cry, without wave,
the bridge collapsed soundlessly.
After a time, a message came
to Brân about her slavery.
To the far blue west
he looked, and a blood price
was in his thinking – floods of blood
would pay for his blood relative’s pain.
There was no bridge now – to cross the sea
he would have to be the first-goer,
and walk through the great depths
pulling his heavy-laden boats.
The Irish saw his head
with vengeance on his brow.
Everyone ran with the word
to their king on his chair.
He told them to break down
the bridge over the great-flowing river.
They would be very safe
although they were in bad faith.
How to tell the dark tale
of Ireland and her fate?
When Brân’s army came to the brink
there was no hope for common folk.
Fire, sword, great death,
a huge red disaster.
Only seven men came back
from their blood-flowing battling.
Sad Ireland set out
on her ancient woeful journey:
five women to fill a land;
Branwen saw what would be;
this sea she could not bridge.
Her strong heart broke in two,
her spirit became a starling.
With living red blood as an offering
a bridge is raised, not stone on heavy stone.
“He who would be head, let him be a bridge,” said
the old giant; he was blameless.
Brân became a bridge gladly;
Only his head came home.
Posted by G R Grove at 9:11 AM 5 comments: Links to this post
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Labels: chair, cymdeithas madog, Cymraeg, eisteddfod, languages, poetry, Welsh
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He was born for a reason... Now available on amazon.com
Essays on the Welsh language
Essays on Scots Gaelic
Taliesin and Aneirin - Christian Bards or Pagan?
Dwygelli - Celtic Song and Stories
My discussion thread on LibraryThing
Colorado Welsh Society Welsh class blog
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Books by G. R. Grove: The Storyteller series.
The first book in the series. Fifteen-year-old Gwernin sets off on a journey around 6th century Wales, earning his way as a storyteller. Maybe, one day, he will be a real bard...
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Read sample chapters or get the e-book at Smashwords.com
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The second book in the series. Bardic apprentice Gwernin and his friend Neirin mab Dwywei are sent on a diplomatic mission to the North of Britain. But some of the natives aren't too friendly...
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The third book in the series. In 6th century Wales the ash spear was a symbol of warfare and of manhood, but it also stood for awen, the poetic inspiration of the bards...
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And the next book in the series...
Journeyman bard Gwernin Storyteller accompanies a Welsh princess to Ireland for her wedding. But other members of the party have their own objectives... Set five years after The Ash Spear, this will be the 4th book in the Storyteller series, and the beginning of a new trilogy. Scheduled for publication in late 2015.
My published poetry series so far includes King Arthur's Raid on Hell and Pryderi's Pigs. Coming soon: Storyteller Songs, a collection of poetry and prose from the first three books of the Storyteller series.
King Arthur's Raid on Hell and other poems
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Read selections or get the e-book at Smashwords.com
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Pryderi's Pigs and other poems
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Read selections or get the e-book at Smashwords.com
Get the physical book at Amazon.com
Read selections or get the e-book at Smashwords.com
Get the physical book at Lulu
Some of my travel photos on Flickr