#englyn

[pethaucwiar]

Y Fampir

y mae'n cysgu mewn casged - gwae ninnau !

gwan ei enaid caled;

croen llac, fel ei siaced

â'i ddagrau hen, mae'n ddi-gred

[thepatchworkcrow]

Hunters' Engyln

Hunters’ Engyln

Over several months, I’ve been playing around with different poetry styles and formats, and so as Winter rears its head, a snow and Wylde Hunt inspired group of englynion for you all to enjoy!

Heavy laden with snow, the pines leaning With ice gleaming—bend in time To hoofbeats: the seven-tined

Lord of Hunters, he cloaked in feathers comes. Beating hearts drum—break tethers— Vanish in mists and…

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[tinknevertalks]

I hate my life. I was writing a post about englynion and strict meter Welsh verses and I PRESSED THE WRONG NOTIFICATION SO TUMBLR ATE IT! *Cries*

Let it be known that I bow down to anyone who writes englynion like R. Williams Parry, or to anyone who can write poems full of cynghaneddion (found out the term in English is 'chiming' because that's the sound the words make).

And now, the first of Parry's Englynion Coffa Hedd Wyn, because it is awe inspiring to me (and what I instantly think of when someone says the word englyn).

Y bardd trwn dan bridd tramor, - y dwylaw

Na ddidolir rhagor:

Y llygaid dwys dan ddwys ddôr,

Y llygaid na all agor.

And now, to bed, before Tumblr eats this post.

[cydrhos]

Machlud. Ffy huan nen-- o'r wybrennydd Gesyd ei gusan i'r mynydd. Gwên olaf, harddaf hwyrddydd, A llwybr o dân lle bu'r dydd.

[cydrhos]

Ssshhhh…

Cadair Idris one November.

A taste of winter.

Arafa'r Haf ar ei hynt; – gwywa'r dail – Mae'n gur dwys bod hebddynt; Blas Gaeaf a gaf o'r gwynt, Ac awel yn troi'n rhew-wynt.

J. R. Tryfanwy

… don’t ask for a poetic translation. I’m rubbish at that sort of thing and in any case, the englyn doesn’t suit any other language (see my gripe below about Welsh national identity). If you are adept at four-line wistful epigrams, here’s the bald translation. If I like it, I might even reblog.

Summer slows in its course; – leaves wither – It’s a harsh blow living without them; I taste Winter on the wind, And the breeze becomes an icy draught.

Like I said, I’m rubbish at words.

[rael-f-wae]

Soldiers' verse I thunder forth. This englyn is Welsh in form, sharp as spears and loud as horn. Standing stoutly, though quite short, three by three these troops report, quickly building mighty forts. This is natural to me; it is what I came to see pour from me, as storm from sea, on a magic fateful day when the sky and clouds were gray, when I, a dark star, sprung a ray, when I was forlorn with bile and my pick stuck ope this Nile, since here flowing all the while.

[graywyvern]

( via / via via @violetbondart )

Helix Noise - 230520.

"lego shiba"

too much fun for the small screen platforms in chaos gangrene i prowl among the darkling screnery remarking gray & green

lego shiba i distill dingleberries of my will & hope to avoid the killing locale of a fallow skull-hill

Mod dancer.

"Sad Song of Cuacuauhtzin

My heart craves the flowers, that they be in my hands. With songs I am saddened, I only try to compose songs on the earth. I, Cuacuauhtzin, with anxiety I desire the flowers, that they be in my hands, for I am dispossessed.

Where would we go that we never have to die? Though I be precious stone, though I be gold, I will be dissolved, there in the crucible melted down. I have only my life, I, Cuacuauhtzin, I am dispossessed.

You make resound your kettle drum of jade, your red and blue conch shell, you, Yoyontzin, Panting One. Now he has come, now the singer has risen. For a short time be happy, come and be present, those with the sad heart. Now he has come, now the singer has risen.

Open the corolla of your heart, let it tread the lofty heights. You have hated me, you have marked me for death. Now I go to His house, I will perish. Perhaps because of me you will weep, because of me you will be sad, you, my friend, but now I will go, now I am going to His house. Only this my heart tells, I will not return, never will come back to the earth, now I will go, I am going to His house.

Only useless effort, enjoy, enjoy, my friends. Should we not be happy, should we not have pleasure, my friends? I will take with me the beautiful flowers, the beautiful songs.

Never I do it in springtime, I alone am in need, alone am I, Cuacuauhtzin. Should we not enjoy, my friends? I will take with me the beautiful flowers, the beautiful songs."

--Fifteen Poets of the Aztec World, Miguel León-Portilla (1992)

Coming Soon.

[graywyvern]

( via / via )

"And I do love using the word influencer to talk about any of these heartless posturing cruelty-peddling alpha male half-melted douche-popsicles, because it genuinely seems to bother them to be lumped in with a job they all tend to associate purely with women they disdain, when people like Jordan Peterson and Andrew Tate and even Joe Rogan have never been any different from a girl in tight pants hawking essential oils and sad neutral home decor on Instagram."

"short shrift on the longbow"

clown-nose orange instead of red halcyon the spring but arid nothing new this risible dread stirring whirring like bat radar

Wolf.

"The atmosphere he had noticed on the upper levels was a clear odor now--sleepy, half-remembered, smiling, sad and quite strong. That is the way Time smells." R.A. Lafferty (via @djfrankelee)

Whispered into the Afternoon.