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?

Sooner tearsSooner tears than sleep this midnightCome into my eyes,On my window the complainingTempest groans and sighs.

Grows the noise now of its weepingSobbing to and fro-On the glass the tears come hurlingOf some wildest woe.

Why, oh wind against my windowCome you grief to prove?Can it be your heart’s gone grievingFor its own lost love?

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.

WARNING - Jenny JosephWhen I am an old woman I shall wear purpleWith a red hat which doesn’t go, and doesn’t suit me.And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer glovesAnd satin sandals, and say we’ve no money for butter.And gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bellsAnd run my stick along the public railingsAnd make up for the sobriety of my youth.I shall go out in my slippers in the rainAnd pick the flowers in other people’s gardens. And learn to spit.You can wear terrible shirts and grow more fatAnd eat three pounds of sausages at a goOr only bread and pickle for a weekAnd hoard pens and pencils and beer mats and things in boxes.And now we must have clothes that keep us dryAnd pay our rent and not sear in the streetAnd 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 surprisedWhen suddenly I am old, and start to wear purple.

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 curlThat clustered around her head.

‘Sisters and brothers, little maidHow many may you be?’‘How many? Seven in all, ‘she saidAnd wondering, looked at me.

‘And where are they, I pray you tell?’She answered, ‘Seven are we;And two of us at Conway dwellAnd 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 dwellAnd two are gone to sea. Yet ye are seven! – I pray you tell, Sweet maid, how this may be?’

‘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 fairI take my little porringerAnd 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 stillThe little maid would have her will:‘NAY, MASTER! WE ARE SEVEN!

In Sarajevoin the spring of 1992,everything is possible: you go stand in a bread lineand end up in an emergency roomwith your leg amputated. Afterwards, you still maintainthat you were very lucky.

LUCK IN SARAJEVO - Izet Sarajlić

The Average Child

MICHAEL BUSCEMI

I don’t cause my teachers trouble.My grades have been O.K.I listen to my classesand I’m in school every day.My parents think I’m averagemy 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 rocketI’ve a book that shows you howor start a stamp collectionwell, no use starting now‘cause since I’ve found I’m averageI’m just smart enough to seeto know there’s nothing specialthat I should expect of me.I’m part of that majority,that hump part of the bell,who spends his life unnoticedin an average kind of hell.

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.

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 linnetsJust building, knitting their nest.

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.

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.

THE PLANTER’S DAUGHTER - Austin Clarke

When night stirred at seaAnd the fire brought a crowd in,They say that her beautyWas music in mouthAnd few in the candlelightThought her too proud,For the house of the planterIs known by the trees.Men that had seen herDrank deep and were silent,The women were speakingWherever she went –As a bell that is rungOr a wonder told shylyAnd O she was the Sunday In every week.

Rose From A Friend author unknown

I would rather have one little roseFrom the garden of a friend,Than to have the choicest flowersWhen my stay on earth must end.

I would rather have a pleasant wordIn kindness said to me,Than flattery when my heart is stillAnd life has ceased to be.

I would rather have a loving smileFrom friends I know are true,Than tears shed 'round my casketWhen to this world I bid adieu.

Bring me all your flowers todayWhether pink, or white, or red,I'd rather have one blossom nowThan a truckload when I'm dead.

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 canEnrich that smile her eyes began?

A poor life this if, full of care,We have no time to stand and stare.

HUGS- author unknownThere's something in a simple hugThat always warms the heart,It can welcome us back homeOr make it easier to part.

A hug's a way to share the joyAnd sad times we go through,Or just a way for friends to sayThey like you 'cause you're you.

Hugs are meant for anyoneFor whom we really care,From your Grandma to your neighbourOr a cuddly teddy bear.

A hug is an amazing thing,It's just the perfect wayTo show the love we're feeling,But can't find the words to say.

It's funny how a little hugMakes everyone feel good,In every place and languageIt's always understood.

And hugs don't need equipment,Special batteries or parts.Just open up your arms,And open up your hearts.

THOSE WINTER SUNDAYS - Robert Hayden

Sundays too my father got up earlyand put his clothes on in the blueblack cold, then with cracked hands that ached from labour in the weekday weather madeblanked 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 coldand polished my good shoes as well. What did I know, what did I knowOf love’s austere and lonely offices?

The View From The Window

by R.S Thomas

Like a painting it is set before one,But less brittle, ageless; these coloursAre renewed daily with variationsOf light and distance that no painterAchieves or suggests. Then there is movement,Change, as slowly the cloud bruisesAre healed by sunlight, or snow capsA black mood; but gold at eveningTo cheer the heart.  All through historyThe great brush has not rested,Nor the paint dried; yet what eye,Looking coolly, or, as we now,through the tears' lenses, ever sawThis work and it was not finished?

A MARRIAGE - R S Thomas

We metunder a shower

of bird-notes.Fifty years passed,

love’s momentin a world in

servitude to time.She was young;

I kissed with my eyesclosed and opened

them on her wrinkles.

‘Come,’ said death,choosing her as his

partner forthe last dance. And she,

who in lifehad done everything

with a bird’s grace, opened her bill now

for the sheddingof one sigh no

heavier than a feather.