CHWIL-RASIO JOY-RIDING
Donald Evanstrans. the poet (from Welsh)
Dydd o dynged gaeëdig
fel doe ac echdoe, a gwaeth;
bore pl o bwl di-baid
â'r un clic yn yr un clwb;
yr un rhesau meinciau mwll;
yr un bagad sylwadau;
yr un ergyd chwyrn-wyrgam;
yr un ffliwc gywrain o fflêr:
teirawr o beli'n taro
yn amryliw ddiddiwedd
dros lachar o garchar gwyrdd.
Y prynhawn yn para'n hir
a dau ar beint-arian-dól
yn sipian ... sipian o saib;
delwi i'w cwrw dulesg;
delwi ar boteli'r bar;
delwi godi a gadael;
ac allan i'r hanner gwyll
a'r golau'n cynnau'n y cwm
a'i derfynau'n cau fel cell
am ddeuben benben o boen.

Rhusio-droedio'n rhwystredig
fel strae yng ngafael y stryd,
cythryblus eu hast, ysu am flastio
yn chwilfriw o'u caethiwed:
yna car ar fin y cyrb
yn eu denu fel roced wynias -
hwnnw ar ennyd yn trywanu
ar dân drwy'r stryd oer:
sgrechian teiers yn gordial persain,
storom anwar yn byrstio'r ymennydd
a'r gwaed ar frig aden;
dwyffrwd goleuni'r dyffryn
yn rhuthro fel sêr drwy'r eangderau;
glyn y mygu'n ymagor
yn daran mellt a'r dorau'n ymhollti
yn entrychion o wreichion rhydd -
ariandw o nos, ond yr ennyd nesaf
crensian metel ar gornel gam,
y sgrin dêr yn 'sgyrion dall
a hen furiau yfory
eto'n cau am falurion car.
A day of destined boredom
like yesterday and the day before, and worse;
a dull morning of unending pool
with the same crowd in the same club;
the same rows of drab benches;
the same string of remarks;
the same old clumsy shot;
the same fluke looking like flair:
three hours of coloured balls
forever clashing
within dazzling green confines.
The afternoon dragging on,
both on dole-money pints,
sipping ... sipping between long pauses;
staring into their flat beer;
gazing at the bar bottles;
rising automatically and leaving;
out into the early evening
and the lights coming on in the valley,
its boundaries closing like a cell
on two lives jammed in anguish.

Hurrying forth frustrated,
two street bums,
distressed, craving to blast
their way out of constraint:
soon, a car at the kerbside
looking like a red rocket -
in a jiffy it streaks
on fire along the cold lane:
the sweet cordial of screeching tyres,
a storm exploding in the mind
and the flesh on wing;
twin streams of road-lights
sweeping the expanse like stars,
the stifling valley splitting apart
in flashes of thunder and the barriers snapping
onto a sparkling liberty,
a glittering firmament, but in an instant
the crunch of metal on a blind bend,
the gleaming windscreen splintering up
and tomorrow's old walls
closing again around a wrecked car.

Copyright © Donald Evans 1994 - publ. Cyhoeddiadau Barddas / Barddas Publications


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