CAWLSOUP
Elin ap Hyweltrans. the poet
Nid cerdd am gawl yw hon -
nid cerdd am ei sawr, ei flas na'i liw,
na'r sêrs o fraster yn gusanau poeth
ar dafod sy'n awchu ei ysu.

Nid cerdd am gawl yw hon,
am frathiad o foron tyner,
am sudd yn sugnad safri, hallt
na'r persli'n gonffeti o grychau gwyrdd.

Dim ond cawl oedd e wedi'r cyfan
- tatws a halen a chig a dŵr -
nid gazpacho na chowder na bouillabaisse,
bisque na velouté neu vichyssoise.

Nid cerdd am gawl yw hon
ond cerdd am rywbeth oedd ar hanner ei ddysgu -
pinsiaid o rywbeth fan hyn a fan draw,
mymryn yn fwy neu'n llai o'r llall
- y ddysgl iawn, llwy bren ddigon hir -
pob berwad yn gyfle o'r newydd
i hudo cyfrinach athrylith cawl.

Nid cerdd am gawl yw hon o gwbl
- nid cerdd am gawl, nac am ddiffyg cawl:
dim oll i'w wneud â goleuni a gwres,
y radio'n canu mewn cegin gynnes
a lle wrth y bwrdd.
This not a poem about soup -
not the colour of soup, its smell, its taste,
nor its stars of fat - searing kisses
on a tongue just aching to burn -

this is not a poem about soup,
the delicate bite of carrots,
the savoury, salt suck of liquid,
the parsley like crumpled green confetti.

After all, it was only soup
- potatoes and meat and water and salt -
not gazpacho nor chowder nor bouillabaisse,
bisque or velouté or vichyssoise.

This is not a poem about soup,
poem about a thing half-learnt:
a pinch of something here and there
a soupçon more of this or that
- the one right bowl, a long enough spoon -
each boiling another chance
to witch the secret genius of soup.

This is not a poem, at all, about soup -
not a poem about soup, or the lack of soup;
nothing to do with heat and light,
the radio humming in a warm kitchen,
a place at the table.

Copyright © Elyn ap Hywel; trans. Copyright © the poet - publ. Gwasg Gower


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