Tag Archives: Anglo-Welsh literature

WELSH WRITING WEDNESDAYS: ALIENORA BROWN ON THE INFLUENCE OF THE WELSH LANGUAGE

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I arrived in Aberystwyth train station, on October 3rd 1976, and, bathed in a sunset of extraordinary richness and colour, was driven up the Penglais Hill – by coach and surrounded by other students – to the Penbryn Halls of Residence.

Is it possible to fall in love with a place at first sight? Yes, it is – and I did! That first glimpse, stark hills rearing in the distance, struck a sweet blow to my heart – and, the very next day, seeing parts of the promenade painted with blazing autumn gold, as grey silken sea undulated nearby, ignited a passion for West Wales which has never left me.

But it was the language which shivered and undulated in watery mystery; which gave me the delights of the double ‘ll’, the mutations from the ‘M’ of ‘Machnylleth’ to ‘Fachynlleth’ when preceded by ‘Croeso y…’ and the other sibilant mysteries of this proud tongue.

I had already decided to read joint English and Philosophy – and, told that I needed a third subject for that crucial first year at university, opted for Welsh with excitement and anticipatory joy.

Welsh lessons took place in the Old College/Yr Hen Goleg – and so the learning of this new language was accompanied by the stunning glimpses of the sea, often wild and raging, throwing its waves high up against the venerable old building’s sides and windows, rattling fragile sashes and leaving salty trails on glass.

Our teacher, Professor Edward (Tedi) Milward, was lovely – a gentle and knowledgeable soul who was a passionate advocate of this endangered language, and whose family I befriended during that first year in Wales.

From the very first lesson, I adored the sound of Welsh: its musicality; its sing-song quality; the subtle differences in pronunciation; the meanings of place names when broken down into their component parts.

At around the same time, I joined a university choir – and we learned a beautiful Welsh carol ‘Tua Bethlem Dref’ in readiness for what turned out to be a most moving and inspirational Christmas service in a local church.

Unfortunately, my passionate love of the language was not matched by any genuine learning ability – and, suspecting I would not gain that all-important pass in the subject, I made the difficult decision to give it up at the end of the first term, taking Classical Studies instead.

The odd thing is this: naturally musical, I learned the sounds – the inner song, if you like – of Welsh with ease, and, to this day, can read and pronounce it without any problem. But the ability to understand the rules, learn the words, tenses and so forth eluded me (as it had done, at school, for both French and Latin).

But, being given the key (or should that be the lyre?) for the plangent tones behind the language was a privilege and a life-long delight. Much of my enjoyment of the sublime landscape and magic of that area was filtered through the lilt and cadence of the language itself.

By a strange coincidence – and bringing things full circle – I got the part of the Lady of the Lake in a local Glastonbury production, back in 2018. Told that the character needed to enter the stage singing a solo, I opted for ‘Tua Bethlem Dref’ – and can recall vividly walking up the centre of the Town Hall, the words of that long-ago Welsh song ringing and echoing from my throat: a love song for a time, a place and an ancient language.

 

 

 

WELSH WRITING WEDNESDAYS: JANE CABLE ON HER FATHER POET, MERCER SIMPSON

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As I have written in Frost before, my formative years were spent in and around the vibrant Anglo-Welsh poetry scene. Writers such as Tony Curtis, Dannie Abse and Gillian Clarke were taking over the mantle from the Dylan Thomas generation and my father Mercer Simpson was in the thick of it.

First as an expert on the genre – he wrote the section on it in The Bloomsbury Guide to Literature – and a reviewer. Then as poet himself. Except he wasn’t Welsh by birth – he was English, although in the end he lived in Cardiff for the last 55 years of his life. His first – and last – collections were through Rockingham Press in East Anglia, but I think the one of which he was always most proud was Rain From a Clear Blue Sky which was published by Gomer with the help of Welsh Arts Council funding.

Having a poet as a father gives a unique insight into their lives. This is not to say all poetry is autobiographical – it’s certainly not – but my father was very clear that some of his were and there is a section in Rain From a Clear Blue Sky that deals with childhood memories. All this was easy to accept as my father’s past, but when the present reared its head, it could be harder. Or simply incredibly beautiful, like these lines about a rose bush that stood in my parents’ garden.

Fruhlingsgold
shakes her
curling-papered head,
the wind’s
premature blow-drier
scattering news
of dispersed beauty,
the white petals
leaving the golden heart
on each stem…

But there were certainly times when the insights seemed far too close to home and I still find parts of his last two collections difficult. Not just because I helped him to correct the proofs of the last one when he was in a nursing home, dying. It wasn’t a bad time – apart from the obvious – we became even closer over those galleys – and we were able to discuss what was going to happen surprisingly easily.

Six months before the Welsh Academy had put on an eightieth birthday reception for him in the Norwegian Church in Cardiff Bay. For him it was the pinnacle of his acceptance as an Anglo-Welsh poet and I will never forget how much it meant to him. I was more than proud to be at his side as we listened to Tony Curtis, Ruth Bidgood and others read from their own work and celebrate my father’s. And he read himself – of course he did – he had been a lecturer, had even taught public speaking, so he was a consummate performer.

There was a humour in his work, even in the most serious of subjects, particularly in Honest to God, a poem he read that night and I read at his funeral. And pathos too. As the child of a poet, there are times you get to look inside your parent’s soul.

Dear God
I hope I’ve got your correct address:
with so much mail going astray these days I wouldn’t want this letter
to get lost in the post.

I hope you don’t mind me leaving the writing of it rather late
but I felt I had to thank you for letting me stay in your house for so long.
I know I haven’t been the easiest of guests,
stealing your son’s bread and helping myself to his wine…

…Now that my time is nearly over
I insist on having the last word which must be gratitude:
gratitude for the miracle of your world that I, who might have died at birth,
was spared to live in…

…So please forgive me if I seem impertinent
in asking if I may come back and visit you again some time?

 

 

 

WELSH WRITING WEDNESDAYS: GLYN JONES – POET, AUTHOR, GENTLE MAN – A PERSONAL APPRECIATION BY JANE CABLE

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I have a confession to make. When I first signed up to write this article, the subject matter was to be twentieth century Anglo-Welsh poetry, but slowly it dawned on me I could not do justice to those wonderful writers so Tony Curtis, Gillian Clarke, and even my own father, Mercer Simpson, will have to wait. Glyn Jones must take centre stage.

In later life Glyn and his wife Doreen were great friends of my parents. Glyn and my father met through the Welsh Academy (of literature) and found a common bond in their love of words. They lived quite close to each other in Cardiff and on sunny afternoons the Jones could often be found in my parents’ garden, tucking into tea and homemade cakes. Glyn was the ultimate gentle man, always unassuming, with a quiet sparkle about him. The last time I saw him was at a party my parents held to celebrate both my qualification as a chartered accountant and my engagement. A quiet man himself, my husband-to-be adored him too.

Both in the years before, and after, Glyn’s death, my father became the go-to expert on his work. He was interviewed extensively for a BBC documentary about Glyn’s life made in 1996 and wrote the introduction to the University of Wales Press collected poems published the same year. In that he wrote:

‘Generous in his encouragement of younger writers and in his remarkable gift of friendship, Glyn Jones was so modest about his great gifts that they have still to receive the critical attention they so richly merit.’

Although a friend of Dylan Thomas’, Jones was his polar opposite, a chapel-goer all his life, a man steadfast in his beliefs (he lost his teaching job after becoming a conscientious objector in World War Two), he was indeed too modest to push himself forward. While Jones never created a masterpiece like Under Milk Wood – few people do – he was still a master of his craft as a writer, and his epic poem-play, Seven Keys to Shaderdom, which was unfinished at his death, certainly comes close:

‘Before a dazzling evening’s lemon glow all your repose,
Your writhings, were there alone in open pasture. Bareness
Assumed, in spring’s hysteria, against the soaking snow of
Clouds, green fabrics of your opening foliage, glittering
Sunlit deluges of grain-like silver’

His novels were published in the 1950s and 60s to critical acclaim. The Island of Apples is one of my all-time favourites, a coming of age story told from the viewpoint of a pre-adolescent boy, with descriptions so vivid and perfect it makes you want to stop and read them again and again. I remember becoming so completely lost in the time and place I can picture it to this day.

Glyn Jones also wrote short stories and translated poems, plays and other literary works from welsh to english, bringing them to a wider audience. But it is his poetry for which he is most remembered. Or perhaps what I most remember him for. The morning my mother died I took his Collected Poems from the shelf and read to her. Her favourite was The Meaning of Fuchsias, but in the end I decided to read Goodbye, What Were You? at her funeral:

‘At the voice of the mother on a warm hearth,
Dark and firelit, where the hobbed kettle crinkled
In the creak and shudder of the rained-on window,
This world had its beginning
And was here redeemed.’

My ultimate tribute to Glyn is taking his name in my pseudonym, Eva Glyn. I just hope I can live up to his example.