Mathafarn and the Dyfi Forest

Mathafarn

... and on that day I walked up behind Mathafarn, an eighteenth century farmhouse built on the site of the home of the same name of Dafydd Llwyd ap Llywelyn ap Gruffudd. This fifteenth century poet and prophet predicted the revival of Welsh fortunes and the defeat of the English. Legend has it that Henry Tudor stayed at his house in 1485 on his way across Wales to Bosworth in England where he defeated Richard III and so became Henry VII of England. Dafydd died not long afterwards probably thinking that his prophecy had been fulfilled. History knows differently.

It is said that some of the barns and other outbuildings still remain from the original house. But they were hidden from view as we climbed up from the valley of the River Dyfi to the forested hills above. The sun remained low, not far above the trees even at Midday, but the day was bright and cold as high pressure kept the air still and the temperature low. Clearing the conifers of the Dyfi Forest for a while, the open hillside has scattered trees with bare branches to contrast with the drab green of the Douglas Firs and Sitka Spruce of the forestry plantation. Here the twiggy outlines merged to a reddish mist on a distant hillside. In the far distance the distinctive ridge of Cadair Idris dominated the horizon. Such clear, cold weather in December, with the sunlight angled low, gives a particular quality to the light and the perception of colour. Everything seems so pellucid, as if the bright but subdued light is shining through the components of the landscape rather than reflecting off them.

Back amongst the enclosed conifer forest the suffused light is more densely poured over - and absorbed by - the green branches. The path winds down steeply through the trees and meets a forest road. Ditches and puddles glisten half way between a frozen and a liquid state. The Sun is behind the hills and the light begins to fade. Separate objects begin to cohere. We pass a ramshackle farm as we descend further to the valley floor and leave the forest behind. A dog barks. Light ebbs away as we pass Mathafarn. It is lost in the dim past. Did Henry Tudor stay there?

An unlikely piece of doggerel ascribed to Dafydd suggests he sent him on his way with a blessing:

Harri a fu, Harri a fo

Harri y sydd, hiroes iddo!

(Henry who was, Henry who will be / Henry who is, long life to him)

But all is now dark. 

To Praise or to Mock? : Medieval Welsh Poets

There were three identified grades of poet in Wales in the Middle Ages:

Prydydd (High grade poet)

Bardd Teulu (Poet attached the household)

Clerwr (popular poet)

The actual titles vary but these are ones used in the following extract from a 15^th century manuscript [Llanstephan 3], adapted from a translation by D Myrddin Lloyd:

It is not becoming for a prydydd to dabble in material more suited to a clerwr, for such things are opposed to his art. It is the habit of the clerwr to mock and to belittle, and to arouse feelings of shame and disgrace, whereas it behoves the prydydd to praise and to compliment, and to procure fame and joy and glorification. Moreover, the clerwr practises a disorderly art which is not reducible to rule. But it is becoming for a prydydd to concern himself with material suitable for a bardd teulu and to treat it critically, for the art of the bardd teulu submits itself to rule and to the discipline practised by the prydydd. Wherever the prydydd practises his art, it is not right to entertain the disparaging productions of the clerwr for the prydydd’’s song of praise should outweigh such mean effusions.
Incantations, sorcery, and magical practices are not worthy of the prydydd’’s indulgence, and he should not meddle with them. Ancient song of high repute and tales preserved in writing, questions reflecting honour on those who asked them, and replies rendered excellent by art and truth – these are the things that it is good for the prydydd to know when called upon to converse with wise men, to delight young maidens, and to entertain gentlemen and ladies of breeding. For the prydydd’’s art is a portion of natural wisdom and it is derived from the Holy Spirit, and its inspiration is a fruit of genius matched with artistic endeavour.

The interesting thing here is not just that the prydydd is seen as a pillar of civilized Christian society, but that the clerwr is seen as quite other. The clerwr may dabble, potentially, in magic and sorcery, engage in satire and other ‘low effusions’ and, presumably, entertain rather than edify. If it is the works of the prydyddion that have come down to us, would it perhaps have been the clêr who had a more apparent presence for the inhabitants of the oral culture of medieval Wales?

A Leaf in Autumn

Y ddeilen hon, neus cynired gwynt,

Gwae hi o'i thynged!

Hi hen; eleni ganed.

(9th century?)

This leaf, sere as the wind turns it

Its fate is here, its woe:

To be born and die in a year.

ENGLYN

Often in Welsh poetry an englyn from a longer awdl may be anthologised as a self-contained verse in its own right. Here's one from Gwallter Mechain (1761-1849) that often appears in anthologies on its own:

Cyfnos

Y nos dywell yn distewi - caddug
Yn cuddio Eryri,
Yr haul yng ngwely'r heli,
A'r lloer yn ariannu'r lli.

And here is my translation:

Nightfall

Night's gloom silently gathering - Snowdon
Slips into the gloaming,
The sun bedded in ocean,
Sea in the moonlight silvering.

The Spider (Y Corryn)

Iwan Llwyd was winner of the National Eisteddfod Crown in 1990, and, with Twm Morys, has been a productive deviser of poetic and musical entertainments in Welsh. In this well-known poem he compares the process of the weaving of a web by a spider to the making of a poem. I have aimed, here, at reproducing both the meaning and the formal structure of the original.

Iwan Llwyd (front) with John Barnie, Twm Morys and Nigel Jenkins

(prospectus for a bilingual poetry and music tour)

The Spider

His web was perfect

and him sitting there

where the glistening threads intersect:

he spent his life knitting sunlight

to a round plane of dew;

the end of his labour in sight

he'd listen to the drip of the rain

between the lines

silently shifting their refrain

and the grey river in full flow

irritable as it falls

companionless below

to meet the brackish floods

between the autumn cliffs

and the fringed woods;

he is impatient

weaving intricate patterns,

each answering assent

marking an exact measure

between corner and centre

stealing the stars' treasure

of diamonds to entice

insects along steel threads

towards the silence:

then a sudden rush of air

a quiver through the intersections;

like an old man he's there

under the yellow leaves

gathering it all in

to the pattern that he weaves.