Haiku from the Hill
Vowels, consonants, elude
Death by writers block
Copyright © JRFC April 2019 Image by vijeeshktd from pixabay
It happened again
I let my ego, my passion
Suffocate me with self obsession
To take what was given
I’m drowning in narcissism
To the point of being numb
I don’t know what I’ve become
My thoughts so gruesome
In my heart a chiselled chasm
And my soul a shadowed phantasm
Can there be any redemption
A way back from abdication
For a wretch lost in translation
Will someone light a beacon?
On this abomination
Copyright © JRFC April 2019 Image from Pixabay, modified by JRFC
(I wrote this over a year ago when I first started and my ‘health’ got in the way before I published it. Not this time!!)
I thought it be nice to celebrate my patron saints day; St David. So by way of my Special Guest Post, I present to you the Welsh National Anthem. This was written and composed by a Welsh father and son duo, Evan and James James (yip, you read it right) back in 1856. It’s original name was Glan Rhondda.
Some of you will know this anthem from the many concerts and sporting events that it’s played at, for those of you who don’t have a listen over on YouTube. I have also included the very loose English Translation. Please don’t ask me what I mean by ‘very loose’ as I’m no Welsh Teacher and it would probable take a whole first year in school to explain.
Suffice to say, we’ve replaced the letters K, Q, V, X and Z and added two extra’s to make a 28 letter alphabet.
Mae hen wlad fy nhadau yn annwyl i mi,
Fathers of the old country dearest to me,
Gwlad beirdd a chantorion, enwogion o fri;
A country of poets and singers, renowned celebrities;
Ei gwrol ryfelwyr, gwladgarwyr tra mad,
Her courageous warriors, patriotic people,
Dros ryddid collasant eu gwaed.
For freedom they lost their blood.
Gwlad, gwlad, pleidiol wyf i’m gwlad.
Country, country, favourable to my country.
Tra môr yn fur i’r bur hoff bau,
Through sea is a wall of the best favorite,
O bydded i’r hen iaith barhau.
O may the old language continue.
Hen Gymru fynyddig, paradwys y bardd,
The ancient mountainous Wales, paradise of the poet,
Pob dyffryn, pob clogwyn, i’m golwg sydd hardd;
Every valley, every cliff, to my sight is beautiful;
Trwy deimlad gwladgarol, mor swynol yw si
Through a patriotic feeling, it is so charming
Ei nentydd, afonydd, i fi.
Its streams, rivers, for me.
Os treisiodd y gelyn fy ngwlad tan ei droed,
If the enemy raiseth my country to his feet,
Mae hen iaith y Cymry mor fyw ag erioed,
The old language of the Welsh is as live as ever,
Ni luddiwyd yr awen gan erchyll law brad,
The dread was not dreadfully horrible,
Na thelyn berseiniol fy ngwlad.
Not the berry of my country.
“Your ego is writing cheques your body can’t cash”, a great Top Gun quote and kind of how I’m feeling.
My fight with my demented monkey is not getting any better so I’m gonna make a strategic retreat and take a time out. I’m afraid to say that I just can’t multi-task and I’m suffering for it. I seem to have a lot going on at the moment and I’m struggling to keep up.
This is not good bye this is see you later, at least from a writing point of view. So as a parting gift I’ll leave you with a failed short story. I entered it into a competition after some persuasion but to no avail.
Maybe I’m just not a story writer. Still I wrote it so I’ll publish it like I do. My attempt at a 300 word Flash Fiction.
Hwyl Fawr Ffrindiau.
It was all over the news. Chaos had ensued around him and all he could do was stand there at the edge of the shore.
He should have been thinking about other things, like life flashing before his eyes kind of things. Instead he stood mindfully watching the gentle tide ebb and flow around his feet as they sunk into the wet sand.
He didn’t think that morning that the day would end like this. End; such a resolute word, to end, to stop, to cease, he just didn’t care anymore. He couldn’t do anything about it because there was no more time.
No time to play games on his console. No time to go to the movies, No time to kiss and hug his loved ones and say goodbye. No time.
No more time because they were coming. That sound, that distinctive sound coming from the horizon, getting closer, getting louder. His mind was trying to distinguish it with something different to what he knew it was. A hurricane, a tsunami, a swarm of giant killer bees, anything with a chance of survival after the event.
Unfortunately, this was not natural; this was manmade by stupid, incompetent, childish Man. He giggled to himself ironically, as he thought ‘who am I to judge’.
He was soon pulled from his thoughts as the sound became something to look at racing across the sky and yet time seemed to slow down. It was such a beautiful day with the sun shining bright in a pale blue summer sky. Not a cloud could be seen to hide the horror that was about to envelope the world. Then silence.
Silence as he watched the first of the missiles drop from the sky and hit the sea with a blinding white flash and… The end!
Copyright © JRFC February 2019 Images from Pixabay, modified by JRFC.
Robert Burns and A Red, Red Rose
A Scottish poet and lyricist Burns was born in 1759 in Alloway, Ayrshire and was known by many names, my favourite or which is Rabbie Burns, I love that. He wrote his poetry in his native Scots language as well as in English. A man of many talents it would seem.
He is thought of as a pioneer of the Romantic Movement. Even after his death he became a great source of inspiration around the world. Celebration of his life and work became almost a national charismatic cult and his influence has long been strong on Scottish literature.
This lovely poem I thought suited the time of year. Although Valentine’s Day has passed is this not the month when we do the dance of love (and I’m trying to cheer up (forced smile)).
So I hope you enjoy this lovely poem, which I found read better with my imaginary Scottish accent.
O my Luve is like a red, red rose
That’s newly sprung in June;
O my Luve is like the melody
That’s sweetly played in tune.
So fair art thou, my bonnie lass,
So deep in luve am I;
And I will luve thee still, my dear,
Till a’ the seas gang dry.
Till a’ the seas gang dry, my dear,
And the rocks melt wi’ the sun;
I will love thee still, my dear,
While the sands o’ life shall run.
And fare thee weel, my only luve!
And fare thee weel awhile!
And I will come again, my luve,
Though it were ten thousand mile.