Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
TomDoubty Jul 22
See this
The cupped hands,  the fat in the lamb
The fabled stories, the hook that stands
The shepherd's door, crossing a red dirt floor
Black Usk serpentining under

Table mountain, green with lambs
Licking at grass under peeling bells
That climbing call your dust to prayer
And to kneeling, on cold cushions
Under glass stained for sinners

Eli Eli Lama Sabachthani

Your fat in the lamb, your pink hands
Is it better to bury your rind in red earth?
To cure your warts
In whispering your sins to the dirt
I hold this land;
deep within my heart.
I hold in my hands
the soil and the toil,
until the end of days;
until the end of time.

I hold this land;
for our children
I hold in my hands
the future and the past,
until the end of days;
until the end of time.

until the end of days,
until the end of time.
until the end of days,
until the end of time.
A sense of belonging to a landscape and its culture
Carlo C Gomez Sep 2021
Inundate your love
for this sacred village,
on bended knee,
facing the freshet,
supplicated hands pressed together,
one of grace, one of charity,
lips of sweet euphony,
whispering into the morning sun,
a language deep and pounding
inside your heart's timpani,
abiding like unsheltered waters
that nourish the vine

Capel Celyn was a rural community to the north west of Bala in Gwynedd, Wales, in the Afon Tryweryn valley. The village and other parts of the valley were flooded in 1965 to create a reservoir, Llyn Celyn, in order to supply Liverpool and Wirral with water for industry. Capel is Welsh for chapel, while celyn is Welsh for holly.
Dave Robertson Mar 2021
We drive through the dark
to her home,
radio lulling small back seat bodies,
so late that our DJs have hushed
and only the rustling burr
of an AM station remains,
in and out like consciousness
with songs of eternal love,
bread of heaven
ar hyd y nos
I’d not ask a life that’s easy,
Gold and pearls so little mean,
Rather seek a heart that’s joyful,
Heart that’s honest, heart that’s clean.
So many Welsh songs, poems, are not translated for the world to enjoy:(
Sam Oct 2019
It's raining outside like buckets
                                  - - - like hard and fast and almost even
                                   - - - like rain you'd best not be caught in
                                    - - - like the beginnings of a terrible storm
except there's no thunder, no lightning.

It's just rain, and you are inside, safe with a soft blanket
(you are not scared and shuddering
  you are not crying and wishing not to be alone
  you are not holding in choked breaths, hugging yourself tight.

it is raining, and it rains most days, here.
the trees around you are so green, like nothing you're used to.
you have a room to yourself, and no one who loves you who lives close.
(and you think you might love it here.)

this, where you reside, this is not a place you can call home.
(not when your heart still yearns for the place you grew up, so long ago.
  not when most of the people that make up your family live oceans away.
  not when you have just barely lived here a month, not quite yet.)
but -- but -- this place, it feels safe.

you can't remember living anywhere where all you felt was safe, before.
you - really - don't want to let that go.
Nigel Finn Jul 2018
Breeze flowing gently;
The waterfall cascades down;
I feel at peace here.
A haiku about a place of natural beauty in north Wales.
Next page