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  Oct 2021 Iwan Glyn
Theodore Roethke

I dream of journeys repeatedly:
Of flying like a bat deep into a narrowing tunnel
Of driving alone, without luggage, out a long peninsula,
The road lined with snow-laden second growth,
A fine dry snow ticking the windshield,
Alternate snow and sleet, no on-coming traffic,
And no lights behind, in the blurred side-mirror,
The road changing from glazed tarface to a rubble of stone,
Ending at last in a hopeless sand-rut,
Where the car stalls,
Churning in a snowdrift
Until the headlights darken.


At the field's end, in the corner missed by the mower,
Where the turf drops off into a grass-hidden culvert,
Haunt of the cat-bird, nesting-place of the field-mouse,
Not too far away from the ever-changing flower-dump,
Among the tin cans, tires, rusted pipes, broken machinery, --
One learned of the eternal;
And in the shrunken face of a dead rat, eaten by rain and ground-beetles
(I found in lying among the rubble of an old coal bin)
And the tom-cat, caught near the pheasant-run,
Its entrails strewn over the half-grown flowers,
Blasted to death by the night watchman.

I suffered for young birds, for young rabbits caught in the mower,
My grief was not excessive.
For to come upon warblers in early May
Was to forget time and death:
How they filled the oriole's elm, a twittering restless cloud, all one morning,
And I watched and watched till my eyes blurred from the bird shapes, --
Cape May, Blackburnian, Cerulean, --
Moving, elusive as fish, fearless,
Hanging, bunched like young fruit, bending the end branches,
Still for a moment,
Then pitching away in half-flight,
Lighter than finches,
While the wrens bickered and sang in the half-green hedgerows,
And the flicker drummed from his dead tree in the chicken-yard.

-- Or to lie naked in sand,
In the silted shallows of a slow river,
******* a shell,
Once I was something like this, mindless,
Or perhaps with another mind, less peculiar;
Or to sink down to the hips in a mossy quagmire;
Or, with skinny knees, to sit astride a wet log,
I'll return again,
As a snake or a raucous bird,
Or, with luck, as a lion.

I learned not to fear infinity,
The far field, the windy cliffs of forever,
The dying of time in the white light of tomorrow,
The wheel turning away from itself,
The sprawl of the wave,
The on-coming water.


The river turns on itself,
The tree retreats into its own shadow.
I feel a weightless change, a moving forward
As of water quickening before a narrowing channel
When banks converge, and the wide river whitens;
Or when two rivers combine, the blue glacial torrent
And the yellowish-green from the mountainy upland, --
At first a swift rippling between rocks,
Then a long running over flat stones
Before descending to the alluvial plane,
To the clay banks, and the wild grapes hanging from the elmtrees.
The slightly trembling water
Dropping a fine yellow silt where the sun stays;
And the ***** bask near the edge,
The weedy edge, alive with small snakes and bloodsuckers, --
I have come to a still, but not a deep center,
A point outside the glittering current;
My eyes stare at the bottom of a river,
At the irregular stones, iridescent sandgrains,
My mind moves in more than one place,
In a country half-land, half-water.

I am renewed by death, thought of my death,
The dry scent of a dying garden in September,
The wind fanning the ash of a low fire.
What I love is near at hand,
Always, in earth and air.


The lost self changes,
Turning toward the sea,
A sea-shape turning around, --
An old man with his feet before the fire,
In robes of green, in garments of adieu.
A man faced with his own immensity
Wakes all the waves, all their loose wandering fire.
The murmur of the absolute, the why
Of being born falls on his naked ears.
His spirit moves like monumental wind
That gentles on a sunny blue plateau.
He is the end of things, the final man.

All finite things reveal infinitude:
The mountain with its singular bright shade
Like the blue shine on freshly frozen snow,
The after-light upon ice-burdened pines;
Odor of basswood on a mountain-*****,
A scent beloved of bees;
Silence of water above a sunken tree :
The pure serene of memory in one man, --
A ripple widening from a single stone
Winding around the waters of the world.
Iwan Glyn Oct 2021
Y llew,
Y ddraig ar' blaidd,
Rhwng naws ac saws suriol,
Cadair idris.

Gwen glawiog
Pam clydodd
Diancrwydd, frainc.

Dan lledar e'i felt,
Noson dianc.
Rhag dy fodiau,

Gwen a fina
wrth tamad
O' dy adloniant bywiog.

Nol at y blaidd,
Y llew,  
A'r ddraig,

A finau,
Yn hedfan,
Ar adenydd,
Iwan Glyn Jul 2020
Looking at
empty book shelves ,
Googling motivational reads,
Sweeping through right or left,

Hanging on
to the dregs of past days,
Trying to feel,
Some way?

that I've always
Yurned for change,

Is it true , is it right ?
Does the moon always shine,

Happines washes over,
Like the misty trails
of high up tanks,
Jet oil,

to be
a bore,
Or a sheep,
Or to have worn out souls,
and smelly feet.

I walked a long way,
To save spring time frogs,
worn down tyres.
Iwan Glyn Jul 2020
wilted spinach,
Washes away.

Guided by fragmented,

Narrow Paths,
porcelain plates.

Tulips intwined.

Golden twang,
Break barking soldiers,

Through gated pits,
Delighted deeds.

Bank on countless queen's,
Breaking vows.

Dealing cards,
With warn out shards.

Warm and cold,
Race  of old.


Day for

Pink mascara.
Iwan Glyn May 2020
Multi coloured eyes,
Blue and brown.

Your snout nestled,
Neatly underneath
my folded arms.

Champions sense
for lighting up;
my dim days.

Never interested,
In sheepherding.
Rather lazying,
near river banks.

On warm summer days.
Wagging your patched,
excited tail.

Today a friend gained
Fur covered wings.

Let's hope your love cheers up
some of the angles dust.

Shep RIP 17/05/2020
  May 2020 Iwan Glyn
Pauline Celerio
I gaze upon my windowpane
as the sun utters its goodbyes.
Mixed hues of blue, red, and orange,
grace the stillness of the summer sky.
I lived within these walls,
48 days and counting.
The light beckons, the heat calls
me out from my endless hiding.
The longing for the wind
and a greeting from my neighbor,
feels like fire in the harshest of winters.
But for now all I have is my window,
my paper and a pen--
giving me faith for a brighter tomorrow,
for this too, shall end.
In commemoration of my month and a half quarantine. The window is my only access to the outside world.
Iwan Glyn May 2020
As I fill the washing machine;
I think.

What a memorable scene,
As the washing machine fills
So do my eyes.

Like left over dries,
I think,
How you stained my soul.

With a green breathless dream,
I think.
How you stood next to an open fire,
I think

Your soot stained face,
Stained in every perfect place
I think.

When it turns around,
soap suds are seen.
So are my empty dreams.
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