Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Elin Ap Hywel

Flower

Sharon's a sad bag. Spiky, screwed up,
folded in on herself
in a tough brown shell
like the bark
autumn's last conker.

Some say she has a pretty smile 
though it's rare — tell the truth, it's prettier
for being scarce like rain in a desert
but nobody' s seen
her petals unfold
for quite a while.

But give her a drop to drink
when the weather’s right, in the monsoon season —
tears, or gin, or tempest water —
she explodes,
a cupful of dew and roses,
turns her plump, smooth face to the rain
and drinks, fearless, from the eye of the storm.

Blodyn

Blodyn

BLODYN

Un swrth yw Sharon. Un bigog, un grin
sydd wedi plygu amdani hi’i hun
yn blisgyn di-ildio, brown
fel rhisgl
castanwydden ola'r hydref.

Mae rhai yn dweud bod ei gwên yn hardd
er yn brin — yn wir, mae'n harddach
o fod fel dŵr mewn anialwch,
ond y gwir amdani yw
na welodd neb ei phetalau gwiw
ers blwyddyn neu ddwy.

Ond rhowch ddiferyn iddi
ar y diwrnod iawn, ym mis tywydd mawr —
deigryn, neu jin, neu law taranau,
ac mi ffrwydrith yn Ilond cwpan o rosyn gwlithog
sy'n troi ei hwyneb llyfn tua'r Ilif
ac yn sugno'n hy o lygad y storm.


Close

Flower

Sharon's a sad bag. Spiky, screwed up,
folded in on herself
in a tough brown shell
like the bark
autumn's last conker.

Some say she has a pretty smile 
though it's rare — tell the truth, it's prettier
for being scarce like rain in a desert
but nobody' s seen
her petals unfold
for quite a while.

But give her a drop to drink
when the weather’s right, in the monsoon season —
tears, or gin, or tempest water —
she explodes,
a cupful of dew and roses,
turns her plump, smooth face to the rain
and drinks, fearless, from the eye of the storm.

Flower

Sharon's a sad bag. Spiky, screwed up,
folded in on herself
in a tough brown shell
like the bark
autumn's last conker.

Some say she has a pretty smile 
though it's rare — tell the truth, it's prettier
for being scarce like rain in a desert
but nobody' s seen
her petals unfold
for quite a while.

But give her a drop to drink
when the weather’s right, in the monsoon season —
tears, or gin, or tempest water —
she explodes,
a cupful of dew and roses,
turns her plump, smooth face to the rain
and drinks, fearless, from the eye of the storm.
Sponsors
Gemeente Rotterdam
Nederlands Letterenfonds
Stichting Van Beuningen Peterich-fonds
Ludo Pieters Gastschrijver Fonds
Hendrik Muller fonds
Lira fonds
J.E. Jurriaanse
Literature Translation Institute of Korea
Partners
LantarenVenster – Verhalenhuis Belvédère