Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Elin Ap Hywel

In My Mother\'s House

In my mother’s house there are many mansions,
parlours all full of air and light
where the table is set for afternoon tea
and the shutters always open outwards
to a view of the sea without ships; dark-brown passages
which go on for miles, hot and airless,
ending in sculleries where the crockery totters
and something major’s gone wrong with the plumbing.
Staircases which spiral down down down
past family photographs on flock-papered walls
–  Look, there’s my grandmother. There’s a weasel on her shoulder! –
till they get to the bad place
that cellar that’s full of charcoaled bones,
of children’s skulls thin as blown eggs.

Tonight I’m trying to get to the bathroom,
a tiny Antarctic of marble and glass.
I’ve been here before once.
I played with the soap,
I loved the way it short through my fingers,
leaving a snail’s trail of tears behind
and I thought
If I could stick my head under the tap
the water might make me feel better.

I’ve been coming here each night since the funeral.
I’ve walked, danced, and wandered through the rooms of this house,
whose geography changes
quick as an hour-glass. I love the back kitchen,
the dresser carved from a hunk of bog-oak,
solid and black, more fruitcake than furniture,
with my uncle’s initials gouged in its side.
The Staffordshire china dogs
stand guard over the willow-patterned plates,
their eyes as small and jealous as sloes.
Sometimes, if I’m lucky, they’ll talk to me:
She went thataway. You only just missed her. She’s in the corridor! –
and I’ll catch a glimpse of the hem of her skirt.

Once, I’ll never forget it, I went in
and there she was, in an armchair, by the fire.
She stretched out her hands to me, her fingers
harpists’ fingers, slender and white.
I laced my fingers in hers. We said nothing,
each of us embarrassed that we’d been caught out,
fraternising, as it were, the wrong side of the veil.
I can’t remember now how I got out of that room.
I look for it every time I go back.
Sometimes it’s there, sometimes it isn’t.
Sometimes her cup still sits in its saucer
Sometimes the fire is cold, cold ashes.

YN NHŶ FY MAM

YN NHŶ FY MAM

Yn nhŷ fy mam y mae llawer o drigfannau,
parlyrau sy’n ddawns o awyr a goleuni –
y llestri te ar y lliain yn barod
a’r llenni ar agor i ddangos golygfa
o’r môr, heb ’run llong. Coridorau
brown, tywyll sy’n dirwyn am filltiroedd
ar filltiroedd i’r unlle, cyn gorffen, yn ffwr-bwt,
mewn sgyleri lle mae’r llestri yn simsanu ar y silffoedd,
a’r pibau yn grwgnach a rhefru yn flin.
Grisiau sy’n chwyrlïo i lawr, lawr, lawr
heibio lluniau o’r teulu ar y welydd ffloc
– Sbia, dyna Nain! Mae ’na wenci rownd ei gwddf hi! –
nes iddyn nhw gyrraedd y man drwg hwnnw,
y seler sy’n llawn o esgyrn llosg,
o benglogau plant fel plisgyn wy.

Heno rwy am ei fforio hi i’r stafell folchi,
antarctig bychan o wydr a marmor.
Rwy ’di bod ’ma o’r blaen, i chwarae gyda’r sebon,
ei saethu trwy fy mysedd
er mwyn llithro gadael
llwybr malwen o ddagrau, gan feddwl yn ddistaw bach:
Os llwyddaf i roi fy mhen dan y tap
bydd drip-dripian y dŵr yn gwella fy nghlwy.

Rwy ’di dod i’r tŷ hwn bob nos ers yr angladd,
wedi cerdded a dawnsio a chrwydro trwy fannau
â’u daearyddiaeth yn newid ar adenydd y gwynt.
Rwy’n dwlu ar y gegin gefn, ar y ddreser
sy’n gwlffyn solet o dderw du,
yn debycach i dorth o fara brith na dodrefnyn,
ac enw fy ewythr wedi’i naddu i’w hochr.
Mae’r cŵn tsieini Stafford
yn sefyll fel sowldiwrs uwch y platiau gleision,
a’u llygaid yn eirin surion o genfigen.
Weithiau, os ydw i’n lwcus, mi wnân nhw siarad â mi:
Mae hi newydd adael. Mae hi yn y coridor.
Newydd ei cholli hi dach chi! –
ac mi wela i gip ar odre ei sgert.

Un tro, anghofia i fyth, mi es i i’r parlwr,
ac roedd hi yno, yn eistedd mewn cadair ger y tân.
Estynnodd ei llaw, llaw fechan, llaw telynores,
â’r bysedd yn hir, yn fain ac yn wyn.
Plethais fy mysedd i i’w bysedd hithau.
Ddywedwyd yr un gair. Embaras llwyr
i ni gael ein dal yn cymdeithasu yr ochr draw i’r llen.
Heddiw wn i ddim sut gadewais i’r stafell.
Rwy’n chwilio amdani bob tro yr af yn ôl.
Weithiau, mae’r stafell yno, weithiau ’dyw hi ddim.
Weithiau, mae ei chwpan a’i soser ar y bwrdd.
Weithiau, mae’r tân yn lludw oer, llwyd.
Close

In My Mother\'s House

In my mother’s house there are many mansions,
parlours all full of air and light
where the table is set for afternoon tea
and the shutters always open outwards
to a view of the sea without ships; dark-brown passages
which go on for miles, hot and airless,
ending in sculleries where the crockery totters
and something major’s gone wrong with the plumbing.
Staircases which spiral down down down
past family photographs on flock-papered walls
–  Look, there’s my grandmother. There’s a weasel on her shoulder! –
till they get to the bad place
that cellar that’s full of charcoaled bones,
of children’s skulls thin as blown eggs.

Tonight I’m trying to get to the bathroom,
a tiny Antarctic of marble and glass.
I’ve been here before once.
I played with the soap,
I loved the way it short through my fingers,
leaving a snail’s trail of tears behind
and I thought
If I could stick my head under the tap
the water might make me feel better.

I’ve been coming here each night since the funeral.
I’ve walked, danced, and wandered through the rooms of this house,
whose geography changes
quick as an hour-glass. I love the back kitchen,
the dresser carved from a hunk of bog-oak,
solid and black, more fruitcake than furniture,
with my uncle’s initials gouged in its side.
The Staffordshire china dogs
stand guard over the willow-patterned plates,
their eyes as small and jealous as sloes.
Sometimes, if I’m lucky, they’ll talk to me:
She went thataway. You only just missed her. She’s in the corridor! –
and I’ll catch a glimpse of the hem of her skirt.

Once, I’ll never forget it, I went in
and there she was, in an armchair, by the fire.
She stretched out her hands to me, her fingers
harpists’ fingers, slender and white.
I laced my fingers in hers. We said nothing,
each of us embarrassed that we’d been caught out,
fraternising, as it were, the wrong side of the veil.
I can’t remember now how I got out of that room.
I look for it every time I go back.
Sometimes it’s there, sometimes it isn’t.
Sometimes her cup still sits in its saucer
Sometimes the fire is cold, cold ashes.

In My Mother\'s House

In my mother’s house there are many mansions,
parlours all full of air and light
where the table is set for afternoon tea
and the shutters always open outwards
to a view of the sea without ships; dark-brown passages
which go on for miles, hot and airless,
ending in sculleries where the crockery totters
and something major’s gone wrong with the plumbing.
Staircases which spiral down down down
past family photographs on flock-papered walls
–  Look, there’s my grandmother. There’s a weasel on her shoulder! –
till they get to the bad place
that cellar that’s full of charcoaled bones,
of children’s skulls thin as blown eggs.

Tonight I’m trying to get to the bathroom,
a tiny Antarctic of marble and glass.
I’ve been here before once.
I played with the soap,
I loved the way it short through my fingers,
leaving a snail’s trail of tears behind
and I thought
If I could stick my head under the tap
the water might make me feel better.

I’ve been coming here each night since the funeral.
I’ve walked, danced, and wandered through the rooms of this house,
whose geography changes
quick as an hour-glass. I love the back kitchen,
the dresser carved from a hunk of bog-oak,
solid and black, more fruitcake than furniture,
with my uncle’s initials gouged in its side.
The Staffordshire china dogs
stand guard over the willow-patterned plates,
their eyes as small and jealous as sloes.
Sometimes, if I’m lucky, they’ll talk to me:
She went thataway. You only just missed her. She’s in the corridor! –
and I’ll catch a glimpse of the hem of her skirt.

Once, I’ll never forget it, I went in
and there she was, in an armchair, by the fire.
She stretched out her hands to me, her fingers
harpists’ fingers, slender and white.
I laced my fingers in hers. We said nothing,
each of us embarrassed that we’d been caught out,
fraternising, as it were, the wrong side of the veil.
I can’t remember now how I got out of that room.
I look for it every time I go back.
Sometimes it’s there, sometimes it isn’t.
Sometimes her cup still sits in its saucer
Sometimes the fire is cold, cold ashes.
Sponsors
Gemeente Rotterdam
Nederlands Letterenfonds
Stichting Van Beuningen Peterich-fonds
Ludo Pieters Gastschrijver Fonds
Lira fonds
Partners
LantarenVenster – Verhalenhuis Belvédère