On learning Welsh
Welsh
is a key to my childhood.
Every day I learn something
about myself and my upbringing.
It’s not the need to talk
so much as the necessity
of diving into myself
and mining my memories.
Brynhyfryd / Mount Pleasant.
Ty Coch / the Red House.
Pen-y-Bryn / the Top of the Hill.
This latter the house
in which I was born.
No room in hospitals
for war time babies.
All of my wartime family
born in the same in-the-country
Gower bed.
Three of my brothers
did not survive
those rough, household births.
I still bear the forceps’ scars.
And I still bear the scars
of carrying my brothers
with me all my life.
A long and difficult
and very private history.
But it’s mine
and I embrace it
and I love it,
with all its warts.
Comment: The photo is of the dragon in Kingsbrae Garden. I think of it as a Welsh dragon … Y ddraig Coch … the Red Dragon of Wales, but of course, it isn’t. Anyone can write easy poems: Twinkle, twinkle, little star … it’s the hard, gut-wrenching stuff that’s hard to put down on the page. My close friend, Margie Goldsmith, encouraged me to write this. Thank you, Margie. Thank you for caring. This is indeed my life ‘… with all its warts …’ It’s easy to wear rose-tinted glasses and see everything as ‘for the best in the best of all worlds’. However, it’s more difficult to grovel on your knees, in the trenches, and to come face to face with the stark realities of who we are and where we come from. Thank you, Margie, for helping me and encouraging me to do just that.
rogermoorepoet 