Gwyn ap Nudd and The Mist

Below is a translation of the central part of Dafydd ap Gwilym’s poem ‘Y Niwl’ containing the ‘dyfalu’ or conceit around which the framing narrative tells of the poet’s wish to go into the woods for a love tryst, but of not being able to find his way because of the thickness of the mist.


To deceive us is its dark intent
Rising as a rough cloak over the earth
In troublesome high towers; one of the tribe
Of Gwyn*,  swathed by the wind
His two cheeks insidiously concealing the land
And the guiding signs with a blanket
Heavy and hideous like a darkness
Blinding the world to betray the bard.
It is as if some fine-spun fabric unravelled,
Threaded rope-like through the air,
A spider-web of fancy French stuff everywhere!
Up on the high point of the moorland
Gwyn* gathers the speckled smoke often seen
Rising like vapour from woodlands in May,
The breath of a bear in which barking dogs lurk,
Otherworld ointment from the witches of Annwn
Creepily anointing with a dew-like wetness:
A leaden coat worn by the cloud-capped land.


* ‘Gwyn’  is Gwyn ap Nudd who is often referred to in Dafydd ap Gwilym’s poetry, though incidentally rather than as a main subject, suggesting that he was too well-known to need explanation. Here he is associated with both wind and mist. In other poems the owl is said to be his particular bird and a bog pool is described as a place through which his otherworld spirits can find their way into our world. In the 14th century the Otherworld was regarded as a sinister place, but one which, though strange, was continually present just a side-step away from the paths we know.

May

All the roads are robed with a screen of green
Woven along the ways as she has dressed them;
After affrays of frost there comes a change
To the melody of the meadows fairly flourishing
After April; the song birds are singing along greenways
From the oaks their chicks new-hatched now chirping,
The call of the cuckoo echoing through the air,
Sounds of the Summer and long days of delight;
A white mist drifts as the wind lifts it
To veil the deeps of the envéloped valley;
Above, the bright blue of the sky will shine
As midday passes in a mirthful paean
Of delight, all the branches alight with burgeoning
Birdsong in a gossamer haze on greening boughs
As budding leaves on woodland wands awaken
The memory of Morfudd my golden girl
Giving the giddy gyrations of love a whirl !

(My translation from the 14th century Welsh of Dafydd ap Gwilym)

Y Dref Wen

Pillar of ElisegVictorian print showing the
Remains of the memorial to Eliseg King of Powys,
dating from the Ninth Century

The sequences of early Welsh poems recording the laments of Heledd date from the Ninth Century, though they record the aftermath of an attack on eastern Powys in the Seventh Century. They are distinctive among the  poetry of the time in that many of them do not record heroic values so much as feelings of woe at a time of constant war and unrest. This is particularly the case with the ‘Dref Wen’ sequence. It is a distinctive feature of these poems that each line begins with a repeated refrain to introduce the stanza. So a phrase such as ‘Stafell Gynddylan …’ (Cynddylan’s Hall) or ‘Eryr Eli …” (Eagle of Eli) will begin the first line of each stanza, producing an emphatic pattern of repetition. The ‘Dref Wen’ sequence directs the attention of listeners to the place of that name, often translated literally as ‘The White Town’. There is some uncertainty about where this place may be, except that ‘Trenn’ , thought to be the River Tern in Shropshire, is named and that the sequence is associated with the ‘Stafell Gynddylan’ sequence located in the general vicinity of Shrewsbury. It is said to be ‘between ‘Trenn and Trafal’ and also between ‘Trenn and Trodwyd’. But these places cannot be identified satisfactorily. It may not be a town at all, as the word ‘tref’, though its modern meaning is ‘town’, could apply to any settlement in early Welsh. In the translations which follow I have preferred to translate it as ‘homestead’ as this seems to make more sense in context and it is clearly used in this way in the ‘Stafell Gynddylan’ stanzas. Similarly, ‘Wen’ (white) also has a range of meanings from ‘fair’ to ‘blessed’, so there is no need to think of a place that is white in colour. The sequence is almost tender in evoking the sense of place and serves as a reminder, if we should need one, of the deprivations caused by constant conflict and a counterpoint to those more common poems which praise the bravery and ferocity of the warriors even when lamenting their deaths.

The Fair Homestead, nestled in woodland –
It is as it always was:
Blood smeared on the land.

The Fair Homestead in the landscape –
Again at the green memorial:
Blood smeared underfoot.

The Fair Homestead in the valley –
Always joyful the prey-bird in battle’s mess
Among the people lying dead.

The Fair Homestead between Tern and Trodwyd –
More likely a broken shield after battle
Than an ox should shelter from the sun.

The Fair Homestead between Tern and Trafal –
More likely blood on the grass
Than the ploughing of land left fallow.


Y Mab Darogan

Mathafarn

 

There was a tradition in medieval Wales that Y Mab Darogan (‘The Prophesied Son’) would return to restore the Island of Britain to the Brythons. Various legendary and historical characters were identified with this figure, from Arthur to Henry Tudor. Many bards continuing the tradition of Taliesin and Myrddin wrote verses predicting this outcome, the last of which, in the 15th century, was Dafydd Llwyd ap Llywelyn ap Gruffudd. He predicted the revival of Welsh fortunes and the defeat of the English. Legend has it that Henry Tudor stayed with him at Mathafarn in 1485 on his way across Wales to Bosworth in England where he defeated Richard III and so became Henry VII of England. Dafydd Llwyd died not long afterwards thinking that his prophecy had been fulfilled. History proves him both right and wrong. Henry’s first son was called Arthur and the augurs looked good(*). Dafydd Llwyd wrote a prophetic poem welcoming the prince and predicting a glorious life for him. The ‘Mab Darogan’  had arrived and was appropriately named. But Arthur died before becoming king and his younger brother, as Henry VIII, officially joined Wales to England in the Act of Union in 1536. The prophecy, in its fulfilment, transformed itself, as prophecies are apt to do. Wales had to conjure a new future for itself out of its Brythonic past.
On a stll day in Midwinter several years ago I skirted the grounds of Mathafarn. The main house was rebuilt in the eighteenth century but the estate is still intact from his time. It is said that some of the barns and other outbuildings still remain from the original house. But they were hidden from view as we climbed up from the valley of the River Dyfi to the forested hills above. The sun remained low, not far above the trees even at Midday, but the day was bright and cold as high pressure kept the air still and the temperature low. Clearing the conifers of the Dyfi Forest for a while, the open hillside has scattered trees with bare branches to contrast with the drab green of the Douglas Firs and Sitka Spruce of the forestry plantation. Here the twiggy outlines merged to a reddish mist on a distant hillside. In the far distance the distinctive ridge of Cadair Idris dominated the horizon. Such clear, cold weather in December, with the sunlight angled low, gives a particular quality to the light and the perception of colour. Everything seems so pellucid, as if the bright but subdued light is shining through the components of the landscape rather than reflecting off them.

 

It was easy to imagine the visionary prophet of Mathafarn inhabiting this day with us. Back amongst the enclosed conifer forest the suffused light is more densely poured over – and absorbed by – the green branches. The path winds down steeply through the trees and meets a forest road. Ditches and puddles glistened half way between a frozen and a liquid state. The Sun was behind the hills and the light started to fade. Separate objects began to cohere. We passed a ramshackle farm as we descend further to the valley floor and left the forest behind. A dog barked. Light ebbed away as we passed Mathafarn. It is lost in the dim past. Did Henry Tudor stay there?

 

An unlikely scrap of verse ascribed to Dafydd suggests he sent him on his way with a blessing:
Harri fu, Harri a fo
Harri sydd, hiroes iddo!
(Henry who was, Henry who will be / Henry who is, long life to him)
But all is now dark.

 

 (*)  An astrological chart for Arthur’s birth is given by Mark Williams in Fiery Shapes – Celestial Portents and Astrology in Ireland and Wales, 700-1700 (Oxford, 2010).

 


This post is developed from a post on my Hills Chronicle blog in 2009 when one of my learned followers appreciated the ‘rare and lovely use of the present subjunctive of the verb bod as a future’ in Dafydd Llwyd’s verse. Quite so.

MATHRAFAL

Mathrafal

 

The most interesting use of Brythonic legendary history for modern fictional purposes is, I think, contained in the later novels of John Cowper Powys. This is done on a grand scale in Porius where the conversations of Taliesin and Myrddin Wyllt are incorporated into a narrative which portrays post-Roman Britain as something of a melting pot of different races and cultures including aboriginal giants. He had drawn upon similar material in his novel Owen Glendower which is a rather more accessibleand and tightly organised work plotted around the historical events of Owain Glyndŵr’s uprising in the 14th century, but no less fictionalised in terms of the personalities of the characters and far from being an ‘historical novel’ in the way the term is often understood. In that novel the aboriginal Brythons are represented by Broch o Meifod in his court at Mathrafal, itself magnifenctly presented as a last bastion of a disappearing world.  Broch makes an alliance with Glyndŵr, an alliance between the remnant of the Brythons and the representative of the inheritors of that earlier melting pot who had added to it by inter-marrying with the Norman aristocracy.

In the introduction to Porius, John Cowper Powys had drawn parallels between the 6th and the 20th centuries. He comments that “As the old gods were departing then, so the old gods are departing now”. If, by the time of Owain Glyndŵr, we might think those gods would therefore be in full retreat, they nevertheless haunt the pages of that book too. Owain himself achieves legendary status before disappearing from his Principality of Wales to become a Prince of the Otherworld.

For Powys such material is always evoked as much to portray a personal quest as to illustrate historical, legendary or mythological events. But in the best passages of his works these things come together. At the end of the novel, Owain is cremated by Broch o Meifod and his son Meredith is taking his father’s remains for burial. Here are some edited extracts from the last pages:

“Absolutely motionless – with its head lifted as it sniffed the dawn air – there stood before him on an isolated rock a magnificently-horned stag. …..”

“And now, as the sight of those majestic horns against the dawn brought back memory upon memory, he felt that each one of these images was much more than an owl’s cry, a buzzard’s vigil, a salmon’s leap, a mountain summit above the mist. What were they, what did they have in them, that they could bring such comfort? ……”

“But there came over him now a vision of Arthur’s ship Prydwen sailing between Hell and Heaven, and yet motionless in the depths of a single soul, its great dragon wings reflected in fathomless water….”

“‘What’s that sad-faced man smiling for?’ Cried the oldest winged creature in Edeyrnion the croaking raven of Llangar, to his aged mate, as they swooped down over Meredith’s quickened steps.
‘Nis gwn!  I don’t know!  Nis gwn!’
croaked the other, and as the pair rose on their heavy-flapping wings and sailed away eastwards, mounting up in huge spiral circles higher and higher as they followed the river’s flow, it seemed to the man watching them as if there were something in that vast broken landscape that echoed that hollow answer in his ears as long as he could remember.”

“But the great birds soared on, heedless of the echoes; soared on till to Meredith’s vision they were dots and specks in the remote distance. He knew not where they were flying. But in his thoughts they were flying over the rocky crest of the Berwyns; they were flying over the fallen roof-tree of Sycharth; they were flying towards the mounded turf and the scattered stones that were all that was left of Mathrafal.”

And so it seems that the old world passes away. But of course, as pervasive as the myth of departing is, it never does. Those old gods, as W P Ker once remarked, even in defeat, “think that defeat no refutation”.


This is edited version of a post that originally appeared on my
Gorsedd Arberth (now legacy) blog in 2011.

Canu Heledd

Berth
Possible site of Pengwern at Baschurch, Shropshire

Stauell Gyndylan ys tywyll heno,
Heb dan, heb wely.
Wylaf wers; tawaf wedy.

Cynddylan’s Hall is dark tonight,
Without fire, without bed.
I weep a while; then I am silent.

This stanza is from the Canu Heledd sequence associated with lost sagas telling of the destruction of Pengwern in the area of Powys which then extended into parts of what are now the English counties of Shropshire and Staffordshire. Heledd was Cynddylan’s sister and the verses she ostensibly speaks lament the loss of these lands and of her brother. The run of stanzas beginning with the words ‘Stauell Gyndylan …’ have been translated often, perhaps because they are the most poignant and accessible to modern sensibilities, but also, I think, because they are relatively easy to render into English. By contrast, the run of stanzas spoken by Heledd as a lament for her brother are less frequently translated, I think not only because the praise of his military virtues is less accessible today but also because their structure makes it more difficult to render them into  verse that works in modern English. Here is one stanza from this sequence:

Kyndylan gulhwch gynnifiat llew
Bleid dilin disgynnyat.
Nyt atuer twrch tref y dat.

Unlike the Cynddylan’s Hall stanza which which starts with a subject->verb->object structure followed by qualifiers, the sentence in the first two lines here is basically a string of nouns with a single verb. Rendered literally word for word into English these two lines read:

Cynddylan boar[-like?] warrior lion
Wolf following attacker.

Unpacking this into fluent verse is less easy. The third line is only a little less difficult:

Not restore boar place [of] the father.

This could be a general statement that a boar does not return to its place of origin but in context it seems to mean that Cynddylan will never again return to hall he inherited from his father. Calling Cynddylan ‘boar’ is consistent with the animal imagery used to describe him elsewhere in the sequence. So the whole stanza conveys the idea that Cynddylan has the qualities of a boar, a lion and a wolf in pursuing his attacker, but that this did not save him. Is there more?

The word ‘gulhwch’ is suggestive. It looks like the mutated form of the name Culhwch, and it has been suggested that this is deliberate. ‘Hwch’ means pig and Cynddylan has already been described as ‘gwythhwch’ (‘wild pig’, and so ‘boar’) as well as other animals to suggest his ferocity, as was usual for descriptions of warriors at this time. But ‘culhwch’ is more difficult to interpret. The character in the tale of Culhwch and Olwen may take his name from being born in a sty or narrow pig run (‘cul’ means ‘narrow’, though in relation to meat it can mean ‘lean’). Mythological origins of Culhwch as a pig deity have been suggested, though for the purposes of the only tale we have about him he is a typical folklore hero figure who goes on a quest and with Arthur’s help wins the hand of a giant’s daughter. Were there other tales about him which are obliquely referenced in the use of his name in this poem, or should we take the word here as just another synonym for ‘boar’?

That seems the sensible course, but as he is called boar (‘twrch’) in line three of the stanza we might wonder why it has to be repeated. One answer is that the requirements of metre and verbal patterning would have been as much an issue for the poet as the story being told. But then so were the techniques of gnomic reference by which proverbial wisdom or moral maxims could be obliquely included. It could be that there is something about Culhwch that we do not know that is fleetingly included here, lying beneath the surface meaning of ‘boar’. There is also the further possibility of scribal emendation. One suggestion here is that the original word was ‘culwyd’ (‘lord’) which was either accidentally or deliberately changed by the copyist of the manuscript we have.(*) Rejecting this, another commentator thinks it is best seen simply as part of a dense array of animal attributes heaped upon Cynddylan in these verses.(**)

Whatever view we come to in reading this poem, it is clear that translation into an equally concise and multi-referenced English version looks like a vain hope. So let us return to the ‘Cynddylan’s Hall …’ sequence. I have already given the first stanza. Here is the last:

Stauell Gyndylan a’m erwan pob awr
Gwedy mawr ymgyuyrdan
A welais ar dy benntan.

Cynddylan’s Hall I’m rent with rememberance
Of meetings of minds
I beheld on your hearthstone.


(*) Suggested by Rachel Bromwich and D Simon Evans in their edition of Culhwch ac Olwen (Cardiff, 1997)

(**) Jenny Rowlands in the notes to her Selection of Early Welsh Saga Poems (MHRA. 2014).
I have used this edition as the source of the Welsh texts from which I have translated.

Awen and Intuition

 

In one of the poems from the early Welsh sagas, Llywarch says to his son Gwên (Gwyn):

Neut atwen ar vy awen
Yn hanvot o un achen
*
I recognise by my awen
That we spring from one bloodline

The use of awen here is unusual in that it seems to mean something closer to ‘intuiton’ than the usual ‘poetic inspiration’. Although Llywarch may have written the verses in which this conversation occurs, and so his divination could be said to be related to poetic inspiration, this doesn’t appear to be the primary meaning here. There are very few other instances in early Welsh poetry where awen is used to convey some inner quality of an individual, usually military genius, though these may be metaphorical usages by the poets who employ them. But if the common use of awen was to indicate some external power – the muse – with which an individual was, however briefly, possessed, the lines above might suggest that it could also be used for an inner quality which individuals may possess as part of their nature.

If so, each of us has an awen, an innate sense of how things are and what they might become, a facility to intuit and to shape those intuitions in an interaction with divine inspiration: possessing and being possessed by awen. This is to taste the drops from the Cauldron, or the flesh of the divine Salmon, or the sweet hazel nuts that have fallen into the Well of Wisdom. Then awen flows like a stream from the Source, lifts like a crane or a heron from Water to Air, blazes like Fire and settles once more to Earth as a divinely formed thing, an artefact shaped by awen.

~*~

So I affirm:

Inspired by awen I sing
From the deep wells of my being
Springing without and within

Echoes of Étain

 

 

Midir and Étain , Becoming Swans.

Reflections after a reading of The Wooing of Étain :

Oengus Mac Óc taken from his mother
So his father would not know him
(as Mabon from Modron; Pryderi from Rhiannon)
To be fostered by Midir.

Étain Echraide – (of the horses)
Poured drink for the company;
This was a skill she had, to pour;
A Cup Bearer supreme among many.
It was then that Midir came for her.

Links in a chain of story – beyond time
for time has no part in its telling:
Images and incidents recurring, repeating
the fractured joins of narrative dissolving.
The gods, in their own way, speaking
to us : always now, never history.

Awen in the Early Welsh Bards : an Inventory

AWEN FORETELLS


 

“I know the secrets of Ceridwen’s song” –  Cynddelw Brydydd Mawr (1155 – 1200)

There are fifteen occurences of the word awen in The Book of Taliesin as well as several equivalent words or phrases, such as ogyrven which is used both as a division of the awen (‘Seven score ogyrven which are in awen, shaped in Annwfn’) as well as an alternative word for awen itself. The poem ‘Armes Prydain’ (The Prophecies of Britain) begins with the phrase ‘Awen foretells …’, and it is repeated later in the poem. The link between poetic inspiration and divination is implicit in the description of the Awenyddion given by Gerald of Wales in the 12th century and the link between bardic expression and prophecy is a common feature of much early verse in Wales and elsewhere.

Several of the uses of the word awen in The Book of Taliesin are simply boasts , emphasising the skill and the depth of inspiration of the poet compared to lesser practitioners of the art. In one poem awen is specifically conceived of as threefold and having its source in a cauldron, an emphasis which commonly occurs in the references to awen by the early bards, often also linked with Ceridwen as the keeper of the Cauldron. These lines could also contain a reference to the Trinity which was much emphasized in the Christian theology of the time. In one of the few poems in The Book of Taliesin which has been assigned to the historical 6th century bard rather than one of his later imitators or adaptors, the awen is referred to as an ash wand, implying that it is a weapon in the poetic armoury, or perhaps a magical implement. The military metaphor is also implicit in the Llywarch Hen cycle where Llywarch, in his old age, refers to the loss of his awen as his strength and vigour wanes.

A poem in The Black Book of Carmarthen by an unidentified bard, but addressed to Cuhelyn Fardd (1100-1130) asks God to allow the awen to flow so that ‘inspired song from Ceridwen will shape diverse and well-crafted verse’. This anticipates much poetry from identified bards of the Welsh princes between circa 1100-1300 which juggles the competing claims of the Christian religion with the source of the awen in the Cauldron of Ceridwen. It also anticipates them in the complexity of the expression bound up as it is in the woven words and interlocked phrases of cynghanedd and the strict metres of the verse so that it is more or less impossible to translate the combination of form and meaning and the ways they are bound together. This is not only an exercise in creative technique but also close to being a system of coded reference among the bardic elite. Among other things it would enable a formal adherence to Christianity to be subtly balanced against the source of the awen in the Cauldron of Ceridwen and in the inspired utterances of earlier awenyddion.

So Llywarch ap Llywelyn (1173-1220) – also known as ‘Prydydd y Moch’ – can address his patron Llywelyn ap Iorwerth like this:

I greet my lord, bring awen’s great greeting
Words from Ceridwen I compose
Just like Taliesin when he freed Elffin.

The same poet also penned the often quoted lines

The Lord God grant me sweet awen
As from the Cauldron of Ceridwen

Elidr Sais (c. 1195-1246), ‘singing to Christ’, wrote

Brilliant my poetry after Myrddin
Shing forth from the cauldron of awen

while Dafydd Benfras (1220-1258) included both Myrddin (Merlin) and Aneirin in his backward glance:

Full of awen as Myrddin desired
Singing praise as Aneirin before me
when he sang of ‘Gododdin’.

So far all the bards quoted inhabited an independent Wales which looked back to a more extensive homeland which comprised much of western Britain. After the killing of Llywelyn, the last native Prince of Wales in 1282, there was an outpouring of grief from the bards and a sense that an end had come to the world they inhabited, best represented by the ‘Elegy for Llywelyn’ by Gruffudd ap yr Ynad Coch with lines such as

Not since Camlann has there been such weeping

All Britain is struck down with Nantcoel’s defender

Hearts chilled by a pall of fear
The sun falls and the stars are shrinking
Can you not see our world is ending,
Why does the sea not run over the shore?

As the Norman aristocracy gradually moved into Wales this proved prophetically accurate. There are no surviving further references to awen or the Cauldron of Ceridwen in the poetry for the period after 1300, although much has been lost so we cannot know for certain. The topic does re-emerge in the 15th century, so it is likely that some continuity was maintained. But by then the debate about the source of the awen is framed entirely in Christian terms with the Virgin Mary, rather than Ceridwen, identified and there is no mention of a cauldron. It was not that this had been entirely forgotten. The prose tale of Gwion, Ceridwen and the re-birth of Taliesin dates from this period and includes fragments of the earlier poems. The story was, by the testimony of Elis Gruffydd in the 16th century widespread in popular knowledge in Wales. But it seems that the bards had abandoned it to the folk tradition rather than keeping it as part of their own arcane lore.

References
I have drawn upon the essay ‘Awen y Cynfeirdd a’r Gogynfeirdd’ by Y Chwaer Bosco in Beirdd a Thywysogion (Cardiff, 1996) for some factual information.
I have also used the editions of the Beirdd y Tywysogion series for quotations from the early bards together with Marged Haycock’s Legendary Poems from The Book of Taliesin (Aberystwyth, 2007) and Prophecies from The Book of Taliesin (Aberystwyth, 2013) and the edition of Armes Prydain by Ifor Williams and Rachel Bromwich (Dublin, 1982).
Translations from the poetry are my own.