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)