On the cusp
words music vocabulary
that’s  been my life really
there have been so many
influences names to admire
my pop career didn’t catch fire
so I sort of went into journalism, NME
have you heard of it?
really big name interviews  Mike Turner
Albert (not B.B.)King Newton-John Roger
Daltrey Todd Rundgren to me they were
not just names the list goes on for ever
a good  basis  for conversation however
have you heard of them?
America was iconic in my life in my day
Dad captained the golf club the family
name big in clothing dad used to say
in Chester and my mum a gifted lady
so much talent to admire
a piano prodigy  richly mixed race, worked
in Harrods, GPO  Man U supporters all
the family such talent the big name in football
all the stars
I’m under the influence of  Pisces malleable
and creative but also on the cusp of Aquarius
ideas humanitarian perhaps unpredictable
I’ve had some issues, depression issues
so many people to admire
looking back I’m on the cusp of a few things
I can’t escape that the names life brings
let’s talk pop a good basis for conversation
I find sit down let’s talk pop from my generation
it somehow relieves 
the burden 
I feel on
me

Ar y ffin
geiriau geirfa miwsig
dweud y gwir dyna ’mywyd
cymaint o ddylanwadau
cymaint o enwau
i’w hedmygu
wnaeth fy ngyrfa mewn pop ddim  tanio
rywsut felly glanio wnes i
mewn gohebiaeth yr NME
a glywaist ti amdano?
rhoi cyfweliadau i’r enwau mawr
Mike Turner Albert (dim B.B.)
King Newton-John Roger Daltrey
Todd Runden mwy na jyst enwau i mi
mae’r enwau’r rhestr yn ddi-ri,
man cychwyn da i sgwrs rwy’n credu
a glywaist ti amdanyn nhw?
roedd America’n eiconig yn fy hanes
Dad yn y clwb golff ddaeth yn gapten
Y teulu’n enw adnabyddus
mewn dillad yn ôl dad yng Nghaer
a fy mam yn berson mor ddawnus
cymaint o dalent i’w edmygu
yn blentyn ar y piano yn rhyfeddol
cefndir ei theulu’n amlhiliol
gweithiodd yn Harrod’s a’r Post Brenhinol
teulu Man U cefnogwyr rhonc
y fath dalent, yr enw mawr ym myd y bêl gron
y sêr i gyd
Dwi o dan ddylanwad Pisces hydrin
creadigol ond hefyd ar ffin Acwariws fymryn
syniadau dyngarol  efallai’n fympwyol
rhai problemau  ‘da  iechyd meddyliol
cymaint o bobl i’w hedmygu
edrych yn ôl dwi ar ffin nifer o bethau
dim ffordd i mi ddianc rhag hynny yr enwau
beth am siarad pop fy nghenhedlaeth i
man cychwyn da i sgwrs rwy’n credu
rywsut mae’n fy rhyddhau
o’r beichiau
sy’n gwasgu
arna

The Soldier’s Tale

You canna judge my accent
From my picture. So instead
I’ll come straight out and tell you
That I’m Gorbals born and bred.
Did I say my bag is waterproofed -
Well worth that thirty pound?
Did I say Gran was a gypsy,
And that I like to float around?

Did I say I’ve made an effort
To cut the habit down,
No more gin or rum or vodka
Like I drank in London town?
So just two bottles of cider
When City Hall struck noon
Have passed my lips this morning
‘Cos I need to float around.

Did I say I stuck the army life
For more than thirteen years?
Did I say that I’m a Campbell,
Ex- Highland Fusiliers?
Did I tell you I’ve been sectioned,
In one month three times sent down,
Did I say that I lost everything
‘Cos I had to float around?

Did I tell you I was four years old
When  first I had a taste
Of what I soon found took a hold
To lay my life to waste?
I called her ‘sweetheart’, ‘poor wee bairn’,
That day my daughter came
In search of a dad too ashamed to admit
He couldn’t remember her name.

My picture won’t smell or foul-mouth you, 
So come close,and read my head.
Do you see an old soak of sixty- three
Who’s wished himself three times dead?
Or read who I’ve been and still might be,
Moved from liquid to solid ground.
Tether me down, someone, God help me,
Dying sick with floating around.

Stori’r Milwr

Ti’n methu clywed f’acen
Jyst trwy edrych ar fy llun.
Os dwy’n dweud ‘mod i  o’r Gorbals,
Ti’n deall lot am fi fel dyn.
Dad yn Scotyn, mam o’r Werddon
Dyw’n twang ddim yn beth pob dydd.
‘Wnes i ddweud bod nain yn sipsiwn?
A mod i’n hoffi  hwylio’n rhydd?

‘Wnes i ddweud am mod i’n trio
I dorri’r arfer lawr?
Yn Llundain, jin, rỳm, fodca -
So’i’n  yfed fel ‘na nawr.
Felly dim ond dwy botel o seidr,
Cyn taro City Hall hanner dydd,
Aeth lawr y lon goch y  bore ’ma,
Am mod i’n gorfod hwylio’n rhydd.

‘Wnes i ddweud? Gwnes i sticio’r fyddin
Un deg tri o flynyddoedd hir?
Wnes i ddweud ‘mod i’n un o’r Campbells,
Yn ex-Highland Fusilier?
Tri deg punt am glawr sach gysgu -
Sych haf a gaeaf, nos a dydd.
‘Wnes i ddweud i mi golli’r cwbl lot
Am mod i angen hwylio’n rhydd?

‘Wnes i ddweud? Priodi pum gwaith!
(Pedair merch ‘da un, Marie).
Wnes i ddweud mai colli Lesley
Oedd dechrau’r diwedd i mi?
Galwais  “gariad”,”del”, “pwt” ar y ferch
Ddaeth i ffeindio ei  hen dad meddw
Oedd a gormod o g’wilydd i gyfadde’r gwir
Fod e’n methu cofio ei henw.

Fydd fy llun ddim yn gwynto na diawlio.
Tyrd yn nes,  darllen pwy sy’n fy mhen. 
Hen botiwr ‘n ei  chwedegau a driodd 
Dair gwaith  ddod â’r cyfan i ben?
Neu’r un fues unwaith, yr un gallwn fod, 
Heb yr hylif, ‘nhraed yn solet ar bridd?
Clyma fi lawr, rywun, Duw a’m helpo,
Ar farw’n sal gyda’r hen hwylio’n rhydd.

The defender

When you clock my face think football,
Not some fifty-year old tramp.
I am our hostel’s goalie,
A defender’s what I am.
Defending’s mostly been my life,
Since Woodlands High School days,
Few stars, few dreams and no exams
For this Ely boy, leastways.

Aged ten, though, my dad took me 
To Belgium, Holland, Flanders, 
Where him and me watched windmills fly,
Sails stretched to heavens above us.

My first job was my last job:
Sweeping streets around your way, 
Clearing up, keeping refuse down,
More defending, you could say.
I lost it once and been inside - 
Stress, depression’s the enemy.
Some parents don’t see eye to  eye
P’rhaps that’s what did for me.’

Now’s better. I learn cooking,
And I’m eating like a horse.
They’re trying to build my confidence,
I went on a five-week course.

Sometimes I think when I look  back
I was born to be  a goalie -
Keeping them out, cutting down  risks,
On the defensive, me. 

Loads of memories come back - standing 
In goals, Ely days. And the memory
Of that time we stood, when I was ten,
By the windmills, just dad and me.

Y Gôl-geidwad

Llygada’n llun ond meddylia bêl-droed
Nid rhyw drempyn pum deg oed.  
Fi yw ceidwad gôl yr hostel,
Diffendar bues i erioed.
Diffendo wnes i hyd fy oes
Ers dyddiau Woodlands High -
Dim sêr, breuddwydion nac exams 
I’r crwt yma o Drelái.

Yn ddeg mlwydd oed aeth dad â mi
I Wlad Belg a Holand ar wyliau.
Ni’n dau’n gwylio hynt y melinau gwynt,
Hwyliau’n estyn hyd nef uwch ein pennau.

‘N job cyntaf oedd fy un olaf:
‘Sgubo strydoedd eich ardal chi.
Cliro lan, cadw sbwriel dan drefn,
Diffendo o hyd, am wn i.
Colli pen ryw dro , mewn a fi i’r jêl -
Strès, iselder yw fy mwganod i.
Dim rhieni pawb sy’n dod ‘mlaen yn  rhy dda
Dyna ‘falle ddechrau’r drwg i fi.

Mae nawr yn well. Rwy’n dysgu gwneud bwyd.
Claddu’r pryd bwyd i gyd wedyn, wrth gwrs.
Fe drefnon nhw gyfle i fi godi fy hyder:
Am bump wythnos y parodd y cwrs.

Weithiau rwy’n meddwl wrth edrych yn ôl
Ces i fy ngeni i fod yn gôl geidwad.
‘Cadw nhw mas, torri lawr ar y risks,
Diffendo’r gôl oedd y bwriad.

Mae llwyth o atgofion, y ffwtbol, Trelái.
Ond weithiau rwy’n wyndran i’n hunan
Pam  mor glir yw’r cof am pan fues i
Yn ddeg oed, wrth y melinau gwynt,
Yn dal llaw dad, fe a fi?

The blue-eyed boy

I’m into quality:
Banksy’s graffiti 
Ramsey’s cookery
Gucci’s finery.
With bikes it’s Desmosedici.

I could be rich if needs be,
A celebrity possibly
Take off to Australia
The great whites,
The warm sea.
I’m eighteen.

I’m not what I’d call homeless
It’s more that I don’t have a home.
I’ve got a roof over my head.
That’s more than some.
My dad sells cars, and he’s by now
A millionaire they say,
They said he didn’t want me out
But the weed got in the way.

The painting - I am as I’m shown.
Put me down as a nice person,
That’s how I’d like to be known.

This blue-eyed boy you see
Is balancing on a knife-edge
Between quality and catastrophe.

Bachgen gwyn ei fam

Dwi mewn i ‘quality’:
Graffiti Banksy
Coginio Ramsey
Dillad Gucci
A beiciau Desmosedici.

Gallwn fod ag arian
Tase angen.
Selèb, efalla’.
Ei throi hi am Awstralia
Y siarcs mawr gwyn.
Y môr twym.
Rwy’n ddeunaw.

Dwi ddim yn ddigartref
fel mae pawb yn siarad
Am  y digartref.
Mae’n fwy bod dim cartref ‘da fi.
Mae ‘da fi dô uwch fy mhen,
Mwy na  llawer fel ni.
Gwerthu ceir mae dad, wedi gwneud
Miliwn, nôl pob sôn.
Doedd e ddim mo’yn fi mas,
Maen nhw’n dweud,
Y cannabis oedd e, yn y bôn.

Y llun – fel rwy’n edrych,  fel ‘na ydw i,
Rho fi lawr fel person neis,
Fel ‘na dwi am i bawb ‘nabod fi.

Bachgen gwyn ei fam yw hwn,
Yn balanso ar ymyl y dibyn
Rhwng ‘quality’ a chatastroffi.

Paradoxical John: The Artist’s Take

Though John’s story isn’t new
I got drawn in as I was drawing him:
A childhood cramped
By a mother’s dependence;
Then jail – brought on
By his self-confessed petulance;
Ten years in a bakery
Then shattering redundancy;
At 35,  grand-dad and divorcee;
The teeth long gone, past dentistry…

But how to explain this man, who John is?

How to explain a man so articulate,
That wicked line in self-deprecation,
That bitter contempt for racist hate;
That empathy, a mind-set prejudice-free,
Who laughed into life as we found common ground -
Our tastes in music, films, TV;
So sensitive a man who can hold back no longer
And cries, much as I do, when watching kids’ films
With his grand-daughter…

———

To be human, wrote the poet long ago, 
Is both a  proud and yet a wretched thing to be.
This  man draws me in while I am drawing him:
I see myself anew,
As much a human being as is he.

John, Y Paradocs: Canfyddiad yr artist

Hanes digon cyfarwydd oedd y stori hon
Ond ces i’n nhynnu mewn ati wrth dynnu llun John:
Argyfwng ei fam yn cyfyngu’r plentyn;
Ei hen agwedd bigog (cyfaddefodd  ei hunan)
Yn arwain at ffrwgwd a charchar wedyn;
Fe barodd mewn becws am flynyddoedd maith -
Nes i’r drws cau yn glep, yntau’n sydyn heb waith;
Yn dadcu’n drideg pump a’r briodas yn artaith; 
Y geg yn ddi-ddannedd, tu hwnt i ddeintyddiaeth; 

Ond sut mae ei ddeall, y dyn yn ei grynswth?

Sut mae esbonio’r llefaredd mor groyw,
Enillgar ddireidi’r hunan-ddirmyg tryloyw?
Nid ffug ei gasineb at gam-drin hiliol
Na’r  empathi rhwydd, di-ragfarn naturiol,
A ddaeth i’r amlwg tra’n morio cydchwerthin
A ninnau’n canfod ein chwaeth gyffredin
Mewn miwsig a ffilm a theledu?
Dyma berson teimladwy. Yn debyg i fi,
Wrth wylio ffilm plant gyda’i wyres
Rhed y dagrau’n lli.

———

Meddai’r bardd mai peth gwych a thruenus,
Y ddau gyda’i gilydd, yw bod yn fod dynol.
Wrth dynnu ei lun fe welais o’r newydd
Fy nynolder fy hun.

Dear mum

Dear mum,
Don’t worry. This hostel’s no mother’s touch
But they keep me safe when things get too much
And I bleed.

Dear mum,
Tell me, what kind of a man was my dad,
Was he funny or handsome or smart or bad?
And where he is now?

Dear mum,
This girl’s turned up here and has started to draw me.
She asked how I hoped that others might see me.
I said: ‘As no quitter, as one who keeps going.’
And is that right?

Dear mum,
She asked where I wanted the painting to put me.
I said: ‘Tidying up at my mum’s grave in Barry’
Her face showed a penny was dropping, but slowly.

And where is mum now,
My dear mum?

Annwyl Mam

Annwyl  Mam,
Paid â phoeni. Braidd yn brin yw’r hostel 
O’r cyffyrddiad mamol 
Ond maen nhw’n ‘nghadw’n ddiogel
Pam mae pethau’n fy nhrechu
A finnau’n gwaedu.

Annwyl Mam,
Dwed i mi
Pa fath un oedd fy nhad?
Deallus? Doniol? Golygus? Drwg?
A ble mae e nawr?

Annwyl Mam,
Daeth rhyw ferch. Mae’n fy holi wrth dynnu fy llun:
‘Sut hoffet ti gael dy adnabod, ti fel dyn?’
‘Fel un sy’n dal ati, sydd ddim yn rhoi ‘fyny.’
Ac ai’r gwir yw hynny?

Gofynnodd ble o’n i am gael ‘mhortreadu.
‘Yn tacluso bedd mam,’ d’wedais, ‘draw yn y Barri.’
Gwelais rywbeth yn gwawrio yn ei llygaid hi.

A ble mae Mam nawr,
Fy annwyl fam?

Persian Blue

I’d love to have laughed with my son
In Iranian snow this year 
(did you know that it snows in Tehran?).
But building a snowman 
In Cardiff last March
Made us laugh 
Till tears ran 
For the first time in a long time.

I’d love to have helped mum tonight 
Conjure Baghali Polo from rice,
Fresh dill , broad beans, lamb
And see my dad’s delight 
In his home-made wine
Carefully  drunk behind closed doors.
But sudden flight and  scary homelessness,
Was six years ago,
The unchosen option. 

I’d have dreamt of more
Than a one-roomed place
For my son and my studies here 
(Drawing and design).
But people have come, filling this hostel space,
giving me heart-room: 
I’m knowing another family.
This is a different day.

I’d have coloured me Persian blue.
But as you’re the one painting my portrait,
I’ll let you have
The final say.

Can you see the hope of heaven 
In my eyes?

Glas Persia

Byddwn wedi dwlu
Chwerthin gyda’m mab
Dan eira Iran eleni
(wyddet ti bod eira yn Nhehran?).
Ond yng Nghaerdydd fis Mawrth
Gwnaeth godi dyn eira ar y cyd
Wneud i ni chwerthin 
Nes i’r dagrau lifo
Am y tro cyntaf ers tro byd.

Byddwn wedi dwlu helpu mam heno
Gonswirio Baghali Polo
O ddil, reis ffres, ffa melyn, cig oen
A gweld diléit fy nhad
Yn ei win cartref
A yfa’n ofalus a’r drysau dan glo.
Ond ffoi sydyn a dychryn digartrefedd
Chwe mlynedd yn ôl
Oedd y dewis annewisol.

Yn fy mreuddwyd
Byddai mwy wedi bod 
Na’r lle un ystafell hwn
I fy mab a’m astudio yma
(Arlunio a chynllunio).
Ond mae pobl wedi dod,
Gan ddadmer oerfel yr hostel
Ac agor ystafell y galon.
Rwy’n adnabod teulu arall.
Mae hwn yn ddydd gwahanol.

Tybiwn fod arlliw glas Persia yn fy llygaid i
Ond gan mai ti sy’n fy mhortreadu
Gadawaf i ti gael 
Y gair olaf.

A weli di nefolaidd obaith 
Yn fy nhrem?

What I’m like

I know I wanted her to paint my picture,
I don’t know how I ended up with this life.
I know I’ve got a police record, done for fighting druggies.
They were injecting in front of me.
I know I don’t see a future:
I wasn’t expecting this to be my future.
I don’t know when I’ll have a place of my own.
I know that’s all I ever wanted.
I know I’m here. I know I didn’t ask to be here.
I know I’m not so good. But I want people to know how good I could be.

I don’t mind how she paints me.
I said, ‘Surprise me, do whatever you want’.
But I do know I want the picture of me when she’s done.
To see what she’s made of me.
To see what I’m like.

Beth ‘wy fel

‘Sa’i’n gwbod sut droiais i mas fel hyn.
‘Wy’n gwbod o’n i am iddi wneud fy llun.
‘Wy’n gwbod bod record ‘da’r heddlu ‘da fi
(Addicts oedd y rhai ‘glatsiais i. 
Yn injecto reit o’m mlaen).
‘Wy’n gwbod ‘does dim yfory ‘da fi
(O’n i ddim wedi disgwyl yfory fel hyn).
‘Sa’ i’n gwybod pryd gaf i le jyst i fi
‘Wy’n gwbod taw dyna yw ‘mreuddwyd i.
‘Wy’n gwbod ‘mod i ‘ma
Heb ofyn am gael bod ‘ma’,
Am gael yma fel lle,
Am i hyn fod fy lle.
‘Wy’n gwbod ‘mod i’n bell o fwrw’r nod
Ond wy am i chi wbod mor dda y gallwn fod.

‘Sa’ i’n becso sut mae’n tynnu fy llun.
‘Wedes i “Gwna fe’n syrpreis, gwna fel ti mo’yn”.
Ond ‘wy’n gwybod ‘mod i am gadw’r llun wedyn
I gael gweld
Beth mae hi wedi gwneud ohono i,
I fi gael gweld be ‘wy fel.

Donna

Does she look like the mother of seven?
There are seven she has borne and birthed,
Safe now from the man who fathered them. 
But what she’s left with now is contact time.

Does she look like an arts and crafts person?
She’s buys sequins  and  wooden hearts
And frames family photos as presents
For when she has contact time. 

She likes those flowers in her picture.
And likes not looking forty-one.
But there’s aways a mother’s pining
For more, as things are moving on, 
Than flowers and contact time.

Donna

Oes golwg mam i saith ar hon?
Saith a gariodd ac a anwyd ganddi,
Saff bellach rhag y dyn a’u cenhedlodd.
Be sy’n weddill iddi yw amser cyswllt.

Oes arni olwg person celf a chrefft?
 secwinau a chalonnau pren
Mae’n fframio ffotos y teulu
’N anrhegion i’w rhoi adeg amser cyswllt.

Mae’n hoff o’r blodau yn ei llun
Ac o edrych yn iau na phedwar deg un.
Ond yn wastadol mae hiraeth mamol,
Fel mae pethau’n symud ymlaen,
Am fwy na blodau ac amser cyswllt.

The draw

Don’t let me seeming sorted,
Cool, even, fool you: 
Some I’ve supported
Involve me, draw me.
The things they confide
Can blow your mind -
The roller-coaster life journey.
When you sit down with a person 
You begin to see the reasons
And the complexity. 
Housing’s a start
But the critical part,
The support – that’s what draws me. 

Sorted, cool, apparently.
So why the concern, 
The draw, the empathy? 
Is it because in fact
My journey, partly, like theirs,
Is this: the famous swan
Paddling a storm underwater.
My smile is a quirky smile.
There’s a serious air 
To the look in my eye….
Not too sorted to care.  

Christian is part of the Wallich support team

Y dynfa

Paid gadael i’m delwedd –
Cŵl, wedi sortio - dy dwyllo:
Dan yr wyneb mae cyffro
‘N fy nghyffwrdd yn y gwaith.
Mae tynfa i ryfeddu
Wrth iddyn nhw rannu
Holl droeon trwstan eu taith,
I ddechrau ymdeimlo
Â’r beichiau a’r brwydro 
Wrth eistedd ‘da’r person.
Mae’r cartrefu’n flaenoriaeth
Ond y craidd yw’r gefnogaeth, 
A’r craidd sy’n cynhesu fy nghalon.

Wedi sortio, cŵl, ‘n ôl pob golwg.
Ond o ble felly’r dynfa, y gofid?
Ai’r ffaith bod fy nhaith
Rywsut fel eu taith nhw:
Yr enwog alarch, yn padlo storm
O dan ddrych y dŵr?
Gwên amwys yw’r wên yn fy llun;
Mae i’r fflach yn fy llygaid ei harlliw flin…
Heb fy sortio 
Tu hwnt i dosturio.

Mae Christian yn rhan o dîm cymorth y Wallich

Rory

Not many a man 
Of twenty-five
Has dreams like his:

Of treading untried paths 
While leading lame ones by the hand;
Of learning ways to motivate, 
Not striving to accumulate;
Of showcasing his gift in therapy, not in a gallery,
Of serving the song, not singing the melody. 

Is it that the building blocks he’s fashioning
To offer  new beginnings 
To those who seldom had a start
Are quarried from the warm granite
Of his own up-bringing?
Or is it the fulfilling of his boyhood wish
To take the  fire-fighter’s part -
Dousing, extinguishing fires
Of fracture, rejection, resentment, 
Through  the art of listening speech
and the patient speech of art?

It hadn’t struck me before but I suppose that yes,
That might something of what those social worker people try to do…

Rory is an outreach officer with Cardiff council

Rory 

Go brin mae gan ddyn 
Sy’n ddau ddeg pump
Freuddwydion fel hyn:

Am herio’r anhysbys
Gan arwain cloffion gerfydd eu llaw;
Am ddysgu sut mae ysgogi,
Nid llenwi ei ysguboriau;
Am amlygu ei ddawn mewn therapÏau,
Yn hytrach nag orielau,
Am gynnal harmoni’r  gân, 
Yn lle canu’r melodïau.

Ai o chwarel cadernid cynnes
Ei fagwraeth y daw’r meini a saernïa 
‘N sylfaen dechrau newydd
I’r rhai na chafodd?
Neu ai gwireddu mae
Freuddwyd ei fachgendod,
I gymryd arno waith y dynion tân –
deall a  diffodd fflamau
chwerwder, gwrthodiad, ysigiad
Trwy’r dweud celfydd sy’n wrandawiad,
A gwrandawiad amyneddgar ei gelfyddyd?...

Doedd e ddim wedi ‘nharo fel ‘na o’r blaen, ond dyna efalle
ran o be mae’r gweithwyr cymdeithasol yna’n ceisio ei wneud…

Mae Rory yn swyddog allgymorth, Cyngor Caerdydd

A recipe…

Take one idyllic rural childhood;
Add the stability of a loving  family;
Fold a strong personality
Into the mixture;
Place for three years 
In the warm oven
Of teacher training;
Drizzle with a proud Welsh identity;
Then stand  thirty-five more years
In a caring classroom.
Serves generations. 
A time-honoured recipe. 

But by now she’d like you to know
That chill winds have ways of stealing
Through the half-open windows
Of even the lordliest of larders.

And that homelessness came upon her
Like a thief in the night

Ryseit…

Cymerwch hapusrwydd un plentyndod cefn gwlad;
Ychwanegwch sefydlogrwydd cariad teulu;
Plygwch gryfder cymeriad
I fewn i’r cymysgedd;
Pobwch am dair mlynedd
(Ei gradd mewn addysg);
Ysgeintiwch â hunaniaeth Cymraes falch;
Wedyn gadewch i sefyll
Mewn ystafell ddosbarth gynnes
Dri deg pump o flynyddoedd.
Digon i genedlaethau. 
Hen rysait draddodiadol .

Ond erbyn hyn  byddai’n hoffi  i ti wybod
Bod gan awelon croes ffyrdd o sleifio
Trwy ffenestri cilagored
Y pantrïau mwyaf pendefigaidd
Hyd yn oed.

A bod digartrefedd wedi dod arni hi
Fel lleidr yn y nos.

An average man

This is me.
Not “This is me”
As in that film ‘The Greatest Showman’-
I’m just me as in your average human.
So blue’s my favourite colour
And KFC’s a favourite place,
And it’s being happy with my kids 
That makes my heartbeat race.

His is a classic homelessness,
Lost somewhere in the mix,
Another one-time addict
Hidden in the statistics.

And yet -
His eyes, aren’t they surprising,
Dark , deep, intense and searching?
They spoke to me of this:
That average though he may be
He’s the only one of him there is -
No discountable
Name and number
To be lost under the radar;
And that if it’s really true
That all lives matter, 
Then homeless ones
Count too.

Dyn cyffredin

Fi yw hwn.
Nid ‘This is me’
Fel yn ‘The Greatest Showman.’
Fi jyst yn fi 
Fel dy average human.
So rwy’n hoffi’r lliw glas. 
A cyw iâr KFC. 
A bod yn hapus gyda’r plant
Sy’n codi ‘nghalon i.

Clasur o achos
Yw ei ddigartrefedd e.
Ar goll rywle yn y pair,
Cyn-ddefnyddiwr arall
Yn ddi-stŵr mewn ‘stadegau.

Ac eto – ei lygaid,
On’d ydyn nhw’n syndod?
Dwys, dwfn, di-orffwys.
Yn mynegi sawl neges:
Er mai digon cyffredin efalle yw hwn
Fe yw’r unig un ohono fe  sy’n bod –
Nid enw a rhif hepgoradwy
Dan y radar, tafladwy;
A hyn: os mai gwir yw y gair
bod gwerth i bob bywyd,
bod bywydau’r digartref
Yn cyfrif hefyd.

Claire 

Old poets railed at Landore’s ‘fume and stink’
When Swansea’s ‘Copperopolis’ was founded there:
Way back the largest steel works in the world,
With the world’s most polluted air…

Though it’s where I grew up,
Among the echoes
Of the clang and clamour 
Of those steel works’ hammer blows,
I’m not a noisy person!
Not out-going naturally,
No silver spoon, no school to inspire, 
I never felt loved as a child should be.
Then a marriage break-down did for me...

But this quiet girl from noisy Landore,
Isn’t afraid of reality:
I want my portrait to be as I am
Not perhaps as things might be ideally.
And don’t write me off or just pity my plight 
Before knowing how far I have travelled,
Or how I have come to believe there’s a light
At the end of the homelessness tunnel.

Claire

Testun gwawd  yr hen feirdd gynt
Oedd drewdod a mwg tre Glandŵr,
Y gwaith dur mwyaf oedd i’w gael
(A Swansea’n ‘Copperopolis’)
A nunlle â llygredd aer mor wael.

Fanna oedd fy magwraeth,
Yng nghanol atseiniau
Morthwylio byddarol  y gwaith,
Ond nid un am sŵn ydw i!
Yn ddi-hyder wrth natur,
Heb aelwyd freintiedig
Nac ysgol nodedig;
Fûm erioed ag ymdeimlad
O ddyfnder gwir gariad.
Ar ôl yr ysgaru, dyna ‘mywyd
Yn chwalu.

Ond nid ydw i,
Yr un dawel o Landŵr,
Yn ddall i realiti.
Dwi am weld fy llun, fel fy mywyd,
Fel ydw i, nid fel y gallai efallai fod.
A paid a’m difrïo na chwaith fy mhitïo
Nes gwybod mor bell ddês i’n barod,
A sut oedd modd i mi ffeindio,
Yn y pen draw i dynel  digartrefedd,
Bod goleuni yn gwawrio.

Who decides?

They’ve decided  to let us decide,
To give us the choice, a voice:
Thumbs up or thumbs down,
Favour or frown.

I decided to choose just the ones that felt real,
Like I felt when a boy flying downhill free-wheel, 
Like proper home food at the stove where mum cooked,
Like the smell of the wood at the bench where I worked.
So I decided on pictures that tell me a story,
Like those ones, which I Iove, of Jesus on Calvary. 

I keep seeing these images inside my head.
And this project has got me deciding:
Stop drifting, start shading those shapes in instead,
Making images real, finding meaning in painting.
I’m starting to do the deciding…

(You wonder how many an image now lost
Might well  long ago have made art
If some kindly soul somewhere once had decided
To stand at his side, take his part,
To favour him, not frown?)

The National Museum of Wales recently staged an unusual exhibition as part of the project: ‘Who decides?’  Service users from the Wallich, many of whom, like Mike, had experienced homelessness were tasked with deciding what pieces to exhibit.

Penderfyniad Pwy?

Maen nhw wedi penderfynu 
Ein gadael ni i benderfynu:
Bawd i lawr, bawd i fyny,
Gwgu  neu wenu.

Penderfynais dros rai oedd yn teimlo’n fyw,
Real, fel yr iâs deimlais gynt ar gefn beic
Yn hedfan ffri-wîl  trwy y gwynt lawr y rhiw,
Fel bwyd cartref go iawn neu fy mam wrthi’n pobi,
Neu arogl y coed o’n i’n arfer eu naddu.
Dyna pam benderfynais dros luniau ‘da stori,
Fel  y rhai ‘na o’r Groes, rhai fel ‘na rwy’n ‘caru.

Mae llwyth o ddelweddau’n chwyrlïo ’n fy mhen.
Wedi blasu y project fe wnes benderfyniad:
Rhoi sylwedd i ddelwedd, dod â‘r drifftio i ben, 
Ffeindio siap a chysgodion ac ystyr mewn paentiad.
Fi fydd piau penderfynu…

(Tybed faint  y delweddau di-lun , diflanedig,
Fyddai wedi troi’n gain yn y man,
O fod rhywun clên rywle ryw dro wedi mentro
Penderfynu a chymryd ei ran,
Gwenu, nid gwgu?)

Yn ddiweddar  trefnodd Amgueddfa Genedlaethol Cymru arddangosfa anarferol yn rhan o’r project ‘Penderfyniad Pwy?’  Defnyddwyr gwasanaeth y Wallich, yn eu plith llawer, fel Mike, a brofodd ddigartrefedd, oedd yn gyfrifol am benderfynu pa ddarnau i’w cynnwys.

Shane

I suppose you’d say 
I’ve done the rounds: 
Lorry-driving, labouring, 
Milk rounds, paper rounds, 
In and out of work, 
Life’s ups and downs. 
Mine a single-parent mother 
Me at seventeen a father 
(My third came ten years later).  

You could pop me on your scales
And say ‘He’s done the rounds’- 
And never see my other world. 

With cichlids that I love to keep, 
And Leopoldi stingrays that I breed, 
I’ve more than an aquarium: 
They’re swimming in 
A tank-full of my Amazon 
Or my Everglades, 
Where the Florida Gar fish glides. 
My world’s as big 
As there are fish 
To watch and marvel at: 
Their colour, beauty, 
Doing the rounds 
Of their habitat.   
My favourites? The ugly ones, 
The predatory ones, the deadly ones. 
In all the ups and downs 
And the round and rounds 
They’ve given me joy. 

So has she given me my wish?
Did she paint me – catch me – happy? 

Yes, not scared, just happy?

Shane

Digon teg fyddai dweud
Mod i wedi gwneud 
Y rownds.
Rownds papur,  rownds llaeth, 
Labro, lorÏau, 
Yr oriau’n ynfyd,  
Mewn a mas o waith, 
Troeon trwstan bywyd.
Fy mam yn fam sengl,
Fi’n dad yn ddwy ar bymtheg -
Daeth y trydydd  ‘r ôl deng mlynedd.

Gallet fy ngosod yn dy glorian
A chasglu’n ddigon buan
‘Mod i wedi gwneud y rownds -
A deall dim o’m bywyd amgen.

Gyda’r ciclids rwy’n caru ‘hastudio,
A’r sting-rays dwy erioed wedi bridio
Mae ‘da fi lot fwy nag acwariwm.
Mae fy Florida Gar 
Yn troi llond tanc o ddŵr tap
Yn Amazon neu’n Everglades, 
Lle mae hwnnw’n hoffi  gleidio.
Mae fy myd i mor fawr
Ag y mae pysgod
I’w gwylio ac edmygu -
Rhyfeddol, anghyffredin
Eu lliw a’u harddwch -
Yn gwneud y rownds 
yn eu cynefin.
Fy hoff rai? Y rhai salw,
Yr ysglyfaethus, y marwol.
Trwy bob tro trwstan
A’r holl lan a lawr
Nhw oedd fy hafan.

A roddodd hi fy nymuniad i mi?
Wnaeth hi fy mheintio - fy nal - yn hapus,

Ie, nid ofnus ond hapus?

Lee

Though there is that far-off country
Many visit in their youth,
Not everyone makes a home there -
This prodigal’s the proof.
Not everyone who was nicked when eighteen
For being, as he as he puts it, ‘naughty’,
Goes on like him to an honours degree
When they were well past their forty.

Good outreach often reaches in
To the spot where the home-sick stand,
Knowing something of where they are,
Aware of the lie of their land.
The precious gift he brings to each case
Is for making the lost feel found. 
Strangers no more in a lonely place,
He meets them on common ground.

You can see and yet  insight’s beyond you, 
Graduate and stay cold as ice.
Not Lee: the grit of his younger days
Made for pearls of the greatest price.

Lee works as an outreach officer for Cardiff Council

Lee

Er bod y wlad bell honno’n bod
Lle yr heidiodd ryw dro ambell ddyn,
Nid pawb sy’n ymgartrefu draw-
Y cyn-afradlon hwn, am un.
Nid pawb a arestiwyd yn ddeunaw oed -
Yn ‘ddrygionus’ (dyna’i air  ei hunan) -
Sy’n graddio gydag anrhydedd (2:1!)
Ac yntau yn saff dros ei ddeugain.

Yn aml ‘mestynna allgymorth o werth
Mewn i’r fan lle mae’r alltud yn trigo,
‘N gyfarwydd â phrofiad y bywyd pell
A gwedd tir ei fyw’n hysbys iddo.
Dwg at bob achos ei sgil amhrisiadwy
Am gynnig lle clyd i’r diethryn,
Ac ystyried yr estron yn fod cymeradwy
Wrth ei gyfarch ar sail tir cyffredin.

Mae ‘na weld sydd heb fewnwelediad;
Cewch raddio a’ch calon yn ddur;
Llwybr arall mae Lee wedi cerdded,
‘N lle swatio ‘n ddi-ofal ei fyd.
Esgorodd y graean o’r dyddiau a fu
Ar berlau teg, gwerthfawr, prin, drud.

Mae Lee yn gweithio fel swyddog allgymorth dros Gyngor Caerdydd

Victoria (in her own words)

My mind teems
With memories and dreams
Of places I’ve been
Or would like to see -
Amazing natural lakes
Standing amongst sand dunes,
Roads running maybe
Through a musky, dusky
Rose pink sea…

Pre-breakdown I was
Riding and swimming,
Skiing and coxing.
Acquiring so many skills:
But the family was always on the move
The rootlessness killed
Something in me.
The skill I’d now like is one
I know nothing about.
Like in spacecraft technology
Or physics or chemistry.

I think God has plans for my life
I just down know what they are.
It’s not controI I need but
A glow, an explosion of lightness
To remove all the hideousness,
To be not a leech, in a world
Free of predators, pretenders
And persecutors:
To be not so much housed
But as at home,
Rooted and grounded.

Victoria (yn ei geiriau ei hun)

Mae fy meddwl yn ferw
O ddychmygion, breuddwydion,
Atgofion:
O luniau llawn llefydd –
Llynoedd lliwgar swreal
Yn llachar rhwng twyni,
Moroedd mwsglyd
A heolydd yn eu croesi
Trwy’r gwyll,
A mwy.

Cyn i’m nerfau chwalu
Mi oeddwn yn meddu
Ar gymaint o sgiliau:
Merlota, llywio rhwyfo
Nofio a sgio.
Ond roedd y teulu’n symudol
A doedd tyfu heb wreiddiau
Ddim heb sgil-effeithiau:
Lladdwyd rhywbeth yn raddol
O’m mewn.

Rwy’n credu bod gan Dduw
Gynlluniau ar gyfer fy mywyd.
Fy mhroblem yw gwybod
Yn union beth ŷn nhw.
Nid rheolaeth dwi angen
Ond yn hytrach rhyw lewyrch,
Rhyw ffrwydriad o ysgafnder
I waredu’r holl hyllter -
I fyw’n fwy na rhyw baraseit
Mewn byd rhydd
O reibwyr, o smalwyr, o erlidwyr.
I fod nid yn gymaint dan do
Ag ar fy aelwyd i,
Lle’m gwreiddwyd,
Wedi fy naearu.