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For Geoffrey - As an illegal British poet, I would like to recommend another Menna Elfyn: a woman poet who writes in Welsh and has been publishing her poetry in bilingual editions since 1995. In the beginning she wrote her own translations, but said that she found she ended up with a completely new poem! (and so now leaves that to others to do for her). She is a thoughtful, playful and politically engaged poet who has really blazed a trail in Wales. She even gets to wear the white robes of the College of Bards! http://www.ashevillereview.com/v9n1/Interview_Menna_Elfyn.php an interview http://www.sciences.demon.co.uk/r-elfyn-m.htm biog http://www.geocities.com/austringerekm/menna.html a couple of poems (not the best) This I like, and I was able to find the Welsh too for you. Wild Flowers Behind bars, the lay judges hold court. Before them, I flower as bravely as campion, although I’m truly the weakest of vessels. But I can’t pretend. They can see, although I look like nightshade I am the most shrinking violet. The bittersweet climbs toward me. A harebell leans over me and knows that I never was torn, never plucked from the hedge. I never felt man’s hand like a blade at the back of my neck. I’ve dwelt among untrodden ways. They give judgement swiftly, together. I am not brave, but stupid. And blind. A woman who’d be scared if a butterfly followed her. What sort of girl would forgo the random, nectarish Saturdays of youth, the pleasures of the hedge? They pity my sober sepals, these scarlet pimpernels. My arms bear no needle-scars. I suck no stub to ward off pain. I am unmanacled. I’ve had a shady hollow among petals which have seen hurricanes and cruel reapings. The time has come to testify - to graffiti, on the tabula rasa of the wall, three long-stemmed poppies in paradise - here’s the red poppy on parade, triumphing death though the meadows still run with the stain of blood, here’s the white one I wear as a bone of peace each November, defying war’s pieties; and here am I, the Welsh poppy, head bent - our spinelessness a yellow fever. The judges left, smiling at a humble poppy on the crest of her anger. A stalk bending in the wind. © Elin ap Hywel Blodau Gwylltion Tu ôl i’r barrau, bu’r barnwyr lleyg yn cynnal llys. O’u blaen, y llestr gwannaf un. Yn ffluro llys yr ychen. Ond thâl hi ddim rhyfygu. Gwelant mai di-enw flodyn wyf ymysg y crinllys, yn ffugio codwarth diarth, a’r elinog yn dringo ataf. Gwyra’r clychlys arnaf a gweld na fum ynghrog. Ni’m cythrwyd o lwyn. Theimlais i na llafn llaw dyn ar wegil. Clawdd llonydd a ges. Daw’r ddedfryd yn unfryd o sydyn. Nid dewr ond dwl wyf. A dall. Yn fenyw na fyn na glöyn byw ar ei gwarthaf. Pa eneth a gollai sadyrnau siawns ei neithdar a phleserau’r gwrych. pitiant Sepalau mor sobr. Hwy o les eu cryman. Di nodwydd fraich wyf. Heb fwgyn i gynnal poen. na genynnau ar arlais. Cesail o gysgod a ges ymhlith petalau a brofodd wayw corwynt a chraith. Daeth awr i dystiolaethu, sgriffian graffiti ar tabula rasa wal, tri oabi hirgoes ynghanol meysydd paradwys - dacw’r un rhudd mewn parêd yn dathlu’r lladd er bod y gweirgloddau yn dal i ddiferu; a dyma’r un gwyn a wisgaf yn asgwrn tangnefedd bob tachwedd i herio holl adnoddau’r gad; a dacw hi, myfi, y pabi Cymreig sy’n cuddio ei bochau gan ddiffyg dewrder ei chlefyd melyn. Aeth y barnwr allan, yn gwenu ar y pabi tawel, ar frig ei dicter, at dusw crud yr awel. taken from http://www.cyfwe.org/index2.cfm a very ambitious but also confusing site