*Poem of the day thread

[oisleep]

CUNTS

We like to fuck and shag, we're not into making love
But I hope that she'd admit that we've done all of the above.
I've got a cock or sometimes willy, I'm referred to as her bird,
And she's usually got a fanny, rarely any other word,
Though you might've heard a pie once, or a bum-not-back-but-front,
Or maybe the odd snatch, but never once a cunt.
She only uses that word when it's Scottish for amigo,
Or to punctuate a sentence when deflating my wee ego.

Aidan Moffat

 

[onemonkey]

When man enters woman
Anne Sexton

When man,
enters woman,
like the surf biting the shore,
again and again,
and the woman opens her mouth with pleasure
and her teeth gleam
like the alphabet,
Logos appears milking a star,
and the man
inside of woman
ties a knot
so that they will
never again be separate
and the woman
climbs into a flower
and swallows its stem
and Logos appears
and unleashes their rivers.

This man,
this woman
with their double hunger,
have tried to reach through
the curtain of God
and briefly they have,
through God
in His perversity
unties the knot.

-1973

 

[Yossarian]

Thinking in the Moonlight of Vice-Prefect Ts'uei in Shan-yin
Wang Changling

Lying on high seat in the south study,
We have lifted the curtain - and we see the rising moon
Brighten with pure light the water and the grove
And flow like a wave on our window and our door.
It will move through the cycle, full moon and then crescent again,
Calmly, beyond our wisdom, altering new to old.
. . . Our chosen one, our friend, is now by a limpid river -
Singing, perhaps, a plaintive eastern song.
He is far, far away from us, three hundred miles away.
And yet a breath of orchids comes along the wind

 

[Yossarian]

The Mad Yak
Gregory Corso

I am watching them churn the last milk they'll ever get from me.
They are waiting for me to die;
They want to make buttons out of my bones.
Where are my sisters and brothers?
That tall monk there, loading my uncle, he has a new cap.
And that idiot student of his--
I never saw that muffler before.
Poor uncle, he lets them load him.
How sad he is, how tired!
I wonder what they'll do with his bones?
And that beautiful tail!
How many shoelaces will they make of that!

 

[Yossarian]

In Harbor
Constantine Cavafy

A young man, twenty eight years old, on a vessel from Tenos,
Emes arrived at this Syrian harbor
with the intention of learning the perfume trade.
But during the voyage he was taken ill. And as soon
as he disembarked, he died. His burial, the poorest,
took place here. A few hours before he died,
he whispered something about "home," about "very old parents."
But who these were nobody knew,
nor which his homeland in the vast panhellenic world.
Better so. For thus, although
he lies dead in this harbor,
his parents will always hope he is alive.

 

[RubyToogood]

Wistful
Carl Sandburg

Wishes left on your lips
The mark of their wings.
Regrets fly kites in your eyes.

 

[onemonkey]

So Does Everybody Else, Only Not So Much
by Ogden Nash

O all ye exorcizers come and exorcize now, and ye clergymen draw nigh and clerge,
For I wish to be purged of an urge.
It is an irksome urge, compounded of nettles and glue,
And it is turning all my friends back into acquaintances, and all my acquaintances into people who look the other way when I heave into view.
It is an indication that my mental buttery is butterless and my mental larder lardless,
And it consists not of "Stop me if you've heard this one," but of "I know you've heard this one because I told it to you myself, but I'm going to tell it to you again regardless,"
Yes I fear I am living beyond my mental means.
When I realize that it is not only anecdotes that I reiterate but what is far worse, summaries of radio programs and descriptions of caroons in newspapers and magazines.
I want to resist but I cannot resist recounting the bright sayins of celebrities that everybody already is familiar with every word of; I want to refrain but cannot refrain from telling the same audience on two successive evenings the same little snatches of domestic gossip about people I used to know that they have never heard of.
When I remember some titlating episode of my childhood I figure that if it's worth narrating once it's worth narrating twice, in spite of lackluster eyes and dropping jaws,
And indeed I have now worked my way backward from titllating episodes in my own childhood to titillating episodes in the childhood of my parents or even my parents-in-laws,
And what really turns my corpuscles to ice,
I carry around clippings and read them to people twice.
And I know what I am doing while I am doing it and I don't want to do it but I can't help doing it and I am just another Ancient Mariner,
And the prospects for my future social life couldn't possibly be barrener.
Did I tell you that the prospects for my future social life couldn't be barrener?

 

[Yossarian]

Long Life Not To Be Desired
Sophocles

HO, loving life, hath sought
To outrun the appointed span,
Shall be arraigned before my thought
For an infatuate man.
Since the added years entail
Much that is bitter; -- joy
Flies out of ken, desire doth fail,
The wished-for moments cloy.
But when the troublous life,
Be it less or more, is past,
With power to end the strife
Comes rescuing Death at last.
Lo! the dark bridegroom waits! No festal choir
Shall grace his destined hour, no dance, no lyre!

Far best were ne'er to be;
But, once he hath seen the day,
Next best by far for each to flee
As swiftly as each may,
Yonder from whence he came;
For let but Youth be there
With her light fooleries, who shall name
The unnumbered brood of Care?
No trial spared, no fall!
Feuds, battles, murders, rage,
Envy, and last of all,
Despised, dim, friendless age!
Ay, there all evils, crowded in one room.
Each at his worst of ill, augments of gloom.

Such lot is mine, and round this man of woe,
As some gray headland of a northward shore
Bears buffets of all wintry winds that blow,
Fresh storms of Fate are bursting evermore
In thunderous billows, borne
Some from the waning light,
Some through mid-noon, some from the rising morn,
Some from the stars of Night.

 

[twinkle]

Map of a City

I stand upon a hill and see
A luminous country under me,
Through which at two the drunk must weave;
The transient's pause, the sailor's leave.

I notice, looking down the hill,
Arms braced upon a window sill;
And on the web of fire escapes
Move the potential, the grey shapes.

I hold the city here, complete:
And every shape defined by light
Is mine, or corresponds to mine,
Some flickering or some steady shine.

This map is ground of my delight.
Between the limits, night by night,
I watch a malady's advance,
I recognize my love of chance.

By the recurrent lights I see
Endless potentiality,
The crowded, broken, and unfinished!
I would not have the risk diminished.

Thom Gunn

 

[Ace]

A Larkin Poem for Iraq - The Less Deceived.

Deceptions

"Of course I was drugged, and so heavily I did not regain consciousness until the next morning. I was horrified to discover that I had been ruined, and for some days I was inconsolable, and cried like a child to be killed or sent back to my aunt."

--Mayhew, London Labour and the London Poor

Even so distant, I can taste the grief,
Bitter and sharp with stalks, he made you gulp.
The sun's occasional print, the brisk brief
Worry of wheels along the street outside
Where bridal London bows the other way,
And light, unanswerable and tall and wide,
Forbids the scar to heal, and drives
Shame out of hiding. All the unhurried day,
Your mind lay open like a drawer of knives.

Slums, years, have buried you. I would not dare
Console you if I could. What can be said,
Except that suffering is exact, but where
Desire takes charge, readings will grow erratic?
For you would hardly care
That you were less deceived, out on that bed,
Than he was, stumbling up the breathless stair
To burst into fulfillment's desolate attic.

 

[maya]

I AM THAT POEM (nb: translated word-by word from the norwegian poem)

I am that poem who noone wrote
I am the always burnt letter.

I am the unwalked path
And the tone without melody.

I am the mute lip's prayer.
I am an unborn woman's son.

A string that no hand has strung,
A fire that has never been lit.

Awake me! Redeem me! Lift me up
From earth and mountain, of spirit and body!

But nothing happens when i pray.
I am the things that never happen.



-- Inger Hagerup

 

[fanta]

come back safely

Even to say good-bye
even if it's the last time
even reluctantly
even to hurt me again
even with the harsh acid
of sarcasm that stings

even with a new kind of pain
even fresh from the embrace
of another. Come back, just come.

Sylva Gaboudikan

Good!

 

[fanta]

Last edited by RubyToogood : 28-04-2004 at 01:05 AM. Reason: Not just cheeky - it's against the rules of the thread - Chazegee started another thread on this forum for self-written poetry, or start another if you like - sorry but it does say in the first post.

Silly!

 

[Yossarian]

In The North Pasture
Jared Carter

After we called the sheriff, they came
and hauled it away. But there was
one interviewer who stayed behind,
to ask if we'd seen any strange lights
in the sky at night, or burnt places
in the pasture, or flocks of hippies
traveling through in their painted vans.

Nothing, we told him. Only that pair
of buzzards floating over the north fork
but never landing. No signs, no tracks.
Only the shaggy lump of the steer,
with its tongue gone, ears cut off,
and eyes—cored out clean, like apples.
Nothing, no blood on the ground,
and no flies crawling anywhere.

"Natural predator," he said, closing
his book. "That's how we'll write it up.
Now, I know what you're thinking:
no bear, no mountain lion, no coyotes
in these parts for a hundred years.
And none of them make cuts like that
or leave that much good meat behind.
But something's coming back. Natural
predator," he said again. He tipped
his hat. "You folks take care now."

 

[Yossarian]

Action Man
John Cooper Clarke

give him scars and khaki to wear
remove his balls, he'll go anywhere
he doesn't speak, he doesn't dare
death sneaks, he isn't scared
minus balls, he doesn't care
jacks beware, action man.

he can ack-ack Ackrington, bomb Berlin
reduce your car to a heap of tin
wage war, what's more - win
punctured skin means nothing to him
the human grenade minus pin
that's him, action man

a chin with a thin Kirk Douglas cleft
squad by the bleeding left
don't shout he's deaf
head over heels in love with death
beware of the wrath of the man bereft
no marriage plans for action man.

 

[oisleep]

on silver mount zion
all buried in ruins
we was dancing the hora
until we vomited blood
spinning like crazy
Shoshanna i was jonesing
the towers had fallen
and the wind called out my grandfather's name

let's kill first the banker
with his professional demeanor
let's televise and broadcast the raping of kings
let our crowds be fed on tear gas and plate glass
'cos the people united is a wonderful thing

I know that you're dying
and I know I'm unwell
and together we sashay
through variations of hell

and as you walk through valleys of fear
the lure of my past never near

oh, don't be afraid, for the parade
will not pass our way
it's nobler to never get paid,
than to bank on shit and dismay

Effrim and Thierry from a silver mount zion

 

[Yossarian]

Temporary Poem Of My Time
Yehuda Amichai

Hebrew writing and Arabic writing go from east to west,
Latin writing, from west to east.
Languages are like cats:
You must not stroke their hair the wrong way.
The clouds come from the sea, the hot wind from the desert,
The trees bend in the wind,
And stones fly from all four winds,
Into all four winds. They throw stones,
Throw this land, one at the other,
But the land always falls back to the land.
They throw the land, want to get rid of it.
Its stones, its soil, but you can't get rid of it.
They throw stones, throw stones at me
In 1936, 1938, 1948, 1988,
Semites throw at Semites and anti-Semites at anti-Semites,
Evil men throw and just men throw,
Sinners throw and tempters throw,
Geologists throw and theologists throw,
Archaelogists throw and archhooligans throw,
Kidneys throw stones and gall bladders throw,
Head stones and forehead stones and the heart of a stone,
Stones shaped like a screaming mouth
And stones fitting your eyes
Like a pair of glasses,
The past throws stones at the future,
And all of them fall on the present.
Weeping stones and laughing gravel stones,
Even God in the Bible threw stones,
Even the Urim and Tumim were thrown
And got stuck in the beastplate of justice,
And Herod threw stones and what came out was a Temple.

Oh, the poem of stone sadness
Oh, the poem thrown on the stones
Oh, the poem of thrown stones.
Is there in this land
A stone that was never thrown
And never built and never overturned
And never uncovered and never discovered
And never screamed from a wall and never discarded by the builders
And never closed on top of a grave and never lay under lovers
And never turned into a cornerstone?

Please do not throw any more stones,
You are moving the land,
The holy, whole, open land,
You are moving it to the sea
And the sea doesn't want it
The sea says, not in me.

Please throw little stones,
Throw snail fossils, throw gravel,
Justice or injustice from the quarries of Migdal Tsedek,
Throw soft stones, throw sweet clods,
Throw limestone, throw clay,
Throw sand of the seashore,
Throw dust of the desert, throw rust,
Throw soil, throw wind,
Throw air, throw nothing
Until your hands are weary
And the war is weary
And even peace will be weary and will be.

 

[Mrs Magpie]

The Fish by Elizabeth Bishop


I caught a tremendous fish
and held him beside the boat
half out of water, with my hook
fast in a corner of his mouth.
He didn't fight.
He hadn't fought at all.
He hung a grunting weight,
battered and venerable
and homely. Here and there
his brown skin hung in strips
like ancient wallpaper,
and its pattern of darker brown
was like wallpaper:
shapes like full-blown roses
stained and lost through age.
He was speckled with barnacles,
fine rosettes of lime,
and infested
with tiny white sea-lice,
and underneath two or three
rags of green weed hung down.
While his gills were breathing in
the terrible oxygen
- the frightening gills,
fresh and crisp with blood,
that can cut so badly -
I thought of the coarse white flesh
packed in like feathers,
the big bones and the little bones,
the dramatic reds and blacks
of his shiny entrails,
and the pink swim-bladder
like a big peony.
I looked into his eyes
which were far larger than mine
but shallower, and yellowed,
the irises backed and packed
with tarnished tinfoil
seen through the lenses
of old scratched isinglass.
They shifted a little, but not
to return my stare.
- It was more like the tipping
of an object toward the light.
I admired his sullen face,
the mechanism of his jaw,
and then I saw
that from his lower lip
- if you could call it a lip -
grim, wet and weaponlike,
hung five old pieces of fish-line,
or four and a wire leader
with the swivel still attached,
with all their five big hooks
grown firmly in his mouth.
A green line, frayed at the end
where he broke it, two heavier lines,
and a fine black thread
still crimped from the strain and snap
when it broke and he got away.
Like medals with their ribbons
frayed and wavering,
a five-haired beard of wisdom
trailing from his aching jaw.
I stared and stared
and victory filled up
the little rented boat,
from the pool of bilge
where oil had spread a rainbow
around the rusted engine
to the bailer rusted orange,
the sun-cracked thwarts,
the oarlocks on their strings,
the gunnels - until everything
was rainbow, rainbow, rainbow!
And I let the fish go.

 

[fanta]

There was a young girl from Mauritius
Who said 'that last ride was delicious!'
But, the next time you come
Do it up me bum
Because that scab on your cock looks suspicious.

 

[jonny12]

From a lovely collection called Out of Danger:-

Hinterhof by James Fenton

Stay near to me and I'll stay near to you,
As near as you are dear to me will do,
Near as the rainbow to the rain,
The west wind to the windowpane,
As fire to the hearth, as dawn to dew.

Stay true to me and I'll stay true to you,
As true as you are new to me will do,
New as the rainbow in the spray,
Utterly new in every way,
New in the way that what you say is true.

Stay near to me, stay true to me. I'll stay
As near, as true to you as heart could pray.
Heart never hoped that one might be
Half of the things you are to me,
The dawn, the fire, the rainbow and the day.

 

[butchersapron]

The Cartridges

You sleep weightless in my palm, the revolver
I smuggled across eleven borders
hidden in my raincoat, hidden from my wife
my children, myself. But now we are

alone with the radio and its cries
in the off-season villa by the shore,
so into this chapel of banalities
I give you my hand, I give you my life.

Six little .22 long-rifle slugs
golden-haloed like guardian angels,
their glum faces grease-smeared, are on the table
posed on a sheet of pure typing paper.

At home in California my rifle,
closeted now and bandaged in a torn sheet,
they would mean nothing, the final opening
of a rabbit brain, the release of clichés,

the release of gases, animal pain,
or the tearing of glass. Nothing at all.
Here in my numbed fingers, one by one,
I take them up and give them to their stations.

First you, my little American, you bring
reports of everything I left behind,
and you, the hope of middle age, the game
I play with sleep when sleep is everything.

And you, stupid, are a black hole in the air
and nothing more. I refuse to explain.
And you, all of whose names are simply Spain,
and every pure act I don?t dare.

This one has no name and no nation
and has been with me from the start. And you,
finally, you have a name I will not name, a face
I cannot face, you could be music, you
could be the music of snow on the warm plain
of Michigan, you could be my voice
calling to me at last, calling me out of Spain,
calling me home, home, home, at any price.

Phillip Levine

 

[fanta]

The Toys

MY little Son, who look'd from thoughtful eyes
And moved and spoke in quiet grown-up wise,
Having my law the seventh time disobey'd,
I struck him, and dismiss'd
With hard words and unkiss'd,
—His Mother, who was patient, being dead.
Then, fearing lest his grief should hinder sleep,
I visited his bed,
But found him slumbering deep,
With darken'd eyelids, and their lashes yet
From his late sobbing wet.
And I, with moan,
Kissing away his tears, left others of my own;
For, on a table drawn beside his head,
He had put, within his reach,
A box of counters and a red-vein'd stone,
A piece of glass abraded by the beach,
And six or seven shells,
A bottle with bluebells,
And two French copper coins, ranged there with careful art,
To comfort his sad heart.
So when that night I pray'd
To God, I wept, and said:
Ah, when at last we lie with tranced breath,
Not vexing Thee in death,
And Thou rememberest of what toys
We made our joys,
How weakly understood
Thy great commanded good,
Then, fatherly not less
Than I whom Thou hast moulded from the clay,
Thou'lt leave Thy wrath, and say,
'I will be sorry for their childishness.'

By Coventry Patmore.

 

[maya]

- This is my favourite poem, by one of my favourite UK poets, Lemn Sissay...
[EDIT: nice to see another poem posted by him earlier, he's one of the best working today, imo...!]
***

ARCHITECTURE

Each cloud wants to be a storm
My tap water wants to be a river
The match wants to be an explosive
Each reflection wants to be real

Each joker wants to be a comedian
Each breeze wants to be a hurricane
Each drizzled rain wants to be torrential
Each laugh wants to come from the belly instead of the throat
Each yawn wants to hug the sky

Each kiss wants to be penetrative
Each piss wants to be a water spurter
Each handshake wants to be a love hug

Dont’t you don’t you don’t you see
How close we are to torrents and explosions and all
things out of control

Each wave wants to be a smooth stroke on the forehead
Each cry wants to be a scream
Each carefully pressed suit wants to be creased
Each melting icicle wants to be a glacier

Each mad,midnight frost wants to be a snow-drift
Each mother wants to be a close friend
Each enemy wants to kill you and drink your blood
Each nighttime wants to strangle the day
Each scar wants to grow so you remember
Each broken piece of plate wants to lodge in the centre flesh of your knee

Don’t you don’t you don’t you see
Each wave wants to be tidal
Each subtext wants to be a title
Each winter wants to be the big freeze

Each summer wants to be a drought
Each autumn brown wants to be a burning cold
Each polite disagreement wants to be a vicious denial
Each diplomatic smile wants to be a one-fingered tribute to tactfulness

Don’t you don’t you don’t you see how close we are to
Torrents and explosions and all things out of control

***

 

[butchersapron]

If Not, Not

They tell each other stories,
lies composed as dreams and
always in the colors of
dreams: rust, chrome yellow, coral,
chemical green. Of the dying
figures, loosely assembled, by a
riverbank. The gatehouse. A journey
by train through beautiful countryside,
indescribable countryside. I was there
cut in half, only to
survive. A young dancer, standing
at the third-floor window. Cobalt
blue, argentine, bone white. What
we called that hour in
those days. He means to
say that on that same
hill Goethe and Eckermann would
sometimes walk. "Always the old
story, always the old bed
of the sea!" He means
to say, The music of
moths, the small lamps. She
stares from the window on
the third floor, toward the
square below. He says, These
are yellow-hammers and sparrows, but
there are no larks. Come
Whitsuntide, the mockingbird and the
yellow thrush will arrive. Here
at the heart, a small
pond, stagnant in the shadow
of smoke. The late flowers.

Michael Palmer (from Four Kitaj Studies)

See this

 

[Donna Ferentes]

Clerihew

Whenever Xantippe
Wasn't feeling too chippy
She would bawl at Socrates
"Why aren't you Harpocrates?"

- WH Auden

 

[Ace]

Green




Voici des fruits, des fleurs, des feuilles et des branches
Et puis voici mon coeur qui ne bat que pour vous.
Ne le déchirez pas avec vos deux mains blanches
Et qu'à vos yeux si beaux l'humble présent soit doux.

J'arrive tout couvert encore de rosée
Que le vent du matin vient glacer à mon front.
Souffrez que ma fatigue à vos pieds reposée
Rêve des chers instants qui la délasseront.

Sur votre jeune sein laissez rouler ma tête Toute sonore encor de vos derniers baisers
Laissez-la s'apaiser de la bonne tempête
Et que je dorme un peu puisque vous reposez.

 

[Jelly]

My son's favourite. I think it's the rhythm that gets him, the faster you say it the wider he smiles.


From a Railway Carriage
by Robert Louis Stevenson

Faster than fairies, faster than witches,
Bridges and houses, hedges and ditches;
And charging along like troops in a battle,
All through the meadows, the horses and cattle:
All of the sights of the hill and the plain
Fly as thick as driving rain;
And ever again, in the wink of an eye,
Painted stations whistle by.

Here is a child who clambers and scrambles,
All by himself and gathering brambles;
Here is a tramp who stands and gazes;
And there is the green for stringing the daisies!
Here is a cart run away on the road
Lumping along with man and load;
And here is a mill and there is a river:
Each a glimpse and gone for ever!

 

[Ace]

I love this poem, with the deep criss-crossing historical references; to Elizabeth I's recent illness; a lunar eclipse recently prophised by soothsayers as catastrophic, but which was benign, to the cresent moon formation of the illfated Spanish Armada, and the relief felt at the recently confirmed succession to James I.

And yet Shakespeare seems to fit all this perfectly into a personal statement of enduring love and its seeming ability to "cheat" time and ultimately death; and ultimately the power of language and art in the face of constantly changing circumstances and natural decay. Balmy time refers to the anointed state of kings, which is quickly suceeded by the shifting paradox of "love looking fresh" as "death to me subscribes."

Of course its ironic as are the twisting inversions at the poems climax with turn "power" to "tryanny" and the earlier speechlessness of the prophetic soul to an impotent and dark silence, such as might reign in the "savage" lands the Elizabethan sailors were opening up.

I would argue that the true subject and energy of this poem derives as much from the majesterial opening lines as it does in the more conventionally ascribed final appeal to the capacity of art to perserve human love. That's the mystery, the power and the tension; the delicate balance between historical cosmic and love elements that make this a very special poem in the Sonnets where the poet appears to be triumphant in his art but is in fact, by the sheer rush of the art, being overwhelmed by a colliding succession of cosmic force.

I think.

Sonnet 107

Not mine own fears, nor the prophetic soul
Of the wide world dreaming on things to come,
Can yet the lease of my true love control,
Supposed as forfeit to a confin'd doom.
The mortal moon hath her eclipse endur'd,
And the sad augurs mock their own presage;
Incertainties now crown themselves assur'd,
And peace proclaims olives of endless age.
Now with the drops of this most balmy time,
My love looks fresh, and Death to me subscribes,
Since, spite of him, I'll live in this poor rime,
While he insults o'er dull and speechless tribes:
And thou in this shalt find thy monument

When tyrants' crests and tombs of brass are spent

 

[RubyToogood]

Diougan Gwenc'hlan
(Gwenc'hlan's Prophecy)


At the setting of the sun, when the sea swells,
I sing on the threshold of my door.

I have sung since the day I was born.

I sing night and day
But my heart is sad

It is not without reason that my head is low
And that my heart is sad

Not that I am afraid
I have no fear of being killed

Not that I am afraid
For I have lived enough

When they do not look for me, they will find me
When they look for me, they will not find me.

It matters little what is to come.
That which must be, will be

Everyone must die three times
Before finding peace.


__________________________

Gwenc'hlan was a fifth century Breton bard. A foreign prince pursued him, gouged out his eyes, and threw him into a dungeon where he died. The prince died shortly afterwards on the field of battle "by the blows of Bretons and the prophetic curse of Gwenc'hlan". He is said to have written the prophecy from his dungeon. (Trans badly by me from Breton via French - and if anyone can translate the French word "garderaisen" for me, I can translate the rest of it too <edit> sussed it - part two tomorrow, part three the next day.) Here's the original Breton of the above piece, just to look at:

Pa guzh an heol, pa goeñv ar mor
Me 'oar kanañ war dreuz ma dor

Pa oan yaouank me a gane
Pa 'z on deut kozh, me 'gan ivez.

Me 'gan en noz, me 'gan en deiz
Ha me keuziet bras koulskoude.

Mar d-eo ganin stouet ma beg,
Mar 'm eus keuz n'eo ket hep abeg

Evit aon me n'em eus ket,
'N eus ket aon da vout lazhet;

Evit aon me n'em eus ket,
Amzer a-walc'h ez on-me bet.

Pan n' vin ket klastet 'vin kavet;
Met pa'z on klastet ned on ket

Ne vern petra a c'oarvezo
Pezh a zo dleet a vezo:

Ret eo d'an holl mervel teir gwezh
Kent evit arzav en diwezh.

 

[Ace]

Dat's lovely