Knowing me, knowing you, ahaa
'If you can't be a poet, be the poem' — David Carradine
For the first time in my life, I have attempted to write a poem. I drew inspiration from one of the main competition themes set for the 2026 National Eisteddfod of Wales: the theme is Adnabod (‘Knowing’). The festival takes place this year near the town of Cardigan, not far from my father’s birthplace. The poem is above all a personal tribute to my late father, Hywel Teifi Edwards, the pre-eminent Eisteddfod historian and an authority on the cultural condition of Victorian Wales. The poem is written in Welsh—the sole language of Eisteddfod competition—in a mix of traditional verse form and vers libre. It is not written in strict-metre cynghanedd: that would, in all honesty, be beyond my ability. I have done my best to render the poem in English: it lacks the punch and flow of the original, but it still conveys a message. I hope readers find it illuminating. One of the most distressing episodes in 2024 was seeing the nature of my relationship with my father wilfully misrepresented by the media, and by Welsh-speaking journalists in particular. My translation is inserted below the original.
EISTEDDFOD GENEDLAETHOL CYMRU 2026 CYSTADLEUAETH Y GORON Ffugenw: ‘Gelyn’ ‘ADNABOD’ Mab anfad yn artaith ei uffern yn troedio hen goblau ar drywydd y gwir; gwrando yn astud am lais ei gydnabod — ond marwol a distaw yw cefnfor a thir. Ai camdyb dwl fu ceisio nabod neb heb lwyr amgyffred craidd ei fod ei hun? Ai teg fu’r awch i fesur geudeb neb heb addef dichell wael ei oes ei hun? Y mae i gariad ei greulondeb drud, y digio dilafar rhwng mab a thad; cysgod gwên a chysgod gwg — gwynepryd annirnad ei wedd, cyfrwys ei lygad. Pa les ymddial am y mân ffraeo? Pa les dal dig am friw difwriad ddoe? Pa hawl ymddial am y gwrthgilio? Pa hawl dal dig am dy ddisyfyd hoe? Darperaist gysur yn dy ffordd dy hun, a threchaist dy gythreuliaid anghytûn. Cyfaredd Arth, dyfnwraidd hiraeth — pentref gwyn heb berfedd mwy; talgylch prifiant, tir mabolaeth, encil iach yn bwdr glwy. Parth y môr a’r bryniau tonnog, noddfa gain rhag hylltra byd; gorsedd wledig gwerin dduriog, aelwyd balch y goddef mud. Sawraist fêl dilwgr febyd, adnabuost Gymru driw; profaist hanfod pur y cynfyd, anian bro, â’i hiaith yn fyw. Gwydnu traed ar draeth cerigos, bracso brwd tan bompren drom; ymddifyrru hyd ddechreunos ar dy draethell arw, lom. Swyngyfaredd gwlad y Cantref, hafan clych a lleithder lli; goeth dafodiaith glir ei hadlef — pwy â’i hesgeulusodd hi? Teml hynafol y Cristion — Henfynyw, ceidwad y bae; cyrchfan Arth, Teifi ac Aeron — tir Dewi, nodded ddiau. O lannau’r môr i berfedd tir — o Lanon i Lywernog — fe ddamniaist werthiant dolydd ir gan wencwn gwancus, taeog. Methaist ddirnad maint y distryw, methaist goelio’r sigo chwil; methaist oddef gwladfa ledryw, methaist faddau brad yr hil. Gymru ddiffaith, Gymru bendrist, rhegaist filwaith faw dy ffawd; ar gael cam yr arbenigaist — llyncaist boer, enynnaist wawd. Athrist, diderfyn Seisnigo — athrist diwreiddio parhaus; athrist yr ysu am blesio — athrist y parch at y Sais. Mab diamddiffyn yn nwyster ei ddolur yn twrio mewn gorffwyll am arwydd o wir; ymbil mewn dagrau am wth o gyfeiriad — ond marwol a distaw yw cefnfor a thir. Heniaith yn fratiaith, cywirdeb ar drai, cawn arddel ‘Fort of Crows’ er lles y Sais ac ail-ddifwyno Dinas Brân, heb fai ar neb am wrthod gweld y bythol drais. Troes gymynrodd yn ffrwcs aflesol, hyll — tunnell o ddom ar dywod Trecastell, carthion afiach y ‘Cable Bay’ erchyll — yr oesol wawd yn clwyfo fel fflangell; nid anodd ynganu ein Bochlwyd ni, nid cwlwm tafod mo hen goed Llugwy, nid dyfroedd Rhys mo Tivy na Towy, nid gwlatgar goddef yr estron a’i fympwy. Heb asgwrn cefn — nid hawdd ymsythu; heb galon — nid posib atgyfannu. Mab gwrthodedig ac anorffenedig yn llechu mewn cuddfan yn wyneb y gwir; begian yn dawel am arwydd o dostur — ond marwol a distaw yw cefnfor a thir. Bro’r hirgron bro’r dur a’r tun bro fenthyg dy oes di; dyn dŵad yn nabod wrth reddf bobol y chwarae saff; bro'r sosban nad oes dim berwi arni a thrist ledferw'r dorf yn digolledu’r loes; bro glaear y bleidlais ofer bro fyddar bost falch ei stybyrndra lac ei gafael ar orau doe; gwreca mewn cachfa meddet ti yn aml yw porthi penwegi; swcro iaith ddiaelwyd iaith y bwtwn opsiwn iaith rhaglenni nas gwylir iaith llyfrau nas darllennir iaith cyfle a chyflog — manna’r anghyflogadwy; hercian cibddall o breseb i burdan yw bywyd dy fro di. Arfer cynhenid yr ymddifwyno — hen Gymry penfas yn plygu dau lin; gwatwar canrifoedd yn slei hwyluso ein syndrom ymwadol, distadl, blin; cenedl wantan y tindroi bythol, cenedl ofnus y camau petrus, cenedl fawr ei chwynion parlysol, cenedl barod ei diflas esgus; pader clwc torfeydd y meysydd chwarae, unig allfa’r Cymry di-fraint, porcyn; ernes wag gwleidyddion dinod y Bae i chwyldroi cenedl brin ei swlltyn. Pe sgubid stabl Awgeas yn lân dwysáu eto fyth a wnâi’r gyflafan. Trigfan Arth mangre teulu ceidwaid tyddyn morwyr seiri; gwasaidd lafur, prin fodoli. Gwron tawel ein llinach ni y John Daniel doeth y saer coed y morwr y carcharor y cymwynaswr da. Mamgu Picton gwidw wydn lodes ddewr llyncu balchder mewn dygn dlodi a derbyn shistans yn ei thrallod. Anti Lis pentrefwraig steilus coluro cyn capel wfftio culni dwli ar ganu sigarét cysurlon ar gynn tragwyddol. Anna fach yn straffaglu i glebran Sisneg mowr heb strach hôl dillad o’r ‘cantaloupe’ a gwneud galwadau o ffôn y ‘koski’. Dai a Meri uchelwyr y ‘Tower’ paned a phice a hanes y Sowth yn nhlodi Tairgwaith a’u hireth am ‘Gwaun Cachu Gwydde’. ‘Annie Ben Step’ â'i llyged aderyn yn cewco ar y cyffro beunyddiol a throelo hen drothwy ‘Laura Ysha’ ar gopa’r bont. Y barfog Gapten Meical pen llongwr penteulu pen bostmon traddodwr newydd llon ac ingol. Esther Ellen truanes frou yr esgor diened a threngi mewn seilam; Dan, y gŵr, lwff annifyr a chollwr natur. Jones y Sgwlyn y cachwr drwg pwno merched yn grac babwr am geisio câl dysg; cered i uffern oedd gweddi’r plant. Mab cyhuddiedig a thra melltigedig yn cripad mewn duwch er cyffwrdd â’r gwir; deisyf yn ddidwyll am gysur maddeuant — ond marwol a distaw yw cefnfor a thir. Pe’th aned dithau yn y Gymru hon a fentret herio dictad llym yr oes? Pe’th wylltid gan ragrith yr hen diwn gron a feiddiet danio grym polemeg groes? Dwyfoli difeddwl y filiwn ffug — y gwamal ymgreinio i ffansi wag; siantio gwirebau damcanwyr minffug am wlad ‘gynhwysol’ ddiberfedd, orwag; cenedl ddibwynt ei hadrodd a’i chân, cenedl wantan, gynffongar ei thaith; cenedl wasaidd heb angerdd na thân, ‘cenedl noddfa’ heb loches i’w hiaith. Pe lwyddem nabod gwir ein cyflwr du fe barchem eto dy dreiddgarwch di. Treuliaist oriau yn dy angau yn dy bentref gwynfydedig; troediaist dywod gyda’r glanaf, brigaist donnau cysegredig. Yn dy freuddwyd gwelaist glydfan bur, ddiledryw, fyw ei phrifiaith; yn dy farwgwsg saernïaist dreflan loywbur, lân, ddigraith. Buost dad a thad-cu rhadlon, buost wenfflam dy ragfarnau; buost ŵr a chymar graslon, buost wlatgar bendifaddau. Yn dy ddirboen buost wrol, yn dy ing ni leisiaist gri; yn dy dranc agoraist galon — nabyddais di, nabyddaist fi. Crwt edifeiriol a hunanddinistriol yn deisyf achubiaeth y gwir; crefu am gryfder ei gawr o gydnabod — ond marwol a distaw yw cefnfor a thir. NATIONAL EISTEDDFOD OF WALES 2026 THE CROWN COMPETITION Pseudonym: 'Gelyn' ('Enemy') ADNABOD ('KNOWING') Accursed son tortured in his own hell treading old cobbles in search of truth; straining intently for the voice of his kindred — but ocean and land are dead and silent. Was it foolish presumption to try to know anyone without fully knowing the core of one’s own being? Was it fair to judge the emptiness of others without admitting one’s own wretched deceit? Love exerts its cruel price, the silent ire between father and son; the hint of a smile, the shadow of a frown — a countenance inscrutable, with cunning eyes. What use revenge for petty quarrels? What use the grudge for yesterday’s slight wound? What right to vengeance for withdrawal? What right to resent your sudden exit? You gave comfort in your own way, defeating your cut-throat demons. Idyllic vale of Arth, deep well of longing — the blessed village robbed of its heart; circle of childhood, land of boyhood, a healthy haven, now sick and rotten. Realm of sea and rolling hills, a fine refuge from worldly pain; rustic citadel of sturdy peasantry, proud hearth of silent suffering. You savoured the purest honey of childhood, you knew the true Wales; you tasted the essence of authenticity, the spirit of the land, its language alive. Hardening soles on a pebbly shore, tickling fish under the ancient bridge; running free until last light on your rough, bare shingle. This magical land of Cantre’r Gwaelod, a submerged kingdom of muffled bells; its glorious dialect, echoing softly, but who bears blame for its decay? Henfynyw, ancient temple of the Christian — guardian of the wide bay; confluence of Teifi, Arth and Aeron — the land of Dewi, our sure refuge. From seashore to heartland — from Llanon to Llywernog — you damned the sale of fertile acres by greedy, heedless farmers. You failed to fathom the scale of destruction, you failed to accept the steep decline; you could not endure a ragbag nation, you could not forgive the betrayal of your race. Desolate Wales, hopeless Wales, you cursed your fate a thousand times; you wallow in your victimhood — you always surrender, you deserve scorn. Tragic, endless Anglicisation — tragic, perennial uprooting; tragic, ingrained yearning to please — tragic, pitiful respect for the Saxon. Defenceless son in the throes of pain staring in darkness for signs of truth; pleading in tears for wise direction — but ocean and land are dead and silent. Our ancient tongue besmirched, truth on the wane, we adopt 'Fort of Crows' for the Englishman’s sake and soil the glory of Dinas Brân without blaming anyone for trivialising the eternal mockery. The ancient covenant turned into a foul mess — a ton of dung on the sands of Trecastell, the filthy waste of ugly 'Cable Bay' — the disdain of centuries stinging like a whip; it’s no tangle to pronounce Bochlwyd, nor does Llugwy make one tongue-tied, nor would Rhys know the Tivy or Towy, nor is it patriotic to pleasure the foreigner. Without a backbone — it is not easy to stand up; without a heart — it is not possible to come together. Rejected son diminished lurking in fear of facing the truth; begging quietly for signs of mercy — but ocean and land are dead and silent. Land of the oval ball land of steel and tin your adopted land; a stranger who knows by instinct the people who play safe; land of the saucepan that never boils where the crowd’s sad simmer redeems the pain; land of the unthinking vote land of the stone deaf proud of its mulish mind blind to the best of yesterday; fishing in a sewer you would say is to seek wisdom in empty minds to promote a homeless language the language of the option button the language of unwatched programmes the language of unread books the language of opportunity and profit — manna of the unemployable; a blind shuffle from cradle to purgatory is the life of your land. The ingrained custom of self-abasement — old Welsh penitents bending both knees; centuries of mockery slyly facilitating our self-hating, dispirited syndrome; a nation of weaklings, of eternal terror, a nation of fearful, hesitant steps, a nation paralyzed by complaining, a nation primed with tedious excuses; the clap-trap of grandstand crowds, only outlet of the stunted Welsh; vain promises by low-grade politicians to transform a nation robbed of money. If the stable of Augeas were swept clean the crisis would deepen ever more. Haven of Arth family stronghold farmhands, sailors, craftsmen; servile labour miserable acres, meagre wages bare survival. Quiet hero of our lineage — John Daniel master carpenter valiant sailor brave prisoner faithful benefactor to many. Granny Picton of sturdy stock raised a family in grim poverty; endured the shame of parish assistance overcame hardship her triumph was ours. Anty Lis famously stylish always in make-up for chapel; scoffing at deacons loving her hymns with comforting cigarette at hand. Little Anna battling daily to speak good English without gaffes; buying clothes from the “cantaloupe” and making phone calls from the “koski”. (Aunty Anna, striving for decorous English, rendered “catalogue” as “cantaloupe” and “kiosk” as “koski”.) Dai and Mary squires of the Tower ready with tea and cakes; a wealth of tales about life in the South and their fondness for “Gwaun Cachu Gwydde”. (Instead of “Gwaun-cae-gurwen” they would say “Gwaun Cachu Gwydde” — “Gwaun-goose-shit”.) “Annie On The Step” and her bird’s-eye view of all the comings and goings; wearing down the old threshold, doing her job as village detective. Captain Michael with full white beard — seaman, head of household, postman; in fair weather he was welcomed, but in a storm he broke many hearts. Esther Ellen sad of heart bore nine children and died in a workhouse at fifty; Dan Pen-llyn, the husband a dreadful rogue a waster a reckless drunkard full of guile. Jones The Teacher beat the girls for wanting to learn; 'Go to hell' was the children's daily prayer. Blighted son crippled by regret reaching out to touch the truth; waiting quietly for the comfort of forgiveness — but ocean and land are dead and silent. If you were born in this Wales would you dare challenge today’s diktat? If you were enraged by the old hypocrisy would you dare launch your polemic in response? The mindless worship of 'a million speakers' — the foolish clamour for empty goals; chanting the platitudes of petty pundits about an 'inclusive' country, barren and bleak; a nation pointlessly reciting and singing, a nation numbed on its hollow journey; a servile nation without passion or fire, a 'nation of sanctuary' without refuge for its language. If we could truly know the bleakness of our state we would revere your insight once more. You spent your final hours in your blissful village; you trod the purest sand, you swam in sacred waves. In your dream you saw a haven, its language vibrant, pure, authentic; in your dying moments you created a clean, unscarred township. Kindly father and grandfather, aflame with your prejudices; gracious husband and companion, aflame with your patriotism. In your torment you were heroic, in your anguish you voiced no cry; in your death you opened your heart — I knew you, you knew me. Penitent son self-destructive to the last clutching for truth in the story; crying out for strength and embrace of love — but ocean and land are dead and silent.