The Death of Imagination

Digon i ddweud
Ond neb, neb i wrando
Digon i roi
Ond neb, neb i gymryd

Pan ddaw'r wawr
Dw i'n furddun heb ei lawr
Heb siw na miw
Na chlychau ar yr awr
Bwgan blin
Sy'n cuddio yn fy llun
Ai sibrwd mud
Yn byddaru fy myd

Telerau'n rhad
Ond dw i, dw i yn waglaw
Asgwrn cefn gwlad
Wedi ei dorri

Pan ddaw'r wawr
Dw i'n furddun heb ei lawr
Heb siw na miw
Na chlychau ar yr awr
Bwgan blin
Sy'n cuddio yn fy llun
Ai sibrwd mud
Yn byddaru fy myd

Gobeithio bod pawb oedd yn mynd i lawr i Bridgeport i fwyta pryd Gogledd-Tseina wedi eu mwynhau nhw eu hunain. Roeddwn innau'n am fynd, ond pan nes i weld sut oedd hi'n ruadus heddiw, nes i benderfynu mai roedd y ddydd perffaith i aros gartre ac i anwesu 'mêl i. Dw i wedi cysgu orig, darllen ychydig--dim ots, yn wir. Roeddwn i eisiau siarad â monshu am ein perthynas, ond rhy ddiog roeddwn i. Oedd yn well 'da fi ei sawru hi.

Mae hi'n ffodus aeth lhn a prilicla gyda fi ran o ffordd adre.
is she[1] PART fortunate go-3S-PRET[2] lhn and prilicla with me part from way home.

Beth o'r tro o leia doedd ddim yn flinderus.

what from the turn from least NEG-be-3S-PRET PART wearisome

Notes:
[1] As previously mentioned, the role of dummy subject is filled by feminine hi.

[2]There is no number agreement in third person verbal forms unless the third-person plural subject nhw is present. Thus: Mae lhn a prilicla wedi rhoi lifft i fi. Maen nhw'n haelionus.

Ydy popeth yn glir 'nawr?

O fy ffrind cymreig, Ddewrad, cân "addas i ganu tra'n feddw ofnadwy":

Calon lân, yn llan daioni,
techach yw na'r lili dlos,
dim on calon lââân all canu,
canu'r dydd a chanu'r nos!
[ailadrodd ad nauseam]

I like to be well-rested before classical performances, such as operas and concerts, because of the degree of concentration that the music demands. But circumstances conspired against me on Sunday: I'd forgotten the date of the choral concert and committed myself to a late screening the night before and a morning brunch the day of. I was up before 9 a.m. and eating bacon in Boystown shortly after ten. We walked around for a while with MG--who showed a Bay Arean's unhealthy interest in local rents. When he left us, monshu and I found ourselves slipping into a bar before noon in order to use the restroom. I ordered a beer to make me sleepy enough to nap when we got home.

Which I did, but not before getting a message from Nuphy and agreeing on a time to meet at the church. I crashed on monshu's sofa for about an hour, hurried home to grab my ticket, and cabbed it down to Lincoln Park, settling into my seat mere moments before the chorus began filing in...and continued filing in...and kept on filing in until all sixty or so members of the Côr Meibion Pendyrus were massed in the apse. (Despite monshu's raillery regarding eye candy, there were only about ten or so that I considered adding to the Bearam. Admittedly, Nuphy's toothsomeness ratio was much worse.)

The opened with the national anthems--of the nation where they were, then the nation they'd come from. Fortunately, I had the good manners to remain standing for "Hen Wlad Fy Nhadau" this time. The following hymn didn't sound like I thought "Cwm Rhondda" should and, sure enough, the director turned around afterwards and addressed us, saying, "Now where was that in the programme?" It turned out to be a selection from Thomas' Under Milk Wood, set to music by a composer whose name I didn't catch, as well as our first "encore". Because when you tell people that you've been to a concert, explained Mr Samuel dryly, "they'll ask you 'Was there an encore?' And if you tell them, 'No', then they'll say, 'Well, it wasn't a very good concert then, was it?'" The logic was inescapable.

The director's commentary made the experience something more than just an afternoon of really excellent singing. He had that knack for making paying customers feel like privileged guests. Nowhere was this more evident than the finale, where he delivered a passionate monologue about how, no matter how much they are hated elsewhere in the world, Americans will always have friends in Wales. The choir, which had been humming sotto voce all this time, then launched into their third encore, an overpowering rendition of "America the Beautiful". Yes, it was hackneyed and sentimental and somewhat contrived and, yes, those were tears I was brushing from my eyes.

Another high point was "The Rhythm of Life", a song Nuphy has a particular fondness for because of all the times he's heard it performed at Interlaken. Something about hearing it sung with strong Welsh accents amused me without detracting one whit from the impact of the performance. These men even made "Simple Gifts"--a song I've never much cared for--sound fantastic. But I'd come foremost of all to hear Welsh and, boy, did I! "Rhyfelgyrch Gwŷr Harlech", of course, and "Ar Hyd y Nos", but also "Myfanwy" and--my favourite--the bouncy, wistful "Na Byddai'n Haf o Hyd" along with several other hymns and folksongs.

All told, over two hours of singing, although rather too much of this was taken up by a young soprano who'd joined their American tour in Pennsylvania. Not that she was bad---no, her technique was polished and her voice was perfectly pleasant. But "Mon cœur s'ouvre à ta voix" needs much more than that, y'know? It was only during her pieces (and perhaps one or two of the slower hymns) that I felt any sleepiness. Otherwise, I was too engaged in the amazing wall of sound flooding the nave. A final irony could be found on the back of the programme in the form of an ad for Welsh whisky (or "single-malt welch", as I insisted on calling it). Somewhere among the tombstones of the Taf Valley, the spirits of Methodist ministers are weeping.