Prosiectau

Cyswllt Llenorion Caeth i’r Ty RhCT â Gwyl Gelfyddydau Gwanwyn

Mae llawer o bobl hŷn yn cael boddhad o ysgrifennu mewn rhyddiaith, barddoniaeth neu ar ffurf dyddiadur, a thrwy gydweithio â’r awdur Peter Read, rhoddwyd cyfle i wyth o ddefnyddwyr Gwasanaeth Llyfrgell Symudol Caeth i’r Tŷ RhCT ddarganfod ffordd newydd a chyffrous o gyhoeddi eu gwaith ysgrifennu creadigol. Bu Peter Read yn gweithio gyda llenorion fel unigolion ac mewn grwpiau bychain i ysgrifennu a chofnodi eu meddyliau ynglŷn â bywyd fel yr oeddent yn ei weld heddiw. Yna cafodd y cerddi gorffenedig eu recordio’n ddigidol a’u golygu gan y technegydd sain lleol cyn eu cyflwyno i Gystadleuaeth Looking Over the Hill Gwanwyn. Mae’r cerddi bellach yn ymddangos fel linc sain ar Wefan Gwanwyn – www.gwanwyn.org.uk.

Mae gorsaf radio gymunedol leol Pen-y-waun, Dapperfm, hefyd yn bwriadu cyfweld ag un o’r cyfranogwyr a darlledu’r cerddi fel rhan o’u rhaglen newydd.

Wealth

Early life a hunt to keep the coins coming in.

How could I look my mates in the eye

While selling ribbons and silky scarves

Like my Mother said? So I slipped underground with them

And worked the mines of County Durham.

Born in a village called Success

I struggled to make the name reality.

Sent to Carshalton to train for work,

The arrow pointed at my head.

“Don’t go to work; no work, no food,” they said.

Turned up at Barnaby Rudge’s pub

Three days too early. Explained I had no money to go home

So they took me on, kept me in Dickensian style.

On a platform in Ilford I found not silver

But pure gold on legs. With Mairwen I left for Wales

To mine the wealth of love. And now I sit

Remembering the early thirties’ excitement of five pounds a week.

After the explosion, it was work at Llantrisant

Minting money instead of mining it.

Now in my tenth decade I treasure

The riches of care from others

Plus the joy of money in the bank.

So many changes, but money is the premier one.

Joe Smith

 

The Computer

After the stroke

Anger came like a dreadful cloud.

I’d pick up a pen and it

Would run in different directions.

“Buy a computer,” they all said.

“No. I’ll blow it up,” I said

In a puff of smoke.

I must fight back at the world,

Fight through my stroke.

Quaking the day I enrolled.

Paul Baptiste a tutor with patience as infinite as the sky

Taught me all I know and all I’ll forget.

The Family Bible falling to bits

I avoided the Chat Rooms,

Went into Family History instead,

Found my Grandfather in Bristol

And the others separated by the war.

The mechanised American

Says my Anti Virus Programme

Has been successfully completed.

Thank you Mr USA

It’s good to know the computer’s feeling well.

Shirley Venn

The Septuagenarian Song

Apart from the War we’ve had the best of it.

Hospitals opened for us, pensions were formed to keep us safe.

Goodbye to tin baths, welcome to showers

Fitted with seats. Farewell to anxious

Walks in the cold dark to loos deep

In dense gardens. No need for sloshing

Potties, po’s or Jerries in the dead of night

We can flush our embarrassments out to sea.

Now we’re warm at the flick of a switch

Instead of riddling coal or filling buckets

Lined up at the door. With our new free hips

We’re not housebound. Merthyr, Cardiff, Swansea

Here we come – The Aberdare Hell Raisers

Riding here, there and everywhere, on our free bus passes.

In the corner it stands, a testimony to our freedom.

Just throw it in, and hang it out.

The glorious washing machine.

We do not fear the hoodie kids

Just feel sorry for them.

Apart from the war

We’ve had the best of it.

Anne Perkins, Laura Stride, Edna Rogers, Maureen Young and Rose Pugh

Observations

Looking through my kitchen window

As I wash my pots and pans

I see the wood across the Valley

Bursting now with buds

And once again I think I’m lucky

Just to see the wondrous sight

Nature changes everything is all right

And here amidst my pts and pans

I dream of far off lands and seas

Pretending I am there, where the skies are blues

And sands are white and then I think

What would I do without a mountain top in sight?

I would miss the luscious green the mountains

And the trees. The walks along soft green grass

The sounds of humming bees,

The soft singing words of Welsh voices

And as I wash my pots and pans

I realize with joy, paradise is here before me

The valley the mountains the trees

And the sky

Phyllis Bowen

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