Prosiect Cymorth i Ofalwyr Heddfan

Mike Church

Yn ystod misoedd Mai a Mehefin 2010 bu’r bardd perfformio a’r arweinydd gweithdai, Mike Church yn cynnal cwrs ysgrifennu creadigol chwe wythnos gyda gofalwyr o oedolion yn Rhondda Cynon Taf. Y prosiect hwn oedd y bartneriaeth gyntaf rhwng Prosiect Llenyddiaeth y Cymoedd a Heddfan.

Mae Gwasanaeth Cymorth i Ofalwyr Heddfan yn darparu cefnogaeth, cwnsela a gwybodaeth i bobl sy’n gofalu am bobl eraill. Gall defnyddwyr y gwasanaethau fod yn gofalu am berthynas neu ffrind sydd, oherwydd salwch, anabledd neu effeithiau oedran, yn methu â byw gartref heb help. Mae’n cynnal amrywiaeth o wasanaethau gan gynnwys gweithdai a theithiau, a’r cyfan yn rhad ac am ddim i ofalwyr yn Rhondda Cynon Taf.

Roedd y gweithdai yn cynnwys amrywiaeth o dasgau fel: cadw dyddiadur, barddoniaeth, ysgrifennu stori fer a llawer rhagor. Perfformiodd pedwar o’r cyfranogwyr ddetholiad o’u gwaith yn Nathliad Gofalwyr Rhondda Cynon Taf ddydd Mercher 16 Mehefin yng Nghanolfan Hamdden Tonyrefail. Mae’r grŵp hefyd yn bwriadu dal i gyfarfod bob mis a sefydlu cylch llenorion annibynnol newydd.

Enghreifftiau o farddoniaeth Gweithdai Heddfan

Gyda Mike Church

The Door

The door is shut

He’s gone to school,

I sit and shed a tear.

The door is shut

He’s gone to play in the park

I can hear his friends calling his name.

The door is shut

I’m left alone, the house is empty.

The door is closed

He’s on the way to University,

To work, to meet his friends.

The door is closing

He’s on his way to see his love.

The door is closing

He’s getting married today.

The door is opening

They have all come visiting.

My son, his wife, my grandchild.

The door is opening

To another life.

The Door

Only one door?

Maybe it’s locked

It may be jammed.

What if there is another door?


Only one door

No keyhole

No lock

What could be behind it?

Only one door

It isn’t locked

But what’s behind it?

Why don’t you just go through it?

Just have a look

Push it open, take a look, sniff the air.

The Door

Lorraine Parker

I sit here all day looking at that damned door. I can only imagine what’s outside, in my mind’s eye I see trees, green grass, daffodils and hills in the distance. I would love to breathe the clear fresh air, instead of the foul smell that always lingers here. I live in hope that one day, someone will open that door ad give me my freedom, but that’s not going to happen. So when the door finally opens, it’s to the gallows I go.

A Door

Such a lovely door

Heavy wood from top to floor.

Cast iron knocker,

Letter box too

Complete with numbers …

Such a lovely threshold

Painted in crimson, oh so bold

The black handle turns

My inside squirms

In case I’m left out in the cold.

The Door

The cottage was quaint, low ceilings, timbers in the roof. A half kitchen door stays open and I lean over to gulp fresh, cool air and where a black and white sheep dog lays guarding the way eagerly awaiting tit bits to come over the door.

The Door

Who opens the door

When you’re poor

What opens the door

When you’re poor

No ands, ifs or buts

The same one who shuts

Its the same the whole world over

It’s the poor as gets the blame

It’s the rich as gets the pleasure

Ain’t it all a bloody shame.

I once walked through a door

(that’s a lie, you opened it first)

I walked upon a marble floor

(Oh shut up, I’ve got a thirst)

Everything I say you’ve rubbished

(yeah, but it’s you can’t get it published)

The Door

The door’s ajar,

Look around

If you dare

Watch you don’t jam your fingers

Outside could be anything

Grizzly bears, Tyrannasaurus Rex,

Knife wielding maniacs

Unlikely but possible.

Always dress for the weather.

The Door

An open door

Holds myriad possibilities

But my door is locked fast

My sight is fading

And I have misplaced the key.

Her door is wide open

She has youth on her side-

The world at her feet

For her I feel great joy

But also great envy.

The Door

There is a door in my mind

I cannot find the key, it is lost.

And along with it, my choices in life.

I feel frustration, my mind is frozen

As is my tongue, I cannot express

My feelings nor examine them.

Where can I go, I sense a myriad ways,

A multitude of turns I cannot make

But most are barred to me, taken

From my life before I see them.

Is this how life must be?

There must be more and the ways

Must be there but I cannot see them.

I am a lost soul groping in the dark

Entering blind recesses with no choice

But to retrace my steps and seek

Again the light in some other avenue.

It must be there somewhere, but

Is this how life must be?

Was it?

Roger Everest

That’s my best poem pinned upon the door.

The boy who penned it was not me,

Though I’m the teacher who inspired it.

All right, the poem is called ‘Seagull’

And certainly I am no seagull.

Yet, thanks to me this youth

Took flight and one old man had

Tears in his eyes at the sight of it

Upon the classroom wall. Of course

I should have returned it to the lad

But keeping it myself was not so bad

Was it?.