Crwys Gwlad Beirdd

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-Life in Craig was interesting.

-Everybody was very independent.

-Its acres yielded wheat

-in abundance.

-A thousand sheep on the mountains

-yielded wool.

-Beside the narrow pathway

-that split her plot in two

-My mother had her border

-Where the prettiest flowers grew.

-Y Border Bach by Crwys.

-It's one of our most famous poems.

-Here's that very border,

-by the poet's house.

-The poem has three themes.

-His longing for his mother,

-for the area and for yesteryear.

-He left here

-to be educated and to work.

-Yet, he always returns

-to his old neighbourhood...

-..to his people, the 'werin'.

-Yes, it's a big thing for him.

-He even describes the flowers

-as members of the 'werin'.

-This floral force of commoners

-Where none denies his ancestry.

-He tells of the bees

-that visit this little border.

-They prefer it to mansion flowers.

-And I saw the mansion gardens' bees

-Amidst the little border's flowers.

-A shoemaker's son,

-books were scarce at home.

-He had books on plants,

-and the Bible perhaps.

-But his uncle,

-Ap Llewelyn, was a poet.

-He could write englynion.

-It was by his side

-that Crwys's interest emerged.

-Ap Llewelyn

-was a master of cynghanedd...

-..but the main influence

-on the young Crwys...

-..was Ap Llewelyn's

-religious poetry.

-His early poems

-were sermons in verse.

-Even when writing memorial poems,

-he would still tend to moralize.

-His real name

-was William Williams.

-He took the name Crwys

-from the Congregational chapel...

-..at Craig Cefn Parc,

-Pant y Crwys.

-He became known as just Crwys.

-It was a name that managed

-to confuse certain people.

-Non-Welsh speakers,

-introducing him at meetings...

-..often welcomed Mr Curious

-or Mr Serious Williams.

-Crwys is said to have been born...

-..in this house

-near Mynydd y Gwair in 1875.

-Even in his earliest days

-as a poet...

-..he held the Welsh language

-in high esteem.

-He elevated the lives

-of ordinary people.

-Of the three National Eisteddfod

-Crowns that he won...

-..his poem Gwerin Cymru

-won the highest praise.

-They have no court nor castle

-Nor a palace nor manor house now

-But the old language sparkles

-On the lips of these great folk.

-Crwys was a very private man.

-He wouldn't speak to everybody.

-I don't know why.

-He was that type of character.

-He loved lecturing

-and delivering sermons.

-If we define a romantic poet

-as one who idealizes the past...

-..and responds by instinct,

-not reason...

-..and who elevates simple things,

-then Crwys has to be a romantic poet.

-Yet, he didn't remain

-in "the unadorned cottage."

-He chose instead to escape.

-He attended Penclyn school...

-..and then Ammanford school.

-The school, run by Watcyn Wyn,

-was for aspiring ministers.

-He would travel along this road...

-..from Cwm Lon,

-over Mynydd y Gwair...

-..and then he'd pass a milestone.

-It showed clearly,

-at the time, these words.

-Llandeilo, 12 miles.

-As you go toward Llandeilo

-Across the mountain from Cwm Lon

-With some moss about its forehead

-At its foot some mountain straw

-Stands a one-faced

-rough-hewn milestone

-With its message, terse and bleak

-Twelve more miles

-to reach Llandeilo

-That is all it deigns to speak.

-There it stood when, as a schoolboy

-I set forth upon my way

-With no-one to share my yearning

-Or to sweeten my long day.

-Never mind how great your worries

-Even though your tears flow

-All it says, "Llandeilo, 12 miles"

-That's the way you have to go.

-It was set right here by someone

-Who long passed upon his way.

-Here it's stood through many ages

-Like a gravestone marking time.

-Even when the words have mouldered

-And the stone's gone piece by piece

-There will still be 12 miles

-To Llandeilo until the end of time.

-His poems and recitations

-were very popular in their day...

-..because people understood them.

-People could appreciate them

-immediately.

-They mentioned characters

-with whom people could identify.

-A romantic poem

-recalls him going to school.

-His mother bids him farewell.

-She hands him

-a half sovereign over the hedge.

-A thorn cuts deep into her flesh.

-Her blood flows onto the gold coin.

-A drop of my mother's blood

-was on it

-That no-one, save One,

-knows its worth.

-This memory nagged him

-on his journey to school.

-A drop of my mother's blood

-was on it

-That no-one, save One,

-knows its worth.

-The journey

-to Ysgol y Gwynfryn, Ammanford...

-..away from the people

-of Craig Cefn Parc...

-..would take him far,

-in more than one sense.

-From Ammanford,

-he went to college in Bangor.

-There he met his wife,

-Grace Harriet Jones.

-At this time, he was successful

-at eisteddfodau.

-The influences on his poetry grew.

-After the influence

-of his uncle, Ap Llewelyn...

-..Watcyn Wyn came along,

-then Ceiriog and John Morris-Jones.

-They all intensified his aim

-of producing simple, natural poetry.

-Lyrical singing.

-Ceiriog was the first I ever knew.

-His influence upon me was great.

-I'm not sure

-that it hasn't followed me...

-..and persecuted me to this day.

-I heard no-one walking

-Nor knocking the door, nor crying.

-What's a lyrical poem?

-It's not a measure such as

-a sonnet, limerick or englyn.

-It's a kind of feeling.

-As an example, you'd look to Crwys.

-Yes, take his verse describing

-an autumn leaf as a letter.

-He talks of the seasons changing.

-I have known for many weeks

-And more that it was sick

-And now the letter has arrived

-To say that summer's dead.

-That's a lyrical poem for you.

-And now the letter has arrived

-To say that summer's dead.

-Crwys worked for the Bible Society

-for over 30 years.

-He had ample opportunities

-to travel Wales, and beyond.

-Time and again,

-we see how specific locations...

-..awaken the muse within him.

-From the Elan Valley to St Malo,

-from the Menai to Aberaeron...

-..Crwys seemed to respond

-to what he saw around him.

-Looking back

-at the things I've done...

-..I'd say that many sensations

-were visually derived.

-Things I saw with my own eyes.

-One place immortalized

-in his work is Trefin Mill.

-In this poem,

-the old foe, time, is passing.

-This became a constant spectre.

-Once again, history captivates him.

-As in the poems Y Garreg Filltir

-and Dysgub Y Dail...

-..Crwys seems immensely saddened...

-..as he reflects

-on time defeating us.

-Tonight, the mill's not grinding

-In Trefin along the shore

-The last pony has turned homeward

-With its load

-from the miller's door.

-And the wheel,

-whose grunts and snarling

-Once were heard across the land

-Has, since the miller's passing

-Fallen silent and turns no more.

-Though the kindly stream's

-still flowing

-Past the gable of the mill

-As no farmer brings his barley

-The old wheel stays quiet, still.

-Where the white heat of Llanrhian

-Came at harvest by the load

-Now you'll find

-just strands of seaweed

-And dried rushes in the road.

-The great millstone stands a sentry

-In the tempest, in the rain

-An unlettered memorial stone

-Of a happier time gone by.

-But no-one grinds here any more

-Save for weather and sullen time.

-They are grinding and destroying

-The old mill that's in Trefin.

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-In 1898, he moved to Brynmawr.

-What a contrast

-to the village of Craig Cefn Parc.

-It was more anglicized

-and, in those days...

-..a much more industrialized place.

-Despite the praise

-for his boyhood home...

-..Crwys claimed

-that his time in Brynmawr...

-..as minister of Rehoboth,

-were his happiest days.

-The chapel is no more.

-When he wrote a sonnet

-on leaving here...

-..and writing of the lights

-"switching off, one by one"...

-..he could hardly have imagined

-all the lights going off...

-..and the building being demolished.

-Peace, dear place, until old age

-Your light will shine upon my path.

-The sermons delivered by Crwys

-were mainly in English.

-And yet, his poems suggest

-a true love of the Welsh language.

-After all, one poem is called

-Caru Cymru (A Love of Wales).

-I love and speak

-my country's sweet tongue.

-The language of home and chapel,

-of my mother and father.

-But he didn't speak Welsh

-to his own children.

-Maybe that was the fashion.

-Perhaps, but you would

-have thought that Crwys...

-..the Archdruid of Wales,

-the people's poet...

-..would have passed

-on the language to his family.

-It was a dispiriting experience

-for a young man in Brynmawr.

-I could see the language dying.

-I lived close to Nantyglo,

-land of the iron furnaces.

-I couldn't fail

-to note the contrast...

-..between Nant yr Eira

-in Montgomeryshire...

-..and Nantyglo in Gwent.

-In Nant yr Eira,

-the language still flourished.

-In Nantyglo, the language was dying.

-The language is more prosperous

-in snow (eira) than in coal (glo).

-As I recall it, Crwys's children

-didn't speak Welsh at all.

-I don't know why.

-They spoke English.

-I remember speaking to them.

-It was hard to believe,

-quite honestly.

-I love each fair acre

-of my dear Wales.

-Her mountains and clean open moors.

-How did the old offender know

-That Mother was growing old?

-Autumn gales roared last night

-They shook the town's foundations.

-In Craig Cefn Parc,

-no-one speaks of Cymrodorion.

-In Craig Cefn Parc, the mother tongue

-is nourishment, not medicine.

-Like many others, I remember

-learning his work at school.

-Even now, his poems are still sung

-and recited on our stages.

-Hey-ho, hey-di-ho

-I'm the gypsy on the go

-Cloch Y Llan, Hon Yw Fy Olwen I.

-They sound simple,

-but he wasn't a slap-dash poet.

-His detailed notes

-and corrections show the work...

-..that was put into creating

-an ostensibly simple piece.

-An interesting theme emerges

-from a study of the manuscripts.

-Crwys went to a great deal

-of trouble when composing poems.

-He was a perfectionist.

-For example, his poem

-is on one side of a page.

-On the other side are many notes.

-Ideas would occur to him,

-and he'd experiment with words.

-You can then see

-how the poem grows and develops.

-We've already heard

-about his obsession with time.

-He frequently mentions

-old age in his poems.

-An old apple tree,

-the old people, an old friend...

-..and surely

-the most famous old man of all.

-The old man, early one morning,

-sweeping up the leaves.

-We all face the same fate...

-..as the poet who meets the boat

-in the poem Gweddill.

-No tide has ever filled a beach

-With nothing in its lap

-No tide has ever ebbed away

-Leaving nothing on the strand.

-Although the summer's luscious green

-Will leave the woods and fields

-It will not snaffle all its gifts

-There'll be a remnant of its yields.

-And when I reach the final cove

-To meet the Stygian ferry

-Its sail all set, I'll slip away

-But leave my mark behind me.

-We've already said that Crwys

-was a true enigma, a puzzling man.

-It's hard to understand

-how a minister of religion...

-..could use a concept of longing

-to persuade young men...

-..to fight to the death

-for Britain and Wales.

-The tricolour flag of Britain

-Flutters in the blue sky

-And reams of pretty ribbons

-Fly o'er Court and Church and Manor.

-Some say there's nothing profound

-in his poems, but that's not true.

-You can be profound

-without being complicated.

-Crwys deals with big issues.

-But some critics

-say that his sentimental streak...

-..speaks more to the heart

-than to the mind.

-Perhaps you're right.

-But while we have hearts,

-won't we long for Trefin Mill...

-..and feel for the old man

-sweeping up the leaves?

-Autumn gales roared last night

-They shook the town's foundations

-And the old man's out there early,

-sweeping leaves.

-Bent and crouching o'er his broom

-He shuffles there along

-Like a withered leaf

-battling another withered leaf

-One heap done, and then he pauses

-And his breath retrieves

-By next autumn, he himself

-Will be with the leaves.

-S4C Subtitles by Adnod Cyf.

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