Y ddarn fuddugol yn nghystadleuaeth Gadair Cymdeithas Madog, Cwrs Cymraeg Y Mynydd Glas, 1996 gan Y Derwydd Medrus (Kevin Rottet)

---

Dyddiadur Chwarelwr

Darganfuwyd, dydd Iau diwethaf, mewn nenlloft ym Mhoultney, Vermont, ychydig o dudalennau a oedd yn rhan o ddyddiadur chwarelwr Cymraeg o’r ganrif ddiwethaf. Dydy perchennog y ty lle yr oedd y tudalennau ddim wedi gallu dod o hyd i weddill y llyfr. Dyma’r rhan sydd yn ddarllenadwy:

Mis Awst y chweched, 1872: Glaniodd fy llong yn y Byd Newydd y bore ‘ma ar ôl taith galed ar y môr stormus a pheryglus. Nid oeddwn i’n gallu rhwystro fy hunan rhag meddwl mai arwydd o’r nefoedd oedd y cymylau duon hynny, a’r tonnau ewynnog a oedd yn siglo ein llong. Er hynny, o’r diwedd, rhoddon ni ein traed ar y tir, a gweld America am y tro cyntaf.

Yr wythnos ddiwethaf cafodd fy enw ei ddileu o restr y cleifion, er bod tipyn o beswch arnaf o hyd. Ysgrifennaf fwy pan byddaf yn teimlo’n well.

Awst yr wythfed: Ar ôl y daith hir mewn cerbyd, cyrhaeddais i neithiwr bentref bach o’r enw Poultney, lle mae fy mrawd Siôn yn byw ers dau fis a hanner. Basai’n anodd iawn disgrifio’r llawenydd a brofon ni wrth ni wrth ail-weld ein gilydd. Des i o hyd iddo ar ôl iddo orffen diwrnod hir o waith yn y chwarel. Nid anghofiaf byth yr ennyd y gwelodd ef fi yn dod tuagato, â’r mynegiant ar ei wyneb budr a blinedig yn troi yn llawen.

Byddaf i’n cysgu heno, fel neithiwr, mewn ystafell gyda deg chwarelwr arall; ond cysgaf i’n dda oherwydd bydd y llawr yn llonydd, heb ymchwydd y môr.

Awst y degfed: Yr wyf wedi clywed bod amryw o leoedd yma yn America lle mae pobl yn mwyngloddio’r llechen, ond yr wyf yn credu bod Poultney yn un o’r harddaf. Wrth edrych ar y mynyddoedd sydd yn sefyll yn fawreddog o gwmpas y pentref, mae fy meddyliau’n troi at Ogledd Cymru sydd mor bell i ffwrdd, ac at wyrddni cymoedd fy ieuenctid.

Dechreuais i weithio yn y chwarel bore ddoe, gwaith yr wyf yn ei nabod eisoes yn iawn. Nad yw llawer yn wahanol i fy nghwaith yng Nghymru. Er hynny, mae un peth sydd yn bwysig iawn, sef y byddwn ni’n cael ein talu yn deg yma. O leiaf, dyma’r hyn y maent yn ddweud wrthon ni. Arhosaf i ychydig o wythnosau cyn anfon am fy ngwraig a fy mhlant, er mwyn bod yn sicr y bydd y bywyd yma fel maent yn ddweud.

Awst yr unfed ar ddeg: Mae’r gweithwyr i gyd yn Gymry yn y chwarel yma. Cefais fy synnu wrth gerdded i lawr y stryd y dydd o’r blaen. Chywais i ddim ond y Gymraeg. Mae ychydig o’r dynion wedi anfon neges at eu gwragedd yn dweud iddynt ddod i America, felly mae cymuned Cymraeg ei hiaith yn tyfu ac yn ffynnu, ac mae swn melys yr heniaith yn disgyn ar fy nghlust o bron pob ty yn y pentref.

Mae’r cyflenwad o lechen yn ymddangos yn ddiddiwedd yn yr ardal. Welais i erioed gymaint yng Nghymru, ac mae’r pant yn mynd yn dyfnach ac yn dyfnach bob dydd. Mae hefyd amryw o liwiau gwahanol, ar hyn o bryd llechen goch, sydd yn brydferth iawn ar doeon y tai yn y cymoedd.

Awst y trydydd ar ddeg: Gwisgais fy nillad gwychaf y bore ‘ma a mynd i’r capel gyda fy mrawd. Mae gynnon ni bregethwr Cymraeg yn awr a gyrhaeddodd America ar y llong cyn fy un fi. Dyn dymunol iawn ydyw efe, tanllyd ei ysbryd a bywiog ei lygaid. Siaradodd heddiw am ei weledigaeth o dynged y Cymry yn y cymoedd hyn, ac yr oeddwn i’n meddwl, wrth wrando ar ei eiriau brwdfrydig ac angerddol, mor hyfryd a mor heddychol y fasai fy mywyd yma petai fy nheulu gynnyf.

Y Derwydd Medrus

---

A Quarryman’s Diary

Discovered, last Thursday night, in an attic in Poultney, Vermont, a few pages that were part of a Welsh quarryman’s diary from the last century. The owner of the house where the pages were hasn’t been able to find the rest of the book. Here is the section that is readable:

August the sixth, 1872: My ship landed in the New World this morning after a hard journey on the stormy, dangerous sea. I wasn’t able to restrain myself from thinking that those black clouds and the foamy waves that shook our ship were a sign from heaven. Despite this, at last, we put our feet on the ground, and saw America for the first time.

Last week my name was removed from the sick list, although I still have a bit of a cough. I’ll write more when I feel better.

August the eight: After a long journey in a carriage, I arrived at a little village called Poultney last night, where my brother Siôn has lived for two and a half months. It would be very difficult to describe the joy we felt when we saw each other again. I found him after he finished a long day of work in the quarry. I’ll never forget the moment that he saw me coming towards him, the expression on his dirty, tired face turning to joy.

I’ll be sleeping tonight, as last night, in a room with ten other quarrymen; but I’ll sleep well because the floor is still, without the sea’s swells.

August the tenth: I have heard that there are a variety of places here in America where people mine slate, but I believe that Poultney is one of the most beautiful. Looking at the mountains that stand majestically about the town, my thoughts turn to North Wales so far away, and to the green valleys of my youth.

I started working in the quarry this morning, work that I already know well. It isn’t a lot different from my work in Wales. Despite this, one thing is very important, we would be paid fairly here. At least, that’s what they tell me. I’ll wait a few weeks before sending for my wife and children, in order to make sure that life here will be as they say.

August the eleventh: All the workers in this pit are Welsh. I was suprised walking down the street the other day. I heard only Welsh. A few of the men have sent messages to their wives telling them to come to America, so a Welsh language community is growing and flourishing, and the sweet sound of the old language falls on my ears from almost every house in the village.

The supply of slate in the area appears endless. I never saw so much in Wales, and the cut is getting deeper and deeper each day. Also, there is a variety of different colours, at the moment red slate, that is very beautiful on the house roofs in the valley.

August the sixteenth: I put on my best clothes this morning and went to chapel with my brother. We have a Welsh preacher now who arrived on the ship before mine. He’s a very pleasant man, fiery spirited and lively eyed. He spoke today of his vision of the fate of the Welsh in these valleys, and I thought, while listening to his enthusiastic, passionate words, how lovely and how peaceful my world would be if I had my family.

Kevin Rottet
Cyfieithiad gan / Translation by John Otley

Y ddarn fuddugol yn nghystadleuaeth Gadair Cymdeithas Madog, Cwrs Cymraeg Atlanta, 1995 gan Iolo Morgannwg (Wayne Harbert)

---

Dyddiadur Branwen

Nos Fawrth: Efallai bod y ddrudwen yn hedfan o hyd, maban i, dros y môr llwydlas, fy neges dan ei adain. Crynodd fy llaw pan wthiais i hi trwy ffenestr fach fy nghell. Fis yn ôl oedd hynny? Ni allaf i gofio yn holloll. Yr oedd hi yn gyfaill mwyn i mi. Ai pechod mawr oedd danfon creadur mor ddiniwed a ffyddlon i droi’r byd wyneb i waered? Dyna’r tro cyntaf fy mywyd yr wyf i wedi gwneud rhywbeth i benderfynu fy nhynged fy hun, ond ni allwn i wneud hynny heb dynghedu mamau a phlant eraill. Ceisiwn i fod yn ufudd, yn chwaer barchus, yn wraig gariadus. Pan roes fy mrawd fi yn wraig i frenin y wlad hon, ni chwynais i. Ceisiais i hyd yn oed ddysgu ei iaith, sydd yn swnio mor ddiethr a chras yn fy nghlustiau. Pan alludiodd dy dad fi i gegin y llys, derbyniais i hynny hefyd heb gwyn, er fy mod i’n ddieuog. Gallwn i oeddef llawer – y gell ddiolau a llaith, ergydion gan y cigydd tew, chwerthin dirmygus yr uchelwyr cas. Popeth eithr dy golli di. Oherwydd hynny yn unig y pechais i yn erbyn fy ufudddod gwargaled. Neb ond Duw a wyr beth fydd yn tyfu o’r troedd hwnnw.

Dydd Mercher: Gwelais i seren lesg neithiwr trwy’r ffenestr. Cochlyd oedd hi. Yr wyf yn colli fy nrudwy.

Dydd Iau: Yr oedd yr afon mor hyfryd pan euthum i nôl dwr yn y bore. Mae glas y gors yn tyfu ar y lan. Casglais i ychydig ohonynt, a’u cuddio dan fy ngwisg rhag i’r cigydd eu gweld. Dyn angharedig ydyw ef, sydd yn drewi o farwolaeth. Ni wn i beth y buasai ef yn ei wneud oni bai fy mod i yn wraig y brenin.

Dydd Gwener: Yr oedd cynnwrf mawr yn y llys wedi i’r meichiaid gyrraedd i adrodd am y rhyfeddod a welsent hwy y bore hwn. Y taeogion truenus! Yr oeddent mewn penbleth mawr. Ni welsent hwy erioed fyddin dramor yn dod i’r wlad, a ni wyddent sut i’w disgrifio. “Edrychodd fel pe bai coed mawr yn symud dros y môr atom, Arglwydd.” dywedasant hwy. Yr oedd rhaid i’m gwr fy nôl innau i esbonio’r peth. Disgwylent y buaswn i’n mynd i’w weld ar unwaith, ond dywedais i, “Mae rhaid i chwi roi gwisg deg a glân i fi cyn hynny. Ni fyddaf i’n mynd at fy ngwr wedi gwisgo fel morwyn.” Brenhines wyf innau, er gwaethaf popeth.

“Hwylbrennau llynges enfawr fy mrawd ydyw’r ‘coed’,” dywedais i wrtho. “Y mae ef yn dod i’m achub, ac i’m dial.” Chwarddais yn chwerw tra dywedais i hynny, ond ni theimlwn yn llidiog. Teimlwn yn ofnus. Peth ofnadwy yw byddin, hyd yn oed pan mae hi’n dod o’m hen wlad.

Wedyn, daethant â fi yn ôl i’m cell, a darparu ffôi. Gallaf glywed seiniau’r paratoadau trwy y muriau. Byddant hwy yn cilio dros yr Afon Llinon. Mae hi’n llifo yn wyllt yn awr. Efallai y bydd hi’n ddigon i rwystro fy mrawd. Bydd y menywod yn ffôi i’r ogofeydd. Gallaf gydymdeimlo gyda hwy, yma yn fy ogof fy hun. Eu plant sydd gyda hwy, o leiaf. Mae fy maban innau yn aros gyda ei dad. Ond ni fyddaf yn wylo amdano bellach.

Dydd Sadwrn, Glasddydd: Mae pawb wedi mynd ymaith. Pawb ond fi. Fe’m gadawsant ar ôl, ond fe’m rhyddhasant o’m cell. Efallai y bydd hynny yn ddigon i lonyddu fy mrawd. Nid oes dim i’wn wneud ond aros. O na buaswn i’n rhyfelwr! Na, ni ddymunaf hynny. Aros y byddaf i.

Dydd Llun: Llwyddodd byddin fy mrawd i groesi’r afon. Gyda hwy yr wyf i yn awr. Yr oedd ef mor ddig nes fy nod i prin yn ei adnabod ef. Dig yn wastad yw’r hen Efnisien, wrth gwrs. Ni eill ef ddim ond casâu. Ond ar ôl iddo glywed am lwyddiant fy mrawd, danfonodd Matholwch lysgenhadwyr i erfyn am gyngor heddwch. Y mae’r Gwyddelod yn adeiladu neuadd enfawr ar gyfer y cyngor. Gallaf eu gweld hwy o gopa’r bryn yn torri coed. Efallai y bydd hynny yn ddigon i fodloni fy mrawd. Mae’n dda gweld byddin yn adeiladu, yn lle difetha.

A thi, fy mab, fydd yn cael dy ddewis yn frenin y ddwy wlad, wedi iddynt hwy greu heddwch. A brenin trugarog a chyfiawn fyddi di, sydd yn adeiladu yn lle difetha, a sydd yn amddiffyn y mamau a’u plant, er gwaethaf pobl fel dy ewythr Efnisien a dyd dad. A byddaf innau’n ufuddhau iti yn llawn.

A oes angylion sydd yn gofalu amdanom, annwyl Gwern?

Iolo Morgannwg

---

The Diary Of Branwen

Tuesday Night: Perhaps the starling is still flying, my baby, across the grey-blue sea, my message under her wing. My hand shook when I pushed her through the little window of my cell. A month ago, was it? I can’t remember exactly. She was a gentle companion to me. Was it a great sin to send so harmless and faithful a creature to turn the world upside down? That was the first time in my life that I have done something to determine my own fate, but I couldn’t do it without fixing the fate of other mothers and other children. I tried to be obedient – a respectable sister, a loving wife. When my brother gave me as wife to the king of this land, I did not complain. I even tried to learn his language, which sounds so strange and coarse to my ears. When your father exiled me to the kitchen of the court, I accepted that too without complaint, though I am innocent. I could tolerate much – the dark, wet cell, the blows of the fat butcher, the scornful laughter of the hateful nobles. Everything but missing you. Because of that alone I have sinned against my stiff-necked obedience. None but God knows what will grow from that sin.

Wednesday: I saw a faint star last night through the window. Reddish, it was. I miss my starling.

Thursday: The river was so pretty when I went to fetch water in the morning. Forget-me-nots were growing on the bank. I gathered a few of them and hid them under my dress, so that the butcher wouldn’t see them. He is a hateful man, who smells of death. I don’t know what he would do if I weren’t the wife of the king.

Friday: There was a great commotion in the court after the swineherds arrived to report about the wonder they had seen this morning. The poor peasants! They were greatly perplexed. They had never seen a foreign army come to the land, and they didn’t know how to describe it. “It looked as if a great forest were moving across the sea toward us, Lord,” they said. My husband had to fetch me to explain the thing. They expected that I would go to see him at once, but I said, “You must give me a pretty, clean dress before that. I will not go to my husband dressed like a maidservant.” I am a queen, in spite of everything.

“The ‘forest’ is the masts of my brother’s fleet,” I told him. “he is coming to save me, and to avenge me.” I laughed bitterly as I said that, but I didn’t feel angry. I felt afraid. An army is a fearsome thing, even when it comes from my dear country.

Afterwards, they brought me back to my cell and prepared to flee. I can hear the sounds of the preparations through the walls. They will retreat across the river Llinon. it is flowing wildly now. Perhaps that will be enough to stop my brother. The women will flee to caves. I can sympathize with them, here in my own cave. Their children are with them, at least. My son remains with his father. But I will not cry about him anymore.

Saturday, Daybreak: Everyone has gone away. Everyone but me. They left me behind, but they freed me from my cell. Perhaps that will be enough to satisfy my brother. There is nothing to do now but wait. If only I were a warrior! No, I do not wish that. I will wait.

Monday: My brother’s army succeeded in crossing the river. I am with them now. He was so angry that I almost didn’t recognize him. Old Efnisien is always angry, of course. he can’t do anything but hate. But after hearing about my brother’s success, Matholwch sent ambassadors to sue for a peace conference. The Irish are building a huge hall for the conference. I can see them from the top of the hill, cutting wood. Perhaps that will be enough to content my brother. If is good to see an army building instead of destroying.

And you, my son, will be chosen king of the two lands, after they have made peace. And you will be a merciful and just king, who builds instead of destroys, and who protects the mothers and their children, in spite of people like your Uncle Efnisien and your father. And I will obey you gladly.

Are their angels who watch over us, dear Gwern?

Wayne Harbert
Cyfieithiad gan / Translation by Wayne Harbert

Y ddarn fuddugol yn nghystadleuaeth Gadair Cymdeithas Madog,
Cwrs Cymraeg Baltimore A’r Fro, 1994 gan Robert Roser

---

Pe Bawn I …

"Pe bawn i’n ddyn cyfoethog …", Mae Tevya yn canu mewn comedi: Ffidlwr Ar Y To.

Sawl gwaith ydych chi’n clywed y geiriau? Dim yn unig pe bawn n’n gyfoethog,ond pe bawn i’n Rhywun arall, neu be bai gennyf i Rywbeth arbennig. Er enghraifft: "Pe bawn i’n gyfoethog, byddwn i’n helpu pobl dlawd, rhoi arian i’r capel (neu eglwys), rhoi arian i Gymdeithas Madog."

Mae llawer o fenywod yn meddwl: pe bawn i’n ddyn, ni fyddai rhaid imi weithio mor galed. Mae llawer o ddynion yn meddwl siwr o fod: pe bawn i’n fenyw, ni fyddai rhaid imi weithio mor galed.

Pe bawn i … mae yna freuddwydion pawb dros y byd. Llawer gwaith mae gennyf y breuddwydion yna yn ystod y dydd wrth eistedd y tu ôl i’r ddesg, yn edrych ar sgrin y cyfrifiadur. Ond rwan, nid fi yn yr ogof-swydd-fa-cuddyg – ond fi ydy’r ogofwr gwir.

Dyma fi wedi nghwisgo mewn ffwr anifeiliaid gwyllt. Rydw i’n eistedd o flaen y tân. Mae ngwallt yn hir ac yn wyllt. Rydw i’n cnoi ar asgwrn, ond mae ngwallt a’m dillad ffwr yn gwneud nghost. Ac mae arth yn sefyll wrth y porth ac mae e’n ddig iawn!

Hedfan i ffwrdd ar unwaith! Rydw i’n glanio yn Rhufain oesol. Ond fe laniais i yng nghanol y Colisewm. Gladiator ydw i. Wel, da iawn, felly, rydw i’n barod am antur. Mae gladiator arall yn sefyll o’mlaen i, sy’n edrych fel meistr-swyddfa yn union. Cleddyf yn erbyn cleddyf ydy’r ymladd yn dechrau. Fi sy’n syrthio. Fe syrthiais ar y tywod. Mae’r meistr yn sefyll uwchben. Bodiau y bobl ydy troi i lawr. Arglwydd mawr! Mae’n hen bryd i hedfan eto!

I ffwrdd â fi!

I ble? Y tro yma, dydw i ddim eisiau bod yn ddyn tlawd. Mae gennyf syniad ardderchog. Beth rydw i’n ei weld? Bron dim byd. Rydw i’n eistedd mewn ystafell, ar gadair fach o flaen y bwrdd bach. Mae hi’n dawel, ac yn dywyll. Mae cannwyll ar y bwrdd.

Mae rhywun yn dod i mewn.

"Mae hi’n bryd i fynd, eich Mawredd," meddai llais.

"Beth?"

"Mae hi’n bryd, Y Brenin Charles. Mae’r fwyall yn disgwyl amdanoch."

"O, na – Y Brenin Charles, y cyntaf, Charles Steward ydw i! Mae’n draed moch arna i!".

Hedfan i ffwrdd eto. Roeddwn i eisiau ymweld â Chymru dros ben. Dacw yn gyflym – ond y tro yma, rydw i eisiau bod fy hunan.

Yn sydyn, dyma fi yng Nhgymru. Rydw i’n eistedd mewn sedd galed bren. Rydw i’n edrych o amgylch y lle. Mae capel bach yn llawn o bobl. Mae’r menywod yn eistedd ar un ochr, a’r dynion ar y ochr arall. Maen nhw’n gwisgo dillad du a hetiau du. Rydw i’n gwisgo crys pinc a thei coch â dotiau polca. Trowsus glas sydd gennyf, does dim het.

Mae yna ddyn yn sefyll o’n blaen ni ac yn gweiddi. Christmas Evans ydy e. Fe sylwodd e fi ar unwaith.

"Pwy ydych chi’n ymddangos yn sydyn rhyngddyn ni? Nid angel sydd wedi neidio o’r nefoedd. Cythrawl ydych chi, rydw i’n siwr!"

"Nage, Americanwr ydw i!"

"Yr un peth," meddai. "Methodist ydych chi?"

"Nage."

"Llabyddiwch!"

I ffwrdd eto. Yn ôl i’r Swyddfa a’r cloc ar y wal yn dweud 5 o’r gloch o’r diwedd. Mae’r dydd wedi dod i ben. Mae hi’n bryd i fynd adre.

Mae’r daith adre yn hir. Mae’r traffig yn ddiflas fel arfer. Mae’r dydd yn boeth a dydy’r peiriant air-condisioning ddim yn gweithio – fel arfer.

Ar ôl i fi gyrraedd gartre, rydw i’n cael nghwrdd â ngwraig.

"Cariad bach, roedd rhaid i fi siopa heddiw. Ffrog mwyaf hardd yn y byd prynais i. Dim ond dau gant o ddolarau oedd hi."

"Nhad, dw i eisiau mynd gyda’m ffrindiau i’r sinema ac wedyn i’r ddisco. Ga i ddeng nolar, os gwelwch chi’n dda? Dw i’n addo i’w rhoi yn ôl," meddai’r ferch.

"Roedd y ci yn sal ar y carped y bore yma", dwedodd mab. "Fe anghofiais i dorri’r lawnt. Gwnaf yfory."

"Doeddwn i ddim eisiau coginio heno ar ôl siopa," dwedodd fy ngwraig. "Gwnawn fynd allan i’r ty bwyta newydd."

Rydw i wedi eistedd i lawr. Rydw i’n cau fy llygaid. Rydw i’n hedfan i ffwrdd.

Robert Roser

---

If I Were …

"If I were a rich man…," sings Tefia in the comedy "Fiddler On The Roof".

How many times do you hear these words? Not only "if I was rich", but "if I was Someone else" or "if I had Something special". For example: "If I was rich, I’d help poor people, give money to the chapel (or church), or give money to Cymdeithas Madog."

Many women think: if I were a man, I wouldn’t have to work so hard. Many men surely think: if I were a woman, I wouldn’t have to work so hard.

If I were … That’s everyone’s dream around the world. Many times I have these dreams during the day while sitting behind the desk, looking at the computer screen. But now I’m not in the cave-office-cubicle- I’m the real caveman.

Here I am wearing wild animal fur. I’m sitting before the fire. Mae hair is long and wild. I’m chewing on a bone. And a bear is standing by the entrance and he’s very mad.

Fly away at once! I’m landing in Roman times. But I landed in the Collesium. I’m a gladiator. Well, good, so I’m ready for an adventure. The other gladiator, who looks exactly like an office manager, is standing in front of me. Sword to sword, the fight starts. I’m falling. I fall on the sand. The manager stands above. The thumbs of the people are turned down. Good lord! It’s high time to fly again!

Away I go!

Where to? This time I don’t want to be a poor man. I’ve got a great idea. What do I see. Almost nothing. I’m sitting in a room on a small chair before the small table. It’s quiet and dark. There’s a candle on the table.

Someone comes in.

"It’s time to go, your Majesty," said a voice.

"What?"

"It’s time, King Charles. The axe is awaiting for you."

"Oh, no – King Charles, the first. I’m Charles Stewart. I’m in a real mess!"

Fly away again. I wanted to visit Wales badly. Yonder quickly – but this time, I want to be myself.

Suddenly, here I am in Wales. I’m sitting on a hard wooden seat. I look around the place. The little chapel is full of people. The women are sitting on one side, and the men on the other. They’re wearing black clothes and black hats. I’m wearing a pink shirt and a red tie with polca dots. I have blue pants, no hat.

There’s a man standing in front of us and shouting. He’s Christmas Evans. He noticed me at once.

"Who are you appearring suddlen amongst us? No angel who has jumped from Heavan. You’re a devil, I’m sure!"

"No, I’m an American!"

"The same thing," he said. "Are you a Methodist?"

"No."

"Stone him!"

Away again. Back to the office, and the clock on the wall says 5 o’clock at last. The day has come to an end. It’s time to go home.

The trip home is long. The traffic’s awful as usual. The day is hot and the air-conditioning isn’t working – as usual.

After arriving home, I am met by my wife.

"Dear, I had to go shopping today. I bought the most beautiful dress in the world. It only cost $200."

"Dad, I want to go with my friends to the cinema and then to the disco. Can I have $10, please? I promise to give it back," said my daughter.

"The dog was sick on the carpet this morning", said a son. "I forgot to mow the lawn. I’ll do it tomorrow."

"I didn’t want to cook tonight after shopping," said my wife. "We’ll go out to the new restaurant."

I sit down. I close my eyes. I’m flying away.

Robert Roser
Cyfieithiad gan / Translation by John Otley

Y ddarn fuddugol yn nghystadleuaeth Gadair Cymdeithas Madog, Cwrs Cymraeg Ottawa A’r Cylch, 1993 gan Suran Y Coed (Wayne Harbert)

---

Mae Breuddwyd ‘Da Fi

Mae breuddwyd ‘da fi.
Pont rhwng nawr ac yfory ydy hi.
Mae’r hafn rhyngddyn yn llydan ac yn ddwfn.
Sut gallwn i groesi hebddi?

Des i â’m merch
I’r cymer hardd hwn o’r afonydd
I adeiladu ynghyd pont o freuddwyd
Drwy rannu pethau gyda’n gilydd
Yr oeddwn i wedi dod yn eu caru:
Hen iaith, ffrindiau newydd,
Hanes a hanesyn, cân a Chymreigrwydd.

A rydw i’n breuddwydio dros fy ngeneth
Y bydd digon o awch a heddwch ac amser
Iddi hithau fynd yn saer pontydd gwerthfawr
Rhwng yfory ac yn awr.

Suran Y Coed

---

I Have A Dream

I have a dream.
It is a bridge between now and tomorrow.
The space between them is wide and deep.
How could I cross without it?

My daughter and I came
To this fair convergence of rivers
To build together a bridge out of dream
By sharing things with each other
That I had come to love:
Old language, new friends,
history and story, song and Welshness.

And I have a dream for my little girl,
That there will be zest and peace and time enough
For her too to become a builder of bridges of great worth
Between tomorrow and today.

Wayne Harbert
Cyfieithiad gan / Translation by Wayne Harbert

Y gerdd fuddugol yn nghystadleuaeth Gadair Cymdeithas Madog, Cwrs Cymraeg Ar Lan Y Niagara, 1991 gan Dros Y Bont (John Otley)

---

Rhaeadrau

“Tipyn bach o farddoniaeth wael i bobl sy’n masnacheiddio rhyfeddodau”

Edrychwch, siopwr y Niagara,
ar y praidd sy’n heidio hebio,
eu camerâu’n clician, a’i pocedi’n tincian.
Mae ‘na elw mewn prydferthwch.

Gwrandewch, hen was y siop,
ar swn dy register yn canu.
Mae atsain y clych arian yn codi dy galon.
Mae ysbryd y rhaeadrau ar werth.

Gwelwch, berchennog y siop,
ar y bobl sy’n llifo fel afon,
eu lleisiau’n boddi rhu’r rhaeadr.
Mae’n hawdd addoli ar allor arian.

Ond cofiwch, f’annwyl gyfaill,
drwy’r holl dwrw a’r dyrfa,
mewn enfys gain berffaith yng nghalon y bedol,
gellir gweld llaw Duw.

Dros Y Bont

---

Waterfalls

“A little bit of poor poetry for people who commercialize wonders”

Look, Niagara shopkeeper,
upon the herd that’s swarming by,
their cameras clicking, their pockets tinkling,
There is profit in beauty.

Listen, old servant of the store,
to the noise of your register singing.
The echo of the money bells lifts your heart.
The spirit of the falls is for sale.

Notice, owner of the shop,
the people flowing like a river,
their voices drowning the roar of the fall.
It is easy to worship on the altar of money.

But remember, my dear friend,
through the whole tumult and noise,
in a perfect elegant rainbow at the heart of the horseshoe,
can be seen the hand of God.

John Otley
Cyfieithiad gan / Translation by Alun Hughes

Y darn fuddugol yn nghystadleuaeth Gadair Cymdeithas Madog, Cwrs Cymraeg Bro Ohio, 1990 gan Graham Hughes

---

Gwreiddiau

Ym mha le y ddylwn i chwilio am fy ngwreiddiau?

Ces i fy ngeni mewn tref ddiwydiannol yn Ne Cymru, lle r’oedd y Cymraeg yn edwino a bron yn diflannu pan oeddwn i’n blentyn. Aferai fy nhad siarad Gwenhwyseg, tafodiaith swynol y cymoedd, ond ni siaradai fy mam dim gair o’r iaith, er iddi ddod o deulu yn llwyr Cymreig, a’ thad hi wedi sylfaenu capel Cymraeg yn y dref. (Calfaria, capel y Bedyddwy – rwy’n ei gofio yn finiog dros y blynyddoeth).

Ond, yn y trychineb ofnadwy a ddioddefodd yr iaith, yn y ganrif hon, magwyd fy mam gan fy nhadcu a’m mamgu yn uniaith Saesneg. Byddai’r Gymraeg, yn eu barn nhw, yn rwystredigaeth i lwyddiant yn y byd cyfoes. Efallai eu bod nhw’n iawn.

Wel, dyma fi yn esiampl o’u rhagweliad nhw. Mynd i brifysgol enwog yn Lloegr, mynd yn fargyfreithiwr yn Llundain, yn athro y gyfraith mewn prifysgol enwog yn America. Ysgrifennu llyfrau yn Saesneg; dadlau yn llysgoedd uchaf Lloegr ac American yn Saesneg. Dyna gamp! Llwyddiant ni ellid ei dyfalu gan fy nhadcu a’m mamgu. Llwyddiant dros ben!

Ond dyma beth od! Ar unwaith ar ôl i mi ymadael â Chymru, yn syth dechreuais i deimlo rhyw chwithdod yn y gwythiennau. Hiraethai fy ysbryd am yr hen ddyddiau gynt, a cheisio i neidio dros y cenhedlaethau i gysylltu â fy nghyndeidiau oedd yn byw heb dorri gair o Saesneg. Bu gorfod i mi gychwyn ar y daith hir a brwydro i grafangu yn ôl darn o’m hetifeddiaeth a aeth ar goll. Trwy’r flynyddoedd, yn boenus o araf, rwy wedi ail-gipio ynys fechan o’r filltir sgwar lle trigai’r Cymry.

Ond paham? Peth hawdd ydy colli iaith, ond pa mor hir a chaled yw’r llwybr i’w ail-ennill. Ond fyddai’n haws i gefnu ar yr hen wlad a’r hen iaith a chymodi a’r realiti cyfoes? Ar ôl gyrfa ar uchelgais yn anelu yn unig at lwyddiant ym myd eang y diwylliant Saesneg, “beth yw’r ots gennyf i am Gymru?”

Ond mae’r gwreiddiau yn gadarn, ond ydynt? Mae llawenydd a dagrau y profiad Cymreig trwy’r oesau yn dal i bwyso arnaf a fyddan nhw ddim yn fy ngadael i’n llonydd. D’ydi hyn ddim yn reswm i ofidio. Mae’r heniaith yn rhoi arial i’m calon ac, fel y dywed y bard:

“Nol blino treiglo pob tref
Teg edrych tuag adref.”

Ie, wir, peth cadarn ydi gwreiddiau.

Graham Hughes

---

Roots

I was born in an industrial town in South Wales where the Welsh language was in a state of decay, on the verge of disappearing, even when I was a child. My father spoke Gwenhwysig, that charming dialect of the valleys, but my mother could not speak a word of the old language, even though she came from a completely Welsh family, and her father had founded a Welsh language chapel in the town. (It was a Baptist chapel, Calfaria, and I remember it so sharply after all these years).

But, in that terrible disaster that overwhelmed the language in this century, my grandparents brought up my mother to be monoglot English. They thought that Welsh would be an impediment to success in the modern world. Perhaps they were right.

I am certainly an example of their foresight. I went to a famous English university, became a barrister in London and a professor of law in a well known American university. I wrote books in English and argued in English in the highest courts in England and America. What a success story! Acheivements that my grandparents could not have dreamed of. Tremendous success!

But something peculiar happened. Once I had left Wales, suddenly I could feel a current of uneasiness in my veins. My spirit seemed to yearn for bygone days; it sought to leap over generations and link up with my ancestors who had lived without ever speaking a word of English. I felt compelled to set out on a long journey, to struggle to wrest back some piece of my lost inheritance. And over the years, in a painfully slow way, I have managed to retake possession of a small strip of that square mile where the Welsh once lived.

But why? It’s so easy to lose a language and the path to regaining it is so long and hard. Wouldn’t it be easier to turn one’s back on the old country and the old language and come to terms with contemporary reality? When all my ambition and my carerr had been directed at success int he broad world of English culture, “what should Wales matter to me?”

But roots are so powerful, aren’t they? The joy and the tears of the Welsh experience through the ages are always in my mind; they won’t let me forget. But that’s not something to regret. The old language thrills me, and, as the poet wrote:

“After wandering through so many lands,
It is sweet to look towards home.”

Yes, roots are powerful things, indeed.

Graham Hughes
Cyfieithiad gan / Translation by Graham Hughes

Y gerdd fuddugol yn nghystadleuaeth Gadair Cymdeithas Madog, Cwrs Cymraeg Bro Boston, 1989 gan Gwr Y Gogledd (John Otley)

---

Breuddwydio / Dreaming

Rôn i’n syllu yn flinedig ar y cysgodion
oedd yn dawnsio fel “ballerinas” llwyd
ar lwyfan fy nenfwd brwnt.
Roedd glesni anial yn goleuo’r stafell o’r stryd islaw,
yn hollti’r tywyllwch poeth llaith
oedd yn gafael ynof yn ei grafangau llym.
Ar y briffordd bell, roedd cerddorfa
o gyrn ceir yn canu galargân.
A dyma fi’n gorwedd ar fy ngwely,
heb gysgu, heb ddihuno.

Yno, mi wywodd y cyngerdd aflafar.
Dim gair, dim sibrwd, dim swn.
Y nos heb lais.
Roedd niwl oer gwlyb yn cropian drwy’r ffenest fel cath,
yn llenwi’r stafell fel dwr mewn potel.

Ac yn y tawelwch poenus, mi weles i fyd llwyd,
haearn a rhwd, dur a lludw, maen a baw,
ac adeiladau anhygoel oedd yn herio’r nefoedd.
Mi weles i law brown budr yn syrthio o gymylau fel llech.
A lle roedd y dwr yn llifo,
mi fyddai’r concrit yn toddi fel menyn.

Roedd pobl llwyd yn gwibio heibio
fel gloynnau byw di-liw ar frys gwyllt,
yn cerdded mewn preiddiau o le i le
Roedd eu hwynebau fel maen, yn galed ac yn oer,
heb angerdd, heb bwrpas.
Roedd pawb yn dilyn.
Doedd neb yn arwain.

Mi gerddon nhw heibio i’r gwely
yn ceisio osgoi llygaid yr eneth fach
oedd yn gwerthu glas y gors ger y wardrÙb.
Stopion nhw ddim i edrych ar y rhyfeddod blodeuog,
estron lliwgar yn y byd llwyd.
A phan basion nhw, mi droion nhw ei stondin drosodd
heb feddwl, heb ofal.
Mi adawon nhw’r eneth yn sefyll ar ei phen ei hen
ynghanol adfeilion ei bywyd,
dagrau hallt yn disgleirio fel rhuddemau
yn ngolau gwan yr haul coch.

Yna, mi glywes i swn rhyfedd, cras.
Roedd rhywun yn chwerthin yn walltgo
fel rhyw fath of ffwl.
Ac mi sylweddolies yn sydyn mai fi oedd y ffwl ‘na.
Mi eisteddes i i fyny ar fy ngwely,
chwys oer yn llifo o’m hwyneb a’m cefn,
‘nghalon yn curo fel tabwrdd bas.
Ond roedd yr heulwen felen groesawgar
yn estyn ei bysedd cynnes drwy’r ffenest,
a roedd robin goch yn dathlu’r dydd newydd
o goeden afalau gyfeillgar.
Mi gysures i fy hun wrth feddwl
mai dim on hunllef oedd hi.

On’d oedd hi?

Gwr Y Gogledd

---

Dreaming

I was tiredly staring at the shadows
that were dancing like grey ballerinas
on my dirty ceiling stage.
A desolate blueness lit the room from the street below,
splitting the warm damp darkness
that gripped me in its sharp claws.
On the distant highway, an orchestra
of car horns was playing a dirge.
And there I lay on my bed,
not sleeping, not waking.

Then the cachophonic concert faded.
No word, no whisper, no sound.
The night without voice.
A cold wet fog was creeping through the window like a cat,
filling the room like water in a bottle.

And in the painful silence, I saw a grey world,
iron and rust, steel and ash, stone and dirt,
and incredible buildings that were challenging the heavens.
I saw a dirty brown rain falling from clouds like slate.
And where the water ran,
concrete would melt like butter.

Grey people flitted past
like colourless butterflies at a mad dash,
walking in flocks from place to place.
Their faces were like stone, hard and cold,
without passion, without purpose.
Everyone was following.
No-one was leading.

They walked by the bed,
trying to avoid the eyes of the little girl
who was selling forget-me-nots by the wardrobe.
They didn’t stop to look at the flowery wonder,
a colourful stranger in the grey world.
And when they passed, they turned her stand over
without thinking, without caring.
They left the girl standing by herself
in the ruins of her life,
salty tears glittering like rubies
in the weak light of the red sun.

Then I heard a strange harsh sound.
Someone was laughing madly
like some sort of fool.
And I suddenly realised that I was that fool.
I sat up in my bed,
cold sweat running from my face and back,
my heart beating like a bass drum.
But the yellow hospitable sunlight
was stretching its warm fingers through the window,
and a robin was celebrating the new day
from a friendly apple tree.
I consoled myself in the thought
that it was only a nightmare.

Wasn’t it?

John Otley
Cyfieithiad gan / Translation by Alun Hughes

Y gerdd fuddugol yn nghystadleuaeth Gadair Cymdeithas Madog, Cwrs Cymraeg Wisconsin, 1988 gan Sion ab Idris (John Otley)

---

Delweddau Wrth Feddwl Am Y Ffin

Mi ddaeth fflam dros y ffin i newid ein byd.

Ond beth wyt ti’n gofio?
cornau a cheffylau?
concwerwyr a chestyll?
cyfreithiau a chadwyni?
Cofiwch y gogoniant drud.
Cofiwch y cyrff gwaedlyd oedd
yn pobi yn yr haul,
yn pydru yn y glaw.
Cofiwch:
Ar ôl yr ornest, aeth yr uchelwyr dewr a glân
i ffwrdd dros y ffin i gael bisged a phaned o de
efo’r Brenin yn Llundain bell.
I chwerthin ac i yfed fel gwr bonheddig da.
Dim ond y Werin oedd ar ôl i deimlo’r poen.

Ond beth wyt ti’n gofio?
Unwaith, mi eisteddes i ar y bryn ger y draffordd,
yn edrych ac yn aros i weld rhyfeddod.
Mi ddaeth y ferch hardda yn y byd
ar hyd i’r draffordd mewn M.G. gwyn.
A phan redes i ar ei hôl i ofyn ei henw,
doeddwn i ddim yn medru ei dal hi.
Mi yrrodd hi dros y ffin i Loegr draw, heb edrych yn ôl.
Mi benlinies i yn drist yn y mwg a’r baw,
heb anadl yn ‘yn nghorff
Heb obaith.
Gwag.

Ond beth wyt ti’n gofio?
Unwaith, mi ddes i o hyd i ddyn siaradus
oedd eisiau gweithio dros y ffin.
“Os fyddwch chi’n pleidleisio i mi”, meddai’r dyn,
“Mi fydd rhyfeddodau’n rhad,
a gwyrthiau am ddim.”
Roedd o’n sefyll y tu allan i’r ganolfan siopa newydd,
Aur ac Arian a siwt Saville Row.
A mi roiodd o bamffledi i bawb oedd yn mynd heibio.
Mi edryches i ar y pamffled.
Roedd arno eiriau tlws a hudol.
Geiriau am “Strength”.
Geiriau am “Peace”.
Geiriau am “Jobs”.
Rhyfeddodau’n wir yn y byd rhwng y ffin a’r môr.

Wedyn, mi weles i ddyn distaw efo arwydd bach,
yn protestio’r byd newydd.
Ac ar yr arwydd oedd pump gair unig:
“Cymru fydd fel Cymru fu”

Ond pwy sy’n cofio rwan?

Sion ab Idris

---

Images While Thinking About The Border

A flame came across the boarder to change our world.

What do you remember?
horns and hooves?
conquerors and castles?
laws and chains?
Remember the expensive glory?
Remember the bloody bodies that were
baking in the sun,
rotting in the rain.
Remember:
After the contest, the brave, bright nobles went
away over the border to have tea and biscuits
with the King in far away London.
To laugh and to drink like good gentlemen.
Only the common folk were left to feel the pain.

But what do you remember?
Once I sat on a hill near the highway,
looking and waiting to see a wonder.
The most beautiful girl in the world
came along along the highway in a white M.G.
And when I ran after her to ask her name,
 I wasn’t able to catch her. 
She drove over the border to yonder England,
without looking back.
I kneeled sadly in the smoke and mire,
without breathe in my body.
Without hope.
Empty.

But what do you remember?
Once I came across a talkative man,
who wanted to work over the border.
“If you vote for me”, said the man,
“Wonders will be cheap, and miracles free.”
He was standing outside the new shopping mall,
Gold and Silver and Saville Row suit.
And he gave pamphlets to everyone who was going by.
I looked at the pamphlet.
On it were beautiful and charming words.
Words about “Strength”.
Words about “Peace”.
Words about “Jobs”.
Wonders indeed in the world between the border and the sea.

Then I saw a silent man with a little sign,
protesting the new world.
And on the sign were five lonely words:
“Wales will be as Wales was”.

But who remembers now?

John Otley
Cyfieithiad gan / Translation by John Otley

History of the Cymdeithas Madog Chair

At each Cymdeithas Madog Cwrs Cymraeg since Cwrs Cymraeg Wisconsin in 1988, Cymdeithas Madog has held a competition in Welsh language literature composition among the students attending the cwrs. The topic and form (e.g., poetry, prose, etc) are announced before the cwrs in order to give participants in the upper levels time to compose their entries. The entries are of an extremely high standard. In order to preserve fairness, each competitor signs her/his entry with a “ffug enw” or “bardic name”. The best entry each year that meets Cymdeithas Madog’s high standards (as judged by the Cwrs tutors) is awarded the prized Cymdeithas Madog chair.

One of the most important and eagerly anticipated moments at every National Eisteddfod in Wales in the awarding of the chair to the winning bard in the strict meter competition. The chair is always crafted by a local artisan and reflects local tradition. The Cymdeithas Madog chair, commissioned by Mrs. Cassie Hughes of Bridgend, Wales, was carved by her brother, Huw Selwyn Owen. Mr. Owen, a master carver from North Wales (and a poet of distinction in his own right) was commissioned to make the official chair for the 1989 Llanrwst National Eisteddfod. The Cymdeithas Madog miniature chair was carved from the same wood, an oaken beam taken from a building dating from about 1400, as the Llanrwst National Eisteddfod chair. And like the Llanrwst chair, the back of the Cymdeithas Madog chair has a beautiful representation of the Llanrwst bridge.

Iif there is a worthy entry, this beautiful miniature chair is awarded to the winning bard in a formal chairing ceremony. The bard’s name is engraved on a plaque on the back.