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  • Cawl
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Cawl

Elin ap Hywel

Nid cerdd am gawl yw hon –
nid cerdd am ei sawr, ei flas na’i liw,
na’r sêrs o fraster yn gusanau poeth
ar dafod sy’n awchu ei hysu

Nid cerdd am gawl yw hon,
am frathiad o foron tyner,
am sudd yn sugnad safri, hallt
na’r persli’n gonffeti o grychau gwyrdd

Dim ond cawl oedd e wedi’r cyfan
– tatws a halen a chig a dŵr –
nid gazpacho na chowder na bouillbaisse,
bisque na velouté neu vichysoisse

Nid cerdd am gawl yw hon
ond cerdd am rywbeth oedd ar hanner ei ddysgu –
pinsaid o rywbeth fan hyn a fan draw,
mymryn yn fwy neu’n llai o’r llall
– y ddysgl iawn, llwy bren ddigon hir –
pob berwad yn gyfle o’r newydd
i hudo cyfrinach athrylith cawl.

Nid cerdd am gawl yw hon o gwbl
– nid cerdd am gawl, nac am ddiffyg cawl:
dim oll i’w wneud â goleuni a gwres
y radio’n canu mewn cegin gynnes
a lle wrth y bwrdd.


Elin ap Hywel

from Oxygen (Bridgend: Seren, 2000)

Reproduced by permission of the author and translators.

Tags:

cooking

Translations of this Poem

Soup

Translator: Elin ap Hywel


This is not a poem about soup –
not the colour of soup, its smell, its taste,
nor its stars of fat, – searing kisses
on a tongue just aching to burn –

this is not a poem about soup,
the delicate bite of carrots,
the savoury, salt suck of liquid,
the parsley like crumpled green confetti.

After all, it was only soup
– potatoes and meat and water and salt –
not gazpacho nor chowder nor bouillbaisse,
bisque or velouté or vichysoisse.

This is not a poem about soup,
but a poem about a thing half-learnt:
a pinch of something here and there
a soupçon more of this or that
– the one right bowl, a long enough spoon –
each boiling another chance
to witch the secret genius of soup.

This is not a poem, at all, about soup –
not a poem about soup, or the lack of soup;
nothing to do with heat and light,
the radio humming in a warm kitchen,
a place at the table.

Soup

Translator: Christine De Luca


Dis isna a poem aboot soup –
no da colour o soup, hits smell, hits taste
nor hits sturkenin starns – haet smoorikins scoodered
on a tongue jöst virmishin ta burn –

dis isna a poem aboot soup,
da bicht o tender carrots,
da saat sook o a broth
nor da parsley, a smirr o runkled green.

Eftir aa, hit wis only soup
– tatties an saat an flesh an watter –
no gazpacho nor chowder nor bouillabaisse,
bisque or velouté or vichysoisse.

Dis isna a poem aboot soup,
but a poem aboot a lear, half-dön:
a peerie aer o somethin, here an dere
a coarn mair o dis or dat
– da bowl da richt een, da spön lang enyoch –
ivery boilin anidder chance
ta tize da hiddled hert-holl o da soup.

Dis isna a poem aboot soup ava
nedder aboot soup, nor da soup dat’s awa;
nithin ta dö wi licht, nor aboot haet,
da wireless soonds i da hamely but end,
a saet at da table.

Suppe

Translator: Karsten Sand Iversen


Dette er ikke et digt om suppe,
ikke et digt om dens lugt, dens smag eller farve,
eller fedtperlernes hede kys
på en tunge der ivrer efter at brænde

Dette er ikke et digt om suppe,
om at bide i bløde gulerødder,
om at suge væsken, duftende og salt
eller persillens grønne krusede konfetti

Det var trods alt kun kålsuppe
– hvidkål og salt og kød og vand –
ikke gazpacho eller chowder eller bouilleabaisse,
bisque eller velouté eller vichysoisse

Dette er ikke et digt om suppe
men et digt om noget halvvejs lært –
en knivspids af noget her og dér,
en kende mere af det ene eller det andet
– den rette skål, en øseske lang nok –
hver kogning en ny chance
for at fremmane suppens dulgte geni.

Dette er ikke et digt om suppe, slet ikke
– ikke et digt om suppe og ikke om mangel på suppe:
det har intet at gøre med lys og varme,
radioen der spiller i et lunt køkken
og en plads ved bordet.

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Elin ap Hywelb.1962

Elin ap Hywel, born in 1962 in Colwyn Bay, is a poet, translator and editor who works in Welsh and English. Formerly a translator for the National Museums and Galleries of Wales, she was the Royal Literary Fund's first...
More about Elin ap Hywel

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