Idris Davies memorial in Rhymney

Idris Davies Grave

When April came to Rhymney,
with shower and sun and shower.
The green hills and the brown hills,
could sport some silver flower.
And sweet it was to fancy,
that even the blackest mound
was proud of its single daisy,
rooted in bitter ground.

And old men would remember,
and young men would be vain.
And the hawthorn by the pithead,
would blossom in the rain.
And the blackest streets of evening,
they had their magic hour,
when April came to Rhymney,
with shower and sun and shower.

Rhymney Valley by Robert Drayton

RESURRECTION

And I rise, and I remember

The lads I used to know,

And I must go to greet them

Ere in the cloud I go.

Though one of them betrayed me,

And one denied my name,

And the other ten forsook me,

Yet will I smother blame.

O I will seek and find them

And talk of what would be

When we were friends together

On the hills of Galilee.

Though one of them is strangled,

The other eleven live,

And I will smile upon them

To show that I forgive.

And I will stand before them

Till every doubt is dead,

And speak of peaceful pleasures

Ere thorns were round my head.

And I will talk of troubles

And joys that used to be

When we were friends together

On the hills of Galilee.                          

IDRIS DAVIES (1905 – 1953)

Born and died in Rhymney nr. Merthyr Tydfil in South Wales.

Idris Davies (6 January 1905 – 6 April 1953) was a Welsh poet. He wrote originally in Welsh but later writing exclusively in English. He was the only poet to cover significant events of the early 20th century in the South Wales coal mining valleys.

In a diary entry Davies wrote: “I am a socialist. That is why I want as much beauty as possible in our everyday lives, and so I am an enemy of pseudo-poetry and pseudo-art of all kinds. Too many ‘poets of the Left’, as they call themselves, are badly in need of instruction as to the difference between poetry and propaganda … These people should read William Blake on Imagination until they show signs of understanding him. Then the air will be clear again, and the land be, if not full of, fit for song.”

Gwalia Deserta XXXVI

In the places of my boyhood
The pit-wheels turn no more,
Nor any furnace lightens
The midnight as of yore.

The slopes of slag and cinder
Are sulking on the rain,
And in derelict valleys
The hope of youth is slain.

And yet I love to wander
The early ways I went,
And watch from doors and bridges
The hills and skies of Gwent.

Though blighted be the valleys
Where man meets man with pain,
The things by boyhood cherished
Stand firm, and shall remain.

from Gwalia Deserta (1938)

Child of the grass

The years pass Above us

Shadows of air All these shall Love us

Winds for our fellows

The browns and the yellows

            Of autumn our colours

Now at our life’s morn. Be we well sworn

Ne’er to grow older

Our spirits be bolder At meeting

Than e’er before All the old lore

Of the forests & woodways

Shall aid us: Keep we the bond & seal

Ne’er shall we feel

            Aught of sorrow

Let light flow about thee

            As a cloak of air

EZRA POUND (1885 – 1972)

I feel absolute reverence to nobody and to nothing human

neither to persons nor things nor ideas, ideals nor religions nor institutions,

to these things I feel only respect, and a tinge of reverence

when I see the fluttering of pure life in them.

But to something unseen, unknown, creative

from which I feel I am a derivative

I feel absolute reverence, Say no more!

David Herbert Lawrence 1885 – 1930