An Husor Bughes

 Ass ov lowen dhe dherivas my dhe waynya ow nessa pewas a-dhyworth Gorsedh Kernow rag bardhonek a skrifis henwys "Growan Kales, Leghen Vedhel". My a vynn leverel keslowena bras dhe'm keswaynoryon y'n pewas skrifa Kernowek ha peub re waynyas hevlena, ha my a vynn godhvos gras dhe'n Orsedh a'm enora arta. Y fynnav dyllo an bardhonek a waynyas war an Blog ma yn skon, wosa my dhe dehweles a'm dydhyow gool.  Redyewgh moy omma: https://gorsedhkernow.org.uk/gorsedh-kernow-adult-awards-2022-announced/ I'm pleased to announce that I have won my second award from Gorsedh Kernow for a poem I wrote called "Growan Kales, Leghen Vedhel" (hard granite, soft slate).  I want to say a huge congratulations to my co-winners in the Cornish language writing category and to all who have won this year, as well as to say thank you yo Gorsedh Kernow for honouring me again.  I will translate and publish the poem once I have returned from holiday.  Read more here: https

Nyns esov certan a pe gorfennys an bardhonek ma, mes onan a skrifis nans yw nebes misyow yw orth styrya omglowansow a dhistyryans, yn arbennek orth assaya omwellhe.  I'm not sure if this poem is finished or not, but I wrote it a few months ago reflecting on feelings of insignificance, especially when trying to improve.  Dassettya gorheryow lagas gans plastervordh Ny allav gweles Der an golow garow A wra bothel y'm besyon  Ha my owth assaya anweles  Pub tra y hunrosis vy anodho Ha my owth assaya andhyski Pub dyskans a gemeris byth Ha my owth assaya kemeres delergh  Pub anal a wastis vy Orth assaya gwellhe ow honan Dhe vos par a hwansow tus erel  Ha ponya pell dhe dhownderow  Dewlagas na dhege namoy Replacing eyelids with plasterboard     I can't see Through the harsh light That's blistering my vision As I try to unsee Everything I've been dreaming of As I try to unlearn  Every lesson I ever took  As I try to take back  Every breath I've wasted On trying to improv

Nans yw lies bledhen, my a glowas drolla gans mamm koweth a-dro dhe husores bughes leel yn arenebedh Lyskerrys. Hy hanow o Mrs Harris ha, herwydh an drolla, hi o mamm dhe werther bondennow aswonys yn ta y'n dre (an hanow yw klou). Y'n drolla, an tiek a vynnsa pellgowsel gans Mrs Harris ha hi a vynnsa gwellhe bughes jest dre wodhvos yn py ke mayth esens. An drolla ma yw onan an mogha kerys genev ha my a gar an tybyans a dhyski husa bughes - mes ny drovis vy kors hwath. Yn neb kas, a-is yma bardhonek a skrifis a solempen Mrs Harris ha'n pystri a husa bughes - a pe po gwir po  fals, yth yw hwath drolla hweg. A few years ago, I hear a story from a friend's mum about a local cattle charmer in the Liskeard area. Her name was Mrs Harris and, according to the story, she was the mother of a local tyre salesman in the town (there's a clue in the name). In the story, the farmer would phone Mrs Harris and she would heal the cows just by knowing in which field there were. This i