MiSkriBa 2024 - 17 / 04 - Blodsvept

Bardhonek #MiSkriBa an jydh ha prompt hedhyw o skrifa bardhonek usi awenys gen darn a ilow, hag a rann titel an darn na a ilow. Karer metel-poos ov, hag an myttin ma yth esen vy ow koslowes orth an gan ma, Blodsvept gen Finntroll, war an fordh dhe'n ober... (gwydhyow a-is)

#NaPoWriMo poem of the day and today's prompt was to write a poem that is inspired by a piece of music, and that shares its title with that piece of music. I'm a big metal music fan, and this morning I was listening to this song, Blodsvept by Finntroll, on the way to work... (video below)

Blodsvept Y kammav y'n karr "dans glas yw junyes" ha gortos polsik ha'n jynn ow tommhe, ha'n betyans ow tommhe. Tabours a weskir, notennow a dochir hag yth esov ow trehedhes kans mildir y'm skovarn. Kist an vaglen a rogh ow tremena tirwedhow dyjiow koskus a hunros a Radyo 4 ha levow hebaskhus klappya'n myttin. Mes yth ov vy erbynn an ton ow krackya yn statik kowsoryon an Ford C-Max loos ha leysek, a lewyav war-rag, a'm lew war-rag. Fordhow a-dro ha golowysi rudh a'm lett y'm sedh, mes y tur an sonwedh orth ow thenna der an veister hanter-ygor, ha my ow tenna ow honan a'n A483. Y harmav yn gis flogh ow klowes lev an jowl an kensa tro. Y harmav yn le anewn ha hanasa my dh'y gavos an nessa tro. Mes y neyjav war vysowek piano tredan, usi an tonnow, usi an tonyow, ha'n kerri erel yn tiswar. Hag an ger finek ow seni, dell goselha riff daslavarus, y stummav an ros-lewya, ha lughesa sinel rudhvelyn a-ves dhe’n kronkyans y'm tyller parkya usadow. Rockstar taw.

Blodsvept I step into the car “bluetooth connected” and wait a moment as the engine warms up, as the beat warms up. Drums beat, notes ignite and I am reaching a hundred miles in my ear. The gear box grunts passing landscapes of sleepy cottages that dream of Radio 4 and the calming voices  of morning chatter. But I am against the tune crackling in the static of the Ford C-Max’s speakers grey and muddy, I drive forward, I am driven forward. Roundabouts and red lights block me in my seat, but the soundscape continues pulling me through the half-opened window, and I am pulling myself from the A483. I shout like a child listening to the voice of the devil for the first time. I shout in the wrong place and whisper that I’ll get it the next time. But I’m flying on an electric piano’s keys, that are waves, that are tunes, and the other cars are unaware. As the final word sings, as the repeating riff quietens, I twist the steering wheel, and flash an orange signal out of beat in my usual parking place. A silent rockstar.