MiSkriBa 25 - 04/04 - Annabelle

Prompt #MiSkriBa an jydh yw skrifa bardhonek a-dro dhe vewa gen darn a art. Yma lies lymnans, poster ha skeusen y'n chi ma, mes my a wodhya yn straft py imach o ow awen rag an oberen ma. 

Yma genev honan-lymnans gen kowethes na wrug vy gweles rag lies bledhen hag yn trist a verwis orth dalleth an vledhen ma, Annabelle Hampton hy hanow. Artydh treus o hi a rosyas hy honanieth yn hy ober hag a vewas bewnans marthys didheurek, pub dydh gen an messach a vos dha wella ha dha wirra honan. 

Yma fowt bras y'n bys wosa hy helli, mes pub dydh my a borth kov anedhi ha hy semlant ow mires dres ow hegin. Mamm a wodhya gwella dell o hag yw usys.

Mar pleg, mirewgh orth ober Annabelle ha's ajon.

Today's #NaPoWriMo prompt is to write your own poem about living with a piece of art. There are plenty of paintings, posters and photos in our house, but I knew straight away which image was my inspiration for this task. 

I have a self-portrait by a friend who I've not seen for a few years who sadly died earlier this year, Annabelle Hampton. She was a trans artist who explored her identity in her work and lived an incredibly interesting life, each day with the message of being your best and truest self.

There is a large space in the world since losing her, but every day I remember Annabelle as she looks over my kitchen. 'Mother' always did and will know best.

Please see Annabelle's work and know her.

Annabelle Nyns os gwyrdh dha gov,  Mes gwerem os Kregys yn kornel gudh an gegin Ow mires yn argel.  Donsyores os yn teg,  Heb avi mes adhvetter A droyll yn tidhiwedh Kepar ha nosow gwin rudh.  Hanasa orthiv a wredh Yn mog gell cigarik chep A with bewnans War dhillas mosek an myttin.  Minhwarth munys os  A les a wolok dha weus Dhymmo keniver dydh du Yn gwisk mas maghteth an brogh.  Yn golow kylgh a juj Y hwodhyn sevel war-barth  Neves namoy, mes kamm Yn kornel kegin y'th kovav.

Annabelle You aren’t green in memory, But you are emerald Hung in the hidden corner of the kitchen Looking in security. You’re a dancer beautifully, No envy but fertility That spins endlessly Like red wine nights. Whisper to me in your way In the yellow smoke of a cheap cigarette That holds life On the stinking clothes of morning. You are the smallest smile That spreads from the look of your lips To me each blackened day In virtue’s garb the badger's maid. In a judgemental spotlight We can stand together Heaven no more, but crooked In the kitchen corner I remember you.