Chalenj #MiSkriBa an jydh yw skrifa neb eghen a vardhonek honan-portrayus, hag ynno yma res displegya prag nyns esos neb darn arbennek a art (symfoni, figurin, balle, sonnet), devnydhya dhe'n lyha unn kehevelyans dres kryjyans, ha fakt koynt (po gwir po fug).
Today's #NaPoWriMo challenge is to write a kind of self-portrait poem, in which you explain why you are not a particular piece of art (a symphony, a figurine, a ballet, a sonnet), use at least one outlandish comparison, and a strange (and maybe not actually real) fact.
Payntyans Vyth
Yth esov vy yn Dulyn yn neb gwithti a-vri, wosa spena dydh ow seni dyth Yeats, Wilde ha Joyce, ow lemmel a’n folen yn trev an ker. Mes lemmyn, y'n eur ma, dall ov yn bys anaswonys, ow mires yn lent orth ober mester dihanow dhymm. Kameras a herdh war-yew yn y du, yn tu fos gwynn kepar ha pub fos gwynn, ow skeusena fos gwynn, lymnys gen Scully dell hevel. Ha warnodho nyns esov vy anweladow dhe'n lens ha dhe lagasow di-wynk a'm gwel omma yn Dulyn, mes payntyans vyth ov ha vy yw hag a vynnir movya rag paytnyansow na wor movya, An routh a goselha yn studhyus lowen hag arta yth esov ow lagatta orth fos gwynn gwelys unweyth gen Bono. My a wrug pe 15 ewro dhe vos omma yn Dulyn; payntyans vyth ov. | Not a Painting
I’m in Dublin in some famous museum, having spent the day playing recitation by Yeats, Wilde and Joyce, leaping from the page in the town of the fort. But now, right now, I’m blind in an unknown world, looking slowly at some master’s work nameless to me. Cameras jostle ahead towards it, towards a white wall just like every white wall, photographing a white wall, painted by Scully as it happens. And on it I don’t hang invisible to the lens and to unblinking eyes that see me here in Dublin, but I’m no painting and it’s I who is asked to move for paintings cannot move. The crowd quietens studiously happy and once again I am staring at a white wall, once viewed by Bono. I paid 15 euros to be here in Dublin; I’m no painting. |
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