Arvwisk Trevithick

 Ha hedhyw Dydh Trevithick, my a vynnas skrifa neppyth tamm koynt yn solempnyans anodho. Ytho otta bardhonek hag a wra henna (dell waytyav). Ynwedh yth yw prompt #MiSkriBa 25 gen an Poetry Society.

As today is Trevithick Day, I wanted to write something a little strange in celebration. So here's a poem that (i hope) does just that. Also it's prompt 25 of #NaPoWriMo from the Poetry Society.

 

Arvwisk Trevithick Yn y hwelji unweyth moy ow tybri glow ha mortholya mog, yma Trevithick ow pyldya arvwisk ethen. Hatt chymbla a goner gen toll du a gollenk dens prennyer plat ha troyllya yn resyas ilow y honan. Klapp  ha jynn ganow gen keher dur a dremen gonyow, ha lyftya'n mor, hag eva'n kledher. Garrow horn a gesun gen kig, eskern ryvytys. Payn pell  osow kellys yn hebaskans. Goos a lamm dre bibow lettyes yn omsettyans skruth gwaskedh kressyes, hag ow gwaskedh a dhever skruth. An arvwisk a dhewis an lergh, istori krackyes mes kempen, ow flowsa yn gwersyow, ow tewwynkya gen kan garm vresel brest. Orto yth esov ow mires ha gwynnel gen an syght. A-barth duw an arvwisk ethen: "Esos jy owth omglowes feusik, ponk?"

Trevithick’s Armour In his workshop once again eating coal and hammering smoke, Trevithick is building steam armour. A chimney hat that rages with a black hole that swallows the teeth of plate bars and spins in the rhythm of its own music. Chatter And the mechanical mouth with steel muscles passes moors, and lifts the sea, and drinks the rails. Iron legs unite with flesh, riveted bones. Distant pain of lost ages in appeasement. Blood jumps through blocked pipes in an attack of panic of increased pressure, and my pressure leaks panic. The armour chooses the path, history cracked yet neat, babbling in verses, blinking with the song of a brass war cry. I’m looking at him and struggling with the sight. In the name of the god of the steam armour: “Are you feeling lucky, punk?”