Giles Watson's poetry and prose
Gwyn ap Nudd
Gwynn ap Nudd
My room is a network of living roots, white as bones,
flint nodules embedded in the tracery. My dogs
loll about waiting, their tongues adrip with slobber.
They are the same as other dogs: my lips only need
to form the letter “w”, and they are throwing
themselves bodily against the oaken door with its
iron rivets, clamouring to get out. This twelve-inch
bolt is my Yale Lock. I draw it back, and they become
a white avalanche, their red ears throbbing, their tails
felling whole trees with mere enthusiasm. Along
the way, we pick up some of the major deities like
flotsam; I have known the Morrigan to come along
just for the feel of wind in her pinions, and take out
a few civilians. Medb is always up for it, destroying
cities. There are hawks among our Gabble Ratchets
whose mere gaze could melt the flesh of thousands.
It’s my job to rein it in – keep it to the ancient way –
prevent it from destroying everything. In this, I have
more practice than your modern politicians. We only
sweep up some of the lovelorn, hapless wanderers on
our trail. They whirl among us, willing conscripts. I hail
my dogs, flash onwards, forget the airs and graces.
You think you’d do it better? Try trading places.
Poem by Giles Watson, 2013. In mediaeval Welsh mythology, Gwyn ap Nudd is king of the Underworld, comparable with Arawn, King of Annwn, in the first branch of the Mabiniogion. He leads the Wild Hunt, which often flies just above the ground down ancient ways: a cavalcade of supernatural dogs, fairies and hapless folk who are swept up as followers. The hounds of Arawn were white with red ears: sure signs that they were otherworldly creatures.
Gwyn ap Nudd
Gwynn ap Nudd
My room is a network of living roots, white as bones,
flint nodules embedded in the tracery. My dogs
loll about waiting, their tongues adrip with slobber.
They are the same as other dogs: my lips only need
to form the letter “w”, and they are throwing
themselves bodily against the oaken door with its
iron rivets, clamouring to get out. This twelve-inch
bolt is my Yale Lock. I draw it back, and they become
a white avalanche, their red ears throbbing, their tails
felling whole trees with mere enthusiasm. Along
the way, we pick up some of the major deities like
flotsam; I have known the Morrigan to come along
just for the feel of wind in her pinions, and take out
a few civilians. Medb is always up for it, destroying
cities. There are hawks among our Gabble Ratchets
whose mere gaze could melt the flesh of thousands.
It’s my job to rein it in – keep it to the ancient way –
prevent it from destroying everything. In this, I have
more practice than your modern politicians. We only
sweep up some of the lovelorn, hapless wanderers on
our trail. They whirl among us, willing conscripts. I hail
my dogs, flash onwards, forget the airs and graces.
You think you’d do it better? Try trading places.
Poem by Giles Watson, 2013. In mediaeval Welsh mythology, Gwyn ap Nudd is king of the Underworld, comparable with Arawn, King of Annwn, in the first branch of the Mabiniogion. He leads the Wild Hunt, which often flies just above the ground down ancient ways: a cavalcade of supernatural dogs, fairies and hapless folk who are swept up as followers. The hounds of Arawn were white with red ears: sure signs that they were otherworldly creatures.