Cyfrol Gwyl y Ferch 2020 Anthology

Dechreuodd Gŵyl y Ferch yn Mawrth 2019 gan Ffion Pritchard ac Esme Livingston. Bwriad yr wyl yw rhoi llwyfan i ferched creadigol lleol, a thrwy hyn, hel arian at elusen lleol. Llwyddodd Gŵyl y Ferch 2019 gasglu dros £300 at Cymorth y Merched Bangor a’r Cylch drwy ein arddangosfa agored a rhaglen o ddigwyddiadau. Yn dilyn hyn, ffurfwyd bartneriaeth efo Menter Iaith Môn yn yr Haf i gynnal Gŵyl y Ferch Mon, lle helwyd dros £300 at Gorwel; Gwasanaeth Trais Ynys Môn. Yn ogystal a hel arian, rydym yn angerddol am weithio efo’n elusennau partneriol ar gyfres o weithgareddau creadigol efo defnyddwyr y gwasanaethau. Mae canlyniadau’r gweithdai hyn yn cael eu harddangos yn ddienw yn ein harddangosfa.

Rydym yn ol yn ein cartref gwreiddiol yng Nghaernarfon am Gŵyl y Ferch 2020. Unwaith eto, rydym yn hel arian i elusen drwy gelf a chreadigwydd merched lleol. Curadwyd y gwaith canlynol drwy alw gwbl agored am waith ysgrifennedig o unrhyw gyfrwng, ar unrhyw thema.

Gŵyl y Ferch was founded in March 2019 by Ffion Pritchard and Esme Livingston.

The festival aims to provide a platform to local creative women, and through this, fundraise for local charities. Gŵyl y Ferch 2019 succeeded to raise over £300 for Bangor and District Women’s Aid through our open exhibition and program of events. Following this, we formed a partnership with Menter Iaith Môn to host Gŵyl y Ferch Môn in Anglesey, raising £300 for Gorwel; Anglesey Domestic Abuse Service.

In addition to fundraising, we are passionate about getting involved with our charity partners through providing creative workshops to service users. Work from these sessions are then exhibited anonymously at our open exhibition.

We’re back at our home in Caernarfon for Gŵyl y Ferch 2020. Once again, we are both raising money for charity and celebrating the creativity of some incredible local women. This collection of poetry was curated through a totally open call, open to all mediums and themes.

So what is equal? fifty-fifty, a real shot a proper honest genuine opportunity good crack of the whip a sporting stake same holds same odds as lucky as likely

a decent chance a real possibility.

Fairness in an unfair world.

This is all we are asking for.

Ness Owen

Impossible Things Picking that irritating scab and wondering Can there be new skin underneath? Can Epidermis and epiglottis renew? Repair the Raw flayed surface, bring voice to the Voiceless, release the scream of the downtrodden crowd, Crushed underfoot as they scavenge for crumbs, A blot on the shine of your Jimmy Choo shoe, A stain on the hem of your Savile Row suit.

Yet we are human too, would dream had we the Chance, dream of a home safe as houses, Dream of open doors and opportunities, access All areas, not pushed to the side, side-lined, Side-tracked, scrabbling on our knees and having to Fight for what you take for granted. Who is the scab?

Is it us with our different minds and bodies and our demands For a half-decent life? Or is it you? Hoarding your piles And power and yelling “Hands off! Hands off!�

Rosamund McCullain

Arrival She lay new and bloodied on the ground, For it was not a gentle birth, No gentle hands let her down, Torn from the bowels of the earth.

She felt the cold and barren ground, Then let out a lusty cry, To let them that she'd arrived, They knew right then that she'd survive.

She let them know that she'd arrived, By letting out a lusty cry, Determinedly she lived her life, She thrived, she thrived, she thrived.

Karen Harvey

Above Rhosgadfan (from Kate Roberts’ viewing place) after reading in the summer of 2005 of Tony Blair’s decision that the UK must go ahead with the next generation of nuclear power stations Chiselled words in slate, stopping place with altered view— scent of meadow sweet.

Valley birds mechanic boom blasts the skyline— startled sheep scatter.

Silver stiltwalkers striding across lower levels— lark song lifts above.

And still they stride like Bendigeidfran made robotic inert unfeeling across the lower levels Their arms outstretched they hold the wires grey metal against the green of silenced lambless land Drawn out in single file giants above the trefoil and the vetch they mark a line that ramparts mile on mile against the sea Caer Arianrhod submerged and silent waits breathless in the depths but sends wordless curses in the seagulls’ cries Round Llyn Alaw Branwen’s sighs echo in the summer air Cemaes channelling her anguish to its hungry fissile snare And Bendigeidfran laid low two bridge spans to the mother shore cannot close nor halt the ruler’s gift, reveal the giver’s guile, nor yet unmask the liar’s smile The towered city ravens linger still— but only for a while.

Denni Turp

Barracks steep climb wind distant dog scattered bleating of sheep almost silence past Braich mist lifts steps round the drop to the coppered pool waist high walls to shelter I look out to sea and down to where the castle keeps the town upwards paths with slip of shattered slate wind choughs chatter almost silence past where three lakes echo sight and sound high on the ridge far above the ground I watch smoke and steam power the distant train and clouds cross and shade the green and heather slopes of Mynydd Mawr turn the curve swerve and duck the blasting air tumbled barrack walls close-set and alleyed once housed the roofers of the world less standing with each visit but worth the climb I stand and strain to hear the voices echo Gwynt Tristwch Brifo almost silence

Denni Turp

Dancing in two languages i.

ii.

Bright stars of pussy willow light the way where yellow gorse flowers shine again despite the menace of their long black thorns, and the long-tailed tit dances freely through their threat, sure of his path.

Sbiwch! Mae pob dim sy’n byw wedi troi ei wyneb at yr haul a wedi dechrau canu. Gwrandewch!

O dan ein fedr clyw, mae’n wir, ond rhaid dallt bod yno gerddi pur.

A dyma hefyd blentyn bach ymlaen y stryd fel ninja turtle sy’n canu a dawnsio mewn masg efo nhw.

Maen nhw’n llosgi’r caeau unwaith eto.

In the near distance, a wall of flame flares against the bright spring blue before darkening to smoke that fades into a greying sky. Yn hwyrach, gwesgyr, gan adael awgrym tan ar farw yn yr awyr.

When I return, late afternoon, it lingers with a haze that dims the edge of every peak across to Snowdon. And my bus is rammed full, several standing, as we jar and rattle from town to village, from Caernarfon heading west.

Trees, still mostly bare, line the way, the fringes of the fields, make complicated patterns, all unique, in a view that falls away to mountains or the sunlight silvered sea.

Ond dim ond fi sy’n edrych drwy’r ffenest to know the sharpness of the passing beauty.

Denni Turp

Diffyg, Diflannu Tynnu’r haul i lawr i ni bore Gwener yn yr ardd, heb sbectol spesial, heb bethau technegol, dim ond colandr a cherdyn sbar.

A’r cwn, wrth gwrs, sy’n gwatsio ni heb ddallt y rheswm am fod fel hyn.

Nid oedd lot i’w weld, a dweud y gywir, ond cylchau bach yn mynd yn dywyll, cylchau bach bywyd yn mynd yn dywyll.

A dyma ni, ein pedwar, anifeiliaid bach o dan yr haul, heb ddallt bod pob eiliad yn lleihau.

Denni Turp

Eclipse, Disappearing Pulling the sun down to us Friday morning in the garden, we are without special glasses, without technical things, just a colander and spare card.

And the dogs, of course, watching us without understanding why we’re like this.

Not a lot to see, to tell the truth, just small circles getting dark, just small circles of life getting dark.

And here we are, we four, little creatures under the sun, without understanding that every second is a shrinking.

Denni Turp

Gwynedd Because the world

is beautiful and full,

& spent leaves flare to fall

& lie like flames along the path Because the air resounds

with every call of gull &; blackbird

from the sky and morning sunlit trees Because the scent of meadowsweet

is mixed with that of new-mown grass,

the touch of slate is sharp & smooth & cool,

& the cat that walks along the wall & purrs is soft and warm I taste it all and cannot let it pass

Denni Turp

How It Is Ac mi glywaf grafangau Cymru’n dirdynnu fy mron.

Duw a’m gwaredo, ni allaf ddianc rhag hon.

Hon, T.H. Parry Williams And here it holds me in its grip, safe, sounding consonants that roll around these hills, a fi heb fedru mynd.

I was away once, never daring in my head or heart to think of how, yng Nghymru, yn y gogledd, roedd y môr yn dal i redeg i’r traeth while I was lost in streets that gasped for air, and how, dros y mynyddoedd, roedd yr haul yn gwenu while my heart wept in hiraeth.

Mae’n wir, mae crafangau Cymru dig deep into my heart, refuse release— ecstasy and pain— ond dim ond yn y fan yma, for me, is peace.

Denni Turp

Morning (content warning; sexual violence) The golden light of morning filters through the gaps in her shitty curtains, dust motes swirling unconcerned in the air.

Her first thought, someone has her head trapped in a vice.

Her second, they must also have stuffed her mouth with cotton.

She forces her eyes open.

Bright light and the stench of sweat, sex and stale beer lurches her groping to the bathroom.

Here she empties her stomach.

Sickly sweet cocktails, beer and late night takeaway.

Rinses her mouth, brushes her teeth Ridding herself of the cotton wool left there.

She sees herself in the mirror for the first time that morning.

Her once beautifully crafted hairstyle Is now a tangled nest of hair pins.

Mascara and kohl have bled outwards from her eyes And her dark red lipstick is smeared in a mockery of clownfolk.

All she can do, all she does in that precise moment is stare at herself and wonder, what the actual fuck happened to her last night?

Blindly she throws her hand out, unable to drag her eyes away, she fumbles for make up wipes.

Methodically she clears away the debris of her self applied mask.

That’s when she see It. ‘It’ is a unsightly purpling mark on her collarbone, glaring at her, irrefutable evidence that she did something with someone last night.

Exhibit A. Full of foreboding she examines her body, there below her right breast is another mark, smaller that the first but definitely a sign of someone else’s teeth on her body. Exhibit B. Exhibit C, D, E and F are circled around her navel, dark shadows on her skin.

She doesn’t remember getting them.

There, on her hips, are the key pieces of evidence.

Exhibits G through to L. Purple outlines of hands larger than her own.

Her breaths shallow and rapid.

She pries open her bathroom door, peers into her bedroom, hoping desperately that her bed is empty.

It fucking isn’t, fucking shit. What in the hell did she do last night?

There’s a body sized lump in her bed, a gentle rise and fall indicating signs of life.

Bile rises, acrid and stinging.

In the centre of her bed, a patch of blood, dark in the morning light.

When her groggy brain catches up she darts her gaze down to her thighs.

Sure enough, right fucking there is a god damned fucking matching smear of blood and that is the last clear thought she has as she succumbs to retching into the toilet bowl once more.

Later, after she has wept in the shower, meticulously scrubbing away what she can of last night.

After she has unwillingly accepted a phone number and thanks, she is alone once more.

It is a bitter sweet relief.

Now nothing stops the shame and revulsion crashing down upon her.

Suffocating her in their permeating magnitude.

Nothing to stop the voices in her head, damning her and her choices.

Reviling her, belittling her, criticising and ostracising.

Not once do they spare a spiteful word for anyone else.

Esme Livingston

Red String Red gloved hands wrapped finger to palm over warped wood of an ancient cane, inherited.

Frozen fingertips dance through Icy dew on dry stone walls, Built by hands of family past.

Her breath gives voice to piercing tune Carried on valley winds, Herding a familial livelihood across familial earth.

A red socked foot that taps Steady tattoo on stone floors As nimble fingers shape woollen strands To later weave loving warmth.

Veteran needles that loop in and out, Gloves and scarf and blanket, once made only for home.

Now a shared love, a passion turned profit.

Past and present.

Tassels of red stuck in hastily tugged zips.

Coat tugged tight as old boots stomp along ancient paths.

Footsteps overlaying her forefathers on winding ways walked daily in past industry.

When home her fingers twist golden strands long past mined, elegant gilted dewdrops of history spun into delicate beauty.

Esme Livingston

Sonnet 25 Whispered echoes of moments long past shared A soul, opened wide for a lover’s gaze Untether’d, unkowingly stripped and bare.

Born from foolish youth of a lovelorn haze Tumultuous words left too long unsaid Sweet nothings of seconds dispers’d in mist Ghostsing smile, on faces of love, yet dead.

Honeyed breath over lips not quiet yet kiss’d.

Feather touch from healing palms anda love, A star through darkened lives, eternal light, A white, far bright, than aphrodites dove, Journeying expanses beyond its might.

Had we but voiced our hearts’ and minds’ intent We might have been a love from heaven sent.

To Love Letters Never sent There’s much we should have said.

Sentences suspended in the air, Breathy mists of words That never quite breached the distance Between your heart and mine.

Truths hidden under smiles And half shrugged turns of phrase.

Waltzing through our emotions, saying much but meaning little And if those words we’d never spoke, Hearts we’d never shared, Had been exposed and laid out bare we might have been more Than a story never told And a love letter never sent.

Esme Livingston

Styx Steel slices deep and through.

Blood, gushes warm and red.

His heart slows, falters and stops.

His soul untethered, his body lost.

This, is his very end.

Through whitened fog his ears note, Clanking chains and whispered words.

Faintly creaking wood on water.

He is adrift, deep in cavernous worlds.

Flickering fire amongst tortured souls.

Tis Hades land to where he sails, His fate, his future, he knows not what it entails.

And stood above him, silent and proud A blackened cloak and ghostly hand.

A penny is owed to the ferryman.

Esme Livingston

Warrior Women Drums beat..

We march.

We paint our faces in the blood of others.

We scream our voices hoarse.

We fight until our arms can no longer bear the weight of our truth.

Our bodies tremble with the strain of our fight.

The sweat drips from our brow, dragging our war paint further down our face.

A mockery of tears on reddened cheeks.

Our hearts cry with rage, Our souls rebel.

The battle is won, the war lays ahead.

The fight is eternal but our hope without end.

Esme Livingston

Female Blackbird Sings Your song isn’t as loud as his born knowing you’ll have to try harder still you sing not just with throat but wings and tail forcing out your voice like you’re drowning in the chorus till you find the one note to stop them still.

At dusk the order of chorus reverses last becomes first power lies in the un-expected they don’t recognise you but at last you have their ear.

Ness Owen

Ei Chân (Yr Aderyn Du) Mae dy gân yn dawelach na’i gân o, wedi d’eni yn gwybod y bydd rhaid i ti drio’n galetach ond ’rwyt yn dal i ganu.

Nid yn unig â dy wddf ond adennydd a chynffon yn taflu dy lais â nerth fel petaet yn boddi yn y byrdwn, hyd nes i ti ddal yr union nodyn i lonyddu pob dim.

Ym mrig y nôs newidir trefn y byrdwn, daw’r olaf yn gyntaf gyda nerth yn yr annisgwyl, nid oes neb yn d’adnabod ond o’r diwedd maent yn gwrando.

Ness Owen

Galargan y diysbryd Mae’n well peidio sôn am y dyddiau euraidd hynny pan eisteddem i ddarllen a thrafod, mewn ystafelloedd pren a lledr llawn llyfrau ar bob pwnc dan haul. Ni phoenwn bellach am y cynnwys na’r gostyngiadau mewn safonau sydd yn digwydd o’n cwmpas.

Wnawn ni ddim poeni gormod am sicrhau arbenigedd, na brwdfrydedd, na threfniadau sy’n parchu gyrfaoedd, boddhad, na hunaniaeth. Tydi teimlad o berthyn, na sicrwydd am y dyfodol, ddim yn bwysig, ar bapur, hyd y gwyddom.

Canolbwyntiwn, yn hytrach, ar dicio bocsys, ac arbed pres - i ddangos pa mor glyfar ac ‘effeithiol’ yr ydym. A phan eisteddwn wrth fyrddau, hefo’n cydweithwyr newydd, dros dro - wnawn ni ddim sôn am sut yr oedd pethau ynghynt, gyda hawliau gweithiol, ac yn y blaen. Anwybyddwn anfodlonrwydd mewn sibrydion di-ri, ac anghofiwn am y rheini sydd wedi ein gadael i’n tynged aflawen. Disgwyliwn am y dyfodol, di-flas - gan ystyried sut y daeth i hyn, gan geisio diffinio a meintioli’r elfen anniriaethol honno yr ydym bellach wedi ei cholli.

Sarah Louise Wheeler

Un bore bach ystyriol Yn nistawrwydd y gegin, rwy’n bwyta tôst ac yn llymeitio tê, wrth fwynhau’r wledd o wyrddni, tu hwnt i’r drws cefn.

Creigardd tywodfaen rhedynog, dail pigog y palmwydd yn awgrymu ynys hudolus ym mhen draw’r byd. Polyn du’r orsaf bwydo adar, fel postyn lamp y goedwig tu hwnt i’r wardrob. Cangen y gwrych gwyllt yn ymdroelli’n gain ar hyd gwydr y ffenest - ei dail mawr hudol, fel rhai coeden ffa. Fy myfyrdod ystyrlon yn fy nghludo, fy nychymyg yn crwydro, yn ôl i gysegr atgofion melys plentyndod.

Llonyddwch lleddfol, yn donnau swynol - arhosaf yn y fan ar le yn fodlon.

Mewn fflach o lesni, daw Titw Tomos Las, i orffwys ar y gangen gynffon las.

Pen ar un ochr, yn sbïo ar y darnau bach o wellt, sy’n sownd yn y we pry cop ar ochr cegin y gwydr. Ei big yn nodwyddau, tenau, miniog – yn pigo, pigo, hefo grym annisgwyl, ond aneffeithiol.

Mae’r gangen yn siglo, ac mae’n trio eto, heb lwyddo, na challio. Eto ag eto, ac yna’n diflannu - mor sydyn ag ymddangosai. A finnau, wrthi’n synfyfyrio, am y siom y cafodd fy ymwelwr bach annisgwyl, doniol a ddymunol – ac am yr ffin anweledig, rhwng fy myd tawel tu fewn i’r gwydr, ar un gwyllt tu hwnt iddi.

Sarah Louise Wheeler

Pan na ddaw’r awen Ar dân, yn fflamio’n wyllt; y pwysau fel petrol, yn arllwys fwy o danwydd i’r erchylltra. Yna’n llosgedig – yn hercian yn ffwndrus gweithredol, merwinllyd.

Llanast o’m cwmpas ymhob man, a finnau’n cau fy mhen, fy ngolwg, fy nghlustiau – i bob dim.

Daw clogyn i’m cylchu, fel wal o garreg oer; does dim gobaith i’r awen treiddio’r argae hon. Fy nghalon wedi’i dorri’n darnau man, a’i wasgaru i bob man.

Methu canolbwyntio ar ddim ond y wal o fy mlaen. Y pryder yn cnoi fy nghydwybod – dwi’n euog, o fod yn fethiant llwyr.

Trio forsio’n hun i sgwennu, ond mae’n wneud i mi deimlo’n benysgafn. Nid yw’r geiriau’n ffrindiau ar hyn o bryd ac maent yn teimlo’n bell i ffwrdd, ac yn ddieithr ac yn anghynnes.

Be wna’i tybed, os na allaf lusgo’n hun o’r twll anobeithiol hyn?

Pwy fydda’i os na allaf sianeli fy meddyliau – i eraill cael ei ddarllen? * Rwy’n gwylio’r niwl o syniadau yn cylchdroi o’m mlaen, yn llifo fel afon, heibio i mi, ac yn ôl – mewn siâp newydd, diddorol.

Mae fy meddwl yn llawn posibiliadau ac mae’r awen yn pigo fel pinnau bach, wrth i’r teimlad dychwelyd i goes neu fraich.

Rwy’n teimlo eto, a dwi’n hidio eto – diolch byth am hynny!

Dwi’n gweld patrymau, ac yn clywed sibrydion, yn y niwl o fy amgylch; dwi’n ymestyn braich i mewn i geisio cydio yn rhai ohonynt – ac yn gwrando’n astud ar beth maent yn ceisio datgelu i mi.

Mae’n her i’w trosglwyddo i’r dudalen, yn frawddegau cain, barddonol. A dwi’n mwydro yn fy mlinder dwys.

Daw’r awen i mi nawr, yn glir, fel bloedd yn fy nghlust penillion cyfan yn datgan eu hunain, o ninlle, heb drio – wrth i mi gysgu, coginio, a chymryd tro yn y jacwsi!

Fel swigod tu mewn i mi, mae’r syniadau yn casglu gan ferwi dros yr ymyl, mewn ras i gael ei rhannu.

Hoffwn ddiolch i rheini, fuodd yn gefn i mi, gan fy helpu, a fy annog, yn ôl o’r geulan frawychus hwnnw. Cydiaf yn yr awen, a’i drysori o’r newydd. Ni fyddaf byth eto, yn cymryd fy ngallu ysgrifennu’n ganiataol. Rwyf mor ddiolchgar am gael dychwelyd i iechyd, ac am gael yr awen yn ei ôl.

Sarah Louise Wheeler

Rhy Ogledd-ddwyrain i chi Daw fy nheulu o’r ffin ’cw, ac o lo a dur y gwnaed nhw.

Un ochr Wrecsamaidd, a’r llall yn Jacos - ill dwy yn ddosbarth gweithiol.

Dwy dafodiaith gref, heb ddim eisteddfota rhyngddynt; teimlais fy estroneiddiwch o’r cyntaf oll – fel stamp ar fy nhalcen, yn fy ngwahaniaethu rhag y rhai sydd wir yn perthyn ene. Ond gwrthodais ollwng fy nene, ddreng, a sidro fy aru, ddaru a ballu. Ac felly, ni wnaethoch fy nerbyn, na’m parchu, fel yr oeddwn yn haeddu. Yr wyf yn awr ar drothwy’r cam nesaf yn y stori - trobwynt, lle mae fforc yn y ffordd, a rhaid dewis pa lwybr i’w gymryd.

Ond mae un peth yn sicr, beth bynnag a benderfynaf – mi rwyf, ac mi fyddaf, byth a beunydd, yn rhy Ogledd-ddwyrain i chi.

Sarah Louise Wheeler

“Pam ti’n ista fel dyn?”

Stwff ma hogia ‘di ddeud wrtha fi, vol.1 Ti’n disgwyl fi ista yn ddistaw fy myd?

Fy nghoesa ‘di croesi, Fy nhafod yn fud?

Gei di fynd i grafu, chos wyddost ti be?

Dwi’n ista fel hyn Er mwyn hawlio fy lle, Mae’n syniad sydd ella yn estron i ti.

Dwi’m yn ista fel dyn.

Dwi’n ista fel fi.

Llio Maddocks

“Ti’n rhegi gormod” Stwff ma hogia ‘di ddeud wrtha fi, vol.2 Fasa well gen ti Fod pob brawddeg Yn cynnwys cynghanedd Yn hytrach na rheg?

Ma ‘fuck it, give a shit sut dwi’n siarad’ Yn cynganeddu, ‘Di hynna’n wellhad?

Ti’n deud fod ti Dal wedi siomi.

Ma raid bod fy nhafod Yn ormod i ti.

Llio Maddocks

“Ti’m yn cal disgyn mewn cariad efo fi” Stwff ma hogia ‘di ddeud wrtha fi, vol.3 Chill out, Dim ond ego boost rhad Wyt ti I mi gael teimlo’n well Am eiliad Cyn difaru.

Stopia ddarllan mewn i betha, Nai jest torri ffrinj tro nesa.

Llio Maddocks

“Ma’ ex fi’n crazy” Stwff ma hogia ‘di ddeud wrtha fi, vol.4

“Ma ex fi’n crazy" (Warning signs) ‘Di dal ddim drosta i" (Warning signs)

“Nes i neud dim byd iddi, Mai’n mental, trystia fi, Mor wahanol i chdi” (Warning signs)

Ma ex chdi’n crazy? (Warning signs) Be nes di iddi? (Warning signs)

Oedd na reswm iddi boeni?

Pa mor hir fydd hi Nes ti’n galw fi’n crazy?

(Warning signs)

Llio Maddocks

“Ti ddim fel genod erill” Stwff ma hogia ‘di ddeud wrtha fi, vol.5

Dwisio bod fel genod erill, Felly deuthai sut Mod i ddim fel y gweddill.

‘Dwmbo, ti jest yn wahanol, Ddim mor needy.

Ddim mor emosiynol.

Ylwch y misogynistiaeth Wedi ei becynnu’n Daclus fel canmoliaeth.

O, gad i mi gyfri Yr holl ffyrdd fedra i brofi Pa mor bell o realiti Wyt ti.

Llio Maddocks

a decent chance a real possibility.

Fairness in an unfair world.

This is all we are asking for.

Ness Owen