In this Christmas post, I am thinking of you sitting at home with a brandy in your hand. I want to share with you some of the sounds of the poetry we have been talking about. And with that in mind, I have been researching some of the poets on You Tube.
Cousos do lobo!
Caborcos do xabarín!
onde ninguén foi nin ha d’ir!
O lobo! Os ollos o lombo do lobo!
Baixa o lobo polo ollo do bosco
movendo nas flairas dos teixos
Ruxindo na folla dos carreiros
en busca da vagoada máis sola e máis medosa…
párase e venta
finca a pouta ergue a testa e oula cara o ceo
con toda a sombra da noite na boca.
(Domain of the wolf!// Gullies of the wild boar!// Lonesome places// Where no one goes nor should!//// The wolf! The eyes, the back of the wolf!//// The Wolf goes down through the eye of the wood//moving the branches of the yews//rustling the leaves on the paths//looking for the most lonely and most fearful stream…////It tracks along//stops and sniffs//pushes in its claws stretches out its head and howls with its head to the sky//and with all the shadow of the night in its mouth)
Now, R.S. Thomas:
And here is Richard Burton reading John Clare:
And, finally, a fascinating documentary by Llorenç Soler called The mountains are ours, which shows that the processes that enclosed the countryside and expropriated the peasants from communal lands in England were unrolling in Spain in the twentieth-century.