Storm Awst by Gillian Clarke

The cat walks. It listens, as I do,

To the wind which leans its iron

Shoulders on our door. Neither

The purr of a cat nor my blood

Runs smoothly for elemental fear

Of the storm. This then is the big weather

They said was coming. All the signs

Were bad, the gulls coming in white,

Lapwings gathering, the sheep too

Calling all night. The gypsies

Were making their fires in the woods

Down there in the east…always

A warning. The rain stings, the whips

Of the laburnum hedge lash the roof

Of the cringing cottage. A curious

Calm, coming from the storm, unites

Us, as we wonder if the work

We have done will stand. Will the tyddyn,

In its group of strong trees on the high

Hill, hold against the storm Awst

Running across the hills where everything

Alive listens, pacing its house, heart still?

 

by Gillian Clarke

from The Sundial, (Gwasg Gomer, 1978)


Fun facts:  Glossary: Welsh = English

Awst = August

Storm Awst = August storm

tyddyn = [farm] smallholding

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The Cat and the Sea by R. S. Thomas

It is a matter of a black cat

On a bare cliff top in March

Whose eyes anticipate

The gorse petals;

 

The formal equation of

A domestic purr

With the cold interiors

Of the sea’s mirror.

 

by R. S. Thomas

from Poetry for Supper (1958)

Black Cat by Bulat Okudzhava

There’s a courtyard in our building,

that’s where you’ll find the back door,

and behind it lives a Black Cat –

ensconced here like some lord.

 

There’s a smirk behind his whiskers,

darkness shields him like a wall,

and this Black Cat remains quiet

while all others caterwaul.

 

He keeps smirking in his whiskers,

hasn’t caught a mouse of late,

catches us on our loose lips,

on a bit of tempting bait.

 

He does not request or order –

when his yellow eye burns bright,

every one of us forks over,

thanking him with all our might.

 

He won’t meow and he won’t purr –

he just gorges, drinks and gloats.

And he paws at dirty floorboards

like he’s clawing at our throats.

 

This is why the place we live in

is so dark and dreary still,

we should really hang a light bulb –

but can’t seem to foot the bill.

 

by ბულატ ოკუჯავა

a.k.a. Булат Шалвович Окуджава

a.k.a. Bulat Shalvovich Okudzhava

(1957 – 1959)

translated by Maria Bloshteyn


Here is the song, often believed to be about Stalin, being performed by Bulat Okudzhava:

 

Bulat Shalvovich Okudzhava (Russian: Булат Шалвович Окуджава; Georgian: ბულატ ოკუჯავა) (May 9, 1924 – June 12, 1997) was a Soviet and Russian poet, writer, musician, novelist, and singer-songwriter of Georgian-Armenian ancestry. He was one of the founders of the Soviet genre called “author song” (авторская песня), or “guitar song”, and the author of about 200 songs, set to his own poetry. His songs are a mixture of Russian poetic and folksong traditions and the French chansonnier style represented by such contemporaries of Okudzhava as Georges Brassens. Though his songs were never overtly political (in contrast to those of some of his fellow Soviet bards), the freshness and independence of Okudzhava‘s artistic voice presented a subtle challenge to Soviet cultural authorities, who were thus hesitant for many years to give official recognition to Okudzhava.