I’m beginning a new online course this April called The Taliesin Tradition. It covers almost 1500 years of material, from the earliest Welsh poetry by the historic Taliesin, through to the mythic Taliesin and the poems attributed to him in The Book of Taliesin. We will track the development of the Taliesin myth and how it was used by the medieval bards to inform their own myth making. It will also touch briefly on the Taliesin tradition today and its presence in modern culture.
Its a similar format to the Symbolic Keys, only that I’ve extended the length of the sessions to 2 hours. For more information please visit the course page.
I’m also running a short 4 week version of the course in Tre’r Ddol (next door to Tre Taliesin) and Machynlleth. The course begins March 20th in Machynlleth and March 25th in Tre’r Ddol. Please see the fliers bellow for details:
A slightly extended version of the Symbolic Keys online course will also run beginning Sunday April 20th.
According to Marged Haycock, the Book of Taliesin poem ‘Angar Kyfundawt’ could very well have been written by Llywarch ap Llywelyn (for a full explanation see her introduction to her edition of The Legendary Poems from the Book of Taliesin). The similarites between Llywarch’s more formal court poetry and a number of poems in the Book at least place him closer to the text than any other bard of his period. Although Marged Haycock largely makes the association based on similarities in vocabulary and word combinations, there is also the suggestion of a conceptual similarity, not only with Llywarch, but also with his old master, Cynddelw. This conceptual similarity is of course with regards to the use of dwfn and its counterpart Annwfn as signifying a mythical dimension implied within mundane reality.
As with the majority of the other legendary poems, ‘Angar Kyfundawt’ is a dramatic piece that was likely to have been performed in the voice and persona of the mythical Taliesin; before uttering a word, this in itself would signal that the performer was evoking the mythical depths. The explicit references to ‘the deep’ largely corroborate what’s already been covered in previous posts, such as . . .
Awen a ganaf,
o dwfyn ys dygaf.
I sing awen,
I bring it forth from the depth.
Another section describes in detail what is only suggested in other poems:
Ef a’e rin rodes
seith vgein ogyruen
yssyd yn awen;
wyth vgein o pop vgein
euyd yn vn.
Yn Annwyfn y diwyth,
yn Annwfyn y gorwyth,
yn Annwfyn is eluyd,
yn awyr uch eluyd.
He [God] with his miracle
bestowed immeasurable awen;
seven score ogyrfen
there is in awen,
and eight score of every score
in each one.
In Annwfn he ranged them,
in Annwfn he made them,
in Annwfn below the earth,
in the air above the earth.
Here the legendary Taliesin describes how God created the immeasurable aspects or divisions (ogyrfen) of awen and set them out in Annwfn. The poet unambiguously names Annwfn as the place where awen is created, set out in all its varieties, and more importantly where it is found, the depth from which it rises. This makes sense if we again define Annwfn as the mythical realm, that is the place from which all symbolic, mythic and idealised forms arise. In the Four Branches, Annwfn is the realm that is somehow within Dyfed, and is the place where Pwyll experiences ideal or perfected forms of behaviour.
This also suggests a possible interpretation for the difficult last line in the above excerpt, ‘in the air above the earth’. There are two possible interpretations: first of all that the poem here refers back to awen, and that awen is also found in the air above the earth as well as being arranged by God in the depths; a possible interpretation considering the etymological link between awen and breath / air.
The second interpretation is that the whole sequence is talking about Annwfn and therefore Annwfn is here described as not only being in the earth bellow but also in the air above. It would be reasonable to assume that this is a metaphorical way of saying ‘in all places, above and bellow’ just as Llywarch uses dwfn a bais in the previous post. This interpretation suggests Annwfn is in all things, latent in the whole of God’s creation, not just bellow the earth. In this regard, the meaning of the name Annwfn shouldn’t be taken literally but symbolically; describing it as being bellow ground is simply a storybook metaphor for the more nuanced concept of ‘the world within the world’.
But these are not the only references to ‘the deep’ that we find in ‘Angar Kyfundawt’. If anything, the whole poem is laced with references to this concept, usually implied in double meaning, or ‘meanings within meanings’ which as a feature itself seems to symbolise ‘the world within the world’. In the next few posts I’ll take a more detailed look at these other examples.
It has been suggested that Llywarch ap Llywelyn (fl. 1173-1220), or Prydydd y Moch as he is more commonly known, spent at least part of his apprenticeship under the tutelage of Cynddelw Brydydd Mawr. If this is true then we would expect to find some similarity in their work, and indeed such similarities can be seen in some instances. These include similar alliterations and rhymes, as well as common concepts, one of which is the concept of dwfn as initially outlined in the previous posts.
The first example from Llywarch’s work is in reference to himself:
Crist fab Mair a’m pair o’m pedwar — defnydd
Dofn awen ddiarchar.
Christ son of Mary caused me from my four materials,
Deep, powerful awen.
As usual, there are different meanings implied here, the most obvious being the double meaning of the second line, which signifies not only that Christ caused Llywarch to have a deep, powerful awen, but also that this act of miraculous creation testifies to Christ’s own deep and powerful awen.
Using the feminine form of dwfn as an adjective to describe awen is one of many similarities that Llywarch shares with Cynddelw, and Llywarch’s use offers us further insights into this concept. Again the interpretations presented here are based on alternative readings of the manuscript text. In preparing modern editions of these poems, it is an editor’s prerogative to punctuate the text according to the meaning they interpret. In the Beirdd y Tywysogion series the editors have chosen to punctuate a line by Llywarch in the following way:
Llyw bydoedd lled byd, dwfn a bas, . . .
. . . which then gives the following in translation . . .
Leader of hosts across the world, in deep and shallow seas, . . .
But removing the comma in the second third of the line and instead opting for the more basic meaning of dwfn, that is simply ‘depth’, gives the following in translation . . .
Leader of hosts across the world, deep and shallow . . .
. . . that is treating deep and shallow as adjectives that describe the world. This reading implies Llywarch considered the world to have deep and shallow aspects, just as the concepts of Annwfn and deep awen imply in Cynddelw’s work.
We find the same coupling of deep and shallow in another of Llywarch’s poems:
Gallas arglwyddwas, aerglais – Lywelyn,
Lewenydd dwfn a bais,
Gwenddydd amrywdud Emrais,
Gwynedd adrysedd, i drais.
The young lord took, Llywelyn who wounds in battle,
Deep and shallow joy,
The blessed land of the numerous people of Emrys,
The wonder of Gwynedd, through might.
If we follow the editor’s punctation it is the joy of Llywelyn’s victorious nature that has deep and shallow aspects.
Regardless of which punctuation we choose to follow in the above example, the second line will remain ambiguous unless we provide a better interpretation of what deep and shallow mean. It appears that at least in Llywarch’s work he uses both words together to imply ‘on all levels’, that is on both profound and mundane levels: in the mysterious, mythic depths and in the day-to-day shallows.
Sometimes in Gogynfeirdd poetry the word dwfn is used to describe awen, the sacred breath of bardic inspiration; when dwfn is used as an adjective in this way modern editors usually give it the meaning ‘profound’. But as in the previous post, it mustn’t be forgotten that dwfn also means ‘deep’. For example, in a poem by Cynddelw we find the following line:
Yn ail awen ddofn o ddwfn gofiain, . . .
. . . which modern editors interpret as meaning[The patron] is a reflection of the profound awen of profound thoughts, . . .
. . . but could quite as easily be interpreted as meaning[The patron] is a reflection of the deep awen of deep thoughts, . . .
So what’s the real difference between these two interpretations?
First of all we need to unpack the line a little. As with most heroic poetry, the Gogynfeirdd almost always depicted their patrons as the perfect, ideal hero; in fact any personal characteristics were largely ignored in favour of more general, heroic ones. The patron became a vehicle for the heroic ideals that the bardic tradition wished to promote.
This means that the awen of the Gogynfeirdd was that of heroic poetry – a worthy patron inspired them to express the heroic ideals that were so central to their way of life. It was this particular awen that the patron was reflecting in this instance.
But what does ‘deep’ mean in this context? Why is the patron a reflection of deep awen? There is the surface meaning of ‘profound’, but once again here we have a suggestion of this otherworldly dwfn, a hint of Annwfn. One thing that we can assume from the above quote is that Cynddelw believed this deeper dimension of inspiration was the space in which the perfect heroic ideal was found, a concept not a million miles away from a symbolic interpretation of the first branch of the Mabinogi.
In the third part of the line (‘. . . of deep thoughts’) there is a clear association made between this otherworldly dwfn and ‘deep’ thoughts. Its easy to associate deep inspiration with deep thinking and again ‘profound’ fits nicely as a surface meaning. But carrying through the subtext of this otherworldly dwfn, Cynddelw may also be suggesting this deeper dimension to be at least partly synonymous with the mind.
All this can either be taken as purely metaphorical or as a suggestion of the kind of metaphysical framework Cynddelw worked in as a chief bard. In another of his poems, Cynddelw states that his song, his awen, comes from this deep place:
. . . canwyf o ddwfn, o ddofn awen, . . .
. . . I sing from the depth, from the deep awen, . . .
Again, what is being stressed here is the accessibility of this deep space. Annwfn may not be so otherworldly as to be inaccessible. Awen connects this surface realm with the ideal depths of reality, providing the bard not only with a source of inspiration but, in the context of praise singing, also a source of wisdom and judgment.
Cynddelw’s multilayered use of dwfn, not only as an adjective and a noun but also as a concept, fits in with what we already know about the Welsh bardic tradition’s conception of divine inspiration. Cynddelw suggests that Annwfn and the synonymous dwfn offers a deepening of this world’s perspectives, and that awen arises from this place carrying with it the impressions of ideal forms.
In the next few posts I’ll examine the work of other Gogynfeirdd poets to further expand our understanding of what they meant by Annwfn, dwfn and awen.
In the Beirdd y Tywysogion series, the editors have interpreted a line by Cynddelw in the following way:
In Annwfn, in the world, in the sea – . . .
This is a reasonable interpretation, but there are alternatives that could suggest a lot more to us about what court bards such as Cynddelw thought about Annwfn, the traditional Welsh otherworld. The actual line in the original Welsh reads . . .
Yn Annwfn, yn nwfn, yn nyfnder – . . .
If we begin with the second part of the line, the word dwfn (mutated here to ‘yn nwfn’) means ‘world’, the meaning given in the first quoted line above; but dwfn also meant ‘deep’ in middle Welsh. This is important and not to be overlooked; as we shall see there are many uses of dwfn in this sense, some of which relate directly to the concept of Annwfn and awen (see further posts on this). The second element in Annwfn is of course this very same dwfn, and rhyming both words was no accident – a master craftsman such as Cynddelw would have been very aware of the many connotations he was putting into play with such ornamentation.
In the third part of the line, dyfnder also means something similar to dwfn, literally ‘depth’, and is often used as a name for the depths of the sea. Again, Cynddelw would have understood the connection between Annwfn, dwfn and dyfnder, and as well as creating a cynghanedd sain, these three words also chime in meaning, conveying the sense of a deep, profound space. Annwfn in later folk lore is understood as being under the earth, a metaphorical description that retained a hint of this original meaning.
If we reinterpret the line stressing the other meanings implied it gives a whole new reading to this section of Cynddelw’s poem:
Hydr yd gerdd fy ngherdd yng nghyflawnder
I gyflawn foli rhi rhwy dirper,
Yn urddiant foliant fal yd glywer,
Yn awen barawd awdl burwawd bêr;
Yn Annwfn, yn nwfn, yn nyfnder – yd farn,
Nid beirdd a’i dadfarn, bardd a’i dadfer.
Powerfully does my song go forth in completeness
To praise fully the king that deserves it,
In renowned praise full of dignity,
With ready awen in an ode of fair, pure poetry;
In Annwfn, in the deep, in the depth, it judges,
Other bards do not impoverish it, it is this bard that declaims it!
Cynddelw’s song judges the patron, and does so in Annwfn, which, according to my alternative reading is ‘the deep’, and ‘the depth’. This supports the idea that Annwfn is a deep place, and gives us another piece of information about Cynddelw’s conception of Annwfn, that being it is from this deep place that the bard’s judgment arises. This lawful or ethical aspect of Annwfn is also seen in the first part of the first branch of the Mabinogi, and Cynddelw is very likely referring to the same idea here. With this association in place, we can now expand on some of the other occurrences of dwfn in Gogynfeirdd poetry.
Over the last century more accurate editions of historic Welsh poetry and prose have become available, largely due to the growth of Welsh language university departments, sometimes with whole teams of post-graduate editors and researchers devoted to revealing and understanding medieval texts. Even greats such as Dafydd ap Gwilym have found themselves caught up in the flurry of new editions repackaging masterpieces of medieval European literature for new audiences. Only a hundred years ago – a relatively short period in the history of some of our older texts – many of the Welsh classics were only available to the wider Welsh speaking public in confused English translations. In comparison we are living in a time of plenty when it comes to the availability of editions of our native Welsh literature.
But we have so much text available to us now, and so much still being edited and re-edited, I believe an aspect of critical interpretation has been somewhat left behind, specifically assessing the Celtic and pre-Celtic roots of medieval Welsh literature. This is for many reasons, the main one perhaps being that there is more money in turning out hard copies of texts than there is in talking about them. The general tendency has been to view interpretation as a byproduct of editing, not the primary focus. Cash strapped university departments will always have to make hard choices from within shrinking budgets, and over time the financial conditioning of research results in the development of attitudes and skills that leaves less financially profitable academic work neglected.
Coupled with that is the reticence about making any reference to anything too mystical sounding or druidic. Druidic in this sense is a catchall term that refers to several strands of culture, some historic, some pertaining to the present. Historically, there have been occasions when the Welsh have gotten themselves a bit drunk on their own myth-making; a dangerous habit, but we have been indulging in it for millennia so it comes quite easily to us. On one particular occasion, towards the end of the second half of the 18th century, the debauched mead-feast was lead by the then master of ceremonies, Iolo Morgannwg (who had a habit of mixing his myth-making with opiates). Iolo was in fact a talented scholar and poet, but he found his real calling was to repackage the mythic past of the Welsh nation. This re-dreaming of the past enabled him to develop and fabricate tenuous links between the ancient British druids and the Welsh bards of his present day, the consequence of which was the forming of a bardic guild dressed up as a mystery school. In his wake came many druid enthusiasts primed by antiquarianism, desperate for any justification to get up in their splendid ceremonial outfits.
Iolo provided them with that justification, thereby giving us the modern druid order of Wales, or Gorsedd y Beirdd, and their outfits were so fetching that the English got a bit jealous and appropriated the look for their own version of neo-druidry, the heirs of which we see today in venerable organisations such as OBOD who have succeeded in turning the older English antiquarianism into a large and popular modern-day spiritual movement. But for all this poking fun at poor old Iolo, at the end of the day he was a great visionary and a truly inspired nationalist. His ceremonial interpretation of his native bardic arts has given the Welsh durable vessels that seem to sustain our public culture from decade to decade: proof enough of his genius, no matter how peculiarly it was expressed.
But the snake-oil peddling fakery of some of his antics has left latter scholars with a degree of reticence when it comes to actually following through on his main claim, that being that there is an historic connection between medieval bardic culture and the earlier druidic culture that preceded it. In other words, for all the pomp and ceremony that the Gorsedd provides, not many people involved in modern Welsh academia can actually take the idea of druidry seriously, at least in public, never mind speculating about its historic position on philosophical and metaphysical matters and how they evolved in the professional bardic orders of medieval Wales.
If we consider that much of the fabricated evidence that Iolo presented was swallowed hook, line and sinker by many renowned scholars for almost a century, its not difficult to understand the over-cautious attitude that modern Welsh academics tend to take in view of the foolish mistakes made by some of their predecessors. New professors usually get the job when they have proven they can appear relevant while not being too controversial within their fields (a safe pair of hands). Putting on the donkey ears of druidry doesn’t make for an appealing professorial candidate. Further to that, no one wants to earn a reputation that could haunt them well beyond the end of their careers. A debunked theory doesn’t make for a great epitaph to ones life work. With Iolo clanking his chains in the background, Welsh academics understand better than most the power of memory and the durable nature of the written word.
This is not to say that there is no discussion at all of the historic link between druids and later bards, but generally it is editors themselves that try to provide the reader with a little clarity, not only offering explanations for archaic words and common sense corrections for miss-copied or damaged text, but providing contextual information to help elucidate meaning. But what is needed is a much wider, much more eclectic comparative study the takes the genuinely interesting medieval Welsh material and places it in an objective, useable anthropological context. The material is all there, waiting in the abundance of new editions sitting on the library shelves, we only need the right perspective to see it for what it is.
So what of the name ‘Cae’r Arglwyddes’, ‘The Lady’s Field’? After some digging around in the National Library and County Archive, I still haven’t been able to discover who this Lady is. There is no record of a church here so it’s unlikely to be St Mary. It could refer to a now forgotten noble woman, but usually an owners personal name is preserved in place names. All became clear when I had a conversation with an old lady who’s father had been born at Cae’r Arglwyddes, and according to her the name of the farm refers to a ‘lady of the lake’ folktale about the small lake up on Moel-y-llyn. Such tales are common throughout Wales, and feature an otherworldly woman who comes out of the lake, usually followed by an abundance of farm animals. These otherworldly women are more than likely late versions of earlier water deities, fairy women with magical powers. Is there an otherworldly ‘Lady’ associated with Taliesin and the rights of the dead?
If the ancient processional way of Y Sarn Ddu between Bronwion and Bedd Taliesin corresponds in some way with the mythical bard’s life-journey, this could offer an explanation as to who this Lady is. In the tale, Ceridwen stands between Gwion and Taliesin, and directly between Bronwion and Bedd Taliesin is Cae’r Arglwyddes. Is this where Ceridwen chases the magically enlightened Gwion Bach? Was it here that she swallowed him in the guise of a large black hen and then gave birth to him as the beautiful infant Taliesin? Is this the place of his symbolic death and rebirth? If so, was it the River Cletwr that she set him adrift upon, carrying him down through the vulva-like ravines of Gwar-y-Cwm waterfalls before spilling into the Dyfi? It would make sense if he was then washed up on Borth beach.
Not all of the ancient monuments in the Cletwr Valley have been marked on the OS map – the valley itself and the surrounding landscape is littered with what were probably covered mounds at one time, many of which are in fields around the old farm called Cae’r Arglwyddes, which means ‘The Lady’s Field’. Heading east up the Sarn Ddu (the ‘Black Road’ discussed in the previous post) from Bedd Taliesin there can be seen many suspicious piles of stones on either side of the road, including many fallen standing stones, several of which clearly mark the old way. Was Cae’r Arglwyddes once the sight of a complex of intact burial mounds through which the Sarn Ddu passed as a processional road?
Pillaged stones are clearly seen supporting the southern bank of the road, and there is a line of large boulders further along just before Cae’r Arglwyddes farm house. All of the stone piles in the valley contain large quartz stones, just like the ones that cap the cairn that overlooks the Black Road from the top of Moel-y-Llyn and that kerb the cairns over on Foel Goch on the northern side of the valley.
If the Cletwr Valley once contained many obvious burial mounds, it could give one explanation to what the name ‘Y Sarn Ddu’ is referring to. It’s easy to see how black has an almost universal association with death, especially in Europe, and probably has done so for a very long time. Y Sarn Ddu may preserve the connotation of a Death Road or a Road of the Dead. The fact that this name still survives suggests that its processional use, or at least its association with burial and death, may have continued into the early medieval period.
Place names and monuments close to Bedd Taliesin, the bronze age cairn in the Cletwr Valley, could throw a little light on why it bears the name of a popular Welsh folk hero. It’s impossible to tell whether this was originally the grave of the historic Taliesin, chief bard to Urien Rheged, although there’s no reason why (no matter how unlikely) he couldn’t have been buried there at a later date. Such ancient cairns were used time and again throughout long periods of time. But whether or not the historic Taliesin is buried in this ancient monument is of less importance than its association with the legendary figure that the famous Cynfardd became: the accidental child of Ceridwen, the reborn Gwion Bach and bard to the hapless Elffin.
The cairn itself is situated in a place called Pen y Sarn Ddu, or ‘End of the Black Road’, a name still retained by the old farm next to the cairn. It would be easy to assume that this name refers to the old ‘Roman’ road, or Sarn Helen, that runs past the farm following the coastal highland from Machynlleth to Aberystwyth. But that ancient highway doesn’t end at Bedd Taliesin, so why call it the ‘End of the Black Road’?
It’s more likely that the farm’s name refers to the old track that runs at right angles to the Roman road, following the Cletwr Valley east towards Moel-y-Llyn. So if this is the ‘End of the Black Road’, where is its beginning? The present track runs along the south side of the valley through Cae’r Arglwyddes Farm and due east up the slope of Moel-y-Llyn through the pass into the Einion Valley. If the Black Road originally followed a similar path, we can see it takes a straight line from Bedd Taliesin, through Cae’r Arglwyddes Farm to the pass into the Einion Valley. If we extend that straight line down the other side of Moel-y-Llyn we come to a small farmstead called Bronwion, or ‘Gwion’s Hill’. Is this where the Black Road begins?
This audio clip is from a course on The Welsh Bardic Tradition, held at Aberystwyth University; I haven’t included the course notes as some of them are scans from a published books. This excerpt summarises some of the initial features of the Taliesin persona as found in The Book of Taliesin, and takes a quick look at the poetry triads.