Dafydd ap Gwilym's First Debate Poem
Gruffudd Gryg, empty and worthless muse,
with his painful trembling mouth,
the development of a girl's poem after only a year,
4 it is vain, like the growth of a goose chick.
There is no more nobility, apart from plenty of grace,
to a praise poem than to a cywydd of
false praise,
an appropriate form, being correctly recited,
8 it is a worthy love poem, woe be to him!
One may hate it, another will sing it,
hateful name, and yet another man will repeat it.
A harp on whose column hands have not been placed,
12 a sweet pillar of rain,
a girl will not be dissatisfied if
the harp's cavity is an accompaniment to a cywydd.
It produces sound, if there are three strings,
16 proclaimer of poems, a sycophant sang it
in a common beer tavern,
a tinker sings it beside his narrow beer tankard.
This one throws it away, it is useless,
20 old dog shit, so that it is a hateful thing.
An old battered book of parchment, with ragged edges,
which was thrown away onto the dung heap,
it will be sought, with its scrappy pages,
24 and its stock of love, without any basis for it;
its stanza will be slovenly
when it is baptized with pen in hand.
We judge that it is bitter and nasty
28 to find fault with a poem where there is no wrong.
Why is that poet bothering me
and trying to make me lose my occupation?
Gruffudd, with his blatant gestures,
32 son of Cynwrig, father from Gwynedd,
the man who doesn't have Gwynedd men's friendliness,
he corrupted the world's poetry with his mouth.
There is no work, where mead is plentiful,
36 for the one who sings the poems of Gwynedd,
but cutting, pathetic libel,
it's a great load, the path before him.
There is no poet that sings a cywydd to
the likeness of summer's beauty
40 with his ten fingernails,
that Gruffudd doesn't sing, sad test,
whingey appearance, the same cywydd too.
Everyone would make a grand building
44 if wood were to be had, and the health of men.
But it is easier to get, where the wood is no good,
hard journey, a carpenter than the materials.
If he wants a poem, noble and strong blow,
48 he should go to the woods to seek materials.
He is not skilful, beautiful nickname,
the famed poet, renowned name,
if he needs to get vain threads
52 as the materials for his false cywydd.
With his hand on a fine handrail,
old hind, he runs slowly.
Let a poet sing to one who is fair of face
56 a cywyddfrom his own old wood.
I give, aiming a shot back at him,
a warning to the very foolish Gruffudd,
the toy of every fair, the strong prevent him,
60 the cowardly stuttering boaster, echo-stone of the poets:
let the stuttering lad pay
fees for a poem, some of his own work to me.