In Wales we don't wait for Valentine's Day - we have our own patron saint of lovers, St. Dwynwen, whose festival we celebrated yesterday. History tells us that she was the daughter of a medieval king, legend (probably originating in the eighteenth century) that she was spurned in love because of her chastity, but granted by God three wishes because if it. One of her wishes was that all lovers "might either attain the objects of their affection or be cured of their passion"; another was that she should never marry. She is reputed to have died a nun in the church named after her at Llanddwyn just off the coast of Anglesey.
I've been rereading some of my favourite love poems in Dwynwen's honour. A great favourite has to be the clear-eyed, down-to-earth "There's a kind of love called maintenance" by U. A. Fanthorpe (do read it if you're not familiar with it - this is about the love that lasts). And I'm very fond too of the poems in Carol Ann Duffy's collection "Rapture" - so many that most of us can identify with. Her anthology of love poems, "Hand in Hand", contributed by a variety of poets who chose one of their own and a favourite by another writer, also makes good reading. But there's one poem I always carry in my handbag, one that's really special - W. B Yeates' "When You Are Old"; to me that's the greatest love poem ever.
An Absent Love
In threadbare hours
my
mind weaves stories -
stories
to tell you on the shores of morning,
when
the tattered curtains of night draw back,
when
grey mists thin,
when
a rising sun glints
on
the straining canvas of full sails
carrying
you back into the compass
of
these dreamcatcher tales.
(copyright Gill Garrett 2015)
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