I’ll start with my tedious family
and get it right out of my hair.
“I’ll tell you my father’s Swyn Defnyd,
My mother is—was—Seren Defnyd,
his partner in consultancy.
Or was, before—I don’t know what—and
she chose to abandon me.
“All I know is that one year ago
she went out the door of our home,
walked into the forest, and now
I’m left with my father, alone.”
I once thought I knew what I wanted:
at arach to duly impress
that not just by those who wear pants
it can also be done in a dress.
But lately I find I don’t care
about those fussy old farts’
outmoded ideas pursuing
the science of their manu arts.
Is it science itself that’s to blame
for the advent of this situation?
It does seek to transform the artist
from craftsperson to an equation.
Its aim is to take arach mysteries,
mathematically inspect and deduce,
extracting their heart and their essence,
and boil until they’re reduced.
It makes of a mystery a pattern
not requiring that you understand it
and removes all that’s special, imbued
by the one who invented and planned it.
This will turn every artist’s creation
uninteresting, uniform, bland
when you can’t see the mark of the maker
or the prints of the craftswoman’s hand.
So my quest and my mission in life,
why each morning I have to get up?
To find the unjust narrow-minded
and do all I can to disrupt!