Biography of Owain Glyn
I live in Penzance, Cornwall, a place steeped in legend and myth and possibly the home of King Arthur's Camelot.
I love words, the sound of them and the look of them, for me they paint pictures of depth and substance. I am irreverent and cynical, but at the same time romantic and full of mischief. I love writing and creating, but I read avidly as well.
Owain Glyn Poems
I am sat on a bench, on the seafront, alone, Just me, and the sea, and the old weathered stone. Of course, there are tourists, who wander on by, And silver winged gulls, as they dissect the sky.
This Green and Pleasant Land
Oh, this green and pleasant land, Its clear blue seas and golden sands. Its rolling hills and wooded vales, Its constant rain and howling gales.
The night was clear, and still, and silent, air like razor-blades The naked trees stood sentry, limbs outstretched, in dark charades The ground, a pure white wilderness, sends out no invitation But the traveler has need of none, he knows his destination.
Men In Grey Suits
There are men in grey suits who infest sand built towers, Where they sit and they spit out their venom for hours, Making judgments and plans which they say we must follow, Leaving them to get fat in the shit that they wallow.
Homes for Gnomes
Would you give a gnome a home? Sit him down on sculpted foam? Find a pleasant shaded spot, Not too cold, and not to hot.
A Tear for Christmas
Christmas comes but once each year I beg from each of you a tear; A tear for the homeless whose bed is the floor
I'm waiting for the Sun to shine, But it won't wait for me, I'm either still asleep in bed, Or busy having tea.
THE DARK ROAD
Lost in loneliness, bathed in guilt, The dark road stretches out, The black wind swirls around my soul, And fills my heart with doubt.
Among The Stars
When I have gone, please do not cry, Shed not a single tear. Do not ask the question, why? Or harbor any fear.
The Poet lives within his word Some erudite, and some absurd Some meaningful, and some obscure Some insightful, some unsure.
How do I find the words To say how much I love you? When you are near
Ethelred had toasted bread Each night before he went to bed. And every day when he got up Hot Chocolate filled his morning cup.
The shops are all empty, with tight battened doors, While gutter bred urchins, scratch cold running sores. Loud roaring taverns do courage-build trade, As the pox-ridden whores act out their dark charade.
I think of all the things I've said, Then thought of different things, instead. I think of all that I have done, When moons were cheese, and life was fun.
Every year it comes around, this season of goodwill,
When visitors we truly loathe, come round and drink their fill.
Relatives we haven't seen, since nineteen fifty four,
Discover where we're living, and come knocking at the door.
We end up going shopping, spending cash we haven't got,
Filling up the Credit Cards, as if we've lost the plot.
We buy for all and sundry, and then we buy some more,
As if we've quite forgotten, that it all needs paying for.