Moonlit Orinthologist
Moonlit Orinthologist
I
Moonlight draped on the banister
like a silver wrap at a hotel dance.
Talk winding away like voices
in a long corridor.
The shoe clack, a perfume trace
and a dozen missed opportunities
in the muscatel air, my thoughts
dark as pagan crows.
II
When you are not here, I slip
into your closet, I rest my cheek
on your silk scarf, brush my hair
with your brush, touch my finger
to your face cream.
I straighten the bath towel.
Behind a book a clock ticks. I leave
placing a love letter in your shoe.
III
Off the murmuring dance floor
you find a man like me warmed
by Bombay gin, a man unable
to repair your sleek automobile,
a lover untraveled and poor,
but you will never lack for a man
to hold your hand and whistle
bird songs to sweeten your rest.
Moonlight draped on the banister
like a silver wrap at a hotel dance.
Talk winding away like voices
in a long corridor.
The shoe clack, a perfume trace
and a dozen missed opportunities
in the muscatel air, my thoughts
dark as pagan crows.
II
When you are not here, I slip
into your closet, I rest my cheek
on your silk scarf, brush my hair
with your brush, touch my finger
to your face cream.
I straighten the bath towel.
Behind a book a clock ticks. I leave
placing a love letter in your shoe.
III
Off the murmuring dance floor
you find a man like me warmed
by Bombay gin, a man unable
to repair your sleek automobile,
a lover untraveled and poor,
but you will never lack for a man
to hold your hand and whistle
bird songs to sweeten your rest.
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Re: Moonlit Orinthologist
Wow, so many gorgeous lines in this poem....the placing of the love letter in the shoe is unique. You hit a homer to deep center here...
The shoe clack, a perfume trace
and a dozen missed opportunities
in the muscatel night
When you are not there, I slip
into your closet, I rest my cheek
on your suit lapel, brush my hair
with your brush, touch my finger
to your face cream
Off the murmuring dance floor
you find a man like me warmed
by Bombay gin
The shoe clack, a perfume trace
and a dozen missed opportunities
in the muscatel night
When you are not there, I slip
into your closet, I rest my cheek
on your suit lapel, brush my hair
with your brush, touch my finger
to your face cream
Off the murmuring dance floor
you find a man like me warmed
by Bombay gin
Re: Moonlit Orinthologist
really like the narrative you've added to the initial images that were captivating. It all works well together.
-
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- Joined: 09 Jul 2017, 06:34
Re: Moonlit Orinthologist
Only we Indians write autobiography and confessional poetry.
S
S
-
- Posts: 140
- Joined: 09 Jul 2017, 06:34
Re: Moonlit Orinthologist
Oh Meena,I know you are mocking me, but I wanted to say it.
S
S
Re: Moonlit Orinthologist
Meena---
yes untold, but deeply felt emotion.
Siva---
will you honor me with an honorary Indian citizenship?
here is a major IBPC poet and very widely published writer, Sarah Sloat. the comments of the judge are very helpful:
On Waking I Think of Winter
by Sarah Sloat
Third Place (tie), September 2009
Judged by George Szirtes
mostly because my legs jut like a long
pier out over waves
in the dark’s oceanic pitch
I think of winter when my husband snores across
the expanse of bed, tundra-vast
because children insist on visiting
papoose, bear cub, eskimo: wool
blanket curled below their throats
and I wake like Jack London, only less
bearded, less brave, though the brown kiss of a dog
assists me
where just moments ago I was steeped in
sleep, hallucinating a daisy-faced cartoon
landscape, now
I think of winter because of dreams redressed
by startling alarms, because I have no idea
how to go on
and I think of winter as I always do at dawn
and always did, before I guessed
what winter was
A splendidly funny and childlike image to begin with, immediately given gravity by the dark oceanic pitch, the poem opens on its large possibilities with confidence. Then comes the snoring husband and the waking like Jack London. All this is lovely. The poem then moves on to a meditation about winter and I slightly wish it had moved back into the rougher, more surprising territory it set out with - not necessarily the same image but in that realm. It goes just a touch abstract at the end. It is still a very good piece of work but that cartoon landscape might have come up with something more. But excellent first eleven lines. --George Szirtes
ah, for me I think she means winter is a premonition of.....death....bernie
Bob---
gee wiz. a comment we get when very lucky once in a what....year, life....?
Billy---
narrative. a thread of a story. so we understand even as we are made to feel.
thanks, deeply, to all.
bernie
yes untold, but deeply felt emotion.
Siva---
will you honor me with an honorary Indian citizenship?
here is a major IBPC poet and very widely published writer, Sarah Sloat. the comments of the judge are very helpful:
On Waking I Think of Winter
by Sarah Sloat
Third Place (tie), September 2009
Judged by George Szirtes
mostly because my legs jut like a long
pier out over waves
in the dark’s oceanic pitch
I think of winter when my husband snores across
the expanse of bed, tundra-vast
because children insist on visiting
papoose, bear cub, eskimo: wool
blanket curled below their throats
and I wake like Jack London, only less
bearded, less brave, though the brown kiss of a dog
assists me
where just moments ago I was steeped in
sleep, hallucinating a daisy-faced cartoon
landscape, now
I think of winter because of dreams redressed
by startling alarms, because I have no idea
how to go on
and I think of winter as I always do at dawn
and always did, before I guessed
what winter was
A splendidly funny and childlike image to begin with, immediately given gravity by the dark oceanic pitch, the poem opens on its large possibilities with confidence. Then comes the snoring husband and the waking like Jack London. All this is lovely. The poem then moves on to a meditation about winter and I slightly wish it had moved back into the rougher, more surprising territory it set out with - not necessarily the same image but in that realm. It goes just a touch abstract at the end. It is still a very good piece of work but that cartoon landscape might have come up with something more. But excellent first eleven lines. --George Szirtes
ah, for me I think she means winter is a premonition of.....death....bernie
Bob---
gee wiz. a comment we get when very lucky once in a what....year, life....?
Billy---
narrative. a thread of a story. so we understand even as we are made to feel.
thanks, deeply, to all.
bernie
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Re: Moonlit Orinthologist
Let me look at Bernie's very fine poem,
is he trying to catch the mood of Sarah's poem, maybe.
Yes, a dramatic opening, very good,
something we are familiar with in the West,
not that India doesn't have banisters.
B. introduces the dance hall here in S1.,
and sweetens it in S3. I love the voice
sounding in a long corrider. A hint
of Dali's watch in it. Muscatel night is a gem of a line
relating to a fortified wine of Provence.
This poet often returns to images of a lover/a wife
her apparel, her lingering scent
these things keep her fresh in his memory, there
is a wistfulness there along with pain.
Sentimentality runs riot in S2.
not that it is bad, it enhances the mood
and it is real. Love doesn't leave us alone
it leaves its enduring mark, without it
would we go mad.
Oh yes the gigilo warmed by gin,
any port in a storm,
even beautiful women have
their needs, but there is always
somene willing to accomodate.
You are on a roll Bernie, very well done.
is he trying to catch the mood of Sarah's poem, maybe.
Yes, a dramatic opening, very good,
something we are familiar with in the West,
not that India doesn't have banisters.
B. introduces the dance hall here in S1.,
and sweetens it in S3. I love the voice
sounding in a long corrider. A hint
of Dali's watch in it. Muscatel night is a gem of a line
relating to a fortified wine of Provence.
This poet often returns to images of a lover/a wife
her apparel, her lingering scent
these things keep her fresh in his memory, there
is a wistfulness there along with pain.
Sentimentality runs riot in S2.
not that it is bad, it enhances the mood
and it is real. Love doesn't leave us alone
it leaves its enduring mark, without it
would we go mad.
Oh yes the gigilo warmed by gin,
any port in a storm,
even beautiful women have
their needs, but there is always
somene willing to accomodate.
You are on a roll Bernie, very well done.
Re: Moonlit Orinthologist
Folks---
an excellent textbook, featuring writers just like us, only a little better----is to review the list of IBPC winners---above all looking at the comment from the judge.
http://ibpc.webdelsol.com/winning-poems-by-author
hospice nurse
by Billy Howell-Sinnard
The Writer's Block
Second Place, December 2014
Judged by Philip Belcher
up late
the dying have paperwork
i must complete
it says nothing
about their living
i want to be up early
not miss the blood moon
the total eclipse
in the first hours of morning
dreams are about to say
something i won’t remember
a shadow
over my mind
will disappear
i’ll know
a good thing happened
without a trace
The starkness of these lines shows how content and form can complement each other in the hands of a skilled poet. Even in their brevity, however, the lines are nuanced. Consider the second stanza: “it says nothing / about their living”. The ease with which the reader comprehends the double meaning—the paperwork neither describes the patient’s life nor forecasts more life in the future—amplifies its power. Nothing is opaque here; rather, it is honest and plain. The final stanza, too, is revealing. Having mentioned in preceding stanzas the blood moon and the eclipse, forgotten dreams, and a shadow that has disappeared, the poet ends in a moment of contemplation: “I’ll know / a good thing happened / without a trace”. Like the shadow, the moon, and the dream, a life can pass with no trace but what lives for a time in memory. --Philip Belcher
the final five lines of a bernie pom, but it's the judge's comments i highlight.
She was once briefly unfaithful
and this winter when the crowd
thinned, we skated slowly round
and round at the rink under
a globe of colored glass.
Only as I type my final comments on these poems do I realize a 'leg' connection between this poem and 'Box of Stars.' Anyway, 'Lexington and 83rd Street' is the sort of love poem I can really get behind: It has a dash of grit, some bittersweet, and a gripping final image--'...we skated slowly round / and round at the rink under / a globe of colored glass. --Robert Lee Brewer
can you hear a judge walking through my pom in this Forum?
I
A woman from the calm venue of late dusk.
The day's last swimmer. Coconut shoulders ...........She is untanned...with white "coconut" shoulders
in the green sea, the rogue sea lifted in blows
along the beach.
Now on a balcony with my daughter wading
a tide pool, Hawaiian brochures on my lap
and my wife glimmering in sun, the ocean's
high pitched slap, the sea's cacophonous folds
like a bell on the water's ceremonial top,
I gasp, a marathon swimmer losing a race,
the heart become wilding sea.
II
My dollop of a beach house, collapsed flat ..................clear opening image...
like the nose of a heavy weight boxer.
My chest smooth as stones found by pearl
fishers combing sea floor in rain.
I'm alone all summer, no cash for dances .........our hero is a mess...
and shrimp.
Seedless thunderheads roll fruitless above
my beach shack. Overhead birds circle
on wind, open mouthed for ambient beams
of salt rinsed water.
I turn gold as a stevedore. ............................he tans, it doesn't cost anything and he compares himself to a day laboring dock worker.
An early cigarette, a late drink.
bernie
an excellent textbook, featuring writers just like us, only a little better----is to review the list of IBPC winners---above all looking at the comment from the judge.
http://ibpc.webdelsol.com/winning-poems-by-author
hospice nurse
by Billy Howell-Sinnard
The Writer's Block
Second Place, December 2014
Judged by Philip Belcher
up late
the dying have paperwork
i must complete
it says nothing
about their living
i want to be up early
not miss the blood moon
the total eclipse
in the first hours of morning
dreams are about to say
something i won’t remember
a shadow
over my mind
will disappear
i’ll know
a good thing happened
without a trace
The starkness of these lines shows how content and form can complement each other in the hands of a skilled poet. Even in their brevity, however, the lines are nuanced. Consider the second stanza: “it says nothing / about their living”. The ease with which the reader comprehends the double meaning—the paperwork neither describes the patient’s life nor forecasts more life in the future—amplifies its power. Nothing is opaque here; rather, it is honest and plain. The final stanza, too, is revealing. Having mentioned in preceding stanzas the blood moon and the eclipse, forgotten dreams, and a shadow that has disappeared, the poet ends in a moment of contemplation: “I’ll know / a good thing happened / without a trace”. Like the shadow, the moon, and the dream, a life can pass with no trace but what lives for a time in memory. --Philip Belcher
the final five lines of a bernie pom, but it's the judge's comments i highlight.
She was once briefly unfaithful
and this winter when the crowd
thinned, we skated slowly round
and round at the rink under
a globe of colored glass.
Only as I type my final comments on these poems do I realize a 'leg' connection between this poem and 'Box of Stars.' Anyway, 'Lexington and 83rd Street' is the sort of love poem I can really get behind: It has a dash of grit, some bittersweet, and a gripping final image--'...we skated slowly round / and round at the rink under / a globe of colored glass. --Robert Lee Brewer
can you hear a judge walking through my pom in this Forum?
I
A woman from the calm venue of late dusk.
The day's last swimmer. Coconut shoulders ...........She is untanned...with white "coconut" shoulders
in the green sea, the rogue sea lifted in blows
along the beach.
Now on a balcony with my daughter wading
a tide pool, Hawaiian brochures on my lap
and my wife glimmering in sun, the ocean's
high pitched slap, the sea's cacophonous folds
like a bell on the water's ceremonial top,
I gasp, a marathon swimmer losing a race,
the heart become wilding sea.
II
My dollop of a beach house, collapsed flat ..................clear opening image...
like the nose of a heavy weight boxer.
My chest smooth as stones found by pearl
fishers combing sea floor in rain.
I'm alone all summer, no cash for dances .........our hero is a mess...
and shrimp.
Seedless thunderheads roll fruitless above
my beach shack. Overhead birds circle
on wind, open mouthed for ambient beams
of salt rinsed water.
I turn gold as a stevedore. ............................he tans, it doesn't cost anything and he compares himself to a day laboring dock worker.
An early cigarette, a late drink.
bernie
Re: Moonlit Orinthologist
Frank---
i know you can keep a secret, that "muscatel night" is my favorite line.
thanks for stopping by and---hey, why no pom from you recently?
bernie
i know you can keep a secret, that "muscatel night" is my favorite line.
thanks for stopping by and---hey, why no pom from you recently?
bernie
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- Joined: 02 Mar 2016, 18:07
- Location: Between the mountains and the sea
Re: Moonlit Orinthologist
Hi Bernie, I am posting poems,
but I am in retreat, working hard writing theology and stuff.
I am limited to one poem a month at the moment, thank you for noticing.
I am enjoying your work, and the rest of the gang, I do believe this is turning into a proper forum
of prodigious proportions.
regards
but I am in retreat, working hard writing theology and stuff.
I am limited to one poem a month at the moment, thank you for noticing.
I am enjoying your work, and the rest of the gang, I do believe this is turning into a proper forum
of prodigious proportions.
regards
-
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- Joined: 18 Apr 2005, 04:57
Re: Moonlit Orinthologist
Hi bernie,
"but you will never lack for a man
to hold your hand and whistle
bird songs to sweeten your rest."
^^ the underdog as hero - darkhorse - a Heathcliff broem - the anti-hero as hero - the creative, natural man as hero
I like how the shoe image is a subtle allusion to Cinderella, which is a reference to "if the shoe fits . . " -
and it fits this poem - just right Goldilocks
Formally, at least to me, these are 3 vignettes or tableaux, not a triptych
The atmospherics of the first is intoxicating but not drunken - reminds me of F. Scott Fitzgerald's Tender is the Night & The Beautiful & the Damned - euphoric & fleeting
workshop share:
"in the muscatel night, my thoughts
like pagan crows."
crows are pagan (nature is pagan)
the reader is experiencing a nocturnal scene, so "night" is not needed
in the muscatel air, my thoughts
as dark as crows.
The 2nd reminds me of a classic poem by the haiku master Taniguchi Buson:
The piercing chill I feel:
my dead wife's comb, in our bedroom,
under my heel.
^^ except yours is not post-mortem; and actually neither is his
^^ and also reminds me of one of my own that has some Busonian influence:
http://ibpc.webdelsol.com/poems/disrobing-the-ghost
Workshop share -
I feel a literary urge for a line break on "face" - perhaps realign the 2nd as (and other minors incorporated):
II
When you're not there, I slip
into your closet, I rest my cheek
on your silk scarf, brush my hair
with your brush, touch
my finger to your face
cream, straighten the bath towel.
A clock ticks behind a book. I leave
placing, in your shoe, a love letter.
In the 3rd, I'm now hearing Cyrano de Bergerac speaking to Roxane
(who is the beauty with the beast?)
bernie, I have enjoyed my excursion through the disjunctive aesthetic of your 3 part harmony
Michael (MV)
(There is no beauty without the beast)
Re: Moonlit Orinthologist
Michael---
made the edits.
your comments are exceptional, above and beyond the call....
i focus on your IBPC winner from last year....quoting my favorite passage and the comments of the judge:
the rush of the full moon fills him . . .
his heel brushing by her comb
left — in our bedroom — still
on the worn rug
the soles warm
following in the glow of her footsteps
to free from the weave of fabric
reunited in the one his & her robe of light
Besides the delight a reader takes in this poem’s attention to diction, e.g. “twice upon a time,” “some wear in time,” and “raising the shades,” I want to mention the poem’s ambition. Ambition is sometimes discussed in terms of a poem’s scope, or lack thereof—the depth of what is being attempted. Here, I think the ambition is inherent in the poet’s effort to describe in a fresh way what could be a clichéd scene—lover separated by death finally reunited. The element of craft that makes this work is the specificity of the description, particularly “his heel brushing by her comb . . . left on the worn rug . . . .” In addition, the irregular line breaks work nicely with the subject and the tone of the poem. It is always a good thing when form and content work together, and the poet has done a nice job of that in this poem. --Philip Belcher
thanks so much.
bernie
made the edits.
your comments are exceptional, above and beyond the call....
i focus on your IBPC winner from last year....quoting my favorite passage and the comments of the judge:
the rush of the full moon fills him . . .
his heel brushing by her comb
left — in our bedroom — still
on the worn rug
the soles warm
following in the glow of her footsteps
to free from the weave of fabric
reunited in the one his & her robe of light
Besides the delight a reader takes in this poem’s attention to diction, e.g. “twice upon a time,” “some wear in time,” and “raising the shades,” I want to mention the poem’s ambition. Ambition is sometimes discussed in terms of a poem’s scope, or lack thereof—the depth of what is being attempted. Here, I think the ambition is inherent in the poet’s effort to describe in a fresh way what could be a clichéd scene—lover separated by death finally reunited. The element of craft that makes this work is the specificity of the description, particularly “his heel brushing by her comb . . . left on the worn rug . . . .” In addition, the irregular line breaks work nicely with the subject and the tone of the poem. It is always a good thing when form and content work together, and the poet has done a nice job of that in this poem. --Philip Belcher
thanks so much.
bernie
-
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- Joined: 01 Jun 2008, 09:17
Re: Moonlit Orinthologist
Bernie, this has the delicacy of Roethke or
Gerald Manley Hopkins.
Suggest you change "when you are not there" to "when you are not here" which I think, gives more immediacy and allows the reader to be a participant rather than an observer.
Small thing, really. Nice work.
Gerald Manley Hopkins.
Suggest you change "when you are not there" to "when you are not here" which I think, gives more immediacy and allows the reader to be a participant rather than an observer.
Small thing, really. Nice work.
Re: Moonlit Orinthologist
Kenneth---
both poets are great favorites.
made the change you suggested. much appreciated your comment.
bernie
both poets are great favorites.
made the change you suggested. much appreciated your comment.
bernie
Re: Moonlit Orinthologist
S---
ah, my daughter. my heart, my soul.
In the bird refuge my daughter
unpacks her sack lunch, bread
for the birds, her sleep blanket
and thermos of tomato soup.
The fog comes like a séance
to the birds, they droop wet,
stamp, whisper in the nash
of pippin limbs.
We have secrets too, sacred
language in the dense leaves,
capsized water frogs, reeds
and tangled earth boroughs.
We have a handful of straw,
offerings of sliced mulberry.
The absorption is something
we did not imagine. The birds
open their eyes in the dark
as leopards open a green eye
to hunt.
My daughter listens, watches
until overcome with sleep.
Later, she wakes as the birds fly.
They skim, rise, escape
on the sky's surface propelled
by will as I have watched
her skate alone on pathless ice.
ah, my daughter. my heart, my soul.
In the bird refuge my daughter
unpacks her sack lunch, bread
for the birds, her sleep blanket
and thermos of tomato soup.
The fog comes like a séance
to the birds, they droop wet,
stamp, whisper in the nash
of pippin limbs.
We have secrets too, sacred
language in the dense leaves,
capsized water frogs, reeds
and tangled earth boroughs.
We have a handful of straw,
offerings of sliced mulberry.
The absorption is something
we did not imagine. The birds
open their eyes in the dark
as leopards open a green eye
to hunt.
My daughter listens, watches
until overcome with sleep.
Later, she wakes as the birds fly.
They skim, rise, escape
on the sky's surface propelled
by will as I have watched
her skate alone on pathless ice.
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- Posts: 1987
- Joined: 02 Mar 2016, 18:07
- Location: Between the mountains and the sea
Re: Moonlit Orinthologist
I wish I could write like this
I could copy I suppose.
I could copy I suppose.
Re: Moonlit Orinthologist
Frank---
said the same about several of your recent poems. but thanks for the support.
S brought this old poem up, printed a line.
and now, printing the whole poem---it makes me cry to remember, to relive one of our adventures...
raffish, a ballerina---terribly bright and no one can resist her kindness.
thanks for this very personal comment.
bernie
(working my way from gloomville---well, Dodgers won---but a fierce forest fire dumps smoke, ash and fear close.)
said the same about several of your recent poems. but thanks for the support.
S brought this old poem up, printed a line.
and now, printing the whole poem---it makes me cry to remember, to relive one of our adventures...
raffish, a ballerina---terribly bright and no one can resist her kindness.
thanks for this very personal comment.
bernie
(working my way from gloomville---well, Dodgers won---but a fierce forest fire dumps smoke, ash and fear close.)
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- Joined: 08 Oct 2017, 05:13
Re: Moonlit Orinthologist
Bernie01 wrote:I
Moonlight draped on the banister enchanting opening
like a silver wrap at a hotel dance.
Talk winding away like voices
in a long corridor.
The shoe clack, a perfume trace
and a dozen missed opportunities
in the muscatel air, my thoughts
dark as pagan crows. great last simile
II
When you are not here, I slip very sensual
into your closet, I rest my cheek
on your silk scarf, brush my hair
with your brush, touch my finger
to your face cream.
I straighten the bath towel.
Behind a book a clock ticks. I leave
placing a love letter in your shoe. [/ireally like the love letter in the shoe]
III
Off the murmuring dance floor
you find a man like me warmed
by Bombay gin, a man unable i]
to repair your sleek automobile,
a lover untraveled and poor,
but you will never lack for a man a lovely romantic piece Bernie
to hold your hand and whistle
bird songs to sweeten your rest.
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- Posts: 1987
- Joined: 02 Mar 2016, 18:07
- Location: Between the mountains and the sea
Re: Moonlit Orinthologist
Well whoever S. is, I am learning about her,
seems that wonderful person we all want in our lives,
to take an interest in this fragile art form and heal
by posting lines from old poems is so wonderful.
Yes, glad you are coming out of that place, you
are too good to stay there. It can't be helped
it part of life we must go through, for whatever reason,
like a broken leg it is painful, self-obsessed and will heal
in time.
I have a C. friend who is going through physical agonies
at this time and all I can do is send him platitudes, but
I know he needs my hand held out in friendship, just
to know I am there for him. We cannot live the lives
for our friends we can just be there. But what a difference
that can make.
We are but floating islands in a sea of humanity.
This forum has become alive because, in a large part,
of your efforts. I hope you will see it in time as home.
Who is Ieuan
seems that wonderful person we all want in our lives,
to take an interest in this fragile art form and heal
by posting lines from old poems is so wonderful.
Yes, glad you are coming out of that place, you
are too good to stay there. It can't be helped
it part of life we must go through, for whatever reason,
like a broken leg it is painful, self-obsessed and will heal
in time.
I have a C. friend who is going through physical agonies
at this time and all I can do is send him platitudes, but
I know he needs my hand held out in friendship, just
to know I am there for him. We cannot live the lives
for our friends we can just be there. But what a difference
that can make.
We are but floating islands in a sea of humanity.
This forum has become alive because, in a large part,
of your efforts. I hope you will see it in time as home.
Who is Ieuan