We like March, his shoes are purple,
He is new and high;
Makes he mud for dog and peddler,
Makes he forest dry;
Knows the adder’s tongue his coming,
And begets her spot.
Stands the sun so close and mighty
That our minds are hot.
News is he of all the others;
Bold it were to die
With the blue-birds buccaneering
On his British sky. Emily Dickinson
Whoever masters battery power will, in this age of the renewable and rechargeable, be the Getty, the Rockefeller of our age.
You read a lot about developmental stuff – increasing capacity and efficiency – but less about supply, which is why I found this piece from …so interesting. Richard Jones over on his blog softmachines.org starts his piece asking:
How fast can electric cars take over from fossil fuelled vehicles? This partly depends on how quickly the world’s capacity for manufacturing batteries – especially the lithium-ion batteries that are currently the favoured technology for all-electric vehicles – can expand. The current world capacity for manufacturing the kind of batteries that power electric cars is 34 GWh, and, as has been widely publicised, Elon Musk plans to double this number, with Tesla’s giant battery factory currently under construction in Nevada. This joint venture with Japan’s Panasonic will bring another 35 GWh capacity on stream in the next few years. But, as a fascinating recent article in the FT makes clear (Electric cars: China’s battle for the battery market), Tesla isn’t the only player in this game. On the FT’s figures, by 2020, it’s expected that there will be a total of 174 GWh battery manufacturing capacity in the world – an increase of more than 500%. Of this, no less than 109 GWh will be in China.
Jotting these notes down, I heard about Scott Pruitt’s pronouncements on carbon dioxide and global warming and could only think of Bonhoeffer again, reflecting that:
‘Stupidity is a more dangerous enemy of the good than malice. One may protest against evil; it can be exposed and, if need be, prevented by use of force. Evil always carries within itself the germ of its own subversion in that it leaves behind in human beings at least a sense of unease. Against stupidity we are defenseless; reasons fall on deaf ears; facts that contradict one’s prejudgement simply need not be believed–in such moments the stupid person even becomes critical–and when facts are irrefutable they are just pushed aside as inconsequential, as incidental. In all this the stupid person, in contrast to the malicious one, is utterly self-satisfied and, being easily irritated, becomes dangerous by going on the attack. ‘(Dietrich Bonhoeffer, Letters & Papers from Prison, 43)
A world without poetry would be a dire thing indeed. From Dylan Thomas’s famous villanelle Do not go gentle into that good night to Shakespeare’s famous love sonnet parody, Sonnet 130, the forms of these writings, just as much as the words and phrases, have become a large part of literary history and culture.
As well-known as these intricate styles may be, over many centuries the people of Wales developed a unique set of patterns all of their own. Unlike most English language forms, these focus on the sounds produced within a line and the echoes left after, rather than just on the words themselves.
In total, there are 24 Welsh poetic forms and four metres. The forms have a tendency to be quite short – an Englyn Milwr, for example, was a form used by soldiers to send short messages home during World War I. Sometimes referred to as a British haiku, every verse is composed of three lines, each seven syllables long, all of which rhyme with each other. Though the expressive lines do lend it certain similarities to the Japanese style, the Englyn has a very Welsh identity. Rhyme is an integral aspect of Welsh poetic forms and so, unlike the haiku, each of a verse’s three lines is monorhymed, that is they end in the same rhyme.
To create and maintain harmony within a line, strict Welsh metres, known as “cynghanedd”, are used. The cynghanedd have more in common with music than traditional poetry, and like a piece of music it is made up of more than just one note. In fact, in order to fully appreciate a line of cynghanedd you should read it aloud and listen to the layers of sounds that roll off the tongue.
They achieve this lyrical metre by practising something called “consonantal harmony”. This is unique to Wales because the language effortlessly uses cynghanedd in everyday life: consonantal repetition is part of the landscape of the Welsh language.
A line of cynghanedd is written with an invisible break or caesura in the middle that divides the line, for instance: X X X | X X X X. The cynghanedd is traditionally made up of seven syllables, so here “X” represents each syllable in a line.
Welsh is a heavily syllabic language with the stress usually falling on the penultimate syllable. Take this line from Fern Hill by Dylan Thomas for example, where the “th” and “s” make up the harmony:
“Though I sang in my chains like the sea.”
As Welsh can be a tricky language to master, this example is included despite the fact that Thomas’s knowledge of the cynghanned is debatable. Still, the line is a strong if unintentional example of the metre. A true Welsh language cynghanned example for comparison would be the following, from Dic Jones’s poem Cefn Gwlad:
“I fyw yn glos wrth gefn gwlad”
Translated into English, the line reads, “To live close to nature”, which doesn’t have quite the same effect.
There are four types of cynghanedd or metres: lusg (echoing harmony), draws (bridging harmony), sain (sonorous harmony) and groes (criss-cross harmony). Although they achieve the metre in different ways, their principles are basically the same: the consonants that appear in the first part of the line must appear in the same order in the second, as shown above.
History through verse
These forms remain widely popular in Wales, but to understand why such complexity is necessary, it is important to understand where the poetic forms and metres originate from: they are intrinsically intertwined with the Welsh language. As Welsh developed so did they, coming into their own particularly during the 12th century.
Poets who had mastered the cynghanedd during this century were hailed as “pencerdds”, chiefs-of-song. It would take approximately nine years to master the forms and metres required. In recognition of his position, the pencerdd was granted a special chair in the royal court. There were other poetic positions within the royal household, too, such as bardd teulu – poet to the household – an officer of the court tasked with the duty of performing his work to the queen. The lowest position was that of the musician, the cerddor.
All of these roles had one very important function: they were chroniclers and archivists. It was their responsibility to ensure that the great feats of the king and all his battles were remembered and recited long after he had passed. Reading and writing was enjoyed by a privileged few which made passing down stories a tricky profession. The repetition of sounds in the cynghanedd ensured the poetry was memorable.
The way that the metre forms each poem connects it almost exclusively to the Welsh language: it would be very difficult to recreate the same harmony and balance between a line’s consonants in English or any other language in exactly the same way.
Welsh poetic forms and metres are grandiloquent, challenging and dense, which is great for praising a king and narrating stories. Modern poetry has moved beyond this form-led poetry to a more open style – after all, not many want to read a poem where they can guess the next rhyme – but these poetic forms and metre still have their place in the country. Each year, the words and lines of these poems are brought to life at the National Eisteddfod music and poetry festival, which remains a large part of Welsh culture.
The modern expectations of English poetry have changed, but the centuries-old Welsh poems emphasise that their writing is an ancient craft, and can bring life to the tales of times long ago in a way no other tongue ever could.
We visited March in the Fens yesterday, hoping to see inside the church there. St Wendreda’s is famous for the angels that decorate its medieval timber roof:
The church is kept locked and a leaflet told us to go to a garage nearby and ask for the key – but we found the system discontinued. Two youths, a while before, had taken the keys and robbed the church – so, sadly this photo is only of what we might have seen.
We did see this on the wall of the modern parish hall next door:
Who knows what those slightly anxious cherubs are up to: it could be a choir practice, or the last trump, or something Pol Pot might have recognised…