Rugby makes more sense in the original Welsh
I've found myself not only following sports, but actually reading sports news. The Patriots losing in the Superbowl? Big deal. All it means to me is that I won't have to fight the crowds at the train station the day they would have had the big parade. No, the only game that mattered last weekend was Wales vs. England in the 6 Nations rugby tournament.
When I read articles about rugby in English, it makes little sense; I don't know the players, positions, and I'm a little vague on the rules. But articles in Welsh...the poetry comes through clearly. I still don't entirely understand the game, but the deeper meanings reverberate through me. Welsh is the language of poets, madmen, and heaven itself. Some of the greatest hymns such as Cwm Rhondda, Calon Lân, and Milgi Milgi were written in that blessed tongue. And even when applied to something as mundane as sport, the language transforms the secular and often profane into a spiritual, enlightening, and profound celebration of the grace and dignity of human competition.
As an example, a recent article on the BBC's website had the following line:
"Roedd y perfformiad yn yr ail hanner yn erbyn Lloegr yn ffantastig."
Even if you don't understand the words, and can't experience the joy of the sound of them coyly flirting in your ears, the striking visual beauty of the language is unmistakable. The diagonals of the 'y' giving the pattern of letters a beguilingly complex rhythm.
Translated, it becomes unremarkable. Great and significant in meaning, of course, but the beauty of sound is lost.
"The performance in the second half against England was fantastic."
The words are utterly true and utterly bland.
And it was ffantastig. Ffantastig iawn. Ffan-ffycio-tastig.
When I read articles about rugby in English, it makes little sense; I don't know the players, positions, and I'm a little vague on the rules. But articles in Welsh...the poetry comes through clearly. I still don't entirely understand the game, but the deeper meanings reverberate through me. Welsh is the language of poets, madmen, and heaven itself. Some of the greatest hymns such as Cwm Rhondda, Calon Lân, and Milgi Milgi were written in that blessed tongue. And even when applied to something as mundane as sport, the language transforms the secular and often profane into a spiritual, enlightening, and profound celebration of the grace and dignity of human competition.
As an example, a recent article on the BBC's website had the following line:
"Roedd y perfformiad yn yr ail hanner yn erbyn Lloegr yn ffantastig."
Even if you don't understand the words, and can't experience the joy of the sound of them coyly flirting in your ears, the striking visual beauty of the language is unmistakable. The diagonals of the 'y' giving the pattern of letters a beguilingly complex rhythm.
Translated, it becomes unremarkable. Great and significant in meaning, of course, but the beauty of sound is lost.
"The performance in the second half against England was fantastic."
The words are utterly true and utterly bland.
And it was ffantastig. Ffantastig iawn. Ffan-ffycio-tastig.