In the European Parliament the other week Nigel Farage of UKIP launched a scathing personal attack on President of the EU Herman van Rompuy, as well as totally denigrating his nation, Belgium.

   He compared the man's charisma to a 'damp rag' and his appearance to that of a 'low grade bank clerk'. He questioned whether anyone in Europe had actually heard of the man. Apart from being exremely petty, I wonder how many people have heard of Farage. A vox pop in Merthyr would probably lead to confusions with the Severn Barrage. The demeaning of Belgium as a 'non-country' was even more baffling given that they produce the best beer in Europe (not to mention waffles and chocolate!), and have produced many great artists including surrealist painter Magritte and brilliant singer-songwriter Jacques Brel.

   Farage's own simile was a cliche, while van Rompuy is a prolific writer of
haiku and a number are worthy attempts at a difficult form. I imagine Farage's stabs at Oriental culture would be limited to harpooning sushi!

   While I have much sympathy with van Rompuy , I have none at all with his ridiculously high salary and the edifice he represents. With the recession, the EU has been duly exposed as what many on the Left always believed it was :  a capitalist institution of the more powerful nation-states.

   The so-called free movement of labour - which is carefully restricted in certain countries - has merely meant an opportunity to exploit cheap labour across the borders. Workers are driven according to economic situations in given countries, exploited fully by employers if they are legally living there, or by unscrupulous agencies if they are not.

   Moreover, the facade of unity in the EU has completely broken down. The example of Greece, with its centre-left Government is a warning to all.
In Greece's dire situation of recession and debt, the powerful nation-states which control the monetary union are acting like the IMF and making dictatorial demands on that country.  Wide-ranging cuts must be made in public services, so loans can be re-paid. Where is the EU's commitment to the people of Greece and their already low-paid public service workers who perform so many invaluable jobs? The true nature of this monetarist club has been revealed and its priorities clearly shown.

   Plaid Cymru's volte face on S. Ireland shows changing perceptions. Their prominent spokespeople used to laud the 'Tiger' economy,seeing it as a model Wales should aspire to. Now, the South is seen as a warning of what can happen to a free enterprise economy dependent on EU grants and outside investment. But - because they are a mixed economy party and not socialists - their conclusions are never based on the true nature of the EU itself and its constant efforts to bolster capitalism, ignoring the plight of the most vulnerable in society. Let's hope the Unions in Greece don't give up their fight.

   I've visited many countries in Europe and lived and worked in Germany for a year. Even after visiting Japan and gaining some Oriental perspective, I don't know what it is to be 'European'. In Germany, the arrogance of the nation-state was akin to that of France and Britain, treating their Gastarbeiter with utter disdain (the clue's in the word 'Guest-workers').

   The places I've felt a kindred spirit have undoubtedly been Ireland and Brittany. The importance of literature to the Irish people was immediately apparent when I had poems published in the 'Irish Press', a daily paper based in Dublin and there's nothing to beat music sessions in pubs where musicians join in and singers get up from the audience to deliver the most moving ballads.Brittany, with its Fest Noz and many folk festivals combining traditional music and dance, also seems to have that Celtic spirit emanating from the emotions.

   I also felt that here too were nations struggling against the odds to keep and further their identities. In Breizh (Brittany) against a French state which refuses to see Brezhoneg (Breton) as an official language and in Ireland where the struggle for a united country still goes on.

   These are haiku I wrote about our stay with a native Breton-speaker last summer. I saw a number of the 'Skol Diwan' ( Infant and Primary schools), which existed despite getting no funding from the French Government.

                                      HAIKU  BREIZH
Pyramid sandcastles :
scooped, sculpted and symmetrical.
Next day untraceable.


Calm resting harbour ;
one bay where the waves stampede :
this moody coastline.


Brown fold of galette,
sweet drawn lace of the crepe :
window of palate.



Seaweed clawed in clumps
by the large metallic crabs :
medicine for land.



Runners, fishermen,
twitchers on the low cliff path :
finding horizons.


Skol Diwan, house-schools,
the language like tough marram :
sand always moving.

Dance of finger-link,
festival of village field :
head drum and belly bagpipe.

Homes shuttered up,
owners south for the summer,
yet swallows are here.

Fields of rye, church spires :
sudden city-blocks stacked up,
end of road war-ships.


Beggars on the streets,
city once war-flattened :
caps, deserted nests.




                                             

   One year ago, St. David's Day and an afternoon out down the Bay. We were picking up on the tail-end of the annual procession. A young woman was desperately trying to get a dragon's head on assisted by her father, near the large security barriers designed to stop the Super Furry Animals and their tank painted in CCFC colours from invading the Senedd.

   We expected something to happen. The parade dispersed into the crowd : there were quite a few St. David flags which I mistakenly attributed to Bluebird fans. A couple of politicians gave very tedious speeches from the steps of the Assembly and then everybody looked around for an event. The only thing happening was a Breton dance group who didn't have the full accompaniment and were nowhere near as good as the many we'd witnessed in Llydaw itself.

   For the many atheists, humanists, agnostics and non-Christians in Cymru it must feel strange celebrating our national day (not even a public holiday) in recognition of a Christian saint. As an ardent atheist ( who had an intense flirtation with Zen Buddhism as a student) I cannot identify with this day at all.

   What alternatives are there, however? An Owain Glyndwr Day? Though as a republican, I reject all princes, including our own. From a purely Merthyr and socialist perspective, I'd want a national day which commemorated the Merthyr Rising of 1831. Not a Dic Penderyn tribute, but a genuine celebration ( like May Day used to be) of the Welsh people's ability to resist oppression and, what's more, raise the red flag for the first time. However, other places like Newport and their Chartist uprising, would have equal claims.

   There's no easy solution, but perhaps March 1st could be re-named Cymru Day and those who wish to identify with the Christian side of it can do so, while others can dress as dragons and listen to one of the very best albums of the last decade 'Dark Days/ Light Years' and read the works of our National Poet, Gillian Clarke.

   How much better it is to have a National Poet rather than Poet Laureate, who must ( even if not her poems) be necessarily deferential to the monarchy. I heard that Gillian Clarke has refused Honours from Elizabeth Windsor and she has gone up even higher in my estimation as a result of this. Clarke has produced many excellent poems in her role and though her political views are equally sound, I believe she is somewhat confused.

   In the Academi's latest newsletter she writes about the possibility of the Tories gaining power in the next General Election, describing them as 'those who fought against' the very existence of the Senedd.

   As someone who took part fully in both 'Yes' campaigns for a National Assembly, I find this comment astounding. Despite it being Labour Party policy in '79, the most vociferous politicians opposing it came from that party, in particular the likes of Neil Kinnock. As a referendum on law-making powers comes closer, it is significant that the leading 'No' campaigners are Labour activists like Rachel Banner of True Wales. 

   It may well be that the Tories gaining power in Westminster will be the best scenario for Wales. Any clear red water ( well, very pale pink anyway) could well become a ruddy moat and the Tories this side of it could have to decide between Welsh policies based more on fairness and co-operation and a British Government intent on decimating public services. I hope I'm right. I hope that, given a likely Tory victory, the coalition in the Senedd will seriously resist such cuts and , in fact, lead the resistance.

   At any rate, the Labour Party in Westminster in the shape of Murphy and Hain, have maintained their scepticism towards devolution and clung to their ever-decreasing powers like beseiged barons. Neil Kinnock could even emerge again as champion of the 'No' campaign : True Wales are certainly flirting with him.

   In the following sonnet - written aeons ago - I depicted the events when Lizzy Windsor opened our National Assembly and the whole of Cardiff Bay was turned into a police state for a day...........

                              ST.DAVID'S DAY

It was the Senedd's opening day
a bloated brown rat crossed my path
from dockland huddles to apartment Bay,
yellow security fence-posts were a stark
signal in the distance and rooftop marksmen
brought back Belfast, where even hospitals
were transformed into military garrisons ;
republican banners were sails blown full.
A suspect package, people tipped onto quayside
and a slightly dark, moustachioed man
was surrounded, ambushed and turned inside
and out by policemen sniffing an explosion.
The building, a glass shelter and cellar,
waiting for the first cracks to appear.

  

   The monthly Open Mic. sessions (on the posters 'Open Mike') at The Imp in Merthyr  have been going for over three years. We began with Patrick Jones before his launch was controversially cancelled by Waterstone's and next month welcome David Greenslade ( on March 11th), who I recall doing an amazing performance once with the aid of some unlikely fruit.

   Audiences have varied considerably from a disastrous three (including author) when most thought it had been cancelled, to packed evenings for Rachel Tresize, just after she'd won the £60,000 Dylan Thomas Prize and the launch of the 'Merthyr Writing' anthology when Merthyr's writers actually appeared out of their attics in support.

  Everyone who regularly attends has their favourites and , on a popular vote, Jerry Hooker must be Number One, with his subtle and evocative poetry. For me (apart from Mike Church's hilarious stand-up) the finest evenings have been where content  and performance have been successfully united, from local boy Des Barry's stories, to the marvellous Herb Williams reading from his latest book 'Wrestling in Mud', one of the best books I've read in a long time.

   Some writers, so powerful in print, cannot communicate when it comes to readings. R.S. Thomas never failed to disappoint, with his drab and passionless manner. But enough of the negative, when I went to Aberystwyth Uni. so long ago, I was inspired by many readings. Tony Harrison, a regular visitor, combined the erudite and earthy like no other. I got to meet the Scots poet Norman MacCaig, who read with great verve and character and bought me a whisky after ( that's the way to make fans for life).

   One of the most revelatory performances was on a course I attended at Gregynog. Four poets lead the course : Harrison, Roy Fisher, Glyn Hughes and Edwin Morgan, but it was the latter's reading which made the most impact. I couldn't believe the audacious variety of his work, from concrete and sound poetry, to the mean streets of his native Glasgow. It altered completely the way I was to write and also think of readings.

   The most incomprehensibly moving of poetry readings was one by the renowned Russian poet Yevgeny Yevtushenko. Though some poems were read by his translator, most were read by him in Russian. The dramatic sound carried the audience along; it was like giving yourself to the sea, floating with your face to the moon. After, I spoke to one of my English lecturers, full of enthusiasm - 'It was a circus and he was the clown', he replied and I wondered how two such contrasting versions could co-exist.

   When I was teaching in Merthyr we had many visiting poets. Two of the most memorable were Welsh writers Ifor Thomas and John Tripp, but up there with them were Benjamin Zephaniah and Adrian Mitchell. Both read to halls packed with pupils and wowed them totally.

   When Zephaniah was walking the school corridors he was mistaken for Marley's ghost (Bob, that is) and after reading, one little girl approached him asking if she could pull his dreadlocks; he politely obliged. Mitchell was magic : such proof of his own dictum that 'Most people ignore most poetry, because most poetry ignores most people'.......he never ignored the people.

                      When He Read He Sang

                               i.m. Adrian Mitchell

 

It is Christmas

and I still remember

his card a decade previous :

his cartoon elephant

carrying love and peace.

 

Jazz and blues,

rock and rhyme –

when he read he sang.

 

He visited my school

took them in his hands,

a whole restless Year 9,

pointing to the playground

and torturers with foaming fangs.

 

He became like a blackbird

or one of Blake’s angels,

common and extraordinary,

with a song like Brecht’s

to ring the world.

 

Rhythm and breathing,

roll and scan –

when he read he sang.

 

His gentle spoken voice

like Victor Jara’s hands,

light as single feathers

strong as they are joined :

rising and beating with us,

taking hopes to their highest.

 

Saxophone and pen,

blue notes opening –

when he read he sang.

   As the British army begins its offensive in Helmand province in Afghanistan and the Govenment warns of increasing casualties, I can't help but recall the astoundingly twp comments of Merthyr MP Dai Havard ( who actually spends more time out there than in this constituency) that 'it is not a war'. How many aid workers help a suffering country with  bombs and guns? One die-hard fact, Dai Havard : there were civilian casualties of over 2000 in the first 10 months of last year.

   The madness of the world continues, with both Obama and Brown believing they can defeat terror by fuelling it, as they support a corrupt regime.

   Yet, the revelation of the week has almost gone unnoticed. I sat down to watch Andrew Neill's 'Straight Talk' interview with Plaid Cymru MP Elfyn Llwyd last night in the hope that broadcast media had latched onto it, but the programme was aborted by breaking news from the States about a gas explosion.

   Elfyn Llwyd,a sober lawyer not a fantasist, has insisted that he should be called before the Chilcot Inquiry (in private, if necessary) because he has seen a confidential memo proving that Bush and Blair came to a secret agreement at the then President's ranch in Texas in April 2002.

   Llwyd has stated - ' the deal was struck, incontrovertibly'. Of course, this means (surprise,surprise) that Blair lied to the Chilcot Inquiry and that, as many suspected, the actual decision to go to war was made between these two men and had nothing to do with Cabinet or Parliament. In a week when there has been so much hysteria about MP's expenses, surely we should take things into perspective and demand as well, a proper trial for Blair and Bush, to hold them responsible for so much death and destruction?

   Chilcot has yet to call MP Llwyd and has also neglected to call that other vital player, Hans Blix, whose recommendations to Blair about the distinct lack of WMD would be crucial evidence. Blix recently expressed amazement that he wasn't giving his account. As George Galloway said on Question Time last week, the reason for invading was in fact the lack of WMD. If they had existed, the invasion wouldn't have happened and he cited North Korea as a case in point.

   The one topic not introduced has been the importance of oil. The whole motivation behind regime change was the need to secure the vast and profitable Iraqi oil-fields under the control of Western companies. There's a
great song by Texan singer-songwriter James McMurtry called 'God Bless America' which rails against US economic imperialism in a bitter, bluesy way . His image of 'sucking up the oil through the barrel of a gun' is especially evocative.

   Like Elfyn Llwyd's revelation, the news from Iraq itself seems to be sidelined from television. Blair, in all his smug self-righteousness, can claim that Iraq is so much better without Saddam Hussein and not be questioned. Yet, this year alone over a hundred people have died as a result of suicide bombings. Before the invasion, there was no Al Qaeda in Iraq. The war has managed to divide that country to an even greater extent, creating Sunni fanatics and an Islamic fundamentalism which hardly existed before. There is no doubting Saddam's dictatorship, but in overthrowing his regime methods were used which were remarkably similar to those he deployed.

   This poem came from reading the account of Omar Deghayes who was arrested in Pakistan because he had lived previously in Afghanistan (working as a businessman). He was tortured by the US secret service, with the British equivalent in attendance and spent six years in Guantanamo Bay, where no evidence was produced to suggest his guilt and where he lost the sight of one eye when a guard tried to gouge out both his eyes. He was eventually released and now lives near Brighton. Despite his promise, Obama has yet to shut down Guantanamo. The title is taken from Omar's own words.

                                         'I AM A NUMBER'

                                                  1.
I know
through the blur
one moon, one star -
I am a number

too many zeros in this world -
the black hole
of my left socket

not the number
they knew me by,
those guards and bolt-hole
mouths spraying pepper

but a number recurring -
one I insist on,
the horizon of clifflines

a number they wanted to gouge out -
I struggled to count
as my eyes turned liquid    turned blood.

                                                  2.

when I saw the landscape
of my face
what they had done to it

it was both east and west -
the starved desert of cheeks,
dead pit of one eye-ball

my nose a broken Tower of Babel -
even the wrinkles were treads
of boots of soldiers invading

when I saw this place
I knew I'd  fought with hands and feet -
battlefield where I return at night

and now, the salty breeze
can soothe these spoil heaps,
the history of my skin

but I won't rest as they defile others -
precious countries from the southern foothills
to headlands of the north.
 

   On Wednesday a package arrives at the door. I believe it's a late birthday present of cd's from my daughter Bethan. It turns out to be copies of my new book 'The Climbing Tree', a novella for teenagers who've had enough of Harry Potter wizardry and books thick as breeze-blocks.

   I'm excited. It's a premature delivery and about as slim as I'd anticipated. I love the cover with its bulbous tree seen from below and line of rope running from top to bottom. Later on in the week, publishers Pont tell me the official publication date is Feb. 15th, so this is a bonus.

   My young daughter, an avid fan of Jacqueline Wilson and , more recently, Michael Morpurgo, arrives home and grabs a copy, declaring 'It's mine!' My wife reads it for the first time and thinks she might appreciate it more in a few years time. My daughter thinks it looks a scrawny beast next to her current reads. It's like I've finally given her a pet, only it's turned out to be a stick insect not a nice, fluffy kitten.

   The book's dedicated to 'My former pupils at Radyr Comp., Cardiff' , but maybe I should've named all of them.

   I write up answers to an interview for the Pont website. 'Where did the inspiration come from?' I began writing it ten years ago ( then a play called 'Waste' ), so it's hard to remember. However, the actual tree which features as an important 'character' is still there. I can see it out of my window and it's the best around for climbing. It used to have a rope tied to one branch where kids and youths would swing. Nowadays, the area's fenced off and it's more difficult to get to, so few go out there.

   It's great to touch the book and I can't imagine a world without them, though recent technology such as i-pads suggest they could disappear.

   I'm delighted now that the original play, the bleaker 'Waste', was never produced. Thanks in no small part to Viv at Pont, this is more optimistic and, I hope, better for it.  Also, I can't imagine how some of the special effects would've been achieved on stage, especially the 'siles', which are missile-like fireworks.

   I've always been fascinated by dystopian novels since reading 'Brave New World', 'We' ( another novella),'1984' and 'The Handmaid's Tale'. However, I don't claim this book to be a wide-sweeping vision : it's more of a fragment.

   In retrospect, one of my main influences was 'A Clockwork Orange' with its gang of 'droogies'. I would have liked to create a whole new vocabulary like Burgess, but give a sense of it with the 'wraps' (their drugs) and the 'fedicopters' ( police helicopters).

   What will become of this novella when it's released into the wider world, I don't know. If it's truly a stick insect maybe it will be noticed moving amongst the branches of an oak and be adopted.

    Just to prove my obsession with trees , here's a recent poem about another oak, this time one with a different sensibility to the climbing tree (oh no, I'm beginning to sound like Carlo/ PC!) -

                                             ROOT  RISING

           Oak's root rising up
              into the lawn
                                                       a bulky thigh-bone
                                                          not yet exposed

                          too many lopped limbs
                            and now it plans
                                                    to leave us

                 I dream
                             its treedom
                                              uprooted

   by its own force
                          hurdling the fence
                                                    branches back-and-foreing
             stumbling over reed-beds
                                                 hauling itself out of muddy streams

          till it reaches
                            a thicket of trees
                                                    where it will end its days

             but daylight
                             you can't avoid
                                                   yellow fungus bright as blood

                wax
                     the sun
                               will fire
                                          to fever

                       soon the charred stub-ends
                                                               rings of age

                             will blacken beyond telling. 

   This week has been dominated by the F.A. Cup for me. I've had the pleasure of watching two victories at our new Cardiff City Stadium and I'm eagerly awaiting the draw for the next round.

   The crowds were well below average for both ties. For the Brizzle game we were down to a pathetic 6,000 odd and for Leicester yesterday ( a side close to us in the Championship) it only rose to a sparse 10,000. It looked like Wales football team at the Millennium Stadium. On Tuesday, you could even hear our keeper berating defenders.

   I know four regular season ticket holders who didn't go to both matches. This follows a pattern throughout the country and, with a few exceptions, almost every club saw a  considerable drop in attendances for the Cup. When I phoned the club for tickets, the woman claimed it was down to 'the Recession' and who can blame people for choosing to opt out occasionally?

   In the case of my friends, I suspect it was more likely to be our striker Jay Bothroyd in collusion with their spouses. Bothroyd - despite being voted man of the match v. Leicester - told reporters prior to the Bristol City game that the Cup was a distraction from our main aim : promotion from the Championship. Logically he was right, though his timing was questionable.

   I ought to agree, but can't. Memories of our epic journeys to Wembley two years ago are still fresh, as are the thrilling victories against Leeds and Man. City when both were high-flying Premier teams. When my son and I travelled to Middlesbrough ( then a top-flight team ) for the Quarter Final he cheered me up no end by predicting - 'We're going to get stuffed!' All the more joyous then, when we won 2-0 and my lucky scarf still bears the scuff marks of being trailed outside his car on our journey home.

   Then there were great days at Wembley itself. Before the Final, we drank outside a pub in Baker St. and everyone urged tourists in open-topped buses to 'Do the Ayatollah!' Comically, fans were clutching beer glasses in their hands, so slapping heads with one hand only. Tourists replied in similar fashion, possibly believing we were members of some obscure Welsh religious cult!

   We came so close to winning the FA Cup it seems incredible. Even after our defeat against Pompey ( one friend is still nicknamed 'Up Pompeii' because of his mispronunciation ), we were chanting more loudly than their supporters - WE NEARLY WON THE CUP!

   In 1925, we lost in the Final only to return two years later to defeat Arsenal 1-0, courtesy of a gaff by their Welsh keeper.  I dream of Arsenal signing Wayne Hennessey and of him lining up against us in this year's final. Let's hope my lucky scarf survives another car journey.

   Passing Ninian Park is surreal : the Bob Bank, where I sat for so many seasons , still stands and faces one house ( presumably a show house) which is nearly completed on the site. We debated names for streets, like Leo Fortune-West Boulevard, but this house seems to be on Turnstile Row. If only I could actually buy one on the Bob Bank, where my stairs would be terrace steps and I could sit in my own,old seat and gaze out ...........

P.S.  Stoke have just beaten Arsenal. Are Chelsea after Boaz Myhill?




THEY CAN’T KNOCK DOWN

 

They can pull down those floodlights

one by one and demolish the stands

where I used to sit and stand,

uproot the metal barriers

I once leant against.

 

They can crack and crumble

the many stone terraces

where I moaned or leapt,

sell off the Grange End clock,

haul down the facade

to reveal a painted sign

like some ancient cave drawing.

 

But, they can’t knock down

all the memories, the years

from the deepest Dungeon

to the Tower of the top,

from Blakey’s bender and Young’s crash home,

from Clarkie’s header, Earnie’s celebrations,

to pitch invasions at the season’s end.

 

 

No, when the last block’s shifted

and the ground is completely levelled,

my mind will make a park there

from the many eras, with family and friends

high above watching, clapping, chanting

as grass grows again in my vision.

   The closure of the huge Bosch automotive parts factory at Miskin is yet another kick in the goolies to the Welsh economy and both the Senedd and Westminster seem powerless to prevent such tragedies or to alleviate suffering afterwards. Re-training schemes are all very well, but people have few alternatives in times of recession bordering on Depression.

   When it was set up in 1991, the multi-national company Bosch was given a massive grant of £21 million by the Welsh Development Agency towards that plant. Like many private industries it was lured by public finance ( our money, in other words) to locate in an area of then cheap labour. Will Bosch now pay back every penny of that grant to the Welsh people or, at least, use all of it to compensate workers who've lost their livelihood? Like Hoover in Merthyr, Bosch will move elsewhere ( in their case, Hungary) where labour costs are 65% cheaper.

   This is the harsh reality of capitalism and until we actually replace it with a completely different society based on equality, justice and full democracy, this scenario of boom and bust will continue. Already, it echoes the 1980's and the dark days of Thatcher when unemployment was used as a weapon to keep wages down and virtually destroy the Unions. After the election ,whichever party is elected , we will see an onslaught on public services which will make even Thatcher seem liberal-minded.

   Merthyr Tudful has barely enjoyed the boomtime at all and here, as elsewhere, unemployment is inextricably connected to drug-taking, crime and prostitution. People of all ages are being seriously affected and Merthyr has one of the highest rates in the whole of the DK ( Disunited Kingdom ), especially with the 'hidden unemployment' of incapacity benefits taken into account.

   Long-term solutions must be on many different levels. We need to create a society based on producing sustainable goods, not serving the greed of property ownership. Above all, we need a banking and industrial system based on co-operatives and nationalised utilities and transport links ( i.e. both rail and bus). The mistake in the past was to run nationalised industries like private enterprises : decisions should be made from below upwards, with managers elected from the shop floor in a true democracy.

   The Senedd must devise a plan to alter the whole nature of our economy in the coming years, instead of tinkering with a system which is bound to fail.  Credit Unions should be linked to a plethora of local co-ops ( industries, shops and pubs ), with the knowledge that all investments would go to help these, while any profits from them would be ploughed back into the Credit Unions to help those in financial difficulties. At the very least, the Senedd ( when it has power to do so) must declare a policy of nationalising water, energy and rail companies and running them to benefit the Welsh people . Only then, can we reap the rewards of water pumped to English cities, take control of alternative energy sources and ban opencast and plan a railway network which joins all parts of the country in a feasible and economic way.

   Unemployment must be the number one priority of Senedd and Westminster . From Holyhead to Newport, Wales has suffered more than anywhere else in the DK. So many young people are leaving school with no hope of a job ; so many graduates are finding their qualifications do not guarantee employment and so many skilled workers are being flung onto the tip of redundancy and left to smoulder there.

   A revolution is essential . A revolution of consciousness and awareness that capitalism cannot deliver and there are alternatives. It is not a matter of 'socialism in one country', but I do feel that Wales must find its own way, based on sharing and co-operation. We do not need models from the past, but we do need to draw on our history and the people of the 1831 Rising in Merthyr ,the Chartists and protesters of Rebecca , for inspiration for a future where ideals are the tracks and most people will get on as passengers.


  
     
 EM'TIED  LIVES

I done it all

f'r my famlee,

I worked all owers

an didn ardly see

my two little ones.

 

My missis workin on-a tills,

we paid f'r nursree.

It gutted me

t come ome late

an find em in bed orready.

I kissed theyer cheeks

an promised all-a olidays

we'd ave eventually.

 

It woz jest a letter,

I even joked t Debbie -

'If issa bill

put it where it b'longs.....

in-a bin!'

 

I couldn bleeve it,

on'y a coupla months

we adn paid up :

wha with the eatin,

food goin up ev'ry day,

scrimpin f'r value stuff ;

we don' even smoke,

go out on Sat'days down-a club.

 

All tha tv talk bout 'negative equity'

it me slap in-a face

like I'd bin mugged,

'repossession' a word

never thought I'd read

in a letter to us.

 

All-a thin's we'd done t the ouse

an I int even andy,

conservatory an a combi boiler.

Issa tidee area an all,

the kids cun play safely.
 

 

 

 

Don' know where we'll go.

My mam's is a small terrace.

She'd ave us tomorrow,

but Deb is so cut up

she stares inta distance

an lissens when I rant -

' Whassa fuckin point?

Why ave we bothered?

All ese yers working so ard?'

 

It's easy f them politicians

an them experts on-a telly,

sayin thin's ull turn agen,

sayin it's on'y tempree.

F'r us, it means ower lives

re em'tied, ower futures

stole like the bailiffs

come an took furniture away.

 

Wish now I adn toiled

my bollocks off doin overtime

an put the presen' first,

played with Shane an Faye,

read em stories till they slept.

An when Deb sayz

we'll afto start agen

I glare at er like she's crazee,

like she've learnt nothin.

   Let it be known : January has been cancelled! To many, the snow has outstayed its welcome, like an eccentric uncle who stays for Christmas and whose flatulence and jokiness was , at least, different ; now, he's not only tedious but a downright nuisance. The economy is in even more dire straits, shops are stripped of soup and bread, teachers are all bunking off and worried parents are forced to resort to playing with their offspring.

   Even left-wing Plaid Cymru AM Leanne Wood - one of the few politicians I have any time for - has joined in with the teacher-bashing, claiming they had a week off last year ( must've been part of RC T only) and that pupils should congregate in Community Centres where teachers can perform minor miracles of education with the equipment there : mostly, in my experience, consisting of tables , chairs and a few pool tables.

   Teachers do not make the decision to close schools, so her attacks are misdirected. Decisions are made by Heads in consultation with local authorities. I would imagine that Health and Safety played a major role, as well as the fact that school buses weren't running and still aren't in RCT. Parents are only too willing to use litigation nowadays, so think of a situation where pupils are allowed to go to schools whose yards resemble ice rinks. The same parents who are complaining about schools shutting , would probably be first to sue if little Stephanie or Benjamin broke a leg or two on school grounds.

   Herding pupils into Community Centres is ludicrously impractical, given the lack of space and resources there. Likewise, reviving the former practice of teachers reporting to local schools would be merely an exercise in child-minding ; though perhaps that's what Ms. Wood had in mind.

   With the help of cat litter scattered over our Close, damp start and a mouse-eaten blanket over our car overnight, I was taken to the train station for the Cardiff City game last Saturday. After my wife suggested it, cat litter seems to have caught on and one chapel in Canton had spread it all over steps and path. Local mogies had yet to make their offerings.

   In Cardiff, I bought a pair of hiking boots and when the assistant asked what they were for I should've replied - ' Everyday use round town.' I wished I'd worn them on my trek to Chapter for a pint pre-game ; the streets were lethal and , for once, Cardiff has had it worse than Merthyr, for ice if not for snow.

   Despite the problems (especially for older people) the Big Snow does bring us out of ourselves. People chat more readily at my local Post Office, some with clear memories of 1947 and drifts to get lost in. There is always 'More on the way' , even when it's snowing outside and I'm privileged to get priority when it comes to a loaf : passed under the counter like some illicit food during post-war rationing.

   This one's from my book 'Poems for Underage Thinkers', published by Pont -

                                             THE  BIG  SNOW

Three feet and the whole village
discovers its legs, dead spiders
are spilled out of green wellies,
people smile at each other,
remembering teeth and dentures
are meant for more than chewing,
amazed that a whole world
exists without roofs, unseated
they stroll down the main street
daring hellos to everyone
they meet, paying courtesy visits
to their abandoned cars,
hardly anyone working and no-one
on the phone chasing them up.
Another few feet and they'd be hugging
complete strangers, kissing cheeks
French-style and melting piles
with laughter, taking gran's shopping
uphill by sleigh-power, snowballing
the earnests who trek wearily home.

       

   Snow is another country : a country of childhood, but also of danger and disruption.

   My memories of Aberystwyth as a young child and later as a student are never covered in its white. Rather, the only association there is with Dylan Thomas's 'A Child's Christmas in Wales' on vinyl. His Swansea, only a coast away, was another continent, never mind country.

   Living in East Anglia from ages seven to eighteen, we had a few white Christmases, one I recall playing footie with my brother and sister on the cricket field of Horseheath village. We played with a prize plastic ball, my favourite present that year. After, I made the mistake of drying it in front of our wood-burning stove. I returned later to find a melty mass.

   Only in Merthyr and living in the Arctic zones of Aberdare Mountain, have I fully realised what snow can mean. Sledging on the Waun out the back and on the Beacons is always great fun and my older daughter Bethan was always the expert, once speeding all the way down a slope, through the gate at the bottom and onto the A470! Luckily, no cars were passing.

   Perhaps her ability and that of my other daughter Niamh comes from being snow babies. Both were born in Decembers of big snow. Bethan was taken to Aberdare hospital ( Merthyr was full! ) through a thick snowstorm, while 18 years later she drove us all to Cardiff's Heath hospital while it fell heavily on the expressway : Niamh was born days later. My wife was literally snowed in with baby Bethan as I was tutoring a writing course in Devon : snow so high it covered the central heating outlet and froze it completely. A friendly neighbour cleared it with a blow-torch.

   Vitally, snow also meant nor being able to get to work. In the early days as a teacher, you had to report to the local school, but they never bothered to use you. Once I trudged with a colleague from our side of the valley, down and uphill to reach Pen-y-dre High school, only to be told it was closed.

   The new Head there had other ideas and refused to give in to the elements until one incident changed his mind forever. He was forced to abandon his car  one time in the Gurnos and take public transport back to the leafy lanes of Pentyrch. When he returned to school his very expensive vehicle had been trashed. From then on, a single flake was enough to close down the establishment.

   Snow brings us together, makes us kids again, helps us find our feet and certainly makes the sometimes drab Valleys as glorious as they are in autumnal colours. For me it will always mean two babies wrapped in blanket cocoons : two white butterflies emerging from winter.

  

PLU  EIRA

 

   First feathers falling. No sign of settling.

   The great white bird turns from dark to light, spanning the valley. Sun on the east side, cloud on the west. Away in the distance, y Bannau with their icy crests.

   I remember East Anglia and snow at Christmas : our family walks, pudding-bellied after dinner, plum-cheeked in the cold.

   Where was the white bird then?

   We tried to summon it with our speech: loose leaves of half-recalled poems, of ‘A Child’s Christmas’ on our tongues. We hardly touched the light and melting plumage.

   The great bird has flown, but will soon return. Berries remain on hawthorn bushes.

   It will leave the sky bare-skinned and plucked like a fowl for the oven, but when it flies you’ll hear it calling to ageless children : its repeated, excited invitation – ‘ Come! Come catch me if you can!’

   If I'm in danger of repeating myself more frequently as I get older, I'd rather do it on purpose. If there were any justice this Christmas, then Thea
Gilmore's seasonal album 'Strange Communion' would be number one. Slowly, the word is getting out and Caroline Sullivan in last Friday's 'Guardian' acknowledged its undoubted power ( Sting's latest got slammed).

   All this follows seeing her perform live at Aberdare last week : a truly memorable gig. Apart from 'Fairytale of New York' I've got no time for Christmas songs at all ( I even resisted buying Sufjan Stevens' triple album of them ). Gilmore, on the other hand, avoids all the platitudes and twee Christian observations.

   Her voice is as powerfully moving live as on record ( a rarity in itself ) and she's backed by fine musicians in Nigel Stonier (who co-wrote two songs) and Fluff on violin, who is up there with The Waterboys' Steve Wickham : fiery one song and full of feeling the next.

   There are so many high-points it's hard to choose : great versions of Ono's 'Listen,the snow is falling' and Costello's 'The St. Stephen's day Murders' ; her poignant pagan hymn  sung a capella, 'Sol Invictus' and the singalong 'That'll be Christmas', with its apt descriptions of all the contradictions.

    Gilmore has a good line in self-deprecation - 'It could be the last time you see us in a venue like this.' When the band launched into 'Mainstream' from the album 'Avalanche' you were carried along by her ever-the-outsider stance, which I hope will never be lost, because it's created so many excellent songs like 'Lip reading' and 'Straight Lines'. Go along to her Wintertide tour and get your album signed with kisses after : can't see Lily Allen doing that! 

   One of the most amusing Christmas poems ever is Benjamin Zephaniah's 'Talking Turkeys' , which addresses them as friends in a Jamaican dialect, making a plea for them to be spared the ritual slaughter - 'It could be yu mate, an not on your plate'.

   I once tried a similar thing with 'Turkeys aren't pets' which, together with 'The essence of presents' appears in one of Seren's best ever sellers,the 'Christmas in Wales' anthology. The latter's based very closely on the truth. My father was the specialist and did give me a rusty tin-opener which had belonged to my grandad! With a father like that, you'd think my mother would have compensated ; however, she was just as parsimonious and once sent my wife a pair of plain knickers, not even wrapped!

   My sister carries on the family tradition, sometimes sending goods bought from charity shops ; all well and good, but they tend to be the grubby, tattered variety and my children didn't appreciate being sent text-books one time. This year, we had a envelope full of hazelnuts picked by a friend of hers, together with a scrawled recipe for vegan nut roast. Now where is that nut-cracker, or shall I just enlist the help of the local squirrel?

   This one's even more influenced by Zephaniah :-


GOBBLE  GOBBLE  UNITE !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

 

The turkeys are going on strike

for Christmas, showing their might –

Zephaniah was right,

they’re up for a fight.

 

 

The Amalgamated Association of Turkeys

are saying – ‘ Hey, brother cluckers,

raise your beaks in pride,

let’s beat with drumsticks, alright?’

 

 

The turkeys have had enough,

telling those human butchers to get stuffed –

they couldn’t give a pluck

that people will have to roast their nuts.

 

 

The turkeys are keeping their feathers on,

they won’t be free range

they’ll be out of range,

so organic they’ll be wandering away.

 

 

Turn up the Turkey Power,

they’ve got a bone to pick –

the turkeys are going on strike,

it’s -   ‘Gobble gobble unite!’