Though Merthyr is 99% white, it's a town comprised of many people whose families hail from other countries. These mostly trace back to the 19th century, when the ironworks and coal-mines drew in thousands from England, Ireland and , to a lesser extent, Spain. Italian and Jewish people have settled here for a century, though few of the latter remain. Today it is the Polish workers who have been attracted and we even have a Polish
grocer's on the High St.

   There has definitely been racial tension in the past, notably the animosity shown towards the Irish when they arrived, because they were seen to be taking lower wages and replacing local workers. However, the race riot described in Des Barry's novel 'A Bloody Good Friday' didn't happen in Merthyr, according to a reliable source, but in Cardiff and the writer has transposed it here.

  Whilst teaching at a Merthyr Comp. for 20 years the worst form of racism was always the anti-Irish variety, venomous as a result of the war in N. Ireland and the Provos actions in England. 'Irish' was long equated with the word 'stupid', as in the phrase 'Tha's Irish, tha is!' There was some anti-Englishness directed at individual pupils who had moved here, but by far the most prevalent form was totally unquestioned anti-gypsy racism ( which is also depicted in Des Barry's book). 'Gypo!' was the worst possible insult.

   Ironically, this was even more pronounced at a middle-class school where I taught for nearly 10 years and which was far more ethnically diverse. The attitude towards gypsies there was scathing and I could find no pupils (as I did in Merthyr) who defended them.

   In the wake of yesterday's demo against the EDL/WDL in Cardiff, it is vital to counter such racism at every opportunity. It's important to remember the changes it has undergone as well.  The glib propaganda which daubs them all as 'Nazis' fails to comprehend the link between their Islamophobia and the mainstream 'war on terror'. Like the  Loyalist paramilitaries in N.Ireland, these groups see themselves as defenders of a way of life ( a barely definable 'Britishness') against the perceived onslaught if Islam. Prince Harry's comment about 'ragheads' is merely the upper-class manifestation of this bigotry.

   I was particularly sickened in my final year of teaching , when three pupils in Year 7 (instigated by one whose brother was fighting in Afghanistan) began a chant about bombing the Taliban. I explained to them that many innocent civilians had been killed in that country as a result of the war there, but it made little impact. It's no accident that EDL membership is so high in the armed forces.

   In the 80's in Merthyr we faced down the National Front on the streets. They were allowed to sell their abnoxious newspaper in the shopping precinct and the then Labour Council failed to do anything about it. It was up to local activists, Cor Cochion Caerdydd and quite a few members of the SWP to directly confront them with our chanting, singing and speeches.

   I recall how ugly it got. Once a large ball-bearing was hurled at us from a balcony , only just missing! Eventually, several of the fascists walked towards us in the precinct. It was like 'High Noon'! We held firm, sang loudly and they retreated. Soon after, they gave up selling their paper and never returned again.


     IMMIGRANT  NAMES

 

Think of all the names

our names, your names –

how far they have travelled,

what histories they contain

 

Welsh-speaking Englands once from England,

the Viazzanis and Sidolis

of rugby, boxing and cafes,

the Barsis of music and footie

 

the Foleys and Mahoneys,

Councillors, planners , Church-goers –

those from Spain like Lozanos,

Juan the Elvis impersonator

 

Flooks the one-time jeweller

and Burns the teacher,

those Jewish people

buried on a hillside not far

 

our own friends the Ruzkowskis,

Poles who fled the war,

who went to work down mines,

who ended with too many wreaths

 

the Patels and Singhs

of hospitals and surgeries

and those always-open groceries

we take for granted nowadays

 

think of all those names,

once afar, now near –

proud immigrant names

such a part of Merthyr.



  

   Merthyr remains one of the few large towns in Wales without an arts centre. Aberdare has the Coliseum, Pontypridd the Muni and Blackwood the excellent Miners' Institute. Most of these were developed with finance from the Valleys' Live project in the past, while Merthyr's money went into Rhydycar Leisure Centre, with the last of the budget used on a free concert featuring local bands and the rock group Man.

   There's always a feasibility study on-going and certainly there have been gradual developments, such as the much-improved theatre space at Merthyr College. However, despite our brandnew cinema complex, the arts remain low on the list of priorities, however much our valiant Arts Officer tries to push it to the fore.

   The old Town Hall is one of the many historic buildings collapsing into dereliction which would make a suitable location for such a centre ; at best, along the lines of Chapter in Cardiff. While there seems little movement in this respect, the actual arts in Merthyr continue to flourish. As well as first class painters like Gus Payne, we have a number of promising singer-songwriters and bands like the Epaulettes and Oratorios, waiting to break through.

    Two of our local poets, Roy Morgans and Dave Jones were featured in the recent anthology 'The Sounding Bowl' and both are regulars at our Open Mic. sessions at The Imp, where a different guest is featured every month.

   An arts centre would provide a real focus to the various groups and bring together people working in different media. The town suffers from some of the worst poverty and sickness rates in the country and a centre would also be a focal point for workshops involving the disabled and unemployed, in the way that Bethesda Arts Centre ( run entirely by volunteers) did in the 80's.

   Merthyr Tudful has always been an inspirational place, especially in terms of literature. 'Poetry Wales' magazine was founded here in the 60's by Meic Stephens, as was 'Red Poets' ( well, jointly, with Wrecsam) in the 90's.

   An arts centre named after Glyn Jones or Leslie Norris would be apt indeed. We have spent a good deal in the past honouring our boxers, now the time has come to honour the town's great writers for once. All the better, if we save a crumbling building steeped in history in the process.


                       DIEGO MARADONA COME T MERTHYR

The day Maradona come t Merthyr
with is air gone all grey
an really short ; is beer gut
woz even bigger.


The day Diego stands in-a Igh Street
goin on bout-a play-offs
an ow Cardiff blew it,
soundin jest like ev'ryone else.


The day ee lifts is And o God
an points down-a arcade
t where a new shop ave opened,
doubts ee've got any gold.


Slike some buildin society
on'y with a name of a butcher;
in is blue n white stripes,
carn bleeve it's a pawnbroker!


With is face pale as lard,
with is worn out trainers,
numero 10 couldn elp wonderin
if is shirt ud bring any money in.

   I love reading my poetry to audiences, but it was a real challenge for me to do it and I still find it scarily thrilling.

   Of course, it can be disillusioning reading to small audiences, yet sometimes these can be more receptive.

   I first read in this context at university, taking part in benefits for the miners' strike of the early 70's. It was a case of getting up and doing a few and trying not to get too 'stocious' (great Belfast word for 'drunk') before reading. Not that most of the crowd would've noticed, the state they were in.

   Here I first encountered performance poetry, when one sound poet finished his short set by spitting blood, courtesy of a capsule in his mouth. I didn't know poets did things like that. Tony Harrison's risque poems on sexual positions was the most avant garde I'd witnessed till then.

   For someone who grew up in England (after early years in Aberystwyth ) without the benefit of Eisteddfodau to give confidence on stage, I was never encouraged to perform during my whole time at Secondary school. It was a massive step from being an avid spectator at many readings, to actually taking part.

   I had confidence in my work (even when it was pap) and our small poetry group at Aber Uni. did help a lot to give an opportunity to read and discuss. It seems amazing that in that group was David Jones ( whose pen-name is David Annwn) and also David Lloyd, both of whom are now published poets of some renown.

   Since, I 've read at many different places. One of the most memorable
was at Hay, reading 'Seeking Victor Jara' into a megaphone just as President Clinton's helicopter flew overhead. Then there was Giro Cafe in Belfast and a besuited Michael Longley (representing the Arts Council) sat in a venue full of alternative people, the air thick with wacky-backy.

   Some of the most satisfying readings have been to local writers' groups. In Neath years ago I didn't tone down my work to a mostly elderly audience and when one woman approached me after, I feared the worst.
'You were great', she said,' I could hear every word so clearly. Some of our speakers.......you can't make out what they're saying!'

   Recently, I read at Dowlais Library to Aberdare Poetry Society, a thriving and highly organised group ; there was also an open mic. and it was a very well-attended and entertaining afternoon. Everyone was so full of enthusiasm.

   To read poetry on the streets I would need that megaphone and the solidarity of a few mates like Jazz and Tim Richards. I'll never forget Penywaun's finest (i.e. Jazz) treating the whole of Merthyr precinct to his ear-blasting rendition of 'Giro City' while he ascended the escalator and held the megaphone like some  threatening cannon over the railings overlooking the shops.

   At the punkfest in Merthyr last year I ended up 'doing a Jazz' myself. I was so pissed off by the mistreatment of the Red Poets, that I ended my act by spontaneously knocking the whole mic. and stand off the stage! Planning it wouldn't have been the same.

    However, I can't imagine doing what this poet did -

                                               POET BUSKING

Summer has visited London.
We're walking city-speed
hundreds of air-miles away
past al fresco cafes.

A couple clutch half-empty
wine glasses as they stroll,
nosing the air and tasting
the clamourous cheer.

A Polish man rants at a window
at a bar full of drinkers
nestling their tulip glasses,
laughing round, ignoring him.

In the midst of Friday's seekers
a tall poet is busking, no-one listens,
the cap at his feet is empty :
voice bridging a persistent river.

   Footie and poetry go together in a way that no middle-class Middle England middle-of-the-road affair between the Tories and Lib Dem's could possibly imagine.

   In Wales, Dannie Abse has written a well-known poem called 'The game' which summons up the atmosphere of Ninian Park and also the fans' viewpoint of Good playing against Evil. Roger McGough has a great poem in the children's anthology 'You Tell Me' which describes a very peculiar fan who supports both Liverpool and Everton and when it comes to sex is understandably 'bi-sexual'.

   McGough is actually an Everton fan and he appears in one of the anthologies put together by Charlton fan Ted Smith-Orr entitled 'Football: Pure Poetry'. I was amazed to find in them poems by the likes of Seamus Heaney,declaring himself another Everton supporter. Ian McMillan (once poet-in-residence at Barnsley FC) is represented and the late,great Adrian Mitchell comes out for 'Liverpool, Scotland and South Africa'. Even players get a look in , as there's a poem by ex-England striker John Fashanu.
 
  Cardiff City have possibly got more 'poetry fans' than any other team and I say this with no little bias and pride. From Cardiff itself there are Dannie Abse, Herb Williams (also Aberystwyth Town) , Ifor Thomas, Duncan Bush, Lloyd Robson and Nick Fisk. From the Valleys, myself and Kevin Mills.

   Poetry is everywhere in football and some of the time it's on the field. If the team are a series of stanzas, then scoring a goal is the dramatic high-point.

  With metaphors like this I could be a football manager who tries to get away from the usual cliches of 'At the end of the day.....' and 'We'll take one game at a time....' In fact, CCFC's manager Dave Jones has begun a whole series of metaphors as we head for Wembley this Saturday. After the first leg we had opened the door and were 'taking a peek'. Now we've slammed the door behind us. It remains to be seen whether we're inside or out!

   If managers use extended metaphors, then fans apply poetic skills to chants from the terraces. These usually involve a lot of swearing and one famous CCFC chant about Peter Thorne and his 'magic hat' delighted the player but also, as he was a devout Christian, shocked him.

   Sometimes the simplest of rhymes can be the most effective and can arise spontaneously from the occasion. Responding to Arsenal fans reserve in an FA Cup tie a few years back, Bluebirds' fans started chanting - 'Highbury is a library, Highbury is a library.......Na na na, na na na...' There is less invention nowadays, though the latest about winger Chris Burke is an exception.

   There's also a vital history involved as I discovered recently, thanks to Merthyr actor Jonathan Owen. Jonathan is set to record the whole song from which our chant 'With my little pick 'n' shovel' comes, along with former Catatonia star Owen Powell, drummer Stuart Cable and Super Furries guitarist Guto Pryce. Apparently, the song dates back to the 1926 General Strike and was a rallying cry for the miners at that time.

   The fact that we still sing it from the stands at the CCFC Stadium is quite astonishing and illustrates the strong link between the Valleys and Cardiff. Cardiff City have never been just a Cardiff football club and support from the Valleys is as crucial today as it has always been.

   Here's my take on the importance of that song -

‘With My Little Pick ’n’ Shovel’

 

 

 

 

Coal down the Valleys

by barge and then by train,

channels of black to docks and beyond,

all for the engines of steam.

 

                                                               Fans down the Valleys

                                                               by car, bus and train,

                                                               joining the city throng

                                                               with thoughts of beyond.

 

Miners striking for their rights

to save families from poverty,

educating themselves in the ‘stutes;

orators who’d bring them light.

 

                                                               The bar like a long scarf:

                                                               pints to swill away

                                                               dust of days’ dole or work,

                                                               everyone talking in could be’s.

 

 

                          Miners singing from pits of bodies,

                          fans voicing from height of stands :

                          I’ll be there, I’ll be there!

                         With my little pick ‘n’ shovel I’ll be there!

 

                         Black then and blue today:

                         words dodging and running,

                         words passing and moving;

                         dug from the Valleys, shaped in the city. 

 

       

   I have become a genuinely obsessive 'Twitter-twat' (even Tories can talk sense sometimes). I enjoy sharing my words of profound banality with others and the haiku-like restriction of 140 letters.

   Not that I've mastered a great deal. I don't seem to have many followers and have a long way to go before I become a quasi-religious cult and lead them all to salvation on the Blessed Waun ( pronounced 'wine', but no relation).

   I began in a surrealist political mode, but have rapidly lapsed into political commentary and ecstatic reactions to the Championship play-offs. Pretty soon, I will be commenting on my struggles with flatulence and the woodlice in our bathroom, judging by the prevailing subject-matter.

   In search of enlightenment on Twitterdom , I decided to 'follow' a few of my musical heroes (all sounds a bit too much like stalking). The ridiculously under-rated and amazingly talented singer-songwriter Thea Gilmore was having serious problems unblocking her toilet. Where was her guitarist partner Nigel Stonier with his plunger?

   More disconcerting, the completely unique American singer-songwriter (see a pattern here?) Sufjan Stevens appeared to be tweeting only the opening lines of his songs! I thought he'd got a form of cyber-dementia, till I discovered that Sufjan's site was actually controlled by his fans.

   Trying to catch up with legendary.......you got it......singer-song-writer Tom Waits proved more fruitful however. The tweet from Tom made welcome reading, when he said - ' I never get on the radio. Marcel Marceau has more air time.' Typically witty.

   Yet I quickly found out the power of the ubiquitous tweet. I read comments on the election eagerly and one struck me - 'The electorate have spoken and they have said.........'Erm...'  When Ian Hislop repeated this word-for-word on last Friday night's 'Have I Got News For You' as if it was his own invention, I soon realised there was no copywright on these twitterings.

   My older daughter warned me not to use Twitter to be poetic, yet I follow a number of observations about low-flying clouds and birds singing to annoy insomniacs. Friends would probably argue that I've twittered for far too long anyway and ex-colleagues would merely state - 'Haven't you got anything better to do?'

   Well, sometimes things are beyond a tweet,especially the cockerel up the hill -

Rooster and Cowboy

 

 

 

The rooster knows no better

‘What-a-day-for-me!’

he calls across valley :

the sun’s already downing west,

he shouldn’t be so cocky.

 

                                                                    The boy by the fence leaning

                                                                    ever-watchful, his bike

                                                                    a steed in shallow ditch :

                                                                    on look-out over grass the colour

                                                                    of sand, for a single movement.

 

Can’t see him, only hear his loud

doodle-dooing: imagine his strut,

his crest rising in the wind

among so many hens, his wings

flap-fluttering in dalliance,

his cries of always dawn.

 

                                                                     On his bike riding down the lane

                                                                     gun held aloft, a cowboy

                                                                     in baseball cap and hooded jacket,

                                                                     he shoots at something there

                                                                     in the bushes, misses

                                                                     a solitary swallow reaping air.

  

   Election? What election? In Merthyr (and it must be the same in most constituencies not considered marginals) there's a distinct lack of any political activity at all. From observation alone, the For Sale party are way ahead and they're not shifting.

   Sure, we get the usual load of leaflets through the post, same as ever except the BNP are standing for the first time and promise to 'bring back the cat' and the gallows as public entertainment, the new 3D cinema being too expensive for our impoverished citizens.

   They will duly chase the Muslims out of town (haven't noticed any), close down the mosque and make it into a British Cultural Centre (worship the Queen and learn chunks of Ol' Shakey..........sounds like one of Cameron's DIY schools!). No, we haven't got a mosque either and the only Fundamentalists happen to be the Protestant Christian variety, one of whose churches is the Rev. Ian Paisley's Free Presbyterians and likely to be as ardently Brit as the BNP claim to be, with their Union Jack logo.

   There are a few Labour posters (re-elect Dai Havard) in predictable houses. Opposite me is the house of one Labour loyalist plastered in them. He  used to berate our Labour Council for its total inaction on opencast mining, but now accompanies the said Havard on his brief tour of my village.Havard, locally known as the 'MP for Kabul',  looks incongruous in suit, we're so used to seeing him in a flak jacket.

   After 13 years of Labour misrule as far as the economy is concerned especially, Merthyr has altered. We are noticeably greener except for the massive opencast coal site of Ffos-y-fran right above town. It dominates the landscape as it does our hearing : when the wind's easterly or it's still, the noise from its continuous working is a slow,grinding rumble and I live a mile and a half away! What must it be like to live nearer?

   Most importantly, we have lost most of our manufacturing base and the town centre is closing down or derelict. We no longer make things, but buy and sell things made elsewhere ( mostly China and Korea). And it's not just Hoover we've lost. I can recall a time when we'd buy clothes at two factory shops in the borough and toys at a facory in Abercanaid which replaced the well-established Triang one.

   We need industries, both nationalised and co-operative, which use the skills of local people to produce goods that we need. Why not furniture from our many trees? Why not hydro-electric machinery to harness the power of rivers and reservoirs nearby? Why not develop the opportunities for numerous footpaths and cycle paths on land threatened with opencast and through disused railway tunnels in the mountains?  Our history should
be of continual interest, not just confined to one or two days in a year.

   Naturally, all this requires investment and the reality is the very opposite: scathingly vicious cuts whoever is elected on May 6th.

  One answer could be a series of co-operative banks, extensions of already existing Credit Unions. Each local co-op bank would need initial support from the Senedd, but could eventually help sustain the various manufacturing cooperatives in the area, be they furniture, hydro power or sustainable tourism.

   It is ultimately sad to see towns like Merthyr and Rhymney feeling completely disenfranchised. One Liberal Democrat placard in a large house with a drive with three cars and one Plaid window doesn't exacty threaten Labour's hegemony. We have been taken for granted for too long.

   Most people here would argue - 'What's the point?' and who can blame them? If PR is delivered  with a single transferable vote system or list like the Assembly elections, then it will go some way to involving more people in democracy.

   But it is never enough. Ultimately,people have to feel that politics can actually change their lives for the better and it may well be extra-parliamentary action which does this , through the Trade Unions, but also through other movements more likely to empower the dispossessed. Whether such movements exist at present is another matter. 

   At a time when politicians are getting a lot of stick, here's praise for one ( mind, she is my daughter Bethan !) -

                                          OF POSSIBILITIES

You're the politician I could never become:
giving speeches off the cuff,
devoted to your party like a second family,
while I'm on the outside
raising a fist and chanting. 

Not that we didn't get things done:
defeated the poll tax by civil disobedience,
mobilised thousands into doing something
by simply doing nothing,
till the bailiffs came knocking;
defeated the opencast when many
in my village declared - 'You'll never win!'

But you - on radio,tv, committee meetings
and in the Senedd's chamber,
leafletting on streets, addressing campaigns -
are what a politician should be.
Those Visteon pensioners even called you
their 'Joanna Lumley' and how funny
comparing you with such a toff luvvie.

I recall pushing you in a buggy
miles over the mountain in tamping rain
to Bevan's Stones to protest
against unemployment in Thatcher's days;
a speech by Dafydd El (then darling of the Left) ;
now Lord Dafydd Ellis Thomas
sits and presides so haughtily.

That Assembly is and is not your workplace:
factories, doorsteps and schools
are the places where you thrive
with a vision of possibilities
beyond walls' slogans, on a skyline
within reach for everyone.

   I knew we'd blow it! We always do! Last season it was a solitary goal, though losing 6-0 to Preston didn't exactly help.

   15 minutes to the final whistle and it was 0-0 v. QPR away from home. I couldn't listen to the radio, the commentator's 'almost scored' raising of his voice when a shot was fired in by them or us was too much for my fragile nerves. Besides, last year I had obliterated the transistor.

   Instead, I preferred the steady downloading of text on my computer, making the match seem measured and pleasantly tedious as Test match cricket. Then, I boldly decided to switch on Final Score.

   On the 80th minute it came on screen. Ledley had scored. I resisted a wild, whooping scream, because I knew they would equalise in the 94th minute through a dubious penalty.

   I kept watch on the screen like somebody guarding their wallet in a crowd of pickpockets. Amazingly nothing changed as the minutes ticked over. Bloody hell FT QPR 0 - Cardiff City 1! We'd done it! Manish What'shisname didn't seem to realise the enormity of it all. A month ago, pundit Steve Claridge had practically written us off.

  'Winston Churchill.....Shakespeare......Admiral Nelson......Sir Alf Ramsey.......Sir Alan Sugar! Your boys sure got one hell of a beating!' Except that quite a few of our star players are English, even more from Scotland and fewer from Wales.

   No matter. Local hero Joe Ledley had scored and Darcy Blake had been transformed from a burger-addict to a New Tredegar  legend in a few months. Sparky and Macca are our Irish connection, so we have a multi-national team from these Islands.

   Three matches from the Premier, instead of on the verge of Administration. A truly remarkable achievement by manager Dave Jones, his coaching staff and the squad, especially given the fact that we'd signed no-one in the January transfer window due to a dire financial situation at the club. Despite Paulo Sousa's moaning, Swansea actually signed three :
Kuqi, Edgar and Cotterill.

   Now I don't care who we get in the play-offs, as long as it's not Swansea  coz they keep possession too long, Forest coz Earnie's bound to get one, Blackpool coz they've got the best midfielder in the division in Charlie Adam, or Leicester coz they've got that battering-ram Steve Howard up front.

   Truthfully, being a Bluebird  has been great over the last few years, even if last season was ultimately gutting and we still fear doing a Portsmouth (mind, they're at Wembley, aren't they?).

   This one's for my son  Ciaran, who bought me such a great birthday present a while back -

                                    THE BIRTHDAY BRICK

My son gave me a brick for my birthday,
the best brick I could possibly receive.

I'd never been given a brick before,
only ever been called Another Brick In The Wall.

The brick had yet to be laid,
it only existed on a future stage.

It would have my name and Bluebirds' Poet,
thousands would be able to tread on it.

When it was built it was the best wall,
it was more like a pavement,shared by all

the other Bluebirds.I thanked my son :
CCFC, generation to generation.










 

   Like the English 'Presidential' debate this week, when it comes to literature, Wales is very much on the margins. How many of our novels have been on Booker short-lists or in for the Whitbread? In recent years, only Abse's autobiographical 'The Presence' has made it, though Sarah Waters does have Welsh connections.

   Maybe we deserve it. Maybe our literature is second rate when compared to elsewhere. Is there an Amis or McEwan out there?

   Those writers who are acknowledged in British terms are almost always the ones published on the other side of Offa's Dyke : Niall Griffiths, Robert Minhinnick and Gillian Clarke being prime examples, though there is Owen Sheers, who was practically born and raised in the Hayfest and whose series about poets in specific places on BBC was so excellent on the whole (especially the programme on Lynette Roberts). Sheers has had to leave this country in order to make it , however.

   Perhaps we are doing it wrong this side of the Severn. We should be clamouring to get published in England by one of the major houses there, not sending our work off to Seren and Gomer.

    Yet, I have just finished reading a novel which has changed my life. Many books do this , of course, but not in the revelatory way that can only happen on rare occasions. Afterwards, everything has changed. 'Catch 22' did this for me, as did Kesey's 'One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest' and, most certainly, '1984' and 'The Handmaid's Tale'.

   But this book is one from and about Wales , though with an important European dimension. It is called 'Everything Must Change' , published by Seren and written by Grahame Davies. I knew Grahame when he was a journalist at the 'Merthyr Express'. I didn't even know he was a poet then, never mind such a great novelist.

   The novel was longlisted for the Wales Book of the Year in its original Welsh-language form in 2005. As far as I know, the English version has received no prizes. For this novel, Davies deserves international acclaim. It is simply the best novel I have ever read from our nation.

   In 'Everything Must Change' he creates two parallel worlds which nevertheless have remarkable connections : the one world is of contemporary Wales and a seasoned campaigner for Cymraeg called Meinwen and the other is France before and during the 2nd World War
and the character of Simone Weil, a political thinker and philosopher who believed in living and working with the rural poor and proletariat in order to fully realise their suffering.

    I have to admit I cried at the end of the novel and fiction rarely has this kind of impact ; songs regularly do though. Not since the stories of Bernard MacLaverty have I been so moved. I didn't want to leave Meinwen and Simone behind, but knew I must. The novel made me re-think my perceptions of Wales and Europe, of political struggles but , above all, it brought to life the ideas and conflicts of its two protagonists so vividly.

   I followed closely their journeys and their changes. How Simone's unique view of the world was fashioned by her times , but also stood outside those times and how Meinwen underwent such a radical development through painful experiences. In a way, Weil represents the complexity of Europe itself and Meinwen that of a modern Wales, yet both are so much more than mere ciphers for Davies's theories; indeed his own political agenda is never uppermost. 

   I could go on, but the best thing I can do is recommend this book. It's a grave injustice that it still exists on the periphery; if the battles of our people had been fought with bombs and guns then probably the London literati would pay more attention!

   This is a topical poem once again. I've noted that newsreaders wisely avoid pronouncing the name of the volcano in Iceland causing so much disruption : -

                                    BLACK DUST FROM EYJAFJALLAJOKULL

Black dust from Eyjafjallajokull
(I'm glad I don't play Icelandic Scrabble!),
grounded passengers under the bright blue.


I'm wondering if Bjork or Sigur Ros
will translate into song for us
those strange upper atmosphere winds.


The volcano dormant since the 1820's,
silica dust from the smoky steam,
the glacier's melting, farms deserted.


Gone the conspiracies, welcome meteorologists!
Having besmirched pensions with their banks,
now eruptions are travelling southwards.


Eyjafjallajokull sounds an invention of Lewis Carroll,
some Jabberwocky monster made of lava
belching sulphurous poison into the air.


Reach for inhalers, examine insurance policies,
take photos of the violet sunsets
before black rain sizzles down on all.

   Ty Newydd Writers' Centre in Llanystumdwy near Cricieth is a truly inspirational place. I've not long returned from tutoring a schools' course there and all the students ( 6th formers from Newport and district) fell in love with it and what it signifies.

   I have delivered adult courses there in the past, but this one was something else. The pupils came from a diverse range of schools and one college, from Hartridge with its tough reputation to posh Caerleon. They got on really well and relished being taken seriously as writers ....... and also as cooks/chefs! The sticky toffee pudding rivalled the short,pithy prose-pieces as highlights of the week.

   Workshops in the morning, tutorials in the afternoon and evening readings ( with guest reader Tom Bullough entertaining us in mid-week) provided so much stimulus and I was very fortunate to share tutoring with the excellent Anne Caldwell, a poet from Yorkshire.

   What crystallized the whole week was the anthology produced by students, teachers and tutors at the end and fittingly entitled 'Anthology of Friends' for this week. It brought together so much exciting and various work in prose, poetry, drama, artwork and photography.

   Ty Newydd's location - so close to the sea, with a sweeping view of Snowdonia across Cardigan Bay - is vital to its allure ; yet it is the atmosphere created which is more important. I recall one writer who described a tortuous course, where his fellow tutor was 'knitting chickens' by the end! So it isn't always as idyllic as this one was.

   One student said this ' has been the best week of my life' and none wanted to leave. A few years ago its very existence was in jeopardy, but I believe we now need a similar Centre in south Wales, possibly at Ogmore. It can be such a life-changing experience that if a mere fraction of the money spent on opera were invested in such a place, it would be invaluable.

   Later this year, an anthology of poems about Ty Newydd will be published, edited by Gladys Mary Coles. When I read the following contribution from the very spot it depicts, there followed a series of ghost stories to make the appearance of Lloyd George's phantom seem mundane..........


                                   THE  VOICE-MIRROR

Blank white page of Ty Newydd in the snow,
then, two trails of footprints across the lawn :
a poem or a story begins to grow,
tiny bird-claw messages like scratchings of thorn.
The half-circle, half-cone of the bay window,
so far from toy town Portmeirion,
the frames are five negatives of a photo,
images just waiting to be born.
Inside, by a crescent-chair, is the voice-mirror,
the very place where Lloyd George died :
his tones living one second after,
a sound like the back-flow of the tide.
Each word you read f