Ex-pupils pop up everywhere! One is often off his head around Merthyr bus-station, but always has time to slur a greeting. Another - in a band who should've made it , but are still trying - always stops for a brief exchange. At Teso's tills, the Post Office and in the occasional pub it's inevitable having taught in this town for 20 years.

   I wish I could remember names. They would have had to be totally 'beyond' or very gifted for me to recall them ; yet faces pose no problem. Ironically, when I was teaching I had no trouble with names at all.

   It's always great to hear from past pupils about their own writing. One recently contacted me through Facebook initially and expressed great enthusiasm for poetry-writing. This is unusual, as most tend to stop writing when they leave school.

   He expressed an interest in the 'industry'. I'd never thought of poetry like that really, as it has all the requirements for an old-fashioned craft (as Heaney would have it), yet also the inspirational dimension of a vocation ( to veer towards James Joyce). Sometimes the best poems arrive and we don't know where from : it might be explained as the subconscious surfacing. Certainly, I hope he keeps at it. I'd have done nothing else ( except maybe singing in a blues-rock band).

   I'm more than willing to give advice to any former pupils on their writing.Several times a month I see one of them, who was one of the most talented poets I ever taught. He now works for the Council and I've given up inviting him to our monthly Open Mic. nights at The Imp. As a poet he was strange though : he never acted on advice, never sought to change anything. Now he has given up writing I believe; a real shame.

   Two of my ex-pupils went on to play in bands which should've made it BIG. Both wrote the lyrics for many songs and this ability showed itself in their verse at school. Original Mind and Pink Assassin never became household names, yet should have been. Both wrote with intensity and never lapsed into cliche.

   One of my prize possessions is a letter sent by an ex-pupil many years after he'd left school and become a professional golfing coach.  It was full of praise and it's great to think that I could've had such an impact on someone. We shared a love for Heller's classic 'Catch 22', which helped. He was golf mad at school and I always remember the time he lost all his GCSE coursework just before the deadline, only to find it at the bottom of his golf bag!

   It seems incredible to think that I used to go to football matches at Ninian Park with 6th formers. I still see one regularly on the train home from our games and he's there with his son, carrying on the tradition.

   Others have emerged in less auspicious circumstances. One - also a Bluebird - returned to school to ask me to write a statement vindicating his good character, to be read out in court. He was accused of knifing someone at a nightclub down town and a 'calling card' had been found there incriminating him. He was a star in class and his own project work for English oral exams was especially interesting. One of them was in support of football hooliganism and included, as a prop, a Soul Crew 'calling card'!

   The following poem is about an encounter with a past pupil who I see often and talk about things, especially CCFC. I can fully empathise with his situation.

                                           BY-A RIVER

I sit by-a river,
it's runnin all day,
my arm's in a plaster,
off on sick pay.

Wish I woz-a river
goin to city an sea,
instead of a watcher
on a bench in misery.

'leven years we bin married,
got a lovely ome,
I give er ev'rythin
an we loved ower son.

We wuz schoolyard sweet'earts,
I'm a famlee man,
now I'm back with my parents,
weekends with my son.

The water is rushin
down t the weir,
wish I woz a salmon
on a long journey from yer.

I sit by-a river,
carn get er outa my ead,
ev'ry Saturdiy she's clubbin,
arfta someone t bed.

It wuz some kinda madness
when she tol me t go :
'I don' feel nothin no more,'
she sayz,' I wanna be alone.'

Seein my boy is like-a flow
always movin away from me,
always changin as ee grows,
while I'm burstin with self-pity.

   It has been a time of funerals and non-funerals ; by that I mean the death from cancer at the age of 62 of my friend, comrade , fellow Bluebird and namesake Mike J. Jenkins ( also from Heolgerrig) and that of my father, thirty years older, who never had a funeral at all.

   It's hard to explain to those outside the family, how I felt so much sadness at the death of a friend and so little at that of my father. In fact, I felt guilty at being so empty of emotions and many in my family felt the same.

   Mike died far too young. We used to teach together at Pen-y-dre High School in Merthyr and invented a third 'Mike Jenkins Science', to confound and eventually amuse pupils. As a non-driver, he often gave me a lift home and his company was invariably interesting and hilarious. He had a mind full of anecdotes and I recall how he told me about one teacher who'd lost it. She began to hallucinate one pupil who bugged her,seeing him in every lesson and Mike had once found her standing outside the classroom, staring at a light-bulb, unable to enter!

   At that time ( the 80's) he was prominent in the local Labour Party and ,indeed, ex-MP Ted Rowlands as well as present one Dai Harvard attended his funeral. The former's phone went off in the middle of the Rev. Protheroe's oration and Rowlands took ages frantically pressing buttons to turn it off, as if it were an alien device. Mike would've had a real laugh at that one!

   He was even in a Labour Party political broadcast then and the staff at Pen-y-dre teased him, calling him 'Mr Average'. Mike left the party totally disillusioned with the war in Iraq and Blair's wooing of big business and bankers alike.

   Our political differences had come to the fore in 1979 when, at the school's mock referendum on devolution Mike took a Kinnockite line and led the 'No' campaign. Myself and Peter Griffiths (later to become Head of Llanhari and Rhydfelin) led the 'Yes' campaign.

   Mike's views changed radically over the years and he became a staunch supporter of devolution. In conversation, he also backed those in Plaid Cymru who took a socialist, republican stance. Like me, only later on, he was very active in the anti-opencast movement in our village.

  In recent years I knew him very well from football. He was the kindest person and always offered lifts without wanting any remuneration. He stood to watch Cardiff City on the old Canton and in the new stadium. The fact he liked chanting and often joined in was hard to tally with the Christian soul conjured by the Reverend.

   Yet, there was never a hint of hypocrisy about the man: he was genuine , funny and generous, never pushing his undoubted faith on others. My last memory is his voice on the phone as I walked towards our mutual watering-hole before the Reading game. He was in his hospital bed and sounded perky, saying he was sorry he couldn't be there, but looking forward to the possibility of Wembley.

   If there are still bricks to be bought outside the ground, then we must get one for Mike. I know he'd be proud. 

   My father's rites were very different . He had supposedly left his body to medical science, so there was no funeral. However, it was discovered later that he'd changed his will and wished to be buried in the family plot in Barry. It was too late though, unless the remaining parts can be rounded up!

   He'd also changed his will to leave all his money to the NSPCC and the Alzheimer's Society. To anyone who knew him well, this had a dark irony.

   A serious family incident had caused our separation for over a decade and only my brother kept regular contact. My sister and I had no communication at all, though in recent years I would have met him again if he'd proferred a hand.

   Sadly, I've few positive memories and even these go back to the time when I was very young in Aber and are based on photos I've seen. What stands out from that time and the years following are traumatic occurences, like when he broke up my fishing-rod and threw it into the sea, driving home like a mad man and when he tore off all his clothes, except underpants, and stood on the kitchen table screaming and yelling at my mother.

   Of course, mental illness is extremely problematic. What was him and what was the illness? Certainly, he blamed everything he did on his nervous breakdown (before I was born) and upbringing.

   I wish I could remember him with more affection. Even a holiday together in Ireland when I was a teenager became more and more miserable , as he descended into anger, running out of money and phoning my grandmother to bail him out.

   His propensity for disaster would've made him endearing, had it not been for the maniacal outbursts which sometimes involved wielding a knife. He destroyed three marriages and numerous careers by fighting physically and verbally with bosses. As a Security Guard in Barry he used to sleep during night-shifts and was eventually caught out and dismissed when there was a fire on his watch!

   On this Father's Day I think of others I regard more as true fathers and regret we don't get to choose. I have learnt much from my own......by trying to do the opposite of what he's done! 



                                       LAST  GIFT

My father was never renowned for generosity,
presents he sent included a blank tape,
plastic cheese net, even a rusty can-opener
which had previously belonged to my grandfather.

So, we had enjoyed a family meal together
in the wake of his death at over ninety,
my brother said his legacy would pay
(it was the first and last time he'd treated me).

We didn't toast his memory
after a decade separate and no apologies,
though my brother had visited regularly
but more out of a sense of duty.

'Is this a death meal?' my daughter asked,
as we thought of his final benevolence,
his body donated to medical science,
just as he'd always given blood freely.

It was difficult to connect now
this man being dissected, avowed humanist,
with the father who so often lost his head
and spat out such vile hatred.

If I weren't an equal disbeliever
I'd like to address him in the after-life :
'Look, dad, that was the best gift you ever gave....
your organs.....for research.......wrapped in flesh.'

   Last Tuesday four Plaid Cymru AM's acted on their principles and boycotted the visit of E. Windsor to open the new session of our Senedd. They did so despite typical media sniping and acted by example, preferring instead to work in their constituencies while other AM's claiming to be republicans, such as Labour's John Griffiths and Plaid's Simon Thomas hadn't the resolve to make a stand.  

   The great English writer and socialist George Orwell used his experience of Buddhism to show that a socialist can only be worthy of that term if they live out their ideals ( the inner and outer life must be one). The four republicans who resisted the temptation to take the easy route and dress up as lickspittle imitations of Ascot-goers, are to be lauded.

   On that evening, I was glad to MC and read poetry at an event in the Bay attended by two of them, Bethan Jenkins and Leanne Wood. Both took alternative oaths of allegiance to the people of Cymru and expressed the hope that they could one day do so  in the Senedd  in parity with members of the N.Ireland Assembly, with its many republican members ; in a Wales pledged to a future of greater equality ,not the representatives of an aristocracy identified indelibly with Empire and war.

   Of course, there are striking differences between republicans. Some, like myself, want a socialist republic in Wales ( and Scotland, England and Ireland, for that matter). Others in Balchder Cymru even proposed a future Wales where the people could choose a Welsh monarchy : though where that would come from, I don't know! One questioner even asked what the new British national anthem would be if 'God Save the Queen' were to be replaced. Personally, I thought the very nature of Britishness was support for the Queen ( witness the Loyalists of the six counties).

   I'm sure my views are much closer to those of the Plaid Cymru AM's, though I do believe that fundamental societal change can only be brought about by revolution, hopefully a peaceful one of strikes and civil disobedience.

   However, the highlight of the whole event was undoubtedly the speech by Suzanne Campbell of Republic Wales, part of a UK-wide organisation which has only recently been launched here.  Ms. Campbell was a superb speaker, combining clarity with wit and hardly using notes at all. Her contribution stood out like a lighthouse above a series of barnacled buoys
( I'd spent some time staring at the sea beforehand). She joked about the Queen Mother living so long because 'pickled things are well preserved', included fascinating information and advocated a system similar to Ireland, which had produced great ambassadors like Mary Robinson. Indeed, as she spoke, you could imagine Ms. Campbell filling that role perfectly!

   Criticism of the monarchy is minimal in the media, so when it occurs it stands out. In 'The Guardian' this week writer and historian Sophia Deboick carved up the royal PR machine in a short article, showing how William and Kate have now completely abandoned the image of 'new generation' and reverted to type by advertising for housekeeper, butler, valet and dresser to serve them at their new home of Kensington Palace. This has received typically scant publicity and no doubt , in the public's mind, they remain the fairy-tale couple living simply in a cottage in Anglesey.

   For the following poem I used information provided by Republic at the CBayRday evening. The enormous powers of the monarch to appoint the Prime Minister, dissolve Parliament, dismiss the Government and withold assent to legislation passed by Parliament are all frighteningly real.


                            THE TALE OF KING CARLO

The Government, those Commoners,
pass a law abolishing the monarchy.

Documents revealed, after all these years,
the truth about the death of Di.

The King (once Carlo of Wales)
withholds royal assent. Legal.

The Commoners make loud noises,
Lords ( still there ) are woken up, grumbling.

People actually take to the streets
demanding that the King stands down.

There are 2 million demonstrators in London alone
( police estimate numbers at 2 thousand).

King Carlo consults his personal advisor,
an old English Oak at Sandringham.

Like Edward in 1910, he dissolves Parliament,
Commoners turned instantly into Aliens.

He appoints the English Oak as P.M.
at a ceremony in Westminster. Legal.

The tree flies a Union flag from its highest branch;
nothing new about a P.M. with a wooden brain!

Carlo declares war on Wales and Scotland,
as they rise up against him. Legal.

Armed forces pledge allegiance to their Commander in Chief,
rally to support the knighted Sir David Tree.

Subjects, at last, call themselves citizens,
in a land of Levellers, land of treason. 

   In the Hay Media Celebfest last week, our National Poet Gillian Clarke called for poets to speak out. So that's exactly what I am doing and saying , in relation to Wales, she got it wrong.

   I have enjoyed her work immensely for many years, both to read and to study with school pupils and she is a wonderful ambassador for Welsh poetry, who reads her work superbly and always conducts stimulating workshops. However, her statement at Hay was galling - 'In Wales,luckily, our Arts Council has cut some poeple's funding completely, but only failing organisations.'

   Her attack on the Arts Council of England, which has carried out savage attacks on many vital poetry bodies like the Poetry Book Society, was totally justified. However, just because poetry hasn't been seriously affected by the WAC's cuts, it doesn't mean the arts in general haven't.

   There is no way that the likes of Gwent Theatre, Theatr Powys and Spectacle can be described  as 'failing' and it's an insult to do so. If poetry's 'Writers On Tour' had suffered the cuts that Theatre in Education had to take from Smith and Capaldi's Council, then Gillian Clarke would be up in arms.

   Gwent Theatre has now ceased to exist and whole areas of Wales must depend on extortionate and unreliable alternatives or do without. It's not just the people who attended their many performances who feel the loss, but it's a tragedy for the countless school pupils who benefited from shows and workshops as they toured the Valleys and elsewhere.

   Figures alone can only approximate their worth. It's laughable to think that a mere £250,000 would have kept them going ; a fraction of Welsh Opera's budget. In 2009-10 they delivered 220 performances to 14,213 young people in various schools; 81 theatre workshops with over two and a half thousand participants and their Young People's Theatre put on 7 productions.

   Under any terms, this is successful not failing. It's an act of sheer philistinism by the Arts Council to axe Gwent, Powys and Spectacle. Gillian Clarke may represent poetry, but surely that doesn't stop her from seeing the wider picture ? Theatre in Education is just as vital as poetry workshops in schools.

   Moreover, the cuts are already impacting on poetry in other ways. As Swansea Council prepare to alter the whole nature of the Dylan Thomas Centre, its rolling programme of literary events (unique in Wales) will be sacrificed. Schools have so much less to spend and visiting authors and visits to Ty Newydd will be first to go.

   As public spending cuts reach more deeply, many organisations will stop schemes where authors read and run workshops. Cash-strapped universities will find it hard to deliver Creative Writing courses which aren't seen as lucrative and few writers will be invited to read there.

   I was proud of Clarke when she rejected an OBE, following Zephaniah, though not seeking to make an issue out of it. When she accepted the Queen's Medal for Poetry ( citing R.S.Thomas's acceptance as a justification ) she explained that she did so on behalf of all the poets of Wales.

   I'm certain there are many poets in Wales who, like me, would not want to be tainted by any association with the House of Windsor, that anachronistic, anti-democratic and money-wasting institution. There are many who would ask her to return their part of it, arguing instead for a forward-thinking Cymru with an elected President, who could, indeed be anybody, even a misguided poet!


                                  CHOIR ON THE ESCALATOR

The Male Voice Choir are singing
from the town centre escalator.

There is no up or down,
shoppers stopped mid-bargain.

'Sosban Fach' and 'Hallelujah',
'Aberystwyth' and 'Calon Lan'.

Someone shakes a bucket
in time with their tunes.

Once, there were fights and ructions
at Valleys choir competitions ;

now they are fully blazered
with badges of identity like medals.

It's music that's ascending, descending,
with steps made from bass and tenor.

Some youths mock from the top,
smoking and gobbing as girls pass.

In the place of 'Myfanwy', white wheat
of their heads sways with the rhythm.

   Schools which are run democratically by teachers and pupils, not the present mini-dictatorships of Heads. Schools where every pupil's achievements actually count for something and our unfair exam system is replaced by portfolios gathered through their entire school lives. Schools free from the paranoia and fear if inspections which create pointless and inordinate paper-work and , instead, where colleagues help and observe or you are visited by advisors (teachers on sabbaticals) who aid with resources and teacher exemplar lessons.

   All these I've advocated in more detail in previous blogs. Never more than today is the sheer absurdity of our examination system evident. The obsession with 'pass' and 'fail' is clearly not sustainable.

   With at least 35% of pupils branded failures at GCSE, how can that be any incentive for many to work at school? When they were initiated , GCSEs were supposed to be 'no failure' exams, without the A-C necessity. Now schools in deprived areas are lauded if their value added results are good. Yet even in many of these schools, up to 70% of the pupils do not get the magic grades. Such schools inevitably pour all resources into the borderline C-D pupils, often at the expense of others and staff are expected to take after-school classes and even study weekends, for no extra pay.

   Academics like Prof. David Reynolds (a WAG advisor on education) cannot see beyond the tip of his nose to actually question the viability of the system. In particular, the whole basis of learning and assessment must change, with an emphasis on group work rather than the individual.

   I say this not just out of an ideological belief in the spirit of co-operation alone - though that should be vital in fostering a caring and sharing society - but also with a strong pragmatism.

   Most, though not all, exams consist of the individual working in isolation, confronted by an exam paper they have been trained to cope with and have either learnt , or ignored, the necessary tricks to pass.

   Yet, in employment and life in general when are these skills of individual, solitary response required? As a writer perhaps,  but let's not pretend that exams ever gauge much in the way of creativity or imagination. Poetry, especially, is never examined.

   On the contrary, in most workplaces you have to co-operate with a group of people : take the lead maybe, take responsibility, agree to compromise and listen to others ; but not work individually with pen and paper.

   What happens at present with English Oral tests and Drama coursework should become commonplace. Group work has become an integral part of education over at least the last two decades, yet this is not reflected in the exam system.

   From my own experience, some of the very best work has been produced by such team efforts, with pupils supporting each other and imaginatively taking on roles to express views. At Key Stage 3, I recall one project where pupils in groups devised their own rock/pop/rap bands, with each a member ( not part of any National Curriculum, I'm proud to say). This led to interviews, reviews, lyrics and even, in some cases, cds and videos.

   Evidence towards the pupils' final portfolio of achievements could come in the form of tape or film, as well as the written word. Such projects are cross-curricular in the way Primaries used to approach 'themes' ( though they have never fully returned to this structure), with pupils making their own cds and designing stage sets and costumes.

   I'm not claiming what I did was unique. Teachers use group work in every subject and, as in English and Drama, pupils invariably have the power and choice to determine outcomes.

   What I'm proposing is, along with the abolition of a 'pass' and 'fail' culture, an elevation of group work when it comes to assessment. Working in groups can give less confident pupils the opportunity to thrive and each member can contribute according to their talents.

   The likes of Prof. Reynolds, who cannot see beyond one set of data to another, need to address the intrinsic failures of a system which condemns so many , making their entire school careers a waste of time.



                                    A POEM CANNOT BE GRADED

A poem cannot be graded :
it is not a 1 or an A*,
or even a 5 or a U.

It sticks its two fingers
up at all examiners,
ultimately refusing to be dissected.

Even if you put it on the wall
it will come alive after closing
and hare down corridors.

A poem can have no criteria
to box in assessement :
emerging like a dream embodied.

It can be googled for meaning,
caught  in the net and pinned;
but its words will grow new limbs,

so it jumps through open windows
into the rain, snow or sunlight,
tearing off itorm as it goes.s unif


  

   Merthyr Tudful is dying and being reborn at the same time. Perhaps it was always thus. In the heyday of the iron industry, when it was one of the  largest producers in the world, there were notorious slums like 'China' and cholera was rife, just as people poured in from the impoverished countryside.   Today there are examples of death and rebirth everywhere. Those of death are more familiar : the effects of the giant opencast coal mine at Ffos-y-fran and the impending environmental doom of the incinerator at Brig-y-cwm (unless it is stopped). More obviously are the many problems relating to poverty and unemployment, among them drugs , crime and serious health issues.

   Yet the rebirth cannot be underestimated : the old Town Hall will hopefully  be reinvented as an arts and training centre, the first ever Children's Literature Festival (bi-lingual, wrth cwrs) could well take place at the soon-to-be-launched Soar Theatre and there are a number of other projects, such as the Engine House in Dowlais, which bring so much hope to the young people of the town.

   Our latest guest reader at the Open Mic. at The Imp in Pontmorlais was author of 'Real Merthyr' Mario Basini, who bemoaned the fact that so much of the town, such as the famous 'Triangle' housing in Pentrebach and also Penydarren ironworks, had been destroyed by callous Councils. 

   While I agree with him,  we can't alter that. However, things can be done today and one must certainly be a comemorative monument at the site of the recently demolished Castle Cinema, where so much of the drama of the 1831 Rising happened. The brutal attack by the British army on unarmed workers who were fighting for their rights should be a focal point of our town's history. 

   Merthyr used to be synonymous with failure : the C5 built at Hoover factory ( a washing-tub on wheels!), the flights to USA fiasco of that same factory and the ski-slope with its snow-machine, which left a perfect runway for the hang-gliders by Troedyrhiw!

   Now, there's a vibrant creative arts department at Merthyr College, Soar's ambitious programme of events and a Town Hall where the rats will be piped away up the mountain by music and dance. A town realising its many talents!

   The greats of the past must not be forgotten either, as these can be an inspiration. I'd like to see 'viewing platforms' at various locations around town associated with these writers and historians, places where short biographies, photos and extracts should be displayed. Our museum at Cyfarthfa has done little to promote the town's rich heritage of writing, so people like Gwyn Alf Williams, Alun Rees, Glanmor Williams, Jack Jones, Glyn Jones and Leslie Norris should be celebrated and enjoyed  at these key points. Historical tours of the town could stop off at these places, like Dowlais for Gwyn Alf, the Morlais brook for Glyn Jones and Cyfarthfa Park for Leslie Norris.

   Which will it be, slow death or eventual rebirth? I feel the answer is, as ever, both. Economically , we will suffer disproportionately from the continuing recession with its cuts, unemployment, inflation and dwindling spending power. If the incinerator comes we will have pollution's most modern theme park: come and visit our landfill site, opencast and waste- burning for a day's spectacle on how to destroy the environment!

   Yet, long after Ffo-y-fran is either filled in and made into bare pastureland, or becomes a landfill mark II, I believe the Soar and Old Town Hall will be flourishing.  People have objected to the money spent on these projects and to that I'd reply - ' These places will grow, develop and become havens of hope.'


                                  FISH FOOT CLINIC

It's come t Merthyr at las,
we got one o them 'Fish Foot Clinics'
down town in a posh stewdio.

In-a local paper it boasts
'Probably the biggest in Merthyr'
(far as I know, int no other!).

An orready I yeard 'bout this bloke,
pissed arfta goin up-a Wyndham
(one of-a top 10 ardes pubs in-a land) ;

ee goes inta this Clinic
where there's all these women
avin theyer feet nibbled by tiny fish.

'I wan mine done!' ee demands,
'on'y make it fuckin piranhas,
not them poncy fish yew do ewse!

Aye, they cun feed off-of my tattoes.
On'y piranhas are ard enough
f'r a pair o feet like these.'

'Sorry sir,' sayz the manager, thinkin 999,
'we on'y got these ones,
Gara Rufa 're gentle as yew please.'

'No way!' ee replies,' I'll bugger off
up a Chinese Ealth Shop an ave
loadsa needles stuck in my balls!'

 

  

   This is surely a miracle! A tablet, a screen. A single memory-bank of songs the size of a coin! Only so much more valuable.

   If you'd told me just 6 months ago that I'd be an i-tunes addict, welded to my i-pod as I travel by train, walk or wait at various bus-stops, I'd have dismissed you outright.

   Then I was the ultimate Retro Man, taking with me on any long journey my old and trusty walkman and a bag full of tapes, all mixes made meticulously , in the very best of taste, by Merthyr's Ace Tapeman, Andrew Bartz.

   For years, I actually resisted the move from vinyl to tape, preferring grooved discs with revolutions every minute. But whatever the nostagia, they could easily scratch or warp. Still, casettes were rarely bought.

   Instead, I hopped a stage to cds, still relishing the artwork, booklet with background info and, above all, the lyric sheet. It's certainly true I miss all these with downloading. I like to follow the words as I'm listening and know about the band and songs. You can't replace something made, something tangible.

   Sound quality cannot match the cd, my Prog Rock fanatic friend has told me, yet with a great set of 'cans' I've found that music hitherto listened to on cd has opened up completely on the i-pod, whole layers and subtle background tones revealing themselves. Though it's true my everyday ear-phones let in too much outside noise.

   Of course, I'm aware of the dangers. We shut ourselves off from the cacophony of traffic, but also the songs of birds. We muffle out the shrieks of spoilt children, but also intriguing exchanges of conversation.

   While I've become too easily addicted to getting music online, I'm also fascinated by  the sheer availability of music which I might never have found in shops, or even been able to order.  From surfing the net I came upon two brilliant singer-songwriters, who I'd probably have missed otherwise : Jo Hamilton and Agnes Obel .I got their new albums instantly.

   They are as different as Bjork and Thea Gilmore, yet both have debut albums which are so much better than the highly-rated Laura Marling and the many Kate Bush impersonators such as Florence and the Machine. Hamilton's music ranges from jazzy ballads to songs full of her native Scotland and she has a voice as powerful as Jeff Buckley's ( which I never though I'd say about anybody!). On the other hand, Obel's music is very pared down, but her lyrics are more adventurous and obtuse . Her songs feature her excellent piano-playing, a cello and sometimes a harp. Her version of John Cale's 'Close Watch' is better than the original and her cover of 'Katie Cruel' is by far the best version I've heard (the Fleet Foxes made a hash of it).

   I'm excited by the way I can access Welsh language music, even if i-tunes do describe the highly emotive Gwilym Morus's songs as 'in a funny language'! I decided to revisit Geraint Jarman and download 'Rhiniog', realising once again what a major figure he is in the history of Welsh rock. Not only did he make reggae at home in Cymru, but with guitarist Tich Gwilym he produced a series of records which put him up there with the very best from Wales. Like the Super Furries, he can move from political to personal, from scathing to exhilarating with equal intensity and melody.

   On You-Tube recently I came across 'ice music' after reading a review of a concert in the paper. I downloaded a track, but it ,elted along the wires! Some music cannot be captured online.


                                                 ICE MUSIC

And the band played Ice Music :
they had come from Norway,
were used to interpreting glacial movement.

The venue wasn't cold enough,
so after every number their instruments
had to be returned to the freezer.

Ice bells were melting
as were ice trumpets, not to mention
the unforgettable ice marimba.

But the music was cold only
in the material of instrumentation :
every note a frost fern, waterfall stilled and hanging,

every phrase a caught crystal on tongue
and that voice of sunlight reflected
in a dazzle-dance from a white mountain.

That night I heard the icicles
growing from guttering drip by drip, chime
with cries only the snow could translate.

  In the run up to the Assembly elections last Thursday two friends, whose views I respect but don't always agree with, declared they'd be voting for Labour in their Cardiff constituencies and the Greens on the List vote.

   I took part in a somewhat desperate and pointless 'text war' to try to persuade them to vote for the leftist Leanne Wood, but to no avail.

   What makes it especially strange is that these highly intelligent voters chose Labour after rejecting that party totally during recent years, not just because of Iraq, but a disillusionment with their overall policies. One  explained to only ever having been a member of that party as a reaction to Thatcher and the other was committed sufficiently to the Greens to display their poster in the General Election.

   To fathom this change isn't just to argue that Welsh Labour have taken a different route from New Labour under Blair and Brown, because they have failed to do so on economic policy. Rather, it's a recognition that Labour had forced the agenda in last week's election.

   They had taken Plaid Cymru's usual mantra of 'standing up for Wales' and were seen as a bastion against ConDem cuts. The evidence of free bus passes, lower tuition fees and free prescriptions being maintained are obvious examples.

   It was as if they were voting from a party separate from the Westminster
one which had actually helped create the enormous deficit by allowing bankers free rein and the housing market to dominate people's investments, so a housing slump left them unable to pay mortgages or buy first-time homes.

   Plaid Cymru ,in particular, failed spectacularly to forge any link in people's minds between this Labour party and the one which had caused the crisis. A party which, had they won the General Election, would now be carrying out cuts similar to the Condem ones and dismissing the meek resistance of most Unions, except the likes of PCS and RMT.

   All parties failed to engage or appeal to the poor and dispossessed, most of whom didn't bother to vote simply because no government has ever  radically changed their situation of constant struggle.Ideals of full employment and the eradication of poverty simply aren't in the manifestos of parties who quibble about reformist minutiae. In other words, all the mainstream parties have virtually merged into one entity and it is a matter of tradition or tactics which dictate.

   Plaid, just like the Liberals in London, have been subsumed by the actions of their Coalition partners and subsequently lost their identity in the process. With the Welshification of each party in more than name, it was essential for Plaid to reassert it's distinctiveness as a pacifist, nationalist party with strong republican sympathies.

   Instead, we saw Plaid MP's voting in the Commons for military action in Libya, a refusal to countenance the idea if independence in Wales itself and - with the notable exception of two AM's -  take a British nationalist stance on the Royal Wedding akin to the Labour party (with Lord Elis-Thomas even attending it!).

   No doubt Plaid will attempt to re-fashion itself on the model of the SNP in opposition, though without an influential and charismatic leader like Alex Salmond that could prove impossible.

   Welsh Labour will continue to act as a Social Democratic alternative to right-wing policies emanating from Westminster, but will be tested by the sheer extent of the cuts. It will be interesting to see to what extent they support the inevitable strikes which will take place. No doubt they will distance themselves from the likes of Mark Servotka, who always argues against the need for any cuts at all. The Labour party pose of being a leftwing party always emerges in opposition to Tory-led London government, but it's never more than a pose.

   I dream of a party in Cymru which brings together socialists from many parties but, above all, from outside them. Am I dreaming of the past and the group to which I belonged for many years, Cymru Goch?

   It must be  a party rather than grouping, however, and one whose primary aim is to change the consciousness and lives of the people of this country through involvement in all levels of political action, by setting out a clear vision of what a socialist Wales would be like and how it could be achieved.

   The Welsh Socialist Alliance, which I was also part of, tried to do this very thing by bringing together those on the Left. Sadly, it ended up as yet another organisation the SWP manipulated for their own ends.

   Plaid Sosialaeth Cymru must be grander and embrace socialists within the mainstream parties as well. I can fully understand my two friends who voted Labour, but it strikes me as a reactionary move: a reaction against Westminster rather than a vote for any alternative vision of society.

   There were no election posters in Penywaun, a council estate near Aberdare where my friend, the poet Jazz lives. 'Welcome to the Bronx' he once wrote about the place and called it 'Giro City' in his screaming rant against unemployment ; written decades ago, but frighteningly relevant to today.

   None of the main parties offered hope to the people of Penywaun : long abandoned by Labour, ignored by Plaid, cheated by the Liberals and cut deep and left to bleed by the Tories.


                       NO WORRIES, THERE'S A ROYAL WEDDING!

Lost your job
lost your home
lost the will to ever sing?

no worries
cos there's a royal wedding

lost your benefits
lost the holiday you planned
lost to pawnbrokers your wedding ring?

no probs
cos there's a royal wedding

lost relationships
lost your head in debt
lost in dread when the phone rings?

no sweat
cos there's a royal wedding

lost your pension
lost your kids hopes of higher education
lost your life's very meaning?

no hassles
cos there's a royal wedding!                 

   Firstly, I'd like to thank poet and lecturer Carrie Etter for issuing the challenge to write a poem a day for National Poetry Month.

   I'd particularly like to thank her because I hadn't even heard of National Poetry Month and now look forward to a National Poetry Year.......every year! Responding to the challenge was easy, executing it a little harder!

   However, I'm glad I took the minimalist option of a haiku per day, so beginning the Merthyr 'haiku factory' (as my son's girlfriend called it so aptly). I just hoped that they wouldn't turn out like the infamous Sinclair C5, one of Merthyr's most maligned products and rightly so : a washing-tub on wheels!

   Having been to Japan for a couple of weeks a few years ago and vowing not to write haiku but ending up doing so, I fully expected to  rebel against myself and compose villanelles instead.

   It didn't work out that way though and I've kept to the strict discipline of three-line, five - seven - five syllables throughout the month of April. The most problematic ones were undoubtedly those in Welsh, where my limited vocabulary has been fully stretched and my desire to leave out words not always a possibility.

   Some of the haiku have been direct responses to observations and events, but by no means all. The first and last link up, of course, and there's room for a remembered full moon and the Windsor Wasters' Bash on the 29th( oh no, it's me doing my Chumbawamba tub-thumping.....I'll have to curb that!). Some are memories and some imaginings.

  I have cheated in that I wrote a spare one and now insert that, in retrospect, for the 24th , as the original didn't work out well.

   Inevitably, there are descriptions from my house, such as the first cuckoo and early visitation of the swallows. The return of horses to the Waun out back is much more significant than I could suggest in a haiku though. It means that the whole area is less likely to be made into a giant opencast mine in future.

   I am very grateful to anyone who has read and made comments on them. I am especially pleased that several Welsh speakers have said they liked the 'haiku Cymraeg' : it means they aren't totally 'lol' ( nonsense and laugh-out-loud).

  I'm just glad I didn't take on the challenge of writing a longer piece every day, as many would have turned out forced; though next April I'll have to do something different, perhaps a sequence or narrative.

   April has been the kindest month, an ideal time for lounging in the garden and going for leisurely walks 'up the forestry' near my home. Not surprisingly, they're predominantly rural, with only a couple from my sorties into Merthyr and Cardiff.

   Occasionally, lines have arrived and I don't know where they came from : these could well be either the best or worst of what I've written.

APRIL 1st

Thing about haiku,
after the five,seven,five :
they are never fin.........

2nd
Are they ears or mouths,
medicine for memory?
Petal skirts, straight stems.

3rd
Stream breathes the wild mint,
cress at every finger-tip :
wears the lady's smock.

4th
Breed under decking,
climb wire, cough up blue poison :
gnaw into our dreams.

5th
Y dosbarth Cymraeg :
dw i'n dringo yr ysgol,
heb yn gweld y pen.

6th
Horses graze and roll,
welcome friends, just visiting :
print 'C' of Common.

7th
Couples confluence
at oak-shade of horizon :
fences can't stop them.

8th
Smooth spoons of the broom,
thistle forks and knives of gorse ,
heather picnic mat.

9th
Youths light fires on moor,
hurry off, braying loudly :
beneath, seams crave flames.

10th
Sparrows under eaves,
one trails a piece of string,
ties up terracing.

11th
The white plastic bag,
flag of surrender on thorn ;
carcass of burnt car.

12th
Dw i'n chwilio
yng nghymoedd yr iaith :
sgrws a cyndadau.

13th
Old mine-shaft fenced off,
pupils of mud, lids of moss :
no sight to the past.

14th
Angler in river,
whip of his line as it flies :
rider of water.

15th
Green eyes to the sky,
reeds standing upright at last,
branches' lichen veils.

16th
Lone saxophonist
bebops bag-bulging shoppers,
lifts them to roof-tops.

17th
First cuckoo on Waun,
nest-filcher, clock of season :
ring-song of the sun

18th
'DANGER', 'DEATH' on gate :
below the buzzards and wire,
each step defiant.

19th
Smokers sit outside,
gamblers sucked into bookies :
days drop like dog-ends.

20th
Opening daytime
and closing with the twilight,
petals hide dark star.

21st
Agorwyd cegau,
mae geiriau yn hedfan :
gwenyn i'r blodau.

22nd
Today rotten wood,
next day dandelions grow there :
two journeys, visions.

23rd
Seen for the first time,
a bull's face in the oak tree :
once muscled on moor.

24th
These early swallows
scythe fly-furrows in the air :
east wind scatters them. 

25th
So full orange moon,
sky carnation, lost balloon,
floating fox-lantern.

26th
Bottle rolls downhill,
a runaway animal :
finds home in the drain.

27th
Tree memorial
bright with shirts, flowers, photos :
all colours of blood.

28th
'We' and 'this nation'
the tv keeps insisting,
so I feel foreign.

29th
'Windsor' not 'Wales',
monarchy moronity :
servile subjects slurp.

30th
......Isht! Night listening,
owl flies on tides of moonlight :
drip from its hook-beak.

   A few weeks ago, Nick Clegg admitted to weeping to particular songs. Of course, messageboards were typically cynical in their responses, many just saying that Clegg himself made them cry. One 'Evil McBad' on the 'Guardian' website actually gave Clegg's top 30 , all songs entitled 'Liar'.....I didn't know there were that many.

   In the 'Guardian' following this, many critics described those songs that made them cry and I didn't find one that I empathised with. Hardly surprising, given the highly personal nature of responses to music. I could recommend songs so imbued with poignant melancholy I believe it would have all listeners dyhydrating instantly ; however, I feel certain few would agree.

   In terms of instrumental music, I'd have to say that Abdullah Ibrahim's 'The Wedding' and Weather Report's 'A Remark You Made' would be certain selections. Both possess a strange sadness which confounds and both 'speak' more profoundly than any words.

   Yet, that's probably me : I no doubt imagine a script to accompany the sax or piano phrasing which is unique. When it comes to lyrics, I'm sure it's even more a matter of individual reactions. I have no albums by Scots singer-songwriter and leftie Dick Gaughan, yet his version of Adrian Mitchell's poem 'Vistor Jara of Chile' always leaves me teary-eyed.

   Because I love the poem and recall Mitchell's gentle sing-song reading of it and because I know a good deal about what happened to Jara and the terrible tragedy of it, I identify completely with the song. To hear Gaughan's gruff-edged voice sing about Jara's hands as 'gentle' and 'strong' accentuates those feelings.

   It's definitely the same with Gorky's Zygotic Mynci and their song 'Sometimes the Father is the Son' from the album 'Barafundle'. I have no doubt that this song takes me back to Aberystwyth when I was a boy and my uneasy relationship with my own father. The song summons up waves and beaches and a relationship which can be toppled upside down.

   Because my wife is from Belfast. Because I was once dismissed as a 'heathen' there. Because I know there are so many borders in N. Ireland and we broke through one of them by marrying, when priests gave us 'less than a year', I have to say that Christy Moore's 'North and South '( written with Bono and Edge) is one of the most moving of all. More than any other, this bring togetherthe personal and political in a single image.

   It's about love which reaches across the 'river' (literally a border between Catholic and Protestant in Derry City). It's also a song in which Moore comes to terms with his own rebel past. It is an admission that, for too long, both sides have played the 'same old tune'. I think this could be the theme tune for the likes of Gerry Adams and Martin McGuinness, though in the end it's a matter of love conquering those barriers , not political compromise.

   Nowadays it's much more likely that a female singer-songwriter will move me to weepdom, especially Thea Gilmore. Also, it's much less easy to say why in the case of songs like her masterful 'Slow Journey II' from the album 'Harpo's Ghost'.

   It has a cloud-climbing quality and reminds me of many dreams I have had, though not precisely. It is lonely, dark and haunting and , above all, full of yearning. It doesn't link immediately with any memory or experience I've had, rather a shared emotion. Above all, there is the cello (my favourite instrument) that other 'voice' suggesting a search but no definite destination, except perhaps the end of a dream.

   Music can be happened upon in the most unusual circumstances. Sometimes rather unlikely places make for a more exhilarating experience than any gig or concert.



                                    PIPER ON THE FERRY

Climbing high up
on the ship
across the Irish Sea,
rocking and rolling
the wake no dead,
seagulls scavenging.

Above the decks,
loungers, bars, cabins,
to the funnel
and its sickly fumes.

Nearby, playing on his own,
no audience applauding,
no hat pleading ;
the Uillean piper.

Making the waves dance
a jig then a reel,
finding the airs
there in the breeze,
foam on his lips,
breath a banner blown.

He has no cares,
the piper keening, crying
to the gulls
to follow the up-flow
of music raising our wings
as they grow.