It's all bubbling up for the F.A. Cup 4th round tie Cardiff City v. Man City, a week Sunday.
   Of course, the Bluebirds' season shouldn't be defined by it and the league must be a priority , promotion to the Premiership.
   Yet.....yet.....
   Our history is so much focused on this very trophy.
   Look outside our stadium and you'll see the statue of one Fred Keenor, who fought in the First World War and survived to go on and become the captain of our team which won it in 1927 ; the only time it's been out of England ( forget the mistake by Arsenal's Welsh keeper!).
   Even this century, we reached the Final at Wembley in 2008 only to be defeated by Pompey thanks to our keeper's blunder and the fact that a young Aaron Ramsey wasn't selected from the start.
   Some of my very best memories of Cardiff victories have been in the Cup : over Leeds when they were flying high and Scott Young got the winner; over Man City when Nathan Blake curled in a great shot and Mark Grew saved a pen ; over Barnsley in the Semi when local boy Joe Ledley scored the winner and away to Middlesbrough in the match before when even their fans did the Ayatollah.
   The question I always asked visiting pupils in workshops was - 'Why are our corner flags triangular not rectangular like most?'
   The FA Cup is so fundamental to the history of Cardiff City that barely 6000 turned up for the home game in the third round v. Mansfield.
   I was there and their assistant manager made more noise than all our fans put together.
   But now we face a team which our manager Neil Warnock described as ' the best in the world'.
   I've watched them many times on telly and they're certainly up there with Real and Barca.
   How can we possibly stop them?
   Well, Bristol City did a really good job in the away leg of the Carabao Cup recently and we're better than them (mind, they did lose 2-1).
   Warnock will have his cunning plans , no doubt.
   Yes, Jazz Richards could do a man-marking job on De Bruyne.
   Yes, we can press high up the pitch using Hoilett, Mendez and Zohore.
   But , ultimately, we have to hope they have an off day and one of our players has a moment of inspiration like Blakey did , or we can score from a set-piece with a header from Bamba or Morrison.
   So will we sit back, or go for it?
   We are likely to press high, yet play on the break when the opportunity comes.
   We're well used to not being the team in possession and have players with real pace.
   With our two new loan signings, Warnock is going for the highest possible Scrabble scores and doing commentators no favours whatsoever : Yanic Wildshut and Marko Grujic.
   The latter is a young Serbian international on loan from Liverpool and isn't cup-tied......I'm sure he'll relish the prospect.
   Of our injured players, only Aron Gunnarsson will be greatly missed. His experience would be invaluable.
   It's a chance for defender Sol Bamba to prove Warnock right, when he claimed he was 'better than Virgil Van Dijk'.
   The atmosphere on the 28th will be amazing, our stadium full and even Tan's 'red elephant ' stand bursting.
   Fans who haven't been for ages will return and ask whether Chops and Jay still lead the line.
   It'll be the Gallagher Bros v. Super Furry Animals, no contest in musical terms!
   It's happened before, it can again.
   I'll either be laughed at for ludicrous optimism, or hailed a prophet!


                                    UP  FOR   THE  CUP
​

Bring back Blakey I say,
still remember that day
when he curled his shot in
and Mark Grew saved a pen
and then in the Prem
it was Fraizer's time
to destroy Yaya and the boys
with their huge salaries.

What Malky did then
Warnock can do again -
Junior Hoilett and Big Ken,
Ralls Royce and Callum,
I imagine Jazz the Jack
marking De Bruyne out the game.

Mind they've still got Sane,
it's insane to think of their stars,
Aguero, Sterling and two Silvas,
even Jesus  plays for them
when he's not walking on water.

I'd wear a yellow ribbon
for Catalunya like Guardiola
except, far as we're concerned
it'll be the Ayatollah
right around the ground.

Wait! That's Blakey on the microphone
and Zohore with his left ......
this is our time!

      
    
   

 We used to sing the Beatles together in your pokey student flat on Caledonian Road.
   The rat poison on the landing and a barber's shop below.
   You tested me in History and Geog for my 'O' Levels. You were studying Social Anthropology, which had something to do with tribes ( the extent of my knowledge).
   You had a Greek boyfriend who was a good bit older called Kyriakos and we spent what seemed hours peeling prawns for a feast he never savoured.
   Instead, we went to the pictures. I liked him because he was jolly and reminded me of Spiro from 'My Family and Other Animals'.

   We have to make sure you get a wheelchair.
    Walking is becoming increasingly difficult, even a simple movement from one aspect of Oriel Lliw, where your paintings are exhibited, to another.
   If you pull yourself up straight your hips hurt so much the pain ensures you're distorted again.
   They've moved you onto the ground floor and you are disorientated. Less light for your art.
   As we take you out, my brother and I, you insist on taking the lift.

   We'd have to take a lift to the sky, just as you did when you went skinny-dipping off Gower.
   Though you were turning blue with hypothermia, the last thing you wanted was a rescue helicopter ( summoned by your panicking lover).  
   You were winched up unceremoniously.
   A better tale ( just as true) was when you were out again skinny-dipping and this time hopped into a yacht, only for the sailors to invite you for a game of cards!

   It all goes back to that one tragic day climbing in Israel.
   You were working on a kibbutz after finishing Uni, clambering barefoot on a mountain when you fell, fractured your skull and was saved in a hospital in Haifa.
   My brother flew out for you, not our parents.

   My mother never protected you from my father.
   You kept a knife under your pillow for good reasons.
   When he visited you at Uni I had to be there ( I didn't know why at the time).
   Like my brother and I, you sought an alternative family, your great friend's ( her cello to your violin).
   And still she'll call in, without arranging, to that room where you live.
   You listen to the music you once played together : Bach and Beethoven.
   
   We sang 'Fool on the Hill' -
         '  Day after day
           Alone on a hill
           The man with the foolish grin.....'
   .....where you live now is on a hill.
   Most residents do not smile or grin but stare emptily or repeat constantly the same words or motions.
   You always have a painting in your vision, but it's becoming more arduous day by day : your hips are chalk grinding to dust which thickens underfoot.
   Letters written in it soon turn to ghosts.

   I listen to Thea Gilmore's remarkable album 'Don't Stop Singing' ( her music to Sandy Denny's lyrics) and realise connections.


                     MY SISTER  &   SANDY   DENNY

I'm thinking of Sandy Denny
kept inside and writing 'Frozen Time',
separated from her one child
in a hospital of woes ;
the cravings and shivering,
Georgia's name spoken time and again
prayers without answers.

                                             I'm thinking of my sister
                                             not locked up but protected
                                             from herself : naked wanderings
                                             at night on Swansea streets,
                                             flinging her canvases out
                                             with the weekly collection.

                                             Her spine now a question-mark,
                                             stooped body lopsided,
                                             fingers strapped from a fall,
                                             she's sketching and painting,
                                             one good eye fleeting
                                             as the light in her room.

                       Sandy's words are sculpted
                       in a worn-out armchair :
                       sharp yearnings, child's cries
                       she hears in her dreams.
                       My sister dreams of a rescue
                       too far from Gower,
                       blue self raised to a helicopter ;
                       she paints a mermaid
                       but it looks like a skeleton.