I miss the sheep
who used to wander
into our garden regularly
and scruffy grey sheep
who'd lie in doorways
of terraced houses
looking like they'd just
done a shift down the pit
and especially those mangy ones
who'd attack your shopping
up Asda's car park.


I miss the sheep
cropping the roundabouts
and many roadsides,
always dotted on hillsides,
or on a roof once
in Dowlais ( honest! )
and sometimes ruling the streets.


I miss the sheep
in black suspenders 
and frilly nighties
(no, that was Woody Allen),
but we still chant
'1-0 to the Sheepshaggers!''
even though we're more likely
​to be intimate with horses.

​

   Coincidence upon coincidence!
   I met up with local working-class rhymester Dai Davies on Ron's bus , going up the hill to go back down again.
   At first all he wanted to do was show me his brandnew shopping trolley which his beloved Iris Burnett had bought him for his birthday.
   His Jack Russell Vlad was still sulking inside it and looking decidedly out of sorts.
   The trolley was certainly a GTi version with side mirrors, bumpers and , best of all, a loud hooter which Dai demonstrated so Ron the Drive almost swerved into a hedge!
   'Vlad still got the ump?' I asked.
   'Aye! Ee still carn get is tiny ead round Iris see, but ee'll come round in time....she've begun t give im treats every time she comes round, so that'll work the trick eventually.......
   Yer, ave a look at this poem Mike.'
   He showed me his latest creation entitled 'The Great Eggscape'.
   'Like it , eh Mike?......We ad a topic t write about animals and this appened. What a coincidence,eh?'
   'Wha's it about Dai?'
   'Well, me an Iris woz up by Gelligaer on ower way to this pub f'r lunch....the Tair Pluen think it's called.
   Jest as we woz gettin near the pub all ell broke loose! Never seen anythin like it!
   All these chickens must've excaped from this buildin by there. I never noticed it before....Three Feathers Eggs it's called, like on-a Welsh rugby jerseys.'
  ' See any pijins in dark glasses nearby?'
  ' I know what yew mean....tha Wayne-O Pijin an is criw. To be honest, I woz concentratin on not runnin over them bloody ens!'
  ' An what did the Merthyr  Metres make of yewer poem, Dai?'
  'Well, Iris woz very impressed....she sayd I'd captured the moment jest like it appened.'

   I had heard rumours about Wayne-O Pijin's new secret hideaway up Morlais Castle in the crypt, CF48 2TR.
   Apparently, his former allies Al-Wings Jones, Bazza Wood Pijin and even Timothy Rich-Pickings had joined the RAF ( Revolutionary Avian Front).
   Even pigeons from over Aberdare, such as Jazzy Crust, were said to be co-operating with his guerilla tactics.
   I had a strong feeling that the mass break-out from a factory farm near Gelligaer was the work of the RAF and was determined to find Wayne-O again.
   It proved easy to locate him, given the fact that I had the postcode and an exceedingly Smart phone.
   A trail of droppings and chicken feathers led me there, though Wayne-O was surrounded only by a few acolytes and several wives, all in dark glasses and berets.
   In response to every question, he answered in what seemed like riddles.
   'Were your RAF involved in the recent raid and release of chickens near Gelligaer?'
   'Do you see any chickens here?' he replied.
   'Have you hidden them somewhere, or are they free to roam?'
   'I went in search of the Three Feathers. It was a quest, but not the holy grail.'
   ' Have you modelled the RAF on the former German terrorist group the Rote Armee Fraktion, also known as the RAF ?'
   ' I do not speak German, only 'Ich Dien' which I saw below the Three Feathers. I believe it means 'I Serve', but I do not serve you No-Wings.'
   ' What kind of guerilla action have you got planned? Will it be escalated?'
   ' I may live in a cave, but I am not Glyndwr!'
   ' Do you know there's a major police operation under way to re-arrest you after the Merthyr Pet Shop and factory farm crimes?'
   ' Is freedom a crime?'

  With that, I abandoned the interview.
  I have since been tipped off that the BBC's use of pigeons in its previous Welsh international rugby build-up could have dire consequences for the corporation.


                                       THE  GREAT  EGGSCAPE

Chickens, chickens everywhere,
got in our faces and our hair!

Me and Iris out for a quiet drive,
they were like bees disturbed from a hive.

In the hedges, on the road,
a clucking disgrace if truth be told.

Thousands of chickens on the run,
pecking, flapping and having fun.

Never knew that building was their home,
looked more like a factory than a farm.

Iris and me went to the pub after,
on the menu was 'Chicken 'n' chips'. No ta!

Never seen so many birds in all my days,
like a Hitchcock film and I was dazed.


by Dai 'The Rhyme' Davies of Winchfawr.


   '  
     

   Dw i'n falch iawn achos bod fi wedi ennill y Gadair am yr ail dro yn Eisteddfod y Dysgwyr, Prifysgol De Cymru.
   Yn anffodus, dw i ddim yn gallu rhannu'r gerdd oherwydd mae hi'n mynd ymlaen at y Genedlaethol ( Maes D wrth gwrs).
   Ond, dyma gerdd symyl ygrifennais i yn y gweithdy yn Soar ddydd Iau.

   I'm very proud because I managed to win the Chair at the Learners' Eisteddfod, University of South Wales, for the second year running.
   Unfortunately, I can't share the poem with you as it goes forward to the National Learners' competition.
   However, here's a simple poem I wrote at a poetry workshop in the Soar in Merthyr this Thursday, with my translation.


      
Y PEGYNAU
 
 
Y dau pegynau
yn y Stryd Uchel,
yr asgwrn cefn :
 
un yw’r Imperial,
noson o gerddi,
mae’r  pobl yn ysbrydoli ;
 
un yw’r Coron,
noson o ganu,
mae ystyr o hwyl.
 
Jorge a Jose
estroniaid ond gyfeillion,
perchnogion y tafarnau.
 
Rhwng y pegynau
ydy’r tir gwag,
siopau Punt ac elusennol.
 
Nid polyn y faner
yw’r asgwrn cefn,
ond corff y gweithwyr.




HIGH  STREET


The two Poles
of the High Street,
of the back-bone :

one is the Imperial,
nights of poetry
full of inspiration ;

the other's the Crown,
nights of song,
the meaning of 'hwyl'.

Jose and Jorge,
strangers yet friends,
owners of the taverns.

Between those Poles
is the empty land
of Pound and Charity shops.

The back-bone
is not a flag pole,
​but the body of the workers.


  

  

   In preparation for an appearance on Jason Mohammad's Radio Wales phone-in last week I received an e-mail from the researcher which gave me details of the 'Welsh Gove's' proposals to make English Literature an optional subject.
   I initially thought it was deliberate using 'Gove', but then realised it was an odd abbreviation.
   However, 'Gove' would be entirely appropriate.
   The programme turned out to be part of the School Report series that day and two Year 9 pupils from Cowbridge were in the studio doing a fine job presenting.
   Somehow, I never manage to say exactly what I want on tv or radio. I do prefer the latter though : at least my baldy head can't be viewed!
   In retrospect, I'd like to have chatted to those pupils and got their ideas, whereas I had an agenda and was busy sounding off.
   I hope what I was trying to say was pertinent, even if I thought it rather garbled.
   What the Welsh Gove are doing is nothing short of cultural vandalism, on a par with their cuts in library services, arts centres and orchestras for young people.
   There is no point in voting for anti-austerity Corbyn, when the Labour Gove in Cardiff Bay are behaving like the Tories in Westminster.
   Now, because of 'performance indicators' English Lit will become as peripheral as art, music and drama have already become. What that means is that schools' performances are judged on Language results, so there is no incentive for them to take Literature seriously.
   The Welsh Gove make lots of promises about delivering Lit through other means, but this will be a sop, just as the present Cwricwlwm Cymreig is.
  The latter specifies a requirement for schools to study Welsh Literature in English, but in reality it means a very occasional poem or story, if that!
   Moreover, schools haven't the resources to bring in writers  as they used to regularly and all the finance ( in terms of Literature Wales ) is channelled into promoting writers such as Roald Dahl for a whole year.
   Rather than a policy designed to deprive future generations of access to poetry, plays and fiction, the administration in Cardiff Bay needs to be imaginative and forward-thinking.
   I did try to argue this on the phone-in, but came over as nostalgic for the 1980s, when 100% Literature coursework gave both teachers and pupils genuine opportunities to choose what they studied.
   I actually agree that English Lit should be abolished forever!
   Yes, it should be replaced by Literature, with an emphasis on works by Welsh writers. The term's absurd anyway as much is American, such as Cormier's 'Heroes', Steinbeck's 'Of Mice and Men' and , of course, Harper Lee and Angelou.
   We have such a wealth of fiction and poetry in Cymru and there are enough excellent dramatists who deserve greater recognition.
  Furthermore, there should be a real opportunity for pupils to research topics of their choice, with an oral test based upon this.
   As I've blogged before, let's return to 100 % coursework, but with the work done in class while the preparation could be done at home. Let's give teachers a chance to use their expertise in certain areas and choose the texts they want....not from prescribed lists but anything suitable, from Gruff Rhys' 'American Interior' to Peter Finch's experimental poetry.
   Non-fiction should not be ignored because, as the essays of Robert Minhinnick illustrate, they can be just as imaginative and challenging as fiction.
   If Welsh Lit ( in English and translation) needs to be the hub of the course, then World Literature must also be crucial, with the likes of Brecht, Walcott and Achebe among those offered.
   There's no reason why English and American need to dominate and pupils will surely relate to works which are either local or national. Imagine the poetry of Idris Davies studied in the Rhymni  valley, or Alun Lewis in Aberdare.
   I taught 'A' Level coursework in my last school and always chose writers who I could invite there, to discuss their work with pupils. I truly believe it illuminated their studies and made the work so much more relevant.
   Also, it gave them another dimension on hearing the poems, essays or fiction read out loud.
   Poetry, in particular, thrives in this context and is much better appreciated, even when the writer's delivery isn't enthralling.
   I have a number of teacher friends and their reaction towards the assessment-obsessed, over-inspected, advisor-bullied present system is unanimous : they tell me that morale is at its lowest ever and schools have become 'exam factories', with pupils as products on an educational conveyor belt.
  Enjoyment has been stolen from learning.
  At what cost?
  Education is becoming increasingly utilitarian and the arts viewed as useless.
   Will we create a generation of children who only see it as an investment towards a job, or ( if they are labelled as failures) as completely pointless?
   Once schools were seen as businesses, there was no way back.
   To make them thriving, participatory communities requires a revolution and not piffling reforms.
   If we let the Welsh Labour Gove continue with their policies , then Literature will follow orchestras and libraries onto the rubbish dump of history and 'gwlad beirdd a chantorion' will be pure nostalgia. 

     This poem is based on what happened after a 'Red Poets' launch at The Imp......

                             TAXI  POETRY

Out of the launch, going home
and into the taxi alone.

Driver recognised me straight away -
glad it was 'Mike', not 'Sir' or 'Loopy'.

'I 'member this poem we done once,
'bout this Rasta stopped by-a p'lice ;

so we done poems 'bout ower own place
an I wrote 'bout-a Gurnos Estate.'

Then he recited word-for-word
(he'd left school over ten years),

his poem about a tough life and the cops
and gangs which gathered at the shops.

It had couplets a lot like rap,
I sat impressed and taken back.

'Where yew bin?' he asked eventually.
'Oh, jest launchin a magazine o poetree.'

When it came to pay he didn't want money,
'No way.....jest gimme a copy!'                                    

   If I could take one thing with me (apart from certain people and, of course , guacamole!), it would surely be music.
   My good friend the Bartzman could provide the perfect soundtrack : enough songs to last infinity ( well, nearly).
   As an atheist, all this is pure fantasy.
   One of my greatest regrets is not learning a musical instrument while I was in school.
  In Primary the whole year group were divided up between 'recorders' and 'harmonicas' and ironically ( because I do play a bit of blues harmonica when drunk enough) I was chosen for the recorder.
   I really enjoyed playing in our mass ensembles, singing in school productions and carol concerts and especially round the piano in music lessons, which concentrated on folk songs.
   Today - with schools being exam factories - music , together with drama and art, is peripheral. A tragic state of affairs in a 'gwlad o chantorion'/ a nation of singers.
   In Grammar School I joined the choir and, till my voice broke, was a bit of an Aled Jones ( without the recording contract!). Once I'd become a shaving baritone I re-joined and loved the school's annual carol-singing door-to-door.
   At Uni I found the choir intimidating and soon gave up. Everyone sat down with a manuscript and I couldn't read music. We ploughed through Brahms'   'Requiem'  very mechanically.
   It wasn't till I picked up my friend Scouse Pete's 'gob-iron' and blew away till I could bend notes that I wanted to make music again.
   I never went to a music lesson outside school. When I was only six my mother suggested the piano and I emphatically refused. She never pursued it.
  My wife used to teach piano so maybe when she retires she'll teach me.....though my stubby hands do not auger well.
   My passion for music has always been a restless search for the fresh, exciting, different.
   It can be like discovering a new territory and then saying to anyone who'll pay attention - 'Hey, you gotta listen to this! It's something else!'
   It doesn't always work. 
   Some have dismissed Tom Waits as a growler and Future of the Left as dogmatically political just because of their name.
   So it  was interesting to read an interview with my latest enthusiasm , Julia Holter from California who, like John Cale before her, had to move away from her formal training as a pianist and into the freer form of singer-songwriter.
  Though she's obviously a highly talented pianist and keyboard-player this is never uppermost in her songs in the way Cale's viola is part of so much Velvet Underground.
   I have to admit that I was wary of Holter at first.
   In articles, she tended to be associated with fellow quirky Californian Joanna Newsome, and though I do like the harp-playing of the latter, I find her vocals rather annoying and her lyrics often pretentious.
   I can't speak with authority about Holter's previous, more experimental , albums, but her latest one 'Have Me In Your Wilderness' is exceptional. It struck me as much as Cohen's first album and Sufjan's 'Illinoise'.
   Her music combines jazz, classical, folk and some rock influences without deliberation and , in that way, reminds me of my other album of last year 'Everyone Was A Bird' by Grasscut.
   She cites Robert Wyatt as an influence and , like Wyatt, her songs never follow conventions: there are few choruses, rhymes and she uses the spoken word tellingly at times.
   Though many songs appear lyrical, this is misleading.
   Holter insists her songs tell stories from a variety of viewpoints and - in an age of relentlessly confessional singer-songwriters - this is so beguiling.
  Yet  unlike most by Peter Gabriel and Randy Newman ( two others who use many persona) she is intimate and mysterious.
   Swirling around in my head at present is her curious song 'Betsy on the Roof' with the nearest she gets to a chorus and the line 'Uh-oh, she said, uh-oh' sung in Kate Bushy-fashion.
   Things are left unexplained in this song and that is what's poetic about her lyrics.
   It draws you in, sets a scene, suggests characters, yet never ends in resolution.   
   Is Betsy a cat, woman in a dream, or a girl on the edge of madness?
   Holter can vary moods radically, for instance between the jaunty wit of 'Everytime Boots' and brooding darkness of 'Night Song' (closest she gets to Cohen).
   She shows how music is evolving in an intriguing manner. Of course, classically-trained musicians have transformed themselves before into rock and singer-songwriters  ; Cymru's own Cale the prime example.
   Yet. when you look at the likes of Sufjan Stevens and Grasscut it seems as if folk, electronica, jazz, classical and rock are gradually  matamorphosing into an new art-form which is no longer a fusion but a 'place' beyond boundaries.
   Much as I love poetry and novels, there are very few I'd return to again and again as I do with albums like this one, a sound country with rivers of strings, wind's percussion and voice somewhere out to sea.

   I wrote this poem after listening to Holter's 'Have You In My Wilderness'....... 


                                 TO  THE  SOUND  COUNTRY

When I leave
take me to the sound country,
a boat burning
in the middle of the sea.


Washed up on the shore ;
let the woman
stranded on the island
find what's left of me.


Let her make music,
though berries and water are scarce,
drumming wood with bones,
curious xylophone teeth.


Let the wind sing ashes
strewn along the sand
and she in harmony,
as gulls swoop and pick.


Let her voice know fire
and raise up smoke
to warm her nights
till the sun startles her awake.