With the Assembly election forthcoming, Merthyr's predictably lacking any activity. As ever, there are a few Labour posters, one large UKIP on Trago Mills fence and the usual leaflets.
   Trago Mills is a sick joke and draws attention to the UKIP-supporting owner who has left a huge site as wasteland for over a decade.
   Nobody's called and everyone assumes the new Labour candidate will win easily, with the 'respectable' racists of UKIP probably coming second.
   In a town which has so much deprivation, it's the failure of the parties to engage that's so disappointing.
   Politics should be taught in every school : not just the mechanisms and institutions, but the philosophies behind it , from capitalism to anarchism.
   I have limited faith in our political system to change society and no political party offers a real alternative.
   I lean towards the party which is closest to my ideals ( in other words, Plaid Cymru) ,but like the Greens unequivocal commitment to a non-nuclear Cymru and total opposition to opencast mining.
   I would like a vision set out, so politics is more for the long than short term and less about 'buying' votes .
   Here are my suggestions, rather more complicated than those of  the Chartists, but , to me, just as vital :-

* an elected President of Cymru (to replace the Windsors), who acts as a representative on a fixed term and coming from any walk in life
* a truly national health service with no private sector feeding off the state one; fulfilling Nye Bevan's dream, with consultants working full-time in the Welsh nhs and no queue-jumping because of wealth
* both health and education services run by practitioners ( or former practitioners) and not bureaucrats
* scrapping of all student tuition fees ( funded by money raised from abolition of present school inspections and needless, counter-productive Challenge Advisers) 
* fully comprehensive education system run by staff and pupils, with advisers who are teachers on sabbaticals providing help and assistance wherever necessary
* no private sector in education, so parents can no longer buy their children into so-called superior universities
* massive house-building run by co-operatives ; building homes based on the 'Bridgend prototype' i.e. eco-houses which actually generate a surplus of energy after one year and cost only £110,000 to buy
* nuclear and fossil fuel- free Cymru, with jobs created constructing solar farms, community-owned wind farms, tidal barrages and hydro schemes on rivers
* nationalized bank for Cymru, with local branches serving as credit unions, building societies and providing financial support for co-operatives
* integrated Welsh transport system, with all profits going back into improvements
* Arts, Health & Education having a closer relationship; Welsh music, art and literature central to school curricula and workshops seen as vital to people's well-being
* all schools encouraged to be bi-lingual; Welsh as a fundamental part of teacher-training. Proven benefits of bi-lingual education promoted to highlight this process.
* all private companies to operate bi-lingually, as public sector does now

  Not quite as snappy as a People's Charter, I admit and I have left gaps, especially in education with its destructive testing culture.
   Some comrades on the Left say - 'Why focus on Wales? Surely it's divide and rule, just like the Empire?'
   I would reply that until you dismantle the British state the politics of class, privilege and war will prevail.
   Of course, we need to co-operate with like-minded people elsewhere, those who share our aspirations to no longer accept colonial status; abandoned once our natural resources and heavy industries were seen as useless.
   There are also aspects of colonial mentality : a strong sense of inferiority which makes us say - 'How can we stand alone?'
   Or, equally appallingly, that Britishness which comes from past wars and an adherence to a monarchy maintained in luxury by our taxes.

             TOO   BLOODY   WEAK

We carn do it, see.
there's no way
we'd survive on ower own.

We're too bloody weak -
all tha money
d'come from Brussels an London.

Ow we gonna live
off of real ale, whisky,
cheese, veg an milk?

I know we got water
but oo's gunna buy it, Liverpool?
It int exactly oil!

We don' produce nothin
on'y wind, food an poetree
an oo cun live off of these?

Slike we're buskin, see,
playin the same ol tewns,
desperate f a few coins.

They see us an pass by -
'Well they are doing something,
but it's not proper really!'  

    Next door's dogs yap and yelp, a noise to disturb if you let it.
   But I'm raised high by birdsong. I once witnessed a blackbird in early morning winter darkness singing in the light of a street-lamp, a solo performance better than a hall of Terfels.....this is different.
   From everywhere it comes.
   I think of Julia Holter's magnificent song 'Surrounded by Horns', where trombones and saxes seem to boom from the rooftops.
   Here on the patio ( 'isn't it a lovely day?'....as Gorky's say), there are so many songs I can't distinguish between them.
   Intense heat at last and music's blossoming, budding.
   My nerve-ends stretch to the tips of oak and willow.
   You can catch sight of the singers sometimes ; long-tailed tits, blue and coal tits, nuthatches and dunnocks.
   My brother, the expert twitcher, has explained the different calls, but I'm still lost in an avian symphony.
   He tells me the nuthatch alone has three distinctive ones and I recognise the long, curved note ( 'take that long curved note and let it float'). It ought to belong to an imposing bird with a gold crest and not this upside-down scrurrier and seeker of bugs beneath the moss-lined bark.
   I used to feed them prodigious amounts of crumbs and put up feeders with nuts and seeds that the local gang of squrrels knew all the codes for.
   Till the rats.
   When the Waun was overgrown and under-grazed they'd come, climbing up the poles and trunk of tree and defying all deterrents.
   Rats as big as cats!
   I never tried to do a Pied Piper trick with my mouth-harp, it would have been pointless.
   So, I stopped the feeding and missed the many birds which came, like the regular shy jays, the finches and most of all the woodpeckers.
   I've noticed a decline in sparrows and starlings in the fields nearby and there's been no cuckoo yet; it's late.
   Often owls will call in twilight and dark and once, when my youngest was little, she was woken by the screech of a barn owl and was petrified.
   The three most extraordinary landings have been : 
  - a Homer, who spend a few days on our moss-covered garage roof, taking a rest on a long journey
 - a tame jackdaw who'd perch on your arm and talk away like he knew 'human'
  - a single female pheasant who appeared on the grainy patio and proceeded to peck at the French windows for hours

   I used to find dead young birds outside those same windows, after they'd flown straight at them, believing air.
   Above the Waun beyond our garden, I often catch sight of circling buzzards and hear their high-pitched mewling.
   There's ample prey in the long grass and young birds to capture mid-flight.
   At times, a worry of adult crows or jackdaws will bombard the buzzard to protect their young, their frantic cawing piercing.
   I've noticed swallows already arriving by the Taff.
   Here in summer, when there's a multitude of insects, they sweep and swoop above marsh and moor, signing the sky.
   When my two oldest were children, there was a row of thick-knit cypruses between us and our neighbours.
   A blackbird family built a nest there and, with the help of a stepladder, my children and their friends would clamber up to view the eggs and then fledglings.
   It was constructed dangerously close to ground level and I wasn't surprised when it was abandoned.
   I adopted it and used it for creative writing lessons. It was a remarkable structure : moulded in mud and with a woven outer wall which contained all manner of things, from ribbon pieces to blue plastic to string.
   Another blackbird - perhaps a younger generation of that same family - would sometimes sing from our fence as my older children practiced their cello and violin.
   It was utterly breathtaking!
   A human / animal  ensemble in celebration of the moment.

   And so to the present : the once and always green-emerging reed concertos from bushes and trees.


                                MONDAY, TWO BLACKBIRDS


Monday, as days are lengthening.

There are two blackbirds singing
in the artificial light
as though it were the sun ;

one in a cafe, dark tattoos
plumed into her arms
as she waits at tables ;

another on the bus behind me
(but I dare not turn )
who needs no stage to perform.

We're taken to the tree-tops
and the rising sun,
voices lifting us lark-like.

High notes resonate in bones
over rattling roads
and gargle of machines.

Monday, as morning listens.
   

   In the middle of Grahame Davies's poetry workshop at Canolfan Soar (Merthyr's Welsh Language Centre), we upped and walked together along High Street searching for ideas. Scaffolding was prominent and the noise of drilling and clanking filled the afternoon air.
   Standing in Dic Penderyn Square ( or Red Square!) and gazing at the splendid Redhouse building it was possible to imagine the town undergoing a revival of sorts, not least because some of the words we were composing that afternoon would eventually end up on the paving-stones between Redhouse and Soar.
   But nothing's as straightforward as an impression formed by an afternoon full of the possibility of Spring.
   Whenever I see Redhouse I can't help thinking  about the way our Poetry Open Mic was forced by Merthyr's Leisure Trust ( who run the arts now) into holding events there and then they stopped our grant because we weren't raising enough money!
   You can spend a small fortune renovating a building, but that doesn't mean it will flourish.
   A journey between the two Poles of the Imp (Imperial Hotel) and the Crown Inn shows how High Street reflects all the contrasting and conflicting forces in the town.
   You could begin at Pontmorlais Circus, a grand name indicating former glories : once a tram hub and the grandeur of Theatre Royal, which was our AM Huw Lewis' pet project, but which has long fallen into dilapidation.
   The promenade has buildings adjacent which resonate history, such as the Masonic Hall, the YMCA ( now, at last , being renovated ) and the old Dole Exchange.
   An arts project involving Lottery money suggests that the YMCA will connect with the people and their stories, but Redhouse ( or Old Town Hall) did the selfsame thing when it began.
  The Morlais pub is hardly recognisable in its dereliction and ,sadly, the jewellers Flooks is now closed down, emptied of its cafe, homeless charity and craft displays.
  Roller- blinds are ubiquitous along High Street and a useful art project would be to ask local graffiti-artists to liven them up with tags and bubbles.
   Owned by Jose (from France) and Marliese ( who is German) , who encourage our events there, the Imp is a beacon. Last Thursday was no exception and local poet Phil Howells was on form, with his first collection just out, 'Obscured by Clouds'. It was a wonderful evening, with well-known Welsh writers reading alongside many locals.
   There's much sadness thinking about the shops which used to thrive at the top of town, solid and dependable local ones such as Chris Jenkins, who sold electrical appliances.
   The day Chris Jenkins died , the tv I bought there imploded as if from a heart-attack.....a strange coincidence!
   As you walk down High Street, the largest building by far is Merthyr Voluntary Action.
   There are Tattoo, Body Piercing, Beauty and Hair Salons.....preening of the body always in demand and the most popular businesses in many Valleys' towns.
   Another empty shop has one poster in the window - KEEP CALM AND LOVE HONEY BEES.
   Plants grow on window-sills and the main feature of the second-hand shop is the kit for a large red aeroplane.
   Our two Indian restaurants look shut, but open evenings, with the distinctive Moksh being full of Buddhist icons.
   Long closed down, the Chinese restaurant Hing Hong's still has its sign intact (see Robert Haines' photo), although the meals are now NESE and ENGLISH.
   Before that, in an alleyway to the right, is Soar, with a converted chapel made into theatre and studios and a centre with offices, cafe, bookshop and many rooms.
   It is the place of my Welsh classes , has the best bookshop in town ( okay....it's the only one!) and Caffi Cwtsh, where you can tuck into bara brith and admire the artwork of local artist Kevin Mee on every wall.
   I met Kevin at Grahame Davies' workshop, where he wrote some lines and illustrated his work superbly. It was characteristic of his work : swirling Celtic patterns and the gentle face of a young woman.
   The Mabinogi and famous song 'Myfanwy' (composed by Merthyr's Joseph Parry) both feature strongly in his drawings : there's a stillness and grace to them which is a rarity nowadays. 
   They seem simultaneously ancient and modern.

   Strolling along to the accompaniment of building work, there are memories of Bray's sweet-makers tucked away down a 'gwli'.
   Recently, a Turkish Barbers has opened and a Continental Store run by Turks.
   Hope Chapel's propped by scaffolding like an old fella kept up by his walking-stick.
   As you enter Redhouse two posters stand out : one for the band Madness in Cyfarthfa Castle in August and another for a local artists night in Redhouse and featuring the excellent Kizzy Crawford.
   The exhibition space to the right is closed to the public due to a meeting.
   Inside is the latest exhibition of photos by Heolgerrig photographer Robert Haines.
   One section displays his older ones from 'Once Upon a Time in Wales', while the other his new project 'This Time in Wales'. He hopes to publish the latter just as he did the former.
   There are so many shades of black and white.
   Haines is never overtly political, never looking for an angled statement, yet implicit in his many portraits of Merthyr folk is a fascination with everything that constitutes the town....and so, humanity.
   Side by side are exotic individuals like the hard man with 'Built for Brutality' tattoed across his back, and everyday ones like the man standing at his gate with his Jack Russell next to him.
   Haines captures the essence of their spirit : amongst faults there is depth and compassion; sometimes hardness hides sensitivity.
   I really enjoyed the slide-show of photos not in the exhibition, despite my presence in it!
   The two photos of legendary Heolgerrig bus-driver Ron are what the best photos should be : universal moments.
   Outside Redhouse were a couple of people smoking and the man looked familiar.
   He greeted me with his name 'Mark Boucher' ( I used to teach him) and , heading into Redhouse, told me - ' I'm now a teacher, but still bunkin!'
   With a plaque to working-class martyr Dic Penderyn outside, the Library also resonates history.
   Its interior is rather disappointing though, as Welsh books have been brushed away upstairs and the Leslie Norris Room seems like the one sop to a town with such a rich literary tradition.
   How about a Museum of Merthyr Literature here, as well as a hub for book launches and workshops?
   It is  Friday, not a market day and emptiness fills the street and questions its very purpose.
   Plas Coffi serves the best coffee in town : a black building where they specialise in burgers and pizzas. The building has been a Berni Inn, Burger King then McDonald's and is now in its most promising manifestation.
   Walking towards the Crown there are memories of shops like Woolies and pubs like the Great Western. 
   The shut-down Reboot shop needs rebooting and a tree grows from a large crack in its facade.
   The Outlet shop announces 'Liquidation Stock Clearance' and, like so many other town centres, Pound and Charity shops dominate.
   The Crown has a lively selection of entertainment every week, from karoake to jazz.
   This old coaching inn is owned by a Portuguese man Jorge and a glass case full of custardy cakes stands out by the bar. 
   The Open Mic acoustic nights there can be truly inspirational.
   I could end at Lucy Thomas Fountain and another wide space which can temporarily house various celebrations like Dic Penderyn Square, but I'll return to that workshop and lines which came after, which will never be put up in the area which saw many killed during the 1831 Rising. 
   We need a memorial to these people, who were martyrs as much as Dic Penderyn.
   In this poem I'm thinking of the Rising festival and its importance to the town..........




                                            BLE?
 
 
Ble mae’r enwau’r pedwerydd ar hugain,
gafodd eu saethu gan y fyddin?
 
Yng ngwaed y grwpiau ar y llwyfan,
yng  ngeiriau cryf  y caneuon. 
 
 
Where are the names of the twenty-four,
killed by the army in this square?
 
In the blood of the groups singing
and strong words in the air ringing. 

    
   
              

I think this haiku
will be like our whole season,
it will finish with.........

*************************************

Slade rhymes with a 'blade',
though a rather rusty one.
Tan never with 'fan'.

**************************************

Day Whitts celebrates
stunning goal from thirty yards ;
day I sit quiet.

***************************************

Fans and drums heart-beat
of stadium, faster now
towards the climax.

****************************************

Agile as gymnast
Marshall leaps, punches and palms :
air's his element.

*****************************************

Lex arrows his shot
direct as a bull's-eye dart
in oche of box.

******************************************

On one Saturday
you are top of the mountain ;
​next, falling down pit.

 

   This is me, myself, I, Wayne-O Pijin!
   I have hacked into No-Wings Jenkins' website with a dot-dot machine pillaged from the BBC.
   That Jenkins was a traitor anyway.
   He appeared to be sympathetic whilst giving away my secret location up Morlais Castle.
   Shortly after, we were raided by the SAS ( Special Avian Service) , but managed to fight them off using our eye-ball pecking manoeuvres.
   I am here to announce that the RAF ( Revolutionary Avian Front ) have won yet another victory , this time in the heart of seagull territory in Cardiff.
   The gulls even came to our assistance to enable our safe escape.
​    This was another blow against the Three Feathers and their hideous regime.
   It all came about when I happened to be peering through the window of a small bungalow in Winchfawr, near Merthyr. Inside was a large TV screen and an elderly No-Wings who was straddling a velvet shopping trolley and shouting 'Wa-les! Wa-les!'
   On the screen were two pigeons discussing international rugby and getting very excited about the forthcoming game between Wales and the Baa-baas ( who I assume to be a team of sheep).
   It seems unfair to me that No-Wings should take on the Woolly Things, but I was more concerned  with the fact that these two fellow pigeons were being used and mocked in such a way.
   The man in the bungalow even stopped his antics with the trolley to yell at the screen - ' Bloody pijins! I seen it all now!'
   Our plan was to attack the BBC ( does it stand for Barbs, Barns and Cages? ) when they were out in the streets of the capital before the game.
   However, I came across none other than Arty, the very seagull whose bravery had helped us all break out of Merthyr police station cells. He informed me that they always interviewed inside the stadium (called Principality) before the match began.
   ( Incidentally, as we flew over Cardiff streets we actually saw the very sheep whom the Wales rugby team were due to play.....and every one was inflatable!).
   Inside the vast stadium - modelled apparently on an ocean liner - our seagull comrades lined the tops of stands, ready to  help.
   Our tactics were ones of complete surprise.
   Under the guidance of Zen Buddhist pigeon Al-Wings Jones we lived purely for the MOMENT.
   Our subtle plan was that we had no plan.
   A new comrade in our ranks Andflew Pecker was especially keen to show his worth and soon launched himself at one of their microphones ( I think he believed the furry covering to be a rodent ).
   It  was then that I spied them : the Three Feathers!
   They were on the red jersey of a slightly balding and grinning No-Wings with an accent not to be heard even in Lakeside Gardens. The interviewer referred to him as 'Prince'.
   I summoned up all my energy and rage and flew straight at that badge.
   It was then that all hell broke loose. It was worse than Greggs when the College students were released at lunchtime.  As if from nowhere, many burly No-Wings emerged and tried to grab hold of me.
   The No-Wings called 'Prince' howled like they do at closing time outside a pub called the Wyndham. His swearing was rather strange - 'Drat that bird! ' and 'Oh bother that pesky pigeon!!'
   ( All this has been put on You-Tube by a groundsman and has since gone viral).
   At this point, I thought I was going to be captured. My beret and dark glasses fell off and if it hadn't been for a swoop of seagulls, I would now be back in jail instead of a highly secret location nowhere near Redhouse clock tower.
   As to Barbs. Barns and Cages....they know this is only the beginning. The revolution will happen : not tomorrow, not next year, but on Midsummer's Eve 2020, at midnight.

​                                      WAYNE-O'S  BIRDIFESTO


The revolution is coming
all No-Wings
hide inside your buildings!

It's not round the bend,
but look to the skies
guano not bombs will fly.

Birds are everywhere,
are opening their cages
and spreading their wings.

No more of your spikes,
your poisons,
your false prophets of Greggsism.

No more will we scavenge,
clean up your droppings,
forage among your wrappings.

Birds are gathering,
hear it on the rooftops,
the avian revolution's coming!               

  
Whadda bloody ell we done
punished f bein young?

We int goh enough Cs t get on,
we're jest letters t them.

Carn get no jobs see,
the fewture's an emtee ground ;

they send us t Charitee shops
an Pound shops t work f'r nothin.

Gotta live at ome, no choice,
carn afford no flat or ouse.

Yew wonder why we live t fly,
off of ower eads on dope 'n' booze.

Coz bein young's a crime t'day,
always debts an fines t pay.