Mike Jenkins - Welsh Poet & Author
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Unwaith eto yn yr ysgol haf / Once again at the summer school

6/28/2016

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   Every year from classes from Cardiff to the far reaches of Bedlinog, Welsh learners come to attend the annual Ysgol Haf (used to be Cwrs Haf) at Prifysgol De Cymru in Trefforest.
   I have been going since I was in the Sylfaen ( Foundation) class, up through Canolradd to Uwch.
   You become immersed in the language during the week. It becomes another element.
   Words and phrases begin to swim in your head and you even dream in Welsh.
   The other people on the course are as inspirational as the tutors themselves.
   One learner, who has lived in Swindon for most of his life but was originally from the Rhondda, now speaks with far more fluidity than me.
   I'm amazed that he has largely learnt the language himself and that he plans to spend his whole summer volunteering at the Eisteddfod in Y Fenni and moving from one course to the next.
   The key words are 'rhugl' ( fluent) and 'hyder' ( confidence).
   The more I study, the less 'rhugl' I feel , yet cannot deny that my confidence has increased.
   I am now willing to converse despite the fact that I make mistakes.
   A few years ago ( especially before I met Jamie Bevan, who would only speak Welsh to me) I was a reluctant speaker, extremely nervous and wary of making errors.
   Others who attended the course were equally inspirational, like the Englishman who only started lessons because his wife had done and now considers himself 'an honorary Welshman'.
   One younger man ( many on the course were retired, it's true) has progressed from Mynediad to Sylfaen, and is determined to be fluent as soon as possible.
   To him it's a sense of purpose and belonging and he reminds me of Jamie's dad Gari, who won last year's Dysgwr y Flwyddyn.
   It's that single-mindedness and passion which stands out.   
   People have all kinds of reasons for learning Welsh, but none of them are mercenary.
   The enthusiasm of both tutors and learners is like a submarine world seen for the first time : phrases finning through the hollows and words appearing from beneath the sand.
   Sometimes currents of learning can overwhelm and you're carried in directions you can't control and tiredness makes you yearn for the surface.
   When I tell fellow learners that my 'uchelgais' ( ambition) is to write much more poetry in Welsh, they look at me as if I'm a merman!
    When I learnt that the excellent singer-songwriter Steve Eaves originally came to study in Cymru from Stoke-on-Trent and only learnt the language because his house-mate at Uni was a Welsh-speaker from Yr Wyddgrug, I feel there's hope for me yet.
  At times the water's murky and I'm struggling for breath.
  At others, there are poems, songs and idioms which are captivating as exotic creatures moving gracefully with rainbow colours.
   Maybe I should take up scuba diving instead?
   No, this is a way leading to many others : history, literature and family and also my country's future.
   Risings can take many different forms : football fans who embrace Welsh songs ; poetry-lovers who create an alternative culture and learners who choose to call themselves 'Welsh' no matter what their background.
   Small risings, but vital ones.
   We tend to neglect these as we navigate our journeys, thinking only of tides and storms.

   This is a poem I wrote at Grahame Davies' workshop in Soar, which I have translated :-  



YN  CODI
 
 
Lllynedd yn yr Wyl
roedd llun o SAFIAD MERTHYR
ar  dalcen y ty.
 
 
Ro’n nhw’n paentio fe mas
ac ar hyn o bryd
mae sgaffaldiau yno.
 
 
Dan y llun sgwennodd un gwrthryfelwr
‘Fe Godwn Ni Eto’;
 ar ol hynny  y  ‘NF’ ffasgaidd.
 
 
Dw i’n gallu clywed lleisiau
tlodion 1831
‘Caws a bara!’ ac ‘I lawr a’r Brenin!’
 
 
Nawr, mae llawer yn teimlo
ar eu pennau eu hunain,
‘sdim angen i godi o gwbl. 
 
 
 
 
 
RISING
 
In last year’s Festival
A mural of the Rising
On the gable-end.
 
 
They painted it out
And in that place
There is only scaffolding.
 
 
One rebel graffitied there
‘We will rise again’ ;
Then fascists scrawled ‘NF’.
 
 
I can hear the  voices
Of the poor of 1831
‘Cheese and bread!’ and ‘Down with the king!’
 
 
Now, so many ancestors
Feel they’re on their own,
With no reason to rise at all.


  
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The Wrong Referendum

6/22/2016

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                                        This is the wrong referendum.
                             We, Cymru, need to change our destiny.
                                       This is not the way.
 We, a small nation, weighed down by centuries of colonial mentality which keeps insisting ' You cannot do it! You are too petty!'....need to be like our football team.
            We need to believe, to score, to win.
            We need, just as much, to be like our fans : to mix with the world, to party and dance, to support despite the decades of having nothing.
      We need to call ourselves 'Cymru' not 'Wales' ( or 'Walas', that Anglo-Saxon land of the foreigners).
      We are foreigners to ourselves if we deny our purpose.
      We should embrace with two strong arms of socialism and anarchism, like never before. Co-operation and power distributed to every home like electricity and water, only free.
                                 This is the wrong referendum.
                        This is a battle between capitalisms : EU and Commonwealth  (neo-liberal and reaction).
                      We must be global : those problems of climate, poverty, war ; a trilogy of tragedy only solved on the world field.
                  Europe bound by wire?
                  Greater Britain sealed by law?

                            And Westminster?
           Workfare, cuts, homelessness, unemployment where the rich benefit from the poor.
                These our colonial rulers, refusing us a true voice ; allowing us only a whisper.
                     This is the wrong referendum.    
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Jubilation in Bordeaux

6/14/2016

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   Only my second ever away game with 'tim pel droed Cymru' and the other N.Ireland because I happened to live there at the time.
   We had qualified! After nearly 58 years since that World Cup in Sweden and en route to Bordeaux for the opening game v. Slovakia.
  The journey there didn't bode well and soon as we reached the Paris Metro after Eurostar things went AWOL.
   Nothing to do with strikes, ISIS or any French neo-fascists with enough weapons to make the villains of 'Blue Eyes' envious.
   On line 4 to Montparnasse someone was on the tracks and the train at a dead stop. Even Tour Organiser CJ couldn't have predicted that.
   Cue frantic dash for a taxi and driver who made Kenwyne Jones animated (one for Bluebirds), stopping at every crossing as the fare clocked up fast as our heartbeats.
   We had to get the train or......surcharges, no places, an evening stuck in the station.
   CJ and MV manned their devices and we hopped out of the taxi in despair and back onto the Metro.....heading in the wrong direction!
   Luckily, at Montparnasse there were numerous fans in the same predicament, so the supervisor was bombarded and let us on the next train.
   I'd inexplicably sustained an arm injury and MV had aggravated his knee strain. Would we be fit for pre-match celebrations?
   The journey down was Kronenbourg, a burpish brew and we amazingly arrived shortly after the original train.
   The Auberge in the old town was lovely : spacious and sandy-stoned , the architectural equivalent of a macroon, though not as crumbly.
   Soon on the streets, we headed for Place de la Victoire and a restaurant/bar which unbelievably for France had a very tasty veggie option .
   We sat and watched the second half of the France game and Payet's stunning winning goal in a  restaurant packed with French people which took off into the night sky with the noise of victory.    
   Just opposite we could see (and hear!) a party of Welsh fans not so interested in the cuisine.
   Us 'posh gets' joined them outside their bar, where we later tried the champagne as if we'd already won (no worries, Nye Bevan was also a man for such fineries).
   Flags from Tredegar, Carmarthen and mostly boyz from 'y gogledd'. word--for-word perfect on 'Ar Lan Y Mor', 'Calon Lan' and, gloriously, 'Yma O Hyd'.
   Slovakians with trumpets and one, off his head, with a large flag which he draped over everyone.
   Joined by a group of multi-ethnic French fans in wheelchairs who'd been attracted not so much by our renditions of 'Hen Wlad Fy Nhadau' as the Beating the Cars entertainment.
   As cars, vans, motorbikes (and even one poor cyclist) passed , voices crescendoed till hands hammered a rhythm against them.
   One man stopped to pick up his girlfriend and a drunk Welshman got into the back seat!
   Inside the bar a Slovakian greeted a Welsh fan in a wheelchair , took off his shirt and gave it to him.
   French fans danced into our midst singing their anthem and many Welsh fans joined in.
   If you could define the opposite of those aggressive, provocative, xenophobic England fans rioting in Marseilles, then this was it.
   Walking back , we sat on the sculpture of a tortoise to have our photos taken.
   It was that kind of night!
   Next day and a brandnew Cymru/Wales polo shirt to sport.
   Tapas for lunch : how French can you get?
   (Nye Bevan confession : I drank more wine than beer...well, it was Bordeaux!).
   The crush in the trams was seriously dangerous on the way to the Stade de Bordeaux.
   Biggest cheer was for a heavyweight Welsh fan spewing up on the street....all those Chronicbourgs had got to him.
   Later MV informed me that I was squeezed right next to a Middle Eastern- looking bloke wearing something suspicious round his waist. Glad he didn't point that out at the time.
   At last the stadium, looking like a sophisticated Meccano structure. Different, at least.
   Our seats way up in the gods and I was worried about altitude sickness.
   Team announced and no Hennessey, Ledley or Robson-Kanu.
   After managing to meet no-one I knew. I was a few seats away from a fella from Heolgerrig.
   Much singing and chanting, with our fans outnumbering the Slovakians.
   My favourite is - 'He's Gareth Bale, he's Gareth Bale. He turned his back on the Union Jack. He's Gareth Bale.'
   I'm in a great position to appreciate his tied-up hairstyle for the first time, with our seagull-eye view.
   'Hen Wlad' sung with such passion :the very best of anthems (well, I am biased).
   Bale up front and Edwards deep. Tactics and team selection looked odd, especially when Bale twice lost possession early on and Slovakia almost scored, but for Ben Davies' brilliant interception.
   Then that free-kick.
   Madness and mayhem. joy and jubilation!
   Gareth Bale. World class. Who else?
   Yet as the game progressed, it was our defence and the magnificent Joe Allen who stood out.  
   Edwards struggled to cope with the threat of Hamsik.
   At the beginning of the second half Duda scored for them and we faltered. It was transformed when two subs came on, Ledley and Robson-Kanu, as they had to, being the most (en)chanted players.
   Ledley settled in alongside Allen and Hal made those characteristic wide runs, allowing Bale to run at them from deeper.
   As Ramsey pushed up we looked dangerous and, although stumbling, he made the goal for Robson-Kanu ( scuffed shot, but who cares?).
   In the last part we could've scored two or three more as Bale was released on the break, but he seemed very leggy.
  Final whistle and we leapt and cheered, my vocal chords strained to the point of snapping.
   We had done it!
   As B. cried with joy, I couldn't help but do likewise.
   Leaving the stadium, Slovakians lined up to clap all the Welsh fans and some opposing fans hugged each other.
  How far away from England v. Russia?
   And this was the game we eventually watched in a bar, after seeing the legendary Gruff Rhys on the tramcar dressed for winter (but without bobble-hat for once).
   Delicious beer at last called Edelweiss, as one Cymru fan actually celebrated Dier's goal ( a Spurs supporter?).
   When Russia equalised there was more joyous jumping and chanting of 'We are top of the league!'
   Could it get any better? Maybe not.
   Can we qualify for the last 16 , or do we have to rely on England and Russia being expelled?
   Well, it was worth every penny, every hold-up, suffocating journey, crazy dash across Paris and hangovers like hammer-head sharks.
   Bring on England!
   I want to hear Rob Phillips proclaim - ' David Cameron! Boris Johnson! Charlie Windsor!.....we beat your boyz!'


                  1 A.M. IN PLACE DE LA VICTOIRE

Dancers, chanters
in Place de la Victoire
summoning spirits of '58
merlins from Caerfyrddin
tribes from Tredegar
magic-men from Meirionydd

Slovakians with flags and trumpets
one giving his shirt away
to a wheelchaired Welsh fan,
French in tricolour wigs
singing the Marseillaise
with boys from Colwyn Bay
who know all the words

four Bleus in wheelchairs
ready in formation
as cars enter the square
and we drum each one
the owners not angry
but joining the celebration

dancers, chanters
in Place de la Victoire
night before the game
as though we knew
'Hal Robson, Hal Robson-Kanu!'
some ancient 'hud'
'Calon Lan' and 'Hen Wlad'
no invasion just party
and to broadcast loudly 
'We're yer! Dyn ni yma o hyd!'


Notes :       hud - magic
                   'Dyn ni yma o hyd' - from Dafydd Iwan's song,  meaning 'We are still here'




      
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IMAGINE...AN ALL-WELSH JOOLS SHOW!

6/1/2016

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- Ey, I seen Katherine Jenkins the other day in Merthyr!
- Never!
- Aye, she woz on-a bus eadin f Bargoed an wearin tha Union Jack dress.
- Musta bin er own private bus 'en?
- Nah, Stagecoach.
- C'mon, yew're takin the piss.
- I know....it woz jest a bloody advert f'r er latest album 'Celebration'. D'yew reckon she'll be supportin Englan' in-a Euros?
- Don' be darft! Jest coz she likes-a Queen don' mean she don' s'pport Wales. Stop windin me up mun!
- Reckon she's an egg-chaser anyway. She won' bloody like it when all-a Welsh fans start booin the Queen when we play Englan'.
- Look, she recorded tha song, but she done ower anthem an all, didn she?
- Anyroad, I wonder why she woz goin t Bargoed.
​- Piss off!   


   I've been watching the latest series of Jools Holland avidly as ever ( let's face it, there's little else in terms of pop/ rock on telly).
   On S4C I enjoy Y Stiwdio Gefn and Ochr Un and the former, in particular, is almost as eclectic as Jools.
   I know I should listen more to the likes of Adam Walton and Bethan Elfyn on the radio, but the trouble is I end up doing something else and not concentrating on the music.
   Jools' series has been very disappointing....the worst ever , in fact. As always, he uses the words 'genius' and 'legendary' like someone giving away freebies at a festival.
   There have been a few exceptions : a magnificent performance from Paul Simon, stunning dance/ rock/ electronica from Christina and the Queens from France and great Americana from Jason Isball.
  I marvelled at the voice of one Marlon Williams from New Zealand, then bought the album and found its over-production ruined his unique quality on all but one track.
   I waited the whole series for a single Welsh contributor....was that keyboard fella from Underworld Welsh; he certainly sounded like it? 
   Otherwise, there was nobody from Cymru at all, not even the predictable 'Phonics or Tom Jones.
   From Merthyr alone you could fill his studio with amazing talent : Kizzy Crawford to Pretty Vicious and all the rainbow between. The place where
( as I've said before) it's APPNIN!
   But what about an all-Welsh Jools ( I am fantasizing, of course)?
   My choice would largely avoid the obvious - the Manics and Furries - but I would select one legend/ genius in Meic Stevens, a man who's spanned the decades and written so many great songs. Our very own Dylan/Cohen/ Waits. 
   But he insists on singing in Welsh!
   So difficult to choose individual songs, but 'Tryweryn' and 'Y Brawd Houdini' would be suitably contrasting.
   The main act would definitely be The Joy Formidable ( worth selecting just to hear Jools say - 'All the way from Yr Wyddgrug'!). Their latest album 'Hitch' is probably their best yet, full of catchy tunes and riffs and sometimes much more direct.
   They could play the wonderful single 'Last Thing on my Mind', heavy and  drum-soloed 'It's Started' and delicate 'Underneath the Petal'.
   The best rock band in these Isles. Simple as.
   Singer-songwriter Georgia Ruth 's music has grown on me and 'Week of Pines' is a fine album, even though I wish she'd do more songs in Welsh. 'A Slow Parade' and 'Etrai' would show off all her talent : hewn lyrics, breeze-blown voice and harp-playing like the waves. A true daughter of Cardigan Bay.
   Future of the Left are the opposite : not easy listening. They summon the spirit of Beefheart and Datblygu : surreal. shocking, funny and balancing between music and poetry/ story. Latest album 'The Peace & Truce Of....' is spiky as ever , and the three songs I'd go for would be 'Proper Music',' In a Former Life' and ' White Privilege Blues' ( which is not Blues at all!).
  To complement these uncomfortable songs would be the Fleetwood Mac-like Paper Aeroplanes, whose last album 'Joy' was not their best by any means. For sadness and poignancy they stand out, and the songs I'd choose are 'Goldrush' and 'Race You Home'.
   For the international spot it would have to be Ghazalaw, a truly superb collaboration between India and Cymru, like a curried lentil cawl (Jamie Bevan please note).
   With the exception of Lau, Welsh folk music is far more adventurous and experimental than its Irish and Scottish counterparts, with the likes of 9Bach bringing all kinds of influences into interpreting traditional songs.
   The contrasting aspects of Ghazalaw would be highlighted by the likes of 'Hen Ferchetan' and 'Lusa Lan'.
   Curiously, the harp seems to be a thread in many of these, from Formidable's 'Petal' song to most of Ghazalaw.
   So, imagine that : an all-Welsh Jools without an Empire honour in sight.
   From the hilarious to harmonious; from Solfach to Yr Wyddgrug.


                           SINGERS OF THE EMPIRE

Katherine Jenkins OBE is wearing her Union flag dress
as she promotes her 'Celebration' of Mrs Windsor
from the side of a Stagecoach bus.

Dame Shirley's adorned all in gold
on the wall of a conqueror's fortress,
resembling an award misplaced.

Sir Tom keeps his lovely accent
as a Damien Hirst type exhibit :
giant leek preserved in formaldehyde.

Bryn Terfel CBE is cultivating royal harpists
at his flower festival on the hill :
they grow like cliched daffodils.

Cerys Matthews MBE sings lullabies to Kate's baby :
' Si Hwi Hwi', a song of slavery,
without any sense of irony.

Aled Jones MBE is interviewing Welsh snowmen
who've met the Queen, then melted after
and never made it to Buckers.

When we do 'Bradwyr'
we do it like no others :
salivating and singing for the Empire.

Note : bradwyr - Welsh for 'traitors' 


            
    
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