- Lovely weather we're avin!
   - Aye.....yew copin?
   - Nah, playin ell with my knees....swellin up real bard.
   - I carn sleep at night me. Ow 'bout yew? I get s sticky gotta ave a shower at three in-a mornin!
   - Aye, an me. The missis won' ave the windows open neither....scared o gettin bitten.
   - They do say we got it f'r another two bloody weeks an all.
   - Never? Could do with some rain f'r the garden.
   - Right, see yew then!........Yew off anywhere nice?
   - Aye, Tewnisia......booked it las year......needed some tidee weather.


  A weekend of soaring temperatures and four people die in the Brecon Beacons.
   Two experienced T.A. soldiers on a selection course for the SAS, out on the mountains in almost 90 degrees (I can only think in Fahrenheit). Survivalist experiment was it?
   Whatever happened to the basic question like - 'Are you willing to collude with Loyalists on bomb plots, or shoot unarmed freedom fighters in the  back?'
   Young men duped into joining the British army which has systematically tortured and killed innocents in so many conflicts, from Kenya to Cyprus to the six counties.
   Now sacrificed in the burning heat of Cymru, with the illusion of 'Every soldier's a hero' on so many tongues.
   Time to withdraw from Wales, to leave these hills to their wildness and campers, walkers, climbers, picknickers and those who just gaze at reservoirs.
   Two men lugging heavy back-packs and told to find their way, given a deadline. Minds befuddled by heat-stroke in the shadeless openness of Pen-y-fan.
   A crazy callous challenge.
   The sun can be a killer and so too can water, luring others in.
   Two men - with far less media coverage given  - enticed by the temptations of a cool swim.
   In Pontsticill and Cantref reservoirs, lost forever.
   The flat calm appearing so harmless.
   Yet, hiding the depth and darkness and sudden cold to cramp limbs and drag down, deep as the drowned churches and farms.
   Men who had only wanted to escape the prickly heat of the afternoon sun.
   Those reservoirs drank them down. Drank them long and spat them out, just as the green desert , with dried-up streams, had blistered and parched those soldiers.
   Men of peace and men of war, destroyed by the cruel commander sun.


                                 THE  LAST  LIGHT



I will take my Gorgonzola feet
and Danish Blue slippers
which defeat all deodorizers
and escape through French windows
to lie under our oak.


Attacked by midges (sharp memories
of Scottish lochs at twilight),
I eye the air for bats
zip-zagging low for gnats
in channels between leaves and eaves.


The high tops catch the sun
from far west over the mountains :
my brain    the tree    branches    veins
wood become fluid       sap     blood
bole    body     lifting to the last light.
    

   What's the best gig you've ever been to?   For me, it's not an easy one to answer.
   Quite often my musical heroes and others I'd expected to deliver, have really disappointed.
   I've seen Bob Dylan twice, the first time unimpressed, the second appalled. As a die-hard fan of his work - especially up to 'Desire' - I was full of excited anticipation.
   The first was in a large arena in Hanover and we were miles from the stage : in an age before big screen back-drops, he looked like a Borrower. He re-hashed his back catalogue, mangling most of the classics in the process.
   The second was more recently at the Motorpoint and his voice had all but packed its bags and been dispatched to a Retirement Home. His band were a clunking bluesy outfit ( as retro as you can get), who also proceeded to vandalise  his great songs. It was like watching a very bad 'tribute' group!
   Van Morrison at St. David's Hall was much the same. He was so laid back ( i.e. uninterested) you expected him to wear white pyjamas and sit down on stage smoking a joint.......which is exactly what the awful Frank Zappa had done in Dusseldorf!
   I am just as much an admirer of Van the Man's music, so this was equally disheartening.
   Sometimes great music can be defeated by the venue itself and no-one I saw managed to conquer Sophia Gardens Pavilion and its unique acoustic quirk of clashing bin-lids from the back.
   Likewise R.E.M. at the Newport Centre (a venue designed for footie, not rock), who struggled with the sound all evening, despite Michael Stipe's megaphone.
   Stadiums are never satisfying either and two wonderful performances from Springsteen and The Who were appreciated more on the large screens than stages, you needed binoculars to follow.
   Even Bob Marley couldn't conquer the smaller Ninian Park at a time when 'No Woman, No Cry' was just breaking through. In torrential rain and with a sparse crowd, some of that bellyful of fire was sadly missing.
   As venues go, my favourites have been the Capital Centre and St.David's Hall in Cardiff and the Great Hall in Aberystwyth.
   The Capital was the perfect size : not too big to be distant, not to small to be deprived a view ; it had an accessible bar and was easily adapted for sitting or standing. It was acoustically very good, though not quite matching St.David's.
   Aber's Great Hall was like a cross between these two and I've memories of numerous gigs there, some disastrous and some highly memorable.
   I saw David Bowie there on his Ziggy Stardust tour and, though not a massive fan, I loved the way he changed outfits for almost every song and the power of his original music then, with the marvellous Mick Ronson on guitar.
   One magic moment was when an Aber regular John Martyn played at the Union Refectory (no longer there).
   It had wide windows overlooking Cardigan Bay and Martyn's hazy, meandering voice and reverberating guitar  tallied perfectly with the scene : the sun going down on the horizon.
   He told us this was the finest of venues on such a summer's night.
   This was the time when my friend and I approached the support act Claire Hammill, who was practising in the cloak room and showed her our baseball shoes.
   Closer to home, Merthyr's Dollars night club used to attract big acts in the 1980s.
   Two of the most intense and thrilling gigs were from Dexy's Midnight Runners, just when 'Come On Eileen' was charting and Elvis Costello, who was riding on the surge of New Wave with the best songwriting at that time.
   Dollars was small, hot and wild and my only regret is that Ian Dury and the Blockheads were booked to play there and it was cancelled.
   But the Capital was the Ace of Venues and the Motorpoint has never come close for atmosphere.
   In the 70s, I saw the Sensational Alex Harvey Band there, when they'd recently charted with 'Next' and 'Tomorrow Belongs To Me'.
   They lived up to their name : one of the most exhilarating live bands, with a theatricality all their own. They demolished walls long before Floyd and flashed knives on stage, vocals often menacing and music to razor the smoky air.
   The most remarkable concert was Alan Stivell, the Breton multi-instrumentalist and singer.
   Celtic music was at its high point, with The Chieftains and Planxty taking Irish music to another level. So here was Stivell, doing for that music what Fairport Convention had done for English folk. He was the epitome of the Celtic Spirit, singing songs from his native Brittany, Wales, Ireland and Scotland.
   With his bombarde and harp, it felt like a musical renaissance. His performance was so uplifting and the encore the best ever.
   As the crowd shouted for 'More!', lights went out and he left the stage with his band.
   Deflation turned to elation, as next thing, there he was at the back of the hall raised on shoulders and playing the bombarde.
   Almost the entire crowd followed him out of the Capital and into Queen's Street, dance-walking in unison; it was like a combination of a Fest Noz and spontaneous street party.
   These are the things which stay in mind, long after the mere re-working of album songs has been forgotten.
   Some have done worse than this, such as 10 CC ( at their most popular) who made us wait two hours in the drenching rain at Cardiff Castle, only to use tapes to assist them on many songs such as 'I'm Not In Love'.
   Other artists manage every time to give you a unique, lasting experience. I've seen Loudon Wainwright, Richard Thompson and Christy Moore many times and they've always inspired.
   All three are witty characters who can engage audiences and exchange banter and, moreover, they have the songs and vocal abilities to change radically from hilarity to melancholy.
   As with poetry, it isn't always the so-called 'greats' who move you most. For Dylan read R.S. and for Stivell read Zephaniah.
   Then again, I've yet to see Tom Waits.


ALMOST (BUT NOT QUITE) FAMOUS

for Roy

When I was at school
one of my friend's brothers
designed an album cover
by someone called Reginald Dwight
 who called himself 'Elton John' :
we weren't that impressed then.


At Uni I spoke with Claire Hammill
(I hear you say 'Claire Who'?)
who was supporting the grrrrrrrrreat John Martyn ;
I showed her my baseball shoes ;
you can still get her 'Baseball Blues'
as a ringtone, even if she's forgotten.


I taught with a man
who had taught Roger Waters and Syd Barrett,
said Syd had been a good lad
but Waters an arrogant bastard
(mind, some said that teacher
was 'like a brick in the wall').


I've had tweets from Thea Gilmore
and postcards from Robert Wyatt,
been insulted by half of Man
but ,above all, Mike Peters of The Alarm
was about to make a single using my poem and Cor Cochion
till Billy Bragg did it, without me but with them!




   

   The high point of the year for many Welsh learners like myself is the Cwrs Haf at the University of South Wales (sounds like it's been relocated to Australia!).  Each year you meet up with old friends from all over the area, several originally from England.
  As the week progresses, the brain switches to Cymraeg and it slowly seems strange to be talking in Saesneg at all.
  At Levels Sylfaen (Foundation) and Canolradd (Intermediate) we focused much more on grammar. Now I've progressed to Uwch, the course is very 'catholig' ( eclectic).
   We had two tutors and the final day consisted of a series of enjoyable and stimulating events. For a mere £40, it's a 'bargen go iawn' , yet numbers are decreasing and the organisers can't say why.
   Our first tutor was poet and lecturer Cyril Jones, a Cardi like myself but with the 'acen' still strong.
   He was most enthusiastic and shared his interests as well as rightly insisting on 'siarad, siarad, siarad'.
   We listened to an old Can Werin / Folk Song, which everyone disliked, in which a farmer called to his team of oxen and seemed to put all his daily chores before the love of his life Mari.
   For obvious reasons, one of the highlights of the whole week came when we read and discussed some poems. One was 'Glas' by Bryan Martin Davies(who I had published when I was editor of 'Poetry Wales') and the other by former National Poet Gwyneth Lewis, called 'Mesur Penrhydd'.
   'Glas' is full of imagery and has a strong sense of Dylan Thomas's work about it. It deals with day trips to Swansea from the Valleys in the past - the only holidays most people  from there had - and paints an inviting and idyllic picture of the Bay.
   I especially liked the phrase 'yn yfed y glesni' which combines the imagery of eating and drinking with the sense of blueness. 'Glas' being not just 'blue' but associated with 'y dyddiau glas' ( the blue days), times of escape and perfection which sometimes seem to exist only in memory.
   What makes this poem so different from Dylan is the ending. Here the overwhelming oppression of the coal-mining Valleys is summed up in two clipped lines -
       ' o ddyfryn du
                             totalitariaeth glo.'
  (  from the black valley
                                     of totalitarian coal).
    Coal seen as a dictator, dominating every aspect of life, is not a theme Thomas dwelt upon.
   I made the comment in our discussion that, in Merthyr at least, we are still living under the shadow of coal in the form of opencast. As one Labour Councillor admitted to me recently (about his own Council), the Council has been bought off by the opencast company and now use their language of 'reclamation' in official magazines and documents.
   The second poem, by Lewis, reflects on the nature of her bi-lingualism. She depicts one language as 'yn haul i mi' ( the sun to me) , while the other as 'yn lleuad' ( in the moon).
  It is fairly obvious that Welsh is the language of the sun and English of the moon, yet the poem seems curiously old-fashioned now. This is because the second verse suggests that Cymraeg is the language of the countryside, while the third that English is an urban one.
   In terms of Lewis's upbringing I can see the logic of this, yet with Welsh in decline in the heartlands yet flourishing in places like Cardiff, we have to think anew.
   The next tutor was Colin Williams , who introduced us to that fine singer-songwriter Gwyneth Glyn, thus restoring our faith in Welsh music. It seemed to be National Gwyneth Week as well.
   There was plenty of 'sgwrsio' in the morning, followed by a crash course in the 'tafodiaith' (dialect) of 'Y Wenhwyseg' (spoken primarily in the south-east).
   It was fascinating, though very challenging, listening to a recording of a man from the Maesteg area and noting the many differences with modern spoken Welsh.
   'Gwenhwyseg' is used naturally by English speakers of the older generation, with words like 'didorath' and in the general pronunciation of words such as Rhigos as 'Rhicos'.
   Cyril had explained to us that, in Cardi dialect, scrambled eggs are 'wy sang di fang' and this too came from the Gwenhwseg meaning 'messy'. I can't wait to order this in Aberaeron later in the year!
   I missed the trip to the Woollen Museum the next day , as I'd been there quite recently. The day trip is always a feature of the Cwrs Haf and I enjoyed last year's which took in the Tafwyl in Cardiff.
    Friday was full of variety: a woman from St.Fagan's Museum gave an illuminating talk , then Irish language expert John Evans gave us a crash course in 'Gweddeleg'. I feel qualified to ask for a house number in 'Doire' (Derry) as long as it's digits are between 0 - 10.
   Could be useful when I'm on the run!
   The afternoon was 'amser ysgafn' ( a light time) with a quiz and sing-song.
   I would thoroughly recommend this week-long course to all Welsh learners.
   For 'gwaith cartref' (homework) I did a poem instead of the diary entry I was supposed to write.
   I'm still the stroppiest of pupils after all these years!



         ETO  'TOTALITARIAETH GLO'
 

‘There’s nothing left after coal’

dywedodd y gohebydd

yn  Newyddion Prydain.


 

Ond, uwchben y dre fi, Merthyr,

eto  ‘totalitariaeth glo’

fel  llosgfynydd du.


 

Pob nos a pob dydd

y cerbydau melyn yn symud

yn yr twll fawr, pryfed estron.


 

Ac eto, lludw yn yr awyr

yn lledaenu fel clefydau,

ysgyfaint adfeiliedig o asma.

 

 

Ail-eni Bacon, Guest a Crawshay

gyda’r cwmni sy’n prynu

y Cyngor a newid y geiriau :

 

 

nid ‘glo brig’ ond ‘adenill tir’.

Daw un ddyd, daw y ffrwydrad,

llwch yn chwythu dros pob stryd.




                                            STILL ' TOTALITARIAN COAL'


'There's nothing left after coal'
explained the reporter
on the British  News.


Yet, high above my town of Merthyr,
still 'totalitarian coal'
like a black volcano.


Every night and day
yellow trucks are moving
in the huge hole, alien insects.


And still, dust in the air
spreads like disease :
the ruined lungs of asthma.


Bacon, Guest and Crawshay reborn
in the firm who has bought
our Council and changed vocabulary :


no more 'opencast', but 'reclamation'.
A day will come, day of explosion,
ashes blowing across our town.