Mike Jenkins - Welsh Poet & Author
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WAITING FOR YOUR CALL

8/29/2013

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   I felt great guilt.   If only I'd phoned sooner. If only I'd contacted the police earlier than I did.

   All those years ago, when my stepfather came to lodge in our house, after we'd moved from Aber to Cambridge.....
   He taught me chess and snooker and deliberately let me win just to boost my confidence.
   I never carried on with chess when he left my life at the age of eleven to become a 'mystery man', meeting my mother but never me in those years when divorce was an even muckier business.
   I did play snooker again at Uni. Though my degree was in English with a subsidiary in Pinball Studies, snooker was one of the many 'modules ' at the Old Union building (including table footie and newspaper reading).
   He was a slick, single-minded and successful salesman then, living off commission and dedicated to life on the road, wooing firm after firm.
   He was equally dedicated to my mother and when they married I was 17 and living with them Our relationship had become much more tense.
   I was used to living with my mother and being aware of the unseen,visiting lover. Suddenly, I was thrust into a situation where I shared a house with this relative stranger, who had been in my life many years previously.
   I believe he expected the compliant ever-eager boy I'd been then, not the complicated adolescent obsessed with literature; an aspiring intellectual into Soft Machine and James Joyce.
  He worked all hours and was very possessive of my mother (not that she'd ever given me any attention).
  I was uprooted from a village where I had friends and he had to cope with a stroppy sixth-former.
   At eighteen and off to university, they told me he was going to work on the Continent. I now know this was an invention : they simply did not want me to live with them.
   However, what could have been a rejection turned out to be a vital part of my life, as I went to live in Barry with my paternal grandmother and returned to Wales at last.
   I only saw them occasionally after that, when they visited me at Aber. When I married and had children , they made it obvious that we were not welcome and, like my siblings, I became estranged from my mother and stepfather.
   Even when my son played a concert in their home town for the National Children's Orchestra, they showed no interest in supporting him.
   It might seem astonishing, but my mother was never a maternal person and we always regarded ourselves as 'responsibilities'.
   She was the exact opposite of her own mother, who only had one child, but relished looking after us, especially my sister who she had looked after in her infancy with such devotion.
   My stepfather was used as an excuse for this lack of contact, but I knew it was just as much my mother.
   When she was eventually confined to a Care Home and imprisoned in a bed all day long, he would often phone seeking advice and assistance. Through those calls and her great concern for her welfare, we gradually became closer.
   It was ironic, because when they were fit and healthy they would never have rung!
   Yet then I felt needed and however distant, the telephone line became our strong cable of connection.
   Since my mother died in 2008, this had become so much more important to him.
   He had no family left of his own and therefore planned, for many years, so many schemes which never came to fruition.
   Through our phone-calls, we became friends again.
   Though I'd moan when he rang too often, I knew how much he enjoyed our conversations.
   He frequently talked about moving to this area: a bungalow maybe, though none was ever quite right. A flat more likely in sheltered accomodation, though how could he ever travel down, even if I came up and accompanied him on the train?
   In truth, I could tell from his house why he could never have moved.
   It was precisely the same as when my mother had lived with him.
   He had suspended time on purpose, to keep alive those memories.
   The only difference being her ashes kept on top of the piano, awaiting the time when they'd be thrown together into the waves at Tanybwlch beach.

   I don't feel burdened by guilt now I know that a neighbour visited him the day he died and told us how well he seemed: much better as the weather had cooled somewhat.
   He should have gone into hospital yet adamantly refused, stubbornly remaining in that house - so full of my mother's presence - to the very last.
   I phoned the police after I failed to get through time and again and they found him lying by his bed.
   I still keep thinking he will ring.


                                     WAITING FOR YOUR CALL
                                          i.m Ian Garratt

I am waiting for your call;
I shall be waiting hours, days,
weeks, seasons and years,
even though I witnessed you
laid waxen and still.

That is the line we knew,
not railways planned to take,
or motorways which stretched
in your thoughts like pain
which kept you awake.

Once or twice each day
and though the ringing's stopped
I'm listening out for it ;
know how voices interlink
like palms or fingers of sound.

Even though I hold your book
with numbers in a hand
so thin and web-like,
I'm waiting for your call:
feel sure my dreams will connect.


  
  

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NEW SEASON : THRILL & TREPIDATION

8/23/2013

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- We're gonna stuff you Redbirds in November.....or is it Ladybirds?
 - Oh aye, very funny! By then Arsenal will have bought your best two players.
- No way! Arsenal are bidding for everyone who's decent......none of your players, of course.
- Well, we're just bedding in. Malky's finding the right team and formation.....besides, we're going to sign another couple before the deadline.
- You'll need more than a couple, you'll need.......
- So what was your first result this season then?
- Yeah, against Man U and not West-bloody-Ham!
- Still, you were at home.
- We'll see......you'll be down by Christmas I reckon.
- You never know, we could have some wonder-kid coming up through the ranks, say that Rhys Healey, or even.......
- That Etien Veronica? Scores shitloads for the Under 17s and cost the same as Michu.
 - Bloody 'ell mun, you certainly know your Bluebirds.
 - Yeah, I used to support them, before they starting losing!

( This conversation takes place in somewhere like Aberdare, where there are Bluebirds & Swans).
                            **********************

     Don't think I've ever felt such thrill and trepidation before the  first Home game.
   It's like my younger daughter on the high ropes of Aerial Extreme, balancing way above the ground, yet afraid of falling despite the harness.
   ( Our harness is knowing that, with the parachute payment, we'll most likely come straight back up if we should go down this season........but I'd rather not speculate.)
   I know we're not as well equipped as rivals Swansea were, despite being Champions to their play-off victory.
   They've played possession football a la Barcelona for years, while we've relied on teamwork, resilient defence and brilliance from Marshall, Kim and occasionally Bellers, Whitts and Noone.
   Realistically, I ought to be totally pessimistic.
   However, I believe we'll do okay once we've settled in, found the right formation, selected the right players and signed a couple more (hopefully a striker and winger).
   Some of my wariness comes from manager  Malky Mackay. He is undoubtedly one of our best ever, yet reluctant to get rid of players he signed and who aren't up to the Premier. He must be ruthless and admit that the likes of Kiss, Gestede, Smith and also Velikonja (who has only played a couple of times) need to move on.
   Then there's the matter of team selection.
   While I can understand playing two holding midfielders away from home (Medel and Gunnarsson the obvious choices), it's a different matter at home.
  It's a shame we didn't sign Ince as we definitely need a winger, though Conway and Noone should be given a chance to prove themselves.
   At home, he should select one defensive midfielder (Medel) and play either 4-1-4-1 or 4-1-3-2, depending on the opposition.
   Having seen nothing of Cornelius yet , I can't judge if he's up to playing a lone striker role, like King Kenny did. Campbell can do the job if he is given enough support and service though.
  Kim's position is vital and he must be allowed the freedom to roam 'in the hole', whereas Bellamy could be deployed wide or centrally.
  The latter's form is a real worry. He tried so hard all last season, yet was out-of-sorts during the final stretch, in contrast to Conway, whose form improved as the season went on and he gained more upper body strength (most likely from his boxing).
   Bellamy needs to be rested occasionally and that will need more strength in depth than we possess at present.
   If we could sign either Maloney or Mcmanaman from Wigan I would be delighted, but the likelihood is a player from the Continent such as Montero.
   Facing Man City on Sunday will be even more testing than West ham away., especially after their demolition of Newcastle showed how they will be serious challengers for the title alongside Man U and Chelsea.
   I was disappointed with Malky's selection v. the Hammers : Brayford or McNaughton(who finished last season in style) should've played at right-back, Hudson alongside Caulker rather than Turner (who is often too slow and a poor passer).
   Having said that, I trust our manager to get it right.......eventually.


                              GET  EWSED T  LOSIN, MUN

Better get ewsed t losin, mun,
pickin up points when yew cun.


Int no red gonna elp yew out,
before yew know it, down 'n' out.


Yew'll be glad of a bloody goal,
or a 0-0 draw away to Ull.


Ee cun pour in millions tha Vincent Tan,
but-a Premier's ruthless t so many fans.


Yew should plan f nex season like Readin done ;
get-a parachute, ang on t players, mun.


Still, long as yew beat-a Jacks yew say,
does the rest of-a season matter anyway?


Well, one good thing, yew might return t blue,
when ee sells an buggers off in is bright red suit.


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SNOWDEN'S  TOLD  US

8/20/2013

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Whatever you do
they're looking at you

Snowden's told us
what we always knew

an e-mail, a text,
a facebook status

a message, mobile call ;
views or no views

yes and no people,
I-don't- know people

details as boring
as making a stew

Snowden, like his namesake
in 'Catch 22'

has spilled that truth
all over the world

you could be praising Security Services
for the good work they do

preaching violent revolution
or duelling with haiku

whatever,whatever,whatever you do -
they'll be looking at you.














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TALKING

8/15/2013

3 Comments

 
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        I would talk with the statue
my relation
                      in the Bay

           renowned and ignoring
                     me
             for the sea

 (welcoming hillsides inland)

        I'd say -
                             'How come
                        you've neglected us so long?
                            Only now stepped
                          into family history?'
 (his pub name
                      not exotic stage one)

                            'And did you ever chat
                               with my Gran?
                            Sample those phrases
                              she carved so carefully ;
                             sculpted, yet spoken.

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A  MUSICAL  FAMILY

8/12/2013

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   I am related to one of the most famous actor, singer and songwriters of the last century ( no, it's not Bob Dylan!).
  ( A small prize for anyone who can guess.)
   My family has a strong tradition of involvement in music.
   My grandparents met in Barry as a result of their mutual love for the amateur operatic society there, though they performed more Gilbert and Sullivan than the serious material.
   My grandfather was an excellent tenor from the Valleys (Cilfynydd, to be exact) who often took the main roles, while Gran was invariably in the chorus.
   My mother and father were both classical music enthusiasts in particular and one of my first words was 'Shostakovich' (yes, even then I was an arrogant upstart!).
   My mother played piano and my most lasting musical memory is of every Christmas Eve, when we'd gather round to sing carols ( a tradition carried on by our family incidentally).
   I never heard my dad sing though ; he was always in awe of his own father and determined to be different in every way.
   My brother was dispatched for piano lessons and my sister for violin, an instrument she took to and performed in school orchestras later. When I was told to go to piano I flatly refused. I was the wild child of outdoors and sports and now deeply regret it.
   I'd still like to learn when my wife retires and has the time to teach me. Just hope it's better than my forays into car-driving!
   Ironically, with my sister, I was always the musical one and sang solos in Primary School and later joined the choir in Grammar.
   At the age of ten my mother even contemplated trying to get me a scholarship at a Cathedral School (she must've been desperate to get rid of me!).
   My wife plays 'cello and piano and our love of music has been passed on to all our children.
   My son was a virtuoso cellist and both he and my older daughter played in the 'Nash' (National Youth Orchestra of Wales). My son also played in the British Children's Orchestra.
   Competitions, concerts, practising, lessons and rehearsals dominated our existence at one time and my wife deserves numerous medals and trophies for taxiing them everywhere.
   My older daughter went on to play viola in the Welsh language pop-folk band Gilespi and was in her element. Even more so when she improvised with a keyboard-player and singer, with a music closer to free-form jazz and the electric viola of Cale's Velvet Underground.
   My son, however, thrived on the demanding and highly moving work of classical composers and his eventual performance of Elgar's Cello Concerto was a revelation.
   My younger daughter enjoys playing in the RCT  Youth Orchestra on cello (notice a pattern here?) and on the piano she often prefers the pop music ,which she listens to a great deal.
  Yet music doesn't fill full our house as it once did.
   The way we listen to it now makes it more private and less a communal experience.
   I'm sure my wife is often grateful for this, as she doesn't have to suffer Tom Waits or Captain Beefheart blaring out of my stereo speakers.
   As a consequence, my tastes have only occasionally impacted upon my young daughter.
   She came along to last year's Waterboys concert and loathed it and so dismisses everything I like as similar.
   Music still plays a greater role in my life than any other art-form and, in many ways, it's the same with her.
   Yet our interests do not overlap and intermingle in the way they did with both my older children.
   My son once played bass guitar in an ad hoc band at his school and they did REM's 'Everybody Hurts' : a band I regularly played on my old sound system.
   I have exchanged and shared music with my older daughter for years. I inspired her lasting love of Ashley Maher (who I saw on BBC's Late Show), while she has pointed me towards wonderful artists such as Lleuwen Steffan in recent years.
   With my son I share an enthusiasm for modern jazz and it was he who led me to explore the marvels of the Esbjorn Svensson Trio ; surely the most varied and thrilling jazz band of the last decade.
   Now my older daughter intends to learn guitar (see the poem below) and I seem to be struggling to drink enough to make my blues harp sound even reasonable;so perhaps we'll enter a new era.
   We certainly need to carry on the strong line from that renowned 20th century figure, especially as I've only been assured recently about our connection to him.


                                      GIFT  OF  A  GUITAR


It stands at the other side of the room
in its black plasticky outfit
unsure whether to enter and sit down,
or join the hard-coated 'cello in the corner.


It leans against the sofa wondering
quite what it's doing here,
where the piano is very much furniture
and cds are like tiles lining.


It keeps expecting to be retrieved
as it faces the opening door,
it has hardly spoken or sung yet,
just a few tentative phrases.


'Cello would be buried it it wasn't upright,
piano a case for a family museum ;
as dust gathers its suit loses shine,
hoping it will write its signature in time.

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ER  COF  ALUN HUGHES

8/6/2013

3 Comments

 
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  This last week or so has been especially pronounced in terms of emotional contrasts...... from the joys of my first ever holiday in Italy, to the sudden shock of the death of my step-dad from angina.   And, as a writer, there have been very similar , stark differences, pulling this way then that.
   It all began with a review in a small literary magazine called 'Mistress Quickly's Bed', a Preston-based one and successor to Alan Dent's excellent 'Penniless Press'.
   In it was Ken Clay's review of my book of 'open field' poetry 'Moor Music' (Seren).......a bit late but particularly welcome, because it was completely positive, extraordinarily glowing ( and no.....I don't know him!).
   The week ended with a very different review. Wales' Book of the Year winner Rhian Edwards savaged 'Barkin!' in 'Planet', though there were a few things she did admire in the book.
   Of course, I was boosted by the first and deflated by the latter, but actually - having read it closely - it was so unevenly argued and ill-informed for the most part, that I couldn't take it seriously.
   I have criticised books in reviews myself and not regretted it and , no doubt, she would claim likewise.
   Now, I am reluctant to do book reviews and would much rather the role of mentor and report-writer for Literature Wales, whenever they ask me. I like to be helpful and constructive in both these roles, even when presented with a manuscript which is poorly-written (a rare phenomenon).
   Without a doubt the most rewarding aspect of the last week in terms of poetry has been a rediscovery of 'open field', through a series of poems.
   ( I could well have been spurred on by that review).
   At three in the morning before catching an early plane ( peering at the alarm, my Muse!), I wrote one and then another quite quickly, without the aid of alcohol or any other substances (unless you count Rennies indigestion tablets!).
   Will I go on to write many of them? Already, I've a handful.....but it's hard to tell.
   When I returned from a week away near Venice, there waiting for me were the proofs for my next book 'Question Island' : hard copy, just like the old days.
   I spent two days reading thoroughly and checking for errors, red pen poised like my teacher days.
   It's hard to believe that it's on the way after so long; a journey even more protracted than my last fiction for teenagers 'The Climbing Tree'.
  I sent it to Pont, where  Viv Sayer was full of praise and so helpful with editing it, as ever .
   She was interested in publication, but it became evident that Pont were withdrawing from the teenage market entirely.
   After their rejection I tried many London literary agents and large publishing houses, the single acceptance coming from a press who wanted me to pay a substantial amount ( they had insisted they weren't a 'vanity press').
   Finally, I'm delighted and grateful to Sally R. Jones of Alun Books, who is bringing it out very soon.
   I know I'm somewhat biased, but I'm proud of it.
   It's very contemporary : set in this recession and focusing on a sensitive teenage boy, who lives with his mam, step-father and half-sister. The main thrust of the narrative is the boy's search for his real father and encounter with a strange island.
  There are also important sub-plots in terms of his relationship with his English teacher Mary Croft ( a character, several years on, from my novel 'The Fugitive Three') and with a girl who is being bullied at his school.
   Reading through the proofs was rather odd : it felt like somebody else's work, simply because I've written so little fiction since and wonder if I'll ever be capable of such a sustained piece again.
   There are mysteries, secrets, hints and clues throughout and like 'The Climbing Tree' there's plenty to work out, even at the end.
   I'm still conscious of the influence of one of my favourite fiction writers Bernard MacLaverty, who is an expert at the Great Ubiquitous Question-mark ( significantly, one of his best books of stories is called 'Secrets').
   In the end we don't discover the truth.
   In art, as in life.

   And the lowest point?
   After the untimely death of my step-dad, it was undoubtedly learning of the death of Alun Hughes at 92, who lived near Corwen in north Wales.
   Anyone who has read 'Red Poets' magazines over the years will be familiar with his work.
   He was a prolific translator to the end, especially from German, Russian and Spanish.
   He was also a meticulous chronicler of poets forgotten and neglected and his articles on the likes of his friend and comrade Arnold Rattenbury in the magazine typify this.
   I never met Alun and had only spoken a few times on the phone, yet every week one or two of his recycled envelopes would arrive, marked 'For RP Archives'.
   He wrote the occasional poem as well : always direct and pithy. His poem about the Welsh Republican flag appears at the front of our issue 'Poems For a Welsh Republic' ( so rare, even I don't possess a copy!).
   He was a life-long Communist, republican and for many years a Trade Union activist.
   He hailed from Ponty originally and was always very proud of his Valleys
roots.
   Alun will be greatly missed by all in Red Poets, but will live on in future magazines, with those translations and articles he sent.




                                       ER  COF  ALUN  HUGHES


Swallows, Alun :
winging those wise words
swift in patterns
of roads and rivers
to the south this summer.




Sharp quills, Alun :
tips for fine writing,
the lettering of daylight
dipping close to water
ready for autumn's flight.




Birds of paper, Alun :
each bearing your sign,
each translating the air,
the currents into languages
of the Continent and winter.




White markings, Alun :
plumage of packaging
homing to these Valleys
where you once belonged,
waiting for revolution of spring.

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