I was perched on the raised, northbound platform of Ponty station, taking in the sights of Friday night having caught the Aberdare train and had to change.
   Not through a drunken mistake I hasten to add, but an honourable intention to call in at Spoons en route......I decided against it when I saw the scrum outside.
   Hanging like a dead oak leaf caught on one spider's thread (now there's an idea for a haiku!), I was returning from the launch of Rhondda-born Rob Cullen's first book of poetry, 'Uncertain Times' ( Octavo books) at Octavo's in Cardiff Bay, the old Tiger part.
   The book brings together Rob's work from the 70s to today and his many experiences in East Moors steelworks, the States, the Valleys and working in the Probation service.
  His own black and white photos complement the poems, which move between tender ones of love and family and others much more harrowing.
   I was delighted to open the evening at such a wonderful venue, and one more people should know about.
   People think of the Bay as chains and politicians, boat trips and Daleks, Millennium Centre's huge helmet structure and Roald Dahl's boyhood Norwegian Church (yes, he was once Welsh!).
  Octavo's is only round the corner, past the scaffolding and it's a bookshop, cafe, events hub and even publisher, run by Rhys Milsom ( also from the Rhondda, and a poet).
   A place of space and imagination, though not quite enough room for everyone who wanted to come to Rob's launch . Great coffee, gourmet chips, fine wine and real ale, open mics and launches......Peter Finch will have to write another 'Real Cardiff' book just to do it justice.
   Rhys was another reader, as was Suzanne Iuppa , originally from upstate New York but working as a 'ranger' for some time in Snowdonia (didn't know we had them over here!).
   As well as excellent readings from these two , there was inspirational singing from Rob's wife Fiona and daughter Cara : songs of the earth and 'caneuon yn y Gymraeg'.
   Octavo's is indicative of  the really lively poetry scene in Wales at present. I am dangerously optimistic ( though, as a Cardiff City fan, I should know better).
   From Newport's Murenger in the east, to the  Cellar Bards in Aberteifi in the west, there are thriving Open Mic sessions, invariably with minimal backing from Lit Wales.
   Social media has helped in every way.
   Firstly, Twitter and Facebook make it easy to publicise, form groups, start pages, post photos and videos.
   Secondly, a lot of people attend these events to get away from the digital age : to savour the spoken word, take part, buy books and socialise.
   These events are vital as they give many a sense of belonging and identity which no number of Facebook groups can achieve.
   You never know what's going to happen and the transformations made by my good friend and comrade the Bartzman illustrate this.
   He began as our resident heckler, then did some cartoons and covers for Red Poets magazines and now the latest issue (number 22) features one of his poems for the first time.
   He is normally a surrealist, though this short poem is more didactic and his statement 'Revolutionaries of the world unite - / You have nothing to lose ' is a fitting way to open the magazine.  
   Though some who go along to these Open Mics would not embrace the politics of the Red Poets , that revolutionary spirit is nevertheless afoot.
   It's a philosophy of creating an alternative to the bland and identikit.
   People come to be stimulated and also entertained ; it is a way of seeing the world differently and hardly a means of escape.
   You may not detect it on telly; you may only hear fragments of the mainstream on radio , but poetry is flourishing in these pubs, clubs, cafes.
   Many argue that it is just  for the converted, yet when I edited 'Poetry Wales ' for 5 years I soon realised the astonishing number of people who wrote it, though often never read or listened to the work of others. 
   This is changing......A revival?.......Yes, why not!


                            ESCAPING  THE  WEEK

It's Friday night
everyone's escaping the week,
it's pub to pub
and throwing out at clubs
and there's a fight.

The police sirens ring
the town in screaming sound,
a girl is mouthing off
at her boyfriend, the train
up the Rhondda's late
and nobody's got a light.

I feel like a ghost
on the raised platform
of the homeward bound,
with a rucksack of books
and magazines, clear vision
of the flashing cars.

One wrecked bloke in trackies
has shat his pants
and the railway police
are not changing him,
his girl hovers over
bird without wings
she keeps dropping.

It's Friday night  escaping
the jobs and benefits ;
the blood, the laughing,
the sober ghost,
the swearing threats,
the cwtches, the clasps.

    
         

      One of the worst traits of Britain is the obsession with having to look right, be it for a job or, of course, for school.
   The first week of a new school year inevitably brings its traumas and uniform merely adds to them.
   As the Tories contemplate a return to Grammar schools in England, so more Comps in Wales make their pupils wear blazers in a throwback to the 1960s, ironically an era when brutality was rife and almost every teacher had their own torture.
   Branding uniformity on our children is a legacy of public schools and their intrinsic militarism.
   If there was one thing we should've learnt from the Continent, it was that you aren't what you wear.
   People actually perform better when they are relaxed and comfortable and for me ( with protruding Adam's apple) that is definitely without tie and unnecessary and expensive suit.
   One Head in Kent sent 50 pupils home on the first week of term for petty reasons, while another in north Wales managed to send 70 packing!
   The confusion of discipline with standards of dress code is laughable.
   The amount of time and energy wasted admonishing and punishing pupils for minor transgressions is absurd and only leads the more rebellious ones  - who are often the more creative as well - into disillusionment with the system.
   Every summer there are news stories about pupils coming to school in shorts and skirts  ( yes , boys and girls) as a protest against ridiculous rules banning them.
   When I taught in Germany the vast majority chose t-shirts and jeans and very few showed off their wealth or fashion consciousness. It was just plain practical.
   As a teacher I was once threatened with being called in front of the Governors for not wearing a tie.
   From that moment, I religiously refused to comply.
   As teachers were promoted to Head of Year or senior management you could see their dress alter : suits replaced jumpers and black shoes shone as if ready for inspection.
   Sixth formers are now increasingly being forced to wear blazers,while their peers in colleges are allowed to choose their own clothes.
   If schools really want to retain their 6th form, why do they treat them so disdainfully?
   The blazer itself is akin to cap and boater in its sheer impracticality and archaic nature.
   It is too hot for summer and not hot enough for winter.
   Just because pupils sport a school badge, it does not ensure their loyalty or sense of identity.
​   A school needs to encourage this vital feeling of belonging by caring for and developing every single pupil, not by stamping them with funereal black or embarrassing red.
   The militaristic nature of schools is reflected in their hierarchy, with the Head as Commander-in-Chief.
   As I got older as a teacher, so I felt less compelled to go along with the status quo. However, I had no ambition to move into management and if I had then it would've required a different attitude.
   The future seems to be one of reactionary policies and uniform plays its part in this.
   As testing increasingly dominates the curriculum, coursework is phased out and all creative subjects marginalised ( or, in the case of Literature, made optional), so progressive ideas are demolished one after another. 
   If schools are viewed as microcosms of society, then the outlook isn't promising.
   Parents and pupils may occasionally rebel against the absurdity of rules, but there's no concerted movement for change.
   Ultimately, what we're saying to our children is - ' As long as you conform, you'll succeed.'
   Yet, the greatest contributions to our world generally come from those who do the opposite.
   Till schools become arenas of co-operation where everyone involved determines their philosophy and running, they will surely mirror the values of an oppressive society and expose democracy's illusion.

                                 UNIFORMS GET YOU GRADES

It's uniforms not brains
that end up getting you grades.

It's ties not imagination,
black shoes not inspiration.

White shirts write essays on their own,
long skirts answer all the questions.

Jumpers are experts at hurdling,
and badges give presentations.

It's the correct dress code
that determines future success :

just think of all our bankers
with immaculate suits to impress.
     

   For this blog, I've decided to let Dai 'The Rhyme' Davies tell his own story about how what he did to the one and only Wayne-O Pijin, once leader of the Coo-coo-operative Party, SatGuru of the Pijinist cult and founder of the RAF (Revolutionary Avian Front)..........

   ' Right Mike, get this down on your dot-dot machine, so all the other dot-dotters can go dotty over it!
   This'll be on telly and in the papers, but I'm telling you first because you've done interviews with him and written loads about him.
   Brace yourself.......I killed Wayne-O Pijin!
   I done it on purpose and knew it was him as he was wearing sunglasses and beret, even though they fell into the bushes and I never found them.
   He was trying to get in through the French windows what were half open.
   He was up to no good, mark my words. I wonder if others from that RAF were around, but I never saw them.
   I reckon he was trying to release the pet parrot Harri, I was looking after for my lovely Iris ( her with the velvet shopping trolley).
   What it was, we were in the Merthyr Meters meeting and I read out a poem about my Jack Russell Vlad needing some company, as he was feeling very depressed and not eating proper.
   After the meeting we went for our usual chip at the Turkish Chippie and she wanted a saveloy (but that's another story).
   As we were queuing she told me that she was going away for a whole month to stay with her son in Australia.
   Unfortunately, she couldn't ask me along, because her son had bought the fare ages ago.
   Anyway, she asked me to look after her parrot Harri, named after Harri Webb of all things.
   ' Does ee rhyme?' I asked.
   'No, but ee do ewse bard language. My late usban taught im tha filth!'
  ' I don' mind', I told her,' maybe it'll cheer up ol Vlad.'
   It turned out she wasn't exaggerating, and Harri was constantly mouthing off.
   It also turned out that Vlad loathed the bird, possibly because I quite took to him.
   His swearing was inventive and I soon taught him a few choice phrases about the new PM Teresa May.
   Vlad would sit and bark at Harri ferociously, while the parrot simply cursed back with 'Twat!' 'Dickhead!' 'Prick!'
   I think poor little  Vlad took it personal.
   One day I moved his cage to over by the French windows just to annoy the neighbours, who were having a barbeque and listening to foul music.
   All of a sudden, I saw this pigeon wearing a black beret and shades perched on the fence.
   I rapidly went out to the Utility Room and took out my BB gun, kept especially for such occasions.
   In the war I shot a few Nazis, so what was one pigeon?
   Plus, I was convinced it was Wayne-O himself, top of the Wanted list.
   ( I hope you put all this on that Faces Book Mike, as Iris's son will surely be on that in Australia).
   I opened the kitchen window very carefully and waited for Wayne-O to make a move.
   Sure enough, soon as Harri squawked 'Fuckin idiots!' Wayne-O swooped down towards my bungalow.
   I got him first shot, wounded on the wing and then finished him off on the patio before the local mogies could move in......I wanted all the credit.
   I phoned the 'Merthyr' paper, PC Howells at the police station and Jason Muhammad on BBC Wales.
   They said it could even mean an OBE, which I'd have to accept on behalf of working-class poets everywhere.
   I had no feelings towards that pigeon and had a job keeping Vlad from having him for dinner.
   It all made no difference to Harri the parrot, who carried on swearing whatever - 'Gobshite!' 'Arse-licker!'....no wonder Iris was mad at her late.
   What do you think of that, Mike?
   I took a photo but wish I could've done a video....it would've been a sensation on that Uber Tube!'


    Could this be the end of Wayne-O Pijin, who has already come back from the dead once before?
   A cat has nine lives, but how many has a pigeon?

   This is Dai's poem about what happened..........


            THE SLAYING OF WAYNE-O PIJIN

Twas I, Dai 'The Rhyme'
did slay that dreaded pigeon
with my trusted BB gun,
I performed a duty for everyone.


That pigeon did attack my bungalow
with wicked intentions in his wings,
he wanted to assault my window,
paid no heed to warnings.


The police have thanked me greatly,
the press called me a hero,
that poisonous bird is finished,
I have put an end to Wayne-O.


The parrot Harri can live happily
without fear in his comfy home,
and shout out 'Off your trolley!'
helping me feel less alone.


Yes, twas I, Dai 'The Rhyme'
did shoot down that terrorist avian,
no more can he carry out crimes
in the name of animal freedom.


   

     

   This review has been a long time coming, but now's the best moment to thoroughly recommend the latest in our Red Voices series by poet, playwright and inspirational workshop-conductor Patrick Jones from Blackwood.
   The best reading at the Imp in Merthyr for ages was Patrick's launch of this volume : funny, original (spraying us with a smell at one stage) and totally passionate as ever.
   What makes this book so important is the way he draws from his family, upbringing and also people encountered while doing workshops.
   If his poetry was politically charged and angry before this, then he's added other dimensions to make it more intense.
   At present, he's working on his third CD of spoken word and music  alongside Julian Gardner and calling themselves Black Triangle. This promises to be fascinating.
   His wife Jane did the photo on the cover of this chapbook which, with ring-binders, gives the book a hand-made feel that Patrick wanted.
   The image could have graced an early Manics' album.
   The book opens with a typically honest and topical poem 'letterboxviewworld', the title itself suggesting what it describes. It gives a feminist/ humanist perspective on the subjugation of Muslim women and perfectly illustrates how he can combine Dylan Thomas' soundscapes with Beat beboppery -
               ' sky diminished to the next step
                 a stapled page from a xeroxed atlas
                 a tonguetied topography'
   'My Garden, My Teacher' imagines four contrasting gardens, each representing a different aspect of humanity , from the 'Religious' which is full of constraints, to the 'Gay' which celebrates fertility and joy.
   'It will take more than a grave to bury you' is a song-like poem and the idea was to release the song which James Dean Bradfield ( of the Manic Street Preachers) created from it alongside the book. Pity it never happened.
   It is an ode to the mining community of Senghenydd and the callous response of pit-owners, who disclaimed responsibility for the appalling disaster there in October 1913 -
                  '  like candles burning alone
                    their voices are what brings us home'
   'Geronimo in Tonypandy' is a prime example of Jones's highly sensitive work which led directly to his very successful National Theatre of Wales production 'Before I Leave' (based on a Merthyr choir who all suffer from Alzheimer's).
   It directly addresses an old man , Dennis, in a Residential Home and effectively takes his own words as well, making it like a poem-documentary -
                   ' do you remember the spinning top
                     the miners' strike
                     the shining marble
                     the penny dab'
   Poems about his father and mother are equally touching, full of affection with memories intertwining.
   In 'Still life 1 : shoes beneath hospital bed' there's a sad sense of a strong man brought down. We begin with memories of his father actively polishing shoes and end with the poet having to tie his dad's laces. The poem is filmic in its movement from past to present, but not entirely pessimistic  as father and son still 'talk joke laugh'. 
   In 'demonise or die' Jones shows he's lost none of his powerful rage for a system which punishes the poor just because they happen to have an extra room in their Council houses ( the notorious bedroom tax).
   He doesn't hold back, yet we know that the weakest are under attack, even though they sometimes fight back -
' AS STARBUCKS AND AMAZON FIND NEW WAYS TO FALL BENEATH THE RADAR
  THE MOST VULNERABLE, THE SICK, THE POOR
  ARE TARGETED BY IDS, THE MORAL CRUSADER
  ALSO KNOWN AS THE SOCIETAL RAPER'
  I love the succession of rhymes used in 'For sale', his diatribe on the House of Lords. His weapon, his barbed pen -
                  ' bloated
                    ermine coated
                    velvet moated
                    under worked
                    not voted '
   All the urgency of rap!
   In an era when so much literature ignores the struggles of working-class people, Jones is their champion, yet also a highly individual voice whose atheist socialist republicanism is never confined by party political ideology.
   There's much music in his work and a commitment to causes which many in the literary establishment would dismiss as crude.
   That is because in Cymru, too much of our poetry has shifted away from communities and into the rather rarified world of creative writing departments.
   Patrick is a poet of cause, community and Coed Duon and, in this book especially, one of character and concern.


                            TO   SING
                    for   Patrick Jones

Everyone needs to sing some time,
maybe not from the roof-tops
or the perch of a fence.
 

                                       Especially the trodden down
                                       so low there seems
                                       no way to rise and breathe.


A single song from bush or trees
unseen by the crowds,
yet carried far to attentive ears.