Recently we launched issue 24 of ‘Red Poets’ magazine at the Imp in Merthyr Tudful, now an annual ritual.
   We’ve actually been going 25 years as we managed to skip a year while suffering a prolonged hangover from all the collating and stapling of issue 1.
   It was a wild and stormy night in Cymru and some contacted me with apologies, saying they were lost in the floods.
   However, Harry Rogers made it all the way from Castell Emlyn, John Williams had come from Lewisham and Leon Lazarus had been re-born while trudging up the valley and emerged looking like he’d nearly drowned!
   It was another great night of music and verse and wonderful to welcome poets such as Adele Cordner from the Port and Paula Denby with her surfer son, both making their debuts. When Paula sang ‘Ar lan y môr’ it was a moment of sheer magic.
   The issue’s so packed with fascinating contributions that I can’t mention everyone…..opening poems by the Buddhist Boyz Barry Taylor and Al Jones reflect wryly on the Red Poets themselves.
   There’s much masterful satire from the likes of Dave Hughes, Martin Hayes and , of course, Phil Knight whose ‘I love Wales’ refers repeatedly to our many types of rain –
    ‘I love its rain.
    The hard rain, the soft,
    The acid rain, the carbon rain,
    The salt and sand rain
    Of lost Saturday afternoons.
    The rain, the glorious rain.’
…..read marvellously by Heather Falconer to the soundtrack of that very rain crashing down outside in Merthyr.
   There is a poem by the eminent poet, essayist and critic Jeremy Hooker who – for the first time in his life – recently joined a political party, namely Corbyn’s Labour and who shows his passion and praise in ‘Aneurin Bevan Memorial Stones’ –
‘ …this young man with a stutter
     declaiming Shakespeare or Marx,
     correcting his voice, and honing it,
     like a tool, useful as a miner’s pick.’
  Such precise description and so apt.
  Fittingly there are 4 poems dealing directly with the tragic fire at Grenfell Tower : Merthyr’s own John Williams went to help in the aftermath and ‘Fully Furnaced Flat’ is a frighteningly stark response. Then there’s the anger of Des Mannay and Tim Evans’ poems and the righteous indignation of J. Richardson –
     ‘  The media carefully avoids the bottomless vault
        Of anonymous horror
        The un-glamorous deaths of the poor.’
   One of my favourite poets on the scene today is undoubtedly Becky Lowe of Swansea and it’s high time a publisher in Cymru brought a book out by her, because her work is always imaginative and thought-provoking ; ‘This Pen’ is no exception –
     ‘ This pen contains
        Love or poison,
        Can amputate hearts
        At a single stroke
        Can make you disappear
        Or become immortal.’
   Another poet who, like Becky, reads regularly at Talisman in Swansea, is Teifion Hughes, so underrated and unassuming. His ‘ A Single Spark’ tells of Che and Fidel in Mexico, a narrative poem yet full of strong descriptions –
    ‘ Here comes the wind to mimic
      Che’s asthmatic : his drug left
      dry on a Mexican shelf.’ 
   I feel proud and honoured to give poets like Teifion this opportunity.
   Then there are the old-timers such as myself, Alun Rees  and Tim Richards who’ve been here from the beginning ( well, almost in Tim’s case). Tim’s ‘Being Welsh’ is as pertinent today as it would’ve been when we were all members of the Welsh Socialists , Cymru Goch the very group who gave birth to the Red Poets in Clwb-y-Bont, where Alun Roberts must have been mid-wife!
   Tim questions our allegiances and how easily these can be cast aside –
     ‘ So I loyally vote Labour
       and get English Tory governments
      ‘cos when it really comes down to it
       I am a True Brit.’
   Red Poets remains a multifarious collection of voices from all different parts of the Left : SWP to left Plaid, staunch Corbynites to anarchists.
   As I say in the Intro to this issue, referring to young poets like Rufus Mufasa and Kate Tempest –
   ‘ Despite the blandness of much of the literary scene, I’m heartened by young artists taking poetry onto the main stage and challenging the predictability of so much popular culture.’
   Indeed, we have both Leon Lazarus and Patrick Jones who often use spoken word and music so effectively.
   From red to green to black and back again, 25 years after our first ‘one-off’ magazine.
 
 
                                        RED  STORM
 
 
A storm blew them in
bedraggled and blasted ,
up the flooding High Street
past flying branches
and clogged-up drains.
 
A storm with innocuous name
like that of an Aunt
visiting over the summer ;
but here they gathered
wet and wound up
by the one-way system,
to take a stand.
 
A storm they didn’t shake off
or change like damp clothing,
but which became their words :
bringing down barriers and walls
and lifting everyone like seabirds
in a full-feathered freedom.       

   Conversations – ones I’ve had or overheard – have always been a major source of inspiration.
   At times these two overlap and I momentarily join in with people at the bus-stop or, alternatively, I’m involved in a conversation yet feel an outsider.
   More and more I sense myself avoiding direct conflict with views and observations I find totally wrong and that can leave me ashamed.
   Why didn’t I intervene? Why hadn’t I expressed myself forcefully with candour?
   This was the case not long ago on the Cardiff-Merthyr train when a man got on ( in his early thirties) wearing a FREE TOMMY ROBINSON sweat-shirt.
   He was not your typical alt-right character at all, with long hippy-style hair and swotty specs; he looked thin and under-nourished.
   He began an animated conversation with a black fella sitting opposite me ( the neo-fascist was standing by the exit door).
   They appeared to know each other and the black bloke was totally supportive – ‘Yeah, you’re right! Free the man!’ and with no indication of fear.
   I was ‘on pins’, wanting to shout out how wrong, how misguided, how appalling! But remained silent.
   Then the Robinson supporter disappeared from view ( must’ve been squatting on the floor) and I noticed a woman along the carriage staring at him curiously.
   We soon arrived at Ponty and the black guy got off with a ‘See ya!’ as Robinson-man took deliberate steps to the opposite exit and paced emphatically towards the open door, only for it to shut automatically.
   He pressed the OPEN button like a panic one. The Guard was alerted and soon appeared on the platform.
   Robinson-man returned to the closed door opposite, braced himself and counted out purposeful steps, halting at the open door. He took a long, deep breath as if ready to sky-dive, and made it onto the waiting platform and the concerns of the Guard.
   It reminded me of ‘The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time’, when the protagonist was on the London underground.
   I wondered if anything I could have said would’ve mattered.
   Occasionally I overhear things so bizarre I’m unsure if I’ve actually heard them.
   Only the other day a woman was talking about the Holocaust on the bus up the road ( not an everyday topic, but she’d just attended her regular History class). She mentioned Holocaust denial , when a  man who I’d spoken to several times and seemed reasonable simply said – ‘ Yeah, just like that Corbyn!’
   I was incredulous, but couldn’t join in because I was afraid I hadn’t heard it right. Looking back, I believe I did.
   There’s no denying I’m afraid of losing my bap in a social setting, as when I recently talked to the epitome of a ‘plastic’.
   Any football fan will know that term : someone who attends games just for the glory or, even worse, to follow the various, glamorous opposition teams.
   With my beloved Bluebirds back in the Prem the number of such fans has rocketed. I don’t begrudge those who really are City fans, but this…..
   I had known him for years as an avid egg-chaser who’d rarely expressed any interest in the round ball game and last time I’d seen him at our ground was four years back when, you guessed it, we happened to be in the Premiership!
   Now he was explaining – ‘I’ve got a season ticket just for the one season, because next year you’ll be back down. The manager will be sacked by Christmas…..that’s what always happens. You go there whatever, don’t you?’
   I swallowed my tongue, bit my lips, breathed very deeply.
   As someone who has always followed teams passionately and truly believe we should embrace Welsh football at all levels, here was my nemesis.
   If I’d had a few pints though, I doubt I’d been so restrained!
   Talking to blatant racists I can’t keep quiet, as I try to be calm and point out how ludicrous their arguments are.
   One man I meet often on our daily newspaper routes ( a senior citizens' ritual, if ever there was one) started a diatribe against the Nigerian team during the World Cup, calling them ‘lazy’ and implying it was an African characteristic. I simply mentioned Cardiff City's two Africans Bamba and Manga and their prevailing work ethic.
   The following poem’s based on an overheard conversation at the bus-station, yet is fictionalised.
   One aspect I didn’t include was amusing, but didn’t fit in.
   During this incident two paramedic vans were parked along the Avenue de Clichy in Merthyr ( see the photo), near the bridge in question.
   Their Cymraeg side faced us with ‘GIG Cymru’.
   ‘Wha’s goin on b’there?’
   ‘Them vans…..must be water or summin.’
   As we passed in the bus later, the woman changed her mind –
‘ Nah, it’s not water, it’s Welsh, innit?’
 
 
                                     MERTHYR  BRIDGE  INCIDENT
 
‘Seen all tha kerfuffle down by-a bridge?’
 
‘Aye, somebuddy ‘ve sprained theyer ankle
tryin t commit suicide.’
 
‘I yeard a car ad driven off of-a road,
there’s fire-engines an cops galore
an loadsa stewdents watchin
an videoin it all live.’
 
‘ Ey, yers Dave, bet ee knows…
Wha’s appnin on-a bridge?’
 
‘Washed up body mun!
Thought it woz a film set,
tv camras ev’rywhere,
I wuz lookin f Richard Bloody Arrington.
Road cordoned off, could be a murder scene.’
 
‘Well yer's-a bus….
Ey drive, wha’s goin on?’
 
‘Fisherman broke is leg,
takin im up Prince Charles.’
 
‘Truth is always borin Dave.’
 
‘ Aye, but I bet
ee wuz ewsin an arpoon.’ 

   ‘ The abiding purpose of every nationalist is to secure more power and more prestige, not for himself but for the nation or other unit in which he has chosen to sink his own individuality.’
   ‘ ….Celtic nationalism is not the same thing as Anglophobia. Its motive force is a belief in the past and future greatness of the Celtic peoples.’
   ‘ Serious sport has nothing to do with fair play. It is bound up with hatred, jealousy, boastfulness, disregard of all rules and sadistic pleasure in witnessing violence : in other words it is war minus the shooting.’

•    George Orwell, ‘Notes on nationalism’ & ‘The sporting spirit’ ( 1945)

   At Aberystwyth Uni in the 1970s I studied the works of George Orwell under the expert guidance of Ned Thomas, then editor of ‘Planet’ and activist in Cymdeithas yr Iaith.
   I avidly read all his main works  and found ‘1984’ and ‘Animal Farm’ fascinating, his non-fiction books like ‘Homage to Catalonia’ and ‘Road to Wigan Pier’ illuminating, his lesser fiction very uneven yet always interesting and essays pertinent.
   I especially recall his critique of so-called ‘champagne socialists’ whose values and lifestyle were totally mismatched. Applying Buddhism to their beliefs , he argued that their inner and outer lives should be one, they should live by their principles.
    So it was very disconcerting, indeed galling, to read his ‘Notes on nationalism’and other essays published in a single short one pound volume by Penguin (part of a varied and interesting series incidentally).
   On the positive side, his analysis of anti-Semitism in Britain at that time seems relevant to today when applied to Islamophobia, which is by far the most insidious prejudice.
   However, I found the vast majority of his opinions extremely Anglo-centric and limited in empathy.
   To begin with, he redefines ‘nationalism’ on his terms to include any strong belief system prevalent then, such as anti-Semitism and Trotskyism!
   He does acknowledge everybody’s propensity to be bigoted in a some way, but I’m sure my Trotskyist friends wouldn’t appreciate his analysis which views that movement as purely reactive towards Stalinism.
   He constantly uses England and Britain as if they were the same entity, ironically a trait still perpetrated by those unionists on the British left who fail to see how devolution has created a very different scenario.
   Written as the 2nd World War was ending, his views were no doubt highly influenced by his identification of ‘nationalism’ with the most malign forces : Hitler’s Germany, Mussolini’s Italy and Stalin’s Soviet Union, whose tyrannical excesses provided the inspiration for his greater works.
   What’s interesting  is the legacy of his thinking is stronger than you’d expect as still today many on the British left tend to see nationalism as a single force, failing to distinguish between the conquering, war-mongering kind of the British Empire , against that of small emerging ( or re-emerging)  nations like Catalunya and Scotland, whose right to self-determination they summarily dismiss as divisive.
   Orwell’s narrow-minded appraisal of Celtic nationalism as some kind of monolithic movement is ill-informed.
   He initially refers to its Anglophobia and then goes on to condemn its striving for ‘future greatness’.
   Yet ,even then, the nascent nationalist movements of both Cymru and Scotland were very different from that of southern Ireland, a country where Catholic church and state were becoming indistinguishable.
   In Cymru you had the iconic actions on the Llŷn in 1935 of ‘y tri’, the three nationalists who were imprisoned for setting fire to an RAF bombing school at Penyberth. This was a precursor of the much later Meibion Glyndwr arson campaign against second homes and showed a movement willing to use guerrilla acts against property though not people.
   Nowadays there are definite cultural and linguistic links between all the Celtic nations, but devolution and the beginnings of distinct differences makes any idea of pan-Celtic nationalism even more absurd.
   Anyone visiting Ireland can witness how the Gaelic language has been literally pushed to the brink and edges of coastline, yet is thriving in urban Belfast.
   Yet responsibility for its demise  lies with the government in Dublin, even as the Tories in Westminster refuse to stand up to their allies the DUP and give it equal status in the six counties.
   How can small nations comprehend this ‘future greatness’ Orwell’ writes about? They are more concerned with survival, or  the struggle for national liberation and desire to create and flourish free from the strictures and oppression of overwhelming nation-states.
   In short, how can Cymru reach its potential within a British state where it’s forever seen as an afterthought?
   Orwell was a prophet in the likes of ‘1984’, yet captive of his times in these essays.
   This is equally true of his views on sport in ‘The Sporting Spirit’ where he sees boxing and football in particular as microcosms of nationalist expression, manifestations of militarism.
   The only exception he gives is cricket on the village green, that quintessential English pastime.
   Where his argument collapses completely is his assessment that urban populations seek out the violence of sporting occasions due to their passive  lives.
   The fact that thousands of working-class people followed both football and boxing and yet worked in very physically-demanding jobs escapes him.
   He failed to realise the cathartic nature of sport and also remarkable ability to create heroes from their own class : from foundry to field and mine to ring.
    At present, football and politics are linked more closely than ever and recently friend and comrade Andrew Benjamin started the group ‘Football fans for Independence’, just as several Yes Cymru banners were displayed at Merthyr Town’s ground, together with a Welsh republican flag.
   Rugby – ostensibly our national game – needs to come to terms with this and jettison its establishment image of three royalist feathers, demeaning Principality Stadium and submissive German  motto of ‘Ich Dien’ ( I serve).
   Football – with its anti-monarchist chanting and fierce national identity – has lead the way and proved Orwell wrong.
   In the Euros we were simply delighted to have qualified and to take part, fans mixed freely with others from many countries and there was little animosity. We sang anthems with pride : Y Wal Goch was one of bodies not barriers.
   It was certainly worth reading ‘Notes on nationalism’ just to be aware of how profoundly mistaken a great writer can sometimes be.
​
 
                                    NO FLAGS
 
No flags are large enough
to make a tent
for doorways and parks,
warm enough for a blanket
on freezing nights,
firm enough to keep away
predators on foot.
 
But, could be postage stamps
to put on postcards
to a future
nobody can predict
where poles are scaffold
and cloth stretched taut
across the rooftops.
 
 
We may write
and dispatch them
from the republic of hope,
cowed subjects yet
imagining they fly :
a skein of geese
towards a different country.