It all began while watching the conference of the appallingly callous party, now with a human face ( I use the word 'human' liberally!).
   They have occupied the middle ground of  politics , even if it resembles     a No-Man's-Land strewn with the abandoned poor and refugees from wars they actually began.
   In the background is the large Conservative logo and, the more I look at it, the more it resembles certain things.
   They've painted the green English oak ( not the Welsh druidic one)        with the Union Jack :a tree metamorphosed into an imperial flag.
   Under Thatcher they had the so-called 'torch of freedom', an arm taken from the Statue of Liberty : appropriate when you consider how we were a base for US cruise missiles and how our neo-liberalism aped that of Reagan.
   The Union Jack is, of course, the flag of the only true form of Brit patriotism left in these isles, namely the n.Ireland Loyalists, and the fact that the oak's shape is also that of n. Ireland can't be mere coincidence.
  I'd suggest a more suitable logo, the Japanese Knotweed : a plant which is the most invasive in the world and strangles everything else around it.
   The Labour leader and those close to him may well be singing the Red Flag again, but their conference was anything but the open debate promised.
   Where were the honest exchanges about Trident, the monarchy and the bombing of Syria?
   To be frank, if they'd really argued these through the outcome of the week would've been the splitting of one party into two!
   The red rose logo may have been a Blairite dream in its escape from socialism, but it was apparently invented by Neil Kinnock as part of his rebranding process.
   Confusingly, it's also the badge of the English rugby team and Lancashire cricket club.
   Will the red flag be revived under Corbyn?
   Here in Cymru, Carwyn Jones is happy to ignore Corbyn's ideas, turning 'clear red water' into the murky blue Severn estuary.
   Perhaps Welsh Labour need to adopt their own logo : how about Carwyn's decidedly pink face superimposed on a red balloon?
   The Greens claim wide-ranging credentials with their globe emanating white flames.
   Perhaps an international party should respect smaller nations more, and cease to treat Cymru as a 'region'?
   Their conference came and went with little media coverage and their best leader is still Caroline Lucas, who no longer holds that post.
   Their politics is as red as Corbyn's, yet there's no sign of that on the logo.
  So I'd suggest they use Mars rather than our planet, as we'll all have to escape there if we carry on destroying the earth at this rate.
  Predictably, UKIP are now blaming everything on the EU rather than just immigration.
   This is largely due to the public sympathy for migrants and especially refugees.
  Their logo is purple (based on Farage's face when he  lost the election?) and their symbol the pound.
   Brit identity embodied in a unit of currency yet......are the French any less so because they use the Euro?
   A more apt image would be a wall topped with razor wire, though I've no argument with purple : the colour of bruising.
   Plaid Cymru's conference consisted mostly of reiterating - ' When we are in government......' as if repeating it will make it happen.
   Many in Plaid claim they're socialist, but if that's the case then where were their policies to create  a true NHS ( no private consultancies) and comprehensive education ( no private schools); above all , where were plans for co-operatives all over the country?
   The logo's based on the Welsh poppy ( y pabi melyn) , which no-one's heard of or even associates with Cymru!   
   It closely resembles BP's logo, but the company have never sued.
   Their previous logo was preferable, the Triban with its three green triangles each with a deconstructed dragon on , representing the three main peaks of Wales.
   Perhaps it was dispensed with  to broaden appeal away from mathematical mountaineers into mythology.
   A more suitable logo would be a dragon's egg, as they're still waiting to be born into any form and substance.
   Outside the Welsh context, I quite like the SNP logo as it reminds me of those metal puzzles I had in my Christmas stocking as a kid.
   I'd no idea it meant a combination of thistle and saltire; at least it's simple, even if it appears to have nothing to do with Scotland.
  Like the Tories, the LibDems conference tried to occupy the middle ground, to appeal to disaffected Labourites.
   Funny that, for a party who'd just shared a government which had penalised the poor ,disabled and students in particular, creating a country where Food Banks grew like Pound Stores.
   Their soaring yellow 'bird of liberty' is actually quite a catching logo , but I'd still replace it with a puke-coloured parrot (which repeats the Tories, like Clegg did for Cameron).

   I have an oak in my garden. The hillside  out the back is covered in them.
   They once dominated the ancient forest land.
   If there were a Union of United Oak Trees I think they'd take the Tories to court immediately.   


 RECLAIMING  THE  OAK
 
I will take it down
from their political banners :
shape of an enormous brain
branded with the Union Jack,
or an Ulsterman's thought-bubble.
 
I shall place it again
in the wild fields surrounding
so the trunk will be bent
to ways of wind and stream
and, if you listen carefully,
you'll hear the druids chanting.
 
I will plant it back
where squirrels and wood pigeons
can feed off its acorns,
where tree-creepers and nuthatches
skitter along  moss-covered bark
picking for tiny insects.
 
I'll tell them they don't own it ;
nor the farmer with deeds
or horses who rub against it,
children suspended on branches,
or me, in my loftiness.
 
I will bring it back, and leave it.

Moorland's yellowing
parchment of the ancient bards :
druid oaks gaze down.

**************

Squirrel on the wall,
his Spiderman impressions ;
hides map of acorns.

***************

Spikes of many reeds
recall the hedgehogs long gone :
vanished, no headlines.

***************

Amber, brown, orange,
all the colours of dying ;
a wondrous leaving.

****************

A rare and shy jay,
the last wild flowers reaching
to swallow-seek sun.

*****************

From the east and west,
high and low, between the light
and cloud......it will come!

'Wagons roll, drive!
Wagons roll!'

It's-a las bus ome :
cans poppin,
couples in wrestlin olds,
man out of it an snorin,
others jokin on theyer phones.


Strong smell from-a back,
a cloud o perfumed smoke
driftin down the aisle
an the driver starts t larf
all on is own accord.


As if we're floatin
up the A470,
up in-a clouds
over Aberfan an Troedyrhiw
jest like them ang-gliders.


It's-a las bus ome
an lucky nobuddy's on-a roads
coz-a driver's got this grin
like an Allowe'en mask,
is mind's a candle flick'rin.

     In  a Merthyr pub after the Bosnia v. Wales football game......
- It's bloody incredible!
- Yeah, it is! We lose 2-0  an the players 're celebratin!
- I know yew're an egg-chaser, but I thought even yew would get it.
- Ow d'yew mean?
- Well, Cyprus beat Israel didn 'ey? Tha's why!
- Oh, so ower players all ad money on Cyprus an are celebratin theyer winnins?
- Nah, we qualify f'r -a Euros coz nobuddy cun catch us.....first time f'r-a major tournament since 1957 World Cup when we lost t Brazil in-a Quarter Finals. The Big Q at las!
- Ow 're Israel in-a Euros anyway? Int they in-a Middle East? Tell yew wha, rugby's much easier t follow.
 - Aye, yew jest wait f'r-a ref t blow is whistle an everyone gazes up at-a big screen action replay!

   As Gareth Bale said , 'I've never celebrated so much after losing!'
   Looking back we deserved a draw from the Bosnia game, but what's important is the future and the Finals.
   Last Tuesday, the Andorra match was supposed to be one huge party.
   Qualification has been a superb achievement, but when we failed to score against  a team of butchers, bakers and teachers all that engineered atmosphere couldn't create the necessary excitement. 
   Even the fans began to chant for players not even on the pitch : Ledley and Robson- Kanu.
   Once Ramsey had got the first goal everything turned to party mode and the glitter-bombs, red carpet and champagne afterwards were outdone by the players dancing, led by Ledley's beard.
  We were off to France and everyone was trying to piece together bits of school French , as we'll need to explain things like we're not part of England and the name of our country is actually Cymru.
   Most will give up and settle for I'd like four beers please.
   We'll be in a table alongside several top teams : could be Spain and Italy, or England and Russia.
   But as we proved when beating Belgium 1-0 at home, we play better against the quality teams. It suits our game of defending deep and playing on the break, using the pace of Bale and guile of Rambo.
  Our defence is as good as any and , in Ashley Williams, we possess one of the best centre-backs around today.
  I bet the Stoke defender Ryan Shawcross (who went to school in Wales) is regretting not opting for us, as he doesn't get a look in for England.
   Critics call us 'Bales', yet ignore the qualities of both our defence and midfield, where the likes of Ledley, Allen and Ramsey are covered by King, Edwards, Jonny Williams and many others.
  Our biggest weakness is up front and Vokes was a major disappointment v. Andorra. For him to be effective we probably need to play a winger like Cotterill and that's an option against weaker sides.
   While rugby has become a branch of the English monarchy with Tair Pluen, Ich Dien, Wills a so-called fan and the Principality  Stadium, the FAW have ensured that football has become thoroughly bi-lingual.
   The front of CCFC stadium epitomised this, with large pictures on both sides : one of the players hugging after a goal for WALES and the other with Aaron Ramsey in slide- celebration for CYMRU. 
   No longer do we have players looking like John Redwood singing Hen Wlad Fy Nhadau and the fans have embraced our national anthem to the extent that it often bursts out spontaneously during games.
   From north, south, east and west they come to support Cymru: a truly national game. 


                            LIKE  WATER  AFTER  A  DROUGHT


In 1958, while Wales were doing it in Sweden
I was hurtling round in shorts and knitted socks
on Heol Nanteos, kicking  a ball for the first time.


Only later did I play in boots on the Rec,
hand-me-downs from my rugby brother,
with toe caps of tin and nailed-in studs.


Playing was sheer agony and pleasure :
those studs cut into my soles, but I remember
tackling the big boys without fear even then.


We'd have running races and even fling
the egg sometimes, but my footie-love
was born on that street sure as Brazilian beaches.


Now I stand in red and flanked by daughters,
imagining myself a Rambo, Bale or Williams,
chanting with drums and horns as we beat Andorra.


I've witnessed every disappointment over years :
the hand ball, near misses and the pen ;
like water after drought, I'll drink again and again.  

   At a sparsely attended Press Conference at the holy shrine of Lucy Thomas Fountain, bottom of High St., Merthyr, former politician  and now religious leader Wayne-O Pijin was holding forth.
   Wayne-O declared his intention to stand in next year's Assembly election as a candidate for the Pijic Flying Party.
   'Pijic Flying is a way of life. It's open to anyone who's willing to learn and it will change everything', he explained, whilst picking  at a stray piece of Peter's pie.
   'Once you become one with death, you become one with life....you get your priorities right. I am willing to embrace anyone now ( with the exception of seagulls and their agents).'
   I asked him to explain this  prejudice when he maintained the unifying force of Pijinism.
   ' Seagulls are beyond the pale! They are the ISIS of the bird world ,as far as we're concerned. They're a threat  to our very existence and they've hired agents to infiltrate the Food Cloisters (Merthyr bus station).'
   I then enquired who these agents were.
   'They descend on the Tubes in flocks or sometimes pairs. Their plumage may not be white, but they do squawk a lot.  I believe they are called More-mans, Fundy-mentals and Jovies by you No-Wings. They often have strange calls like - Will ya take a wee gospel text?'
   I asked him to elaborate on his election  campaign.
   'If Pijic Flying really takes off (pardon the pun!), then I envisage Lucy Thomas Fountain becoming a place of pilgrimage for thousands, as we're planning on standing throughout Wales.
   This will boost the town's economy , with many converted No-Wings visiting the so-called Cafe Quarter, which has a serious lack of actual cafes....it might become an actual Cafe Quarter as a result.
  This town could become the world centre of Pijic Flying in time.
  It would also become the cleanest, most litter-free place in the country with all the descending pigeons tackling every stray chip or piece of pasty.'
  I wanted to find out what made his party different from the others.
  'Well, imagine a radio. You're tuning into all these stations with music and talk and then suddenly you come across  a broadcast that's not tunes or natter or even constant coo-ing. It's a sound like no other and it seems to explain everything, without giving any kind of formula. Once you find that broadcast you'll want no other.....that is the pirate radio station Radio Pijin going out every moment of every day, music of the universe called 'Flying Without Wings'.
   Just a simple cross next May will guarantee a host of pigeons in Cardiff Bay.....no longer AMs fixated on computer screens, but ones preaching the connection between without and within.
   Is that clear?'


   This is a poem written by his campaign manager Al-Wings Jones.


                                    PIJIC  FLYING

You can fly without wings
you can fly without the sky


you can become pijinified
experience a journey inside


a vote will change you
and so the world too


feather your brains
plume your imaginations


become one with your inner Wayne
-O Pijin, the ultimate Guru!

                                    

   Two launches in a fortnight and I'm ready for a ship next time.
   First of all there was issue 21 of 'Red Poets' magazine at a packed Imperial Hotel in Merthyr.
   Why is it that pub names always seem to contradict our cause? Yet the landlords there, Jose and Marlies  , have been so good to us over the years.
   Will we ever reach issue 30, I wonder? Or will we all be gibbering wrecks by then?
  ( Some would say we already are!)
  Red Poets loses people along the way, such as Labi Siffri of hits fame and 'Giro City' Jazz.
   However, some return to the fold and that's the case with Al Jones, back with a poem 'In Dreams', which inevitably introduces his beloved Zen.
   Al has plans for short films.....well, more than plans , as he's already started  a few of them. Hopefully they'll be premiered at one of our events next year.
   Not documentaries mind...think Andy Warhol comes to the Valleys  , attends a Red Poets gig and has a sudden vision of enlightenment!
   The cover and back of the latest issue are images from paintings by the exceedingly talented Gus Payne (see above) : polar bears balanced on bee-hives while the world drowns around them.
   Contrary to rumours we do allow north Walians into the mag and it's great to feature two excellent poems by Ness Owen and Glyn Edwards.
   One of the themes is republicanism and it's dealt with humourously by both Alan Perry and Sian Roberts.
   Alan satirizes the literary establishment who attended Buckers for a jolly ( 60th anniversary of the coronation), while Sian picks up on Sue Townshend's 'The Queen and I' and imagines how Mrs Windsor would cope with everyday living in Pontlottyn.
   There were many memorable performances on the night from the likes of Julie Pritchard, John Williams and Phil Knight, but it was fitting that Sion Owen should end the readings with his forceful verse manifesto 'Treiglad/ Mutation'.
   Jamie Bevan and Barry Taylor provided some rousing singalongs with the likes of 'No Lentils in Cawl' and 'Dance on your grave, Mrs Thatcher'.
   One time heckler-in-chief Andrew Bartz brought out his trusty notebook and truly delivered. Hopefully he'll make his first appearance next year.
   Next up we're at the Capel in Bargoed on November 2nd . If you live anywhere near  then come along ,listen and buy a copy.....it'll be the best £5 you've spent since those 2 bottles of Celt 'Golden Age'.
   Last Wednesday I had the honour of sharing a stage ( well, a bookshop floor) with long-time Red Poet Mike Church, namely The Hours in Brecon.
  Mike was launching his first ever poetry book for adults 'free running with words'.
   No juggling with eggs or swords , merely with words , as  his lines leapt across the rooftops, funny and free.
   Mike isn't afraid of a couplet, nor is he afraid to let his imagination carry him in unexpected directions.
   Surreal humour is ever-present, as in 'A load of Pollocks' -
        ' The toblerone in the gumshield
          Becomes pulp fiction
          On the football field
          Roaring like a tidal wave'
   Mike can also be cuttingly direct as well and 'Play with guitars not guns' is an ode to pacificism, relishing the sound of words -
           ' Sink the macho menace
             In a sea of scented candles'
   There are superb performance poems best read out loud (sometimes very loud!) like 'Addicted', but Mike Church does have a pensive side to his work, especially in 'Reverie' and 'Dearly Departed'.
   He is one of the top performers around today and the John Tripp Award should be revived to give the likes of him and Phil Knight another chance.
   He's a Luton Town fan who has lived in Cymru for many years; in fact, his children were born and brought up here.
  He wants to be seen as a Welshman and why not? Anyone who can do such a perfect impersonation of Dan Biggar about to take a conversion deserves that.

   ( p.s. Deepest apologies to Owen Gallagher, whose poem was mysteriously left out.....it'll be in next year.) 

   This poem records part of Red Poets' folklore..... 


                                MEGAPHONE POEMS IN HAY-ON-WYE


We invaded Hay-on-Wye
armed only with a megaphone.
It was the day
of President Clinton's visit
to lecture on 'Conflict Resolution'.

Selective bombing was the option
and the Monica Lewinsky scandal
the talk of papers and television
before Facebook had taken off
into space like a vast rocket
containing the whole world.

Tim Richards berated the literati
to get down on their knees in homage,
then, from the green slope
of Hay Castle overlooking the cafe
Jazz blasted out 'Giro City' ;
I timed my ode to Victor Jara
for the arrival of his helicopter.


Our ammunition printed on paper,
dark-shaded, cliched secret servicemen
followed us into a chip shop
and , without ordering, out again.
Nobody had invited us,
or paid us in flowers or wine,
the day we invaded Hay-on -Wye.