I've been to Glasgow three times to visit my son and his family, yet feel I barely know the city.
   Cities are such vast entities and I am unfamiliar with their workings, mysteries.
   I was brought up in a village near Aber, moved to Cambridge and for a while got to know it until I came to dislike it intensely; then moved to a small, farming community and , for many years have lived  in Heolgerrig above Merthyr.
   Unlike my Belfast-born wife I am always uncomfortable in cities, even old friends like Cardiff and Swansea.
   It's partly my upbringing, but also an obsession with maps and geography I've had since school days.  I've maps of countries and continents in my head, yet can't visualize cities in the same way and even Belfast with its spokes of roads from the centre becomes blurry at the edges.
   When people talk about city-breaks and generalise about liking this place or that , I am suspicious.
   To me, the Glasgow I know is two small areas separated by the River Clyde and those bridges passed over daily: in the south around Queen's Park and in the west near the university.
   I've a sense of it from the taxi-drivers talking football and many friendly assistants in shops, restaurants and cafes.
   Flying  this time was quite an ordeal, as Glasgow was immersed in fog. However, our troubles began at Cardiff Airport and a delay which FlyBe officials explained as ' one box at the front not connecting with another at the back'.......all very technical!
   Glasgow's distinctive for me because of its tall tenements made from sandstone in the 19th century.....it's astonishing to think that some 73% of its population live in flats. They are proud, sturdy buildings which give a real sense of continuity to the cityscape.
   We actually stayed in one this time and when the fog cleared had a view of the infamous Ashton Lane beyond the tree-tops, all spangled in lights and a restaurant called Ubiquitous Chip where the large chips are more like mini roasties and should've been renamed Frozen Chip when we went there, as we sat in a draught the whole meal!
   Though I'm no fan of Christmas with its crass commercialism and carnivorous carnival, it's so exciting for our family to get together again and to see my grandson as he develops so quickly and his personality takes shape.
   Now he's up walking and exploring everything you've to keep an eye on him; yet it's very inspiring watching him copy movements and sounds and begin to fashion language and respond with such awe to his surroundings. We take so much for granted.
   We all sit round vying for his attention by making the most ridiculous noises and I'm one of the worst offenders : my Donald Duck impersonations desperate.
   In amongst this silliness, my wife can produce a song for almost every toy or game in both English and Welsh, my favourite being 'Mi welais Jac a Do' as he taps his head ( to me he's 'doing the ayatollah'!).
   My son and daughter-in-law keep a detailed account of his progress and I was glad to contribute by writing out a couple of haiku from this year about him and a brief history of the Jenkins family.
   Here are three more I wrote after our visit :-

Taller than his dad,
it blooms light-buds and strange fruits :
he plucks a soft snowman.

=========

In the room's corners
he discovers shiny sounds :
offers them around.

=========

For each toy and game
her songs are strongly blowing :
he's a tree swaying.

   Glasgow appears to be a vibrant city culturally and one day I hope to go to the Celtic Connections festival ( mostly folk music), where this year two of my favourite artists are appearing on the same evening , namely Scottish singer-songwriter  Karine Polwart and Armenian jazz pianist/composer Tigran Hamasyan.
   It's a city which deserves to be the hub of a fiercely independent Scotland, but one where its rulers need to be open to criticism and readily embrace true socialism and republicanism.
   I look forward to returning to see how my wee grandson finds his way and whether he takes on the accent I know well from the literature of the likes of James Kelman  and Tom Leonard.
   Hopefully next time we'll fly into more clement whether!


                                  INTO  THE  FOG

We're flying into the fog
and there's a deathly quiet
till one old lady says -
' I'd rather not end up
in pieces scattered all over!'

Everyone glares at her
as we glimpse the lights
of the city below in the distance
and, for a moment, think
we are saved this fate.

Then we descend into it :
a swirling, freezing, blind cloud ,
I think  is the perfect
metaphor for Brexit 
except nobody's at each other;

and Theresa May is not the pilot
because she's on auto, with her
'Brexit is Brexit' and ' The only deal';
we have to depend on the skill
of the person in the cockpit.

The co-pilot sounds like Corbyn
so calm and reassuring -
'We've enough fuel for an hour
of taxiing, if we should fail.'
We halt mid-air, jittery with information.

The co-pilot has a plan
as the cabin crew look doomed.
When we judder and brake-screech
onto the runway, nobody claps
because May's still out there, lurking.

   
   

   I'm absolutely 'wrth fy modd' to have a new book of poetry out from Culture Matters, entitled 'From Aberfan t Grenfell', with the title poem looking at the comparisons between those two man-made tragedies, where working class people were victims of callous capitalism and the authorities' indifference.
   First and foremost, it's a volume from two people, myself and the multi-talented Swansea artist, poet and story-writer Alan Perry.
   Alan's someone I've known for a long time and even when I was a student at Aber Uni and trying to get a magazine of creative writing together , I turned to him for a cover and he produced a great drawing for the only edition of 'Asp'.
  I recall him a few years later doing a hilarious reading at St. Donat's where he proceeded to balance a book on his nose!
   After that, we used to meet up regularly in Swansea with Peter Thabit Jones to plan a magazine which never materialised. His illustrations, however, have often appeared on the cover of 'Red Poets' magazine, not least the latest one, a typically quirky and funny picture. When I was editor of 'Poetry Wales' in the 80s it was to Alan I turned for a series of striking cartoons satirising the lit business.
   He recently read at our Open Mic at the Imp in Merthyr and everyone agreed it was one of the best ever. Alan is so modest he was about to sell his books for a couple of quid till I persuaded him otherwise.
   He definitely doesn't deserve to be on the margins of Welsh art and literature and it's a scandal that he isn't more widely recognised and praised.
   This book's very different from the previous one published by Newcastle-based  left-wing website and press Culture Matters.
   For 'Bring the Rising Home!'  brilliant Merthyr artist Gus Payne selected images / paintings to complement the poems mostly written in standard English, with some in Welsh and a couple in dialect.
 'From Aberfan t Grenfell' is entirely in Merthyr dialect ( 'dalek' according to Phil Knight!) and Alan created his intricate line drawings around the poems themselves, so word and image become an entity.
   We also insisted on a size and format which enhanced this and the subsequent size is like that of 'Planet' magazine.
   Alan's stark and moving cover ( above) of the miner/rescuer of Aberfan and fire-fighter at Grenfell was excellently designed by his son Gareth and we're indebted to Alan Morrison for his proof-reading.
   Just one example of this 'merged' text and artwork is the poem 'Steve the Bus' where we view the protagonist through a bus window and the text becomes part of the vehicle with a single wheel at the base of the page.
​   If the poems are buildings  , then Alan's drawings are the opening which shed light on interiors : illuminate but never make glaring.
   We are both indebted to the editor at Culture Matters Mike Quille who is one of the heroes of the alternative publishing scene. As a long-time Communist he knows the value of patience and is now publishing some of the best books around.
   One of these is 'The things our hands once stood for' by the extraordinary London poet Martin Hayes, whose work is like that of a witty, urban Whitman and which concentrates entirely on his work and that of those around him. He captures a modern industry - the courier one - in all of its manifestations, exposing the enormity of exploitation through the behaviour of so-called ordinary people who, in reality, are anything but. 
   Offset by his own black and white photos, this book is my favourite poetry book of the year and shows how Mike Quille's venture to combine the written and visual is a truly pioneering one.
   An exciting development from our book are Alan's hand-coloured prints which will be framed and ( hopefully) sold. Alan is planning an exhibition of these, almost certainly in his home-town Swansea . There is also the possibility of publishing a limited edition of  these coloured versions in the future.
   While it's heartening to think that the dialect poetry is getting wider recognition , I do wonder if I'll carry on writing it.
   However, I do find writing from various viewpoints far more interesting than self-absorbed confessionals.
   The future of my writing is very much like writing a single poem : there's a shape in my head but not a plan ; an image but not destination.
   Who knows where I'll arrive?
   Therein lies the thrill.

( This is a poem from the book, which I wrote a year ago.........


                       A  DRONE  F   CHRISTMAS


'Ee wants a drone f Christmas!'
she sayz goin on an on an on
as she searches the Sale
of smellies, 'lectronic cars,
quizzes in fancy,silver tins,
cardboard face masks
an ping pong with beer glasses.

'Ee've set is eart on it!'
she keeps repeatin
past chocolates in pyramids
an ewge Italian cakes
size o rabbit utches.

'What ee'll do with it
is beyond me mind!
Blow up nex door,
or take photos of er opposite
when she shows er all?
I'm beginnin t think.....'

I jest wanna tell er ......
'Yew won' find one yer,
but if yew try bottlin
yewer voice, put a stopper on,
yew'll ave the perfect one!' 
  
   

    What kind of band take their name from an Emily Dickinson poem?
   The answer is an incredibly unique one called Another Sky, taken from Dickinson's 'There is another sky', which begins - 
'There is another sky
Ever serene and fair,
And there is another sunshine,
Though it be darkness there'
.....you can read different things into these lines: a meditation on hope even in despair, or intimation of immortality in another world.
   However, Another Sky possess - like the inventive Californian singer-songwriter Julia Holter -  an uncanny ability to be poetic, political and powerfully dramatic at the same time.
   They've been compared to the XX, Alt J and Radiohead , but I see more similarities with Holter and also Grasscut ( based in Hove but with Welsh connections).
   Some music grabs you immediately,often because of a single song and I only had to listen to the likes of John Cale, Thea Gilmore and Tom Russell once to make up my mind.
   At other times, it can be the opposite. When I first encountered Cohen, Dylan and even Waits I found their voices hard to take, being so unconventional ( some would say, unmusical).
   It was the same with singer Catrin Vincent of Another Sky, simply because I heard the single 'Avalanche' first and the vocals sounded like a man's shrill falsetto; disturbing because it was so original.
   Yet this didn't prepare me for any of their other songs!
   Their music is crafted but never slick, dramatic never bombastic,owing much to their togetherness, but without that voice........
   What's remarkable is  they've released two singles and an e.p., but no album as yet and for each song Vincent sounds very different , like animals shape-shifting.
   They are London-based and met up at Goldsmith's, attended by none other than Cale himself before he moved to New York.
   Vincent is the main songwriter and has explained how politics ( in the widest sense) are never far from her concerns ( their FB page includes the band's poem against fracking). She grew up in a small, right-wing Midlands town and rebelled against every aspect.
   The politics is never overt or ranty ( Vincent's a fan of Kate Tempest) and emerges particularly strongly in the singles 'Chillers' and 'Avalanche', both of which they performed on the last series of Jools Holland ( occasionally he does discover gems).
   'Chillers' has a peculiar chant-like chorus and , like the other single, switches perspectives in a challenging way : from ' Acid rain, acid took you out' to ' throwing bricks at each others' egos'.
   'Avalanche' is more of a righteous yell yet still moves from 'Desperation on every street corner' to 'we are the bird-song, we are the sea-bed'.
   In other words, those Dickinson mysteries are always evident.
   Their e.p. 'Forget Yourself' is excellent throughout : four songs, four elements.
   The title track is airy and wind-swept with layers of sound, including piano and electronica, very similar to the best of Grasscut - 'seeing colours in the dark'.
   'Fighting Bulls' builds up the tension like Cale's cover of 'Heartbreak Hotel' ; but guitar-driven and earthbound - 'those fighting bulls try not to die'.
   'All that we do create' is internal fire : flames of creation not destruction - ' all that we do create / the world is no cold, dark place'. Breathtaking positivity in such troubled times, like Idles' album 'Joy as an act of resistance'.
   Finally 'The Water Below' takes us beneath the surface growing fins like Beefheart's song, breathing where we should drown -
' I was a girl
Made of debris
Now I build a home
In my body'
   They are finding their way and so much the better for it.
   Poetry, passion and poignancy : that rare trinity. 


                                SONGS  SHAPE-SHIFTING

​

Her voice a red kite
survivor scavenger gliding
across the pasturelands,
glint of blood in eyes.

Lands and transforms
into a bull struggling
to throw knives from skin
as goaders surround.

Dashing into the sun
burning through veins,
fox away from the hunt
with its brush on fire.

Into the river, a trout
leaping for Mayflies ;
her voice a form
smooth down-stream.