At this time of greatest division and apparent emptiness, my hometown of Merthyr Tudful sees its most extraordinary cultural highpoint.
   It’s almost as if….out of all this distress and depression many are insisting – ‘We can create. The yellow poppy will grow in the cracks of the most run-down street.’
   Our proud history may have been buried in an Anglo-centric curriculum fashioned by a Labour/LibDem administration in Cardiff Bay, yet the Rising Festival has become the focus of the year and every few weeks there are music and poetry open mics along the High Street from top to bottom with no support from the Council.
   Rock bands like the Moonbirds, Florence Black and Pretty Vicious spread their sounds wider, while singer-songwriters such as Bryony Sier and Jamie Bevan are modern troubadours in English and Welsh respectively.
   The humour of Anthony Bunko’s plays and Gus Payne’s brilliant figurative oil paintings totally confound the hackneyed condemnations by sections of the media who depict the town as a wasteland.
   Last year saw the release of a ground-breaking album by the Merthyr artist Kizzy Crawford ( of Aberfan), namely ‘Birdsong / Cân yr adar’.
   I’ve followed her emergence with great interest and enjoyed her experimentation with loops and mellow jazz, but didn’t expect anything as ambitious.
   It’s bold, bi-lingual and adventurous : at a time when so many artists depend on single songs to hook listeners, this is a concept album.
   The theme is the Welsh rainforests of Carngafallt in Powys and it’s very much a collaboration between Kizzy, Bangor-born jazz pianist Gwilym Simcock  and the excellent amateur orchestra Sinfonia Cymru.
   Each song begins in English then seamlessly transforms into Welsh and if the lyrics are occasionally rather too sentimental, it is raised to levels of great emotional intensity by Kizzy’s flowing, feathered tones ( reminiscent of the superb Irish jazz-singer Christine Toibin), Simcock’s subtle phrasing and the ever-sensitive musicianship of the orchestra.
   The album’s journey is a celebration of the rich, vibrant life of these forests, leading Kizzy back to Africa and to a meditation on the power of nature to join all together as one.
   What I love about the album is – despite Kizzy’s obviously jazz-influenced vocals – the music defies genre : soul, classical, folk and jazz merge and emerge like birds appearing and disappearing among the trees…..even as their songs prevail.
   This is not an elegy for a lost world, rather a eulogy for one which exists and should be praised and prized as invaluable.
   Merthyr needs to laud past heroes like Gwyn Alf Williams, Glyn Jones and Leslie Norris, but also to fully acknowledge that our present contributions to Welsh culture are outstanding : uniquely innovative yet never pretentious.
   Indeed, there are exciting talents rising, such as Kizzy’s sister Eadyth who is featured on Geraint Rhys’s powerful new single ‘Old Age Don’t Come Alone’ and young poet Morgan Owen, from Heolgerrig, who has been resident poet on Radio Cymru and was recently commended in the Terry Hetherington Award for Young Writers for poems in English.
   Sooner or later the wider world will have to take notice of this sometimes connected, sometimes disparate ‘Merthyr movement’.
 
                                                 
                                                 WHA WE GOH YER?
 
 
Wha we goh in Merthyr?
 
Yeah, there’s loadsa bands,
poets, painters, singer-songwriters,
playwrights an graffiti artists,
there’s open mics an choirs…..
 
But wha we really goh yer?
 
I mean, mines an ironworks,
factrees an shops an clubs
ave all closed down ,
so wha’s-a bloody point
o songs an verse, ilarious drama?
 
Wha we goh in Merthyr?
 
Piss-artist , stroppy rebels
goh no respect f nothin,
too much bloody swearin
an stickin two fingers up
t evr’ryone in authoritee….
an tha’s jest-a poets an singers! 
​

     

   Okay, I can hear my rugby-following friends say…..here he goes again! But I do have a strange relationship with our so-called national game, as do most of my family ( my brother, who has lived in England for years, is devoted to it however).
   I recall at one of his excellent family gatherings a friend of his, a Kiwi, talking to a number of my immediate family and -, when he referred to the World Cup - being totally baffled by our consistently round-ball answers.
   I grew up playing footie on the streets of an Aberystwyth council estate and carried on in Cambridge, where I eventually represented the City as a right-footed left-winger like Junior Hoilett of my beloved Bluebirds, long before such things were entertained. Actually, my Primary school teacher was canny and knew there was a vacancy in that position, so picked me there for the school. Aged 10 and 11, that was the high-point of my ‘career’.
   From the ages of 11-18 I played both football and rugby for my Grammar school, starting as outside half then shifting to centre where, some games, I hardly saw the ball. We mostly played rugby against posh private schools and in our side were several boys from originally Welsh families ( 2 Morgan’s, 2 Jones’s and me).
   On the coach home after one game, one of the Jones’s ( a huge second row forward) sexually propositioned me. I was frightened and disgusted and avoided him completely from then on.
   Scrum and three-quarters were two separate worlds : scrum from middle-class backgrounds and the backs were football-loving lads with more working-class or rural backgrounds. I identified with them……more so after the Jones incident!
  In the 6th form I played, but with increasing lack of enthusiasm.
  On Sundays I was playing football for a local factory team made up of men and youths from neighbouring villages and I thrived on it. We often played on quagmires against teams including baldy, paunchy players ( I had hair then).
   At Uni I only played football and my associations with rugby were tenuous. The rugby boys indulged in ludicrous drinking games and none shared my passions for poetry and politics.
   I shared digs with two ‘rugger’ obsessed private schoolboys, who oozed a sense of arrogance and entitlement, even though both were from Cardiff.
   On the other hand, most of my mates were football fans from the north of England.
   At an inter-college Eisteddfod I was punched violently in the back by a rugby student for nothing other than my wayward dress sense.
   Yet apparently my grand-dad ( originally from Cilfynydd) had been a really good rugby player……so it wasn’t as if it was a family thing. My parents weren’t interested in either sport.
   Returning to Cymru at 18 to live with my gran in Barri , I soon started following Cardiff City.
   Occasionally, when matches were postponed because of bad weather, I’d wander into the Arms Park to watch the rugby and was bemused at the lack of atmosphere, players slo-mo in a swamp and overall tedium.
   I’ve since tried hard to identify with our national team, yet on the couple of occasions I’ve attended internationals things haven’t helped : it’s one thing being surrounded by pissed fans, but quite another being pissed on from the stand above like a downpour of acid rain!
    Teaching in a Merthyr school added to this dislike, where male rugby-mad staff talked endlessly about all the crazy antics of match-days ( many illegal) , yet not so much about the nuances of the actual games.
   This attitude was summed up once when the Bluebirds were playing the same day as Wales rugby team. On the train home I asked an inebriated couple the score and they didn’t know! This would be anathema to football fans, where the game takes precedence.
   With our success in the Euros and that unique opportunity for fans from all over Cymru to get together for a tournament, I became more and more convinced that it was, in reality, the game for all the nation and rugby had become the property of the establishment.
   Rugby’s stadium is absurdly named the Principality; yes, after a building society, but still signifying our lack of national pride. William Windsor is seen as representative of the team, at the same time as being President of the English FA!
  The three feathers badge is inextricably associated with the British military and also English royalty. Any number of excuses can’t disguise its fawning nature compared to football’s dragon badge.
   Above all, football fans have begun to organise themselves in recent years as a serious force for independence : highlighting its positivity rather than the tired old platitudes of ‘As long as we beat the English’ ( and didn’t the Stereophonics attend Carlo’s Buckers bash not long ago?).
   For all its faults, the FAW has been fiercely independent, especially in rejecting Team GB during the London Olympics.
   I am excited by Wales winning the Grand Slam , yet keep thinking about the negative responses towards our Yes Cymru stall in Merthyr from rugby fans, who seemed ‘daffs for the day’.
   Rugby seems politically to represent an overwhelming nostalgia, while football is more of a dynamic force looking to the future.
   I’d like rugby to change radically but cannot see the fans organising as football fans do. There is a strong history in football of fan power, from clubs being run by them like Swansea ( in the past), Newport and Wrecsam and the creativity of fanzines. It was, after all, our fans who changed the appalling rebrand at Cardiff City through many protests and not Chairman Tan’s mother!
   Maybe…….just maybe…..with prominent socialist republicans like writer and artist Sion Tomos Owen involved in the media coverage there is hope……I’d like to think so.
 
                                         DRAGONS  ‘N’  DAFFS
Ee woz dressed as a dragon
an she wore daffodil ead-gear.
 
 
They wen’  t Cardiff
to  watch-a  big game ,
 
 
they got so rat-arsed
they didn know nothin,
 
 
but somebuddy tol em arfta
about-a Gran’ Slam.
 
 
They’d  felt so lush
with Prince Wills in-a crowd ,
 
 
three feathers on theyer jerseys
like they wuz in-a army.
 
 
Tha stadium named arfta
theyer own buildin society.
 
They wen’  t  bed in Wayuls,
but woke up in-a G.B.   
​

 
   Pan fues i 11  cytunais i gwrdd â fy mam yn y caffi yng ngorsaf bysiau Caergrawnt. Does dim byd rhyfeddol am hynny basech chi'n meddwl ond....y tro cyntaf erioed oedd hi a hefyd des i syth yn ôl i Loegr ar ôl gwyliau yn Aberystwyth.
   Roeddwn i'n fachgen annibynnol siŵr o fod, achos mod wedi teithio o Aber i Gaergrawnt ar fy mhen fy hun.
   Eisteddodd fy mam yn y caffi bach yn wisgo dillad pinc neu goch fel arfer.
Teimlais i dipyn bach yn ofnus, er bod fy mam yn gwenu.
   Ond, aeth hi yn syth at y targed.
   ' Mike.....ry'n ni'n dal y bws i'n tŷ newydd ym mhentref bach o’r enw Horseheath. Dw i wedi penderfynu ar adael dy dad, ac mae e'n dal i fyw yn y ddinas. Beth wyt ti'n meddwl amdano?'
   Ces i sioc fawr ond....doeddwn i ddim wedi gweld fy nhad cymaint dros dair blynedd,  ers  iddo cael cwrs fel llyfrgellydd yn Loughborough.
   Gwelais i fwy o’n lletywr ni, dyn busnes yn cael cymaint o sylw oddi wrth fy mam!
  Dweud y gwir, doeddwn i ddim yn agos at fy rheini o gwbl : fy nhad gyda phroblemau iechyd meddwl a mam gyda blaenoriaethau eraill. Yn union, roeddwn i’n  fwy agos at fy neiniau a theidiau.
   Roedd fy mhen fel nyth gwenyn : swnllyd iawn a llawn symudiad.
   Doedd enw'r pentref ddim yn swnio 'n ddeniadol : 'Horseheath'.
   Dw i ddim yn cofio fy ateb y diwrnod hwnnw, ond cofio'r daith mewn bws trwy le ar ôl lle : taith i fywyd newydd.



                          JAMIE YN Y CAFFI
 
‘ Shwmae !’ i bawb
meddai Jamie yn y Caffi
lle cwrdd â chyfeillion,
yn coginio Pice ar y  maen,
mae Twt Lol tu ôl i’r gwydr.
 
 
Does dim ‘ lentyls mewn cawl’
ar ei fwydlen ddwyieithog
ac mae’r gitâr yn eistedd
fel Prifardd pwysig
yn barod am y cleddyf.
 
 
Mae e’n siarad nawr
am ei fywyd newydd
heb ffiniau fel y môr,
gan anelu at lawysgrif cerdd
ar yr hen orwelion.
​

​

   If you haven't heard of Swansea singer-songwriter Geraint Rhys, then you've really missed out on someone special.
   Like Thea Gilmore in England and Scotland's Karine Polwart Rhys has great variety to his work, but isn't afraid to tackle political issues, never resorting to simplistic sloganeering.
   He confronts alienation, austerity and the threat of factory closure in songs like 'Ta Ta Tata', 'Give it Up' and 'The Lost Generation'.
   In his latest single 'Old Age Don't Come Alone' he writes a gutsy blues song from the viewpoint of his Nan, a fitting elegy to her.
  The stirringly passionate single 'Visca la Terra' is a homage to the Catalan independence movement and his short, prize-winning film of the same name looks thoughtfully at the intimate connections between songs and liberation there.
   The music of 'Ta Ta Tata' and its iconoclastic video moves skillfully between punk and  slower more gentle sections , as if between steel and the sea.
   In a world of music where celebrity rules, Rhys is a unique voice who deserves to be heard far more widely : an intelligent and musically eclectic artist.
   As well as 'Ta Ta Tata' he has released other singles yn Cymraeg including 'Dilyn' and 'Ble Mae'r Haul?' which illustrate the sheer power of his vocals.
   Just as the Indie movement seems on the verge of a breakthrough, so too the remarkable music of Geraint Rhys.

   I conducted this interview with him recently...........


​1. How long have you been writing and singing songs and what inspired you to start?

I’ve always been fascinated with words and have written from a very young age. Whether it be poems or short stories I’ve always had an active imagination which has been expressed some way or another.
Music is something that connects with us all and is often beyond something we can explain. It often saves me, so I started writing songs about 6 years ago and since then haven’t stopped.  

2. What place do your excellent videos have and are you mainly responsible for producing them?

An imperative part of my work is to couple my songs with a strong visual narrative. When it comes to making the videos, I’ll have an idea of what I want to convey in relation to the track then I will find videographers, directors etc whose work I like and approach them and see if we can work something out. I am lucky to have worked with so many talented people.
As an independent artist I am solely responsible for every creative decision I make which is both a blessing and a curse. On the one hand I control everything so I don’t have anyone else trying to manipulate my vision, but it would be nice for someone else to take control of many of the practical things when making a music video so that I didn’t have to. It is hard work but always worth it and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

3. What are your politics and are these views vital to your songs?

I’ve never pledged allegiance to any political party so I guess I am a political nomad in that sense. I would say I am on the left of the spectrum, but I don’t even know what that means in the context of Wales or the UK anymore. What does piss me off though is how we live in a society of immediate outrage . I am guilty of it too, but no one has much time for context these days. Once something happens it's like a race to see who can get their opinions out there first without spending time to understand the whole picture . That’s what’s great about writing a song, you really have time to sit down and shape your thoughts.

4. Do you prefer to record in Welsh or English and why?

I don’t have a preference, whenever I sit down to write it will come out in either language and then I will just go with it. What I won’t do though is release a track in English then release it in Welsh just to get a royalties cheque or to appear on Heno. It annoys me when artists do that.

5. What do you think of Yes is More and would you take part in such events?

I think the visibility of Welsh Independence is only a positive thing. I sang at a solidarity rally for Catalunya that Yes for Wales organised so it’s great to see a social movement which is vibrant and seems to be gaining support. For a healthy political debate we need as many dissenting voices as possible. If there was a vote for independence tomorrow I would vote yes

6. ‘Visca la Terra’ was both a song and prize-winning film. How did this come about and what was the impact in Catalunya?

I have a long-standing relationship with Catalunya. I have very good friends over there who I’ve known for almost ten years who are very active in the pro-independence movement. So I’ve visited quite a lot and have been over to play some gigs. I wrote the song and released it a few weeks before the independence referendum and didn’t expect to get the response I did. It was featured on many radio stations and playlists and made it on to many of the news blogs and channels. It currently has over 100,000 views on you-tube so I couldn’t be happier with the response it's had.

7. Like me you’re a big football fan. Does this influence your work at all?

I have yet to write a football song yet, but who knows. Maybe I’ll leave that to John Barnes. Football is political. Take my beloved Swans for example. We have gone from being a soviet type club ran by the fans and local businessmen to a capitalist venture ran by two Americans. It is a cross section of the best and worst of society.

8. Your latest single is ‘Old age don’t come alone’(featuring Eadyth from my hometown of Merthyr). What’s the background to this?

Like all my tracks I never start off with a genre, it’s something that develops over time. So with this track, after my grandmother passed away I started to write some words as a dedication to her life and when I picked up the guitar, the riff came naturally and seemed to resonate with the words perfectly. Losing someone is such an intimate and emotional experience and always produces intense forms of expression. In this song, I tried to capture that intensity. The track is completely an ode to her and for the artwork I had to pick one of my favourite photos of her playing my old drum kit.
 
9. Your music draws from all kinds of forms from the punk in ‘Ta Ta Tata’ to Blues in the new single. Do you relish this eclecticism?

It’s what keeps me interested. Important to me is that my music tells a story and I blur genres to reflect the diversity of topics that I sing about. I would get very bored if I just wrote 12 folk songs, or 10 country songs. I have to enjoy making music otherwise what’s the point? Because my own choice of music is so eclectic this is naturally reflected in the songs I sing.
 
10. To me your voice is powerful and distinctive. Does it suit certain types of songs, or would you like to do more slower ballads for example?

I have written slower songs and will likely to do so in the future. I wouldn’t want to restrict myself by saying no.

11. Place is also important to your work - especially the videos - do you identify with your home town, or working-class areas generally?

I think place plays an important role in so many creative people’s work, no matter the art-form. Growing up in Swansea where the grittiness of the urban streets collides with the beauty of Swansea bay, there is inspiration on every corner.



12. Is social media your main platform, or do you prefer videos or live shows?

Well, you must do all of it to remain relevant. I’ve played hundreds of gigs over the years and do love that feeling when you really connect with an attentive audience. Nothing beats it. Last year I played some amazing gigs which were packed with the audience completely engaged. But you can easily go from playing a gig like that to a gig in a pub with a handful of half-interested punters. So it’s always hit or miss.



13. Are you planning a new album which brings together all the singles in Welsh and English and tour to accompany it?

The reality for an independent artist is that if you want to keep on producing high quality music something must give. It’s not cheap to record music and then to distribute it. Equally, hardly anyone buys music anymore so you have to compete with that. I will definitely be releasing another single in the next few months with a new video so keep your eyes peeled!



                                         BETWEEN STEEL & LEARNING
                                             for Geraint Rhys

On Aberafan beach
the long slim penstroke
not yet a 'C'
between bilging chimneys
and postcode towers -
I am 66 today
and bones go clickety-click
like so many stones
in the rising sea
yet here it's calm
in the January sun
as we walk together
my wife, daughter and I
in a place forgotten and found -
where there are shells
like ones I'd collect and sketch
so meticulously
I name them like a spell
'razor , oyster and mussel'
they're not relics though
but sculptures of the times
of waters clear again
of my daughter gathering them
of the sea whispering
the choices between
steel and learning.
     

    The six images here are all recent examples of graffiti art in Merthyr Tudful, my home town; a form which seems to have proliferated since the infamous Banksy in Taibach, Port Talbot, with its commentary on pollution and innocence.
   Not a Banksy in sight of course, but my garage wall is available should your man from Brizzle decide to do a picture of a pijin like Wayne-O Pijin (sadly deceased).
   The first one's situated by the walkway over the weir, not far from the College and , assuming the little lad could be holding a gun, its politics could be construed as dubious. Having said that, it certainly stands out and the scruffy urchin is seemingly androgynous! 
   The second is tiny and just to the left of the iron heart where the Merthyr Rising Festival holds its main events. On this gable-end was once a mural celebrating the festival, which was then graffitied over with 'FE GODWN NI ETO' ( we will rise again), a statement which berated the distinct lack of Welsh or , indeed, blatantly revolutionary material at the Festival. Fascists then responded and added 'NF' in black below this.
   More recently was a red flag mural which redressed the balance and placed the Festival very much as a remembrance of 1831; but this was sadly removed.
   What the small graffiti here does is to link a heavy metal gesture with the festival, rock with politics, and to keep it in our minds till it begins again in May this year.
   The 19th century gent doing a Mary Poppins impression is the infamous engineer Isambard Kingdom Brunel, the man who made the old railway station in Merthyr, now immortalised on the outside wall of Tesco.Strange choice in Pontmorlais, so close to an engine commemorating the achievements of Richard Trevithick.
   The Lennon and 'Trainspotting' ones are very different and take their place on the boarded-up windows of the long derelict YMCA building, which promises to be something.....one day, maybe.
   And finally, the one on a bus-station window......black and white like the two-tone music of the 1980s. Even though they are Samuel L. Jackson and John Travolta from 'Pulp Fiction', I like to think of them as symbols of solidarity.
   I notice the blurry couple behind them waiting for the bus to Troedyrhiw and beyond, keeping their distance though.
   Graffiti has always played a role in my writing and the protagonist of my totally unacclaimed adult novel ('The Fugitive Three') Shell is an aspiring graffiti artist. She's only beginning to have visions of what she can do.
   My first book in Merthyr dialect was 'Graffiti Narratives' and the long title poem is split into two sections with verbal graffiti as headings. These two sets of graffiti were well-known in the town and were either side of the railway bridge as you leave High Street towards Pentrebach.
   On one side was ' UP TO £50,000 GO FISH' and the other ' STRIP HAIR,I, JUNK ROT PLACEBO'.
   Our Council years ago were only too happy to rid the place of these messages which fired my imagination so.
   They were certainly two of the strangest and most thought-provoking sets of graffiti anywhere , though I don't think CADW were interested in preserving them!  


                                ANONYMOUS  BOSCH
 
 
When Banksy come t Merthyr
nobuddy bleeved it woz im –
why would ee come yer
when ee’d done P’Talbot las year?
 
It woz a picture of an ewge pijin
cackin on this grey pointy tower,
a bird with attitude
flown straight from-a bus station.
 
It woz on-a wall up Swonzee Road
on-a way t Trago,
perfectly picked s people knew –
it caused a right commotion.
 
Thousands visited, took selfies,
Council done fuckall as always –
it woz on-a News
an front page of-a ‘Merthyr’.
 
One landowner sayd-a wall woz is,
but-a Council claimed it,
put up a screen an fencin,
CCTV an ev’rythin.
 
Till this local graffiti artist
sayd ee done it, Anonymous Bosch
ee called isself……
then nobuddy give a toss.
 
Council withdrew, telly disappeared,
it’s still there jest as clear  -
owner o Trago wan’s it covered up,
‘Filthy disgustin muck!’  

   Looking out the window at midnight and seeing the stillness of settled snow, it glows with a light which brings back many memories....
    Of my children haring down the slopes of the Waun at the back of our house on toboggans.
   ( Now the place is eerily deserted despite the schools being off).
   Of my friend and fellow 'loopy' English teacher Pete Smith taking every descent with total abandon on only a black rubbish bag.
   Of the Beacons and my older daughter Bethan speeding all the way downhill through an open gate and onto the A470 below, whilst myself and my son tumbled half way down.
   Above all, of the times when my two girls were born, both December days of heavy snowfall.
   Bethan over the mountain in so-called 'snake country' of Aberdare and Niamh ( as befits a Bluebird) in the Heath.
   The first in notorious 1982, when it was the biggest fall of my lifetime and a neighbour kindly came over with blow-torch to unfreeze our ancient, inefficient central heating vent.
   Even last year was memorable, as we returned from Bethan's wedding in India to blizzards at Heathrow , but somehow made it home thanks to my wife's single-mindedness, only for our combi boiler to go on the blink and a frantic search for a suitable engineer despite the white-out.
   Despite such calamities I've always loved the snow and even at a writing course I once tutored at Totleigh Barton in Devon, we took time out between stanzas to borrow trays from the kitchen and slide down empty country roads.
   As a teacher, a single flake whispered the promise of a day off.
   One Head who regularly refused to close soon regretted it when he left his car in the school car park overnight only to find the very expensive sports car trashed the next day! After that, he'd close up after a couple of flakes!
   Growing up in Aber I've no memories of early childhood snow whatsoever and then in Cambridge and its Shire there was a distinct lack of hills nearby, though we did play risky football on a frozen pond.
   Only since living up here on Aberdare mountain have we all appreciated the seasonal playground.
   It's a chance to become one with memories: to roll the years into a tight ball and hurl them with joy and mischief. A chance to watch them break up into tiny particles of laughter.

                         JOINING  THE  V

Her back's bent
she stares groundwards,
the old border collie
tugs her hubby round
Bryn Bach is mostly frozen
as mallards balance
on thin ice,
a flock of Canada geese
root out food below snow -
her two Nordic sticks
are vital extra arms,
she's determined as moorhens
finding warmer pools.

In her dreams she flies
south to her grandchildren
many continents away
from treacherous paths, 
towards suns of smiles
she swims and glides
watching the grey glaze
of the lake disappear,
joining the V, higher and higher. 

  

   This is a tale of three Heads : not a three-headed monster but.....it could be!
   I'm certain that somewhere there exists a good Headteacher, but in all my teaching career spanning over 30 years I never came across one.
   I've blogged previously about the urgent need for democracy not autocracy in education, so I don't want to repeat myself. Suffice it to say that it simply does not work having one person at the top and ostensibly in total control.
   If we need to educate young people for genuine democracy then schools and colleges must be the starting-points : let them learn to make executive decisions alongside staff ; give them the power to act responsibly and vitally, to learn from mistakes.
   By way of examples here are three actual cases, two of which are on-going -
   The first involves a Head still in charge of a large Cardiff school ( not where I used to teach, by the way).
   He's highly regarded by the local authorities and would be given the title ' Super-Head' in fact.
   Yet what this person did was to instruct a whole department to falsify their results for GCSE coursework and when one staff member refused she was forced out of the school.
   Of course, we are still living in an era where results (especially at GCSE) are paramount and determine what colour ( or grading) the school gets according to Leighton Andrews' 'traffic light' system.....an alternative  form of league tables. 
   Pressures on schools to improve results are enormous and - as I've blogged before - this destroys the very essence of education : sheer enjoyment in learning and discovering.
   The second case goes back to the 1990s and the overriding desire to make a school into an 'achieving one'. and also this Head's personal ambitions above all else.
   Once again, this person actively encouraged blatant cheating yet was never sanctioned as a consequence, despite the fact that the whistle was blown and the Education Dept conducted an enquiry into it.
   In this instance the Head actually taught an English class who, despite being a top set, all produced the self-same essay, dictated to them by that person.
   The Head then told the Head of Dept ( an inspirational teacher) that he had to let those results stand.
   This Head of Dept soon left the profession to become a librarian, largely because of  what happened! A huge loss to education.
   That Head carried on at the school for many years, bullying those who refused to tow the line and making them leave.
   Lastly, there is a similar case of a bullying Head who progressed rapidly in terms of promotion, despite a lack of teaching experience and without marking pupils' work properly.
   Because of his incessant bullying he drove a number of very good teachers to utter despair and , following this, got promoted to the powerful job of Challenge Advisor, enabling him to deploy that bullying against whole schools and also to appoint his cronies to many posts.
   People may assume I've been tainted by my naturally rebellious nature in my views here, yet I speak from experience as my very first job was in a school where the Head was an alcoholic who used to physically abuse pupils violently and became 'over-friendly' with female staff of an afternoon after a few lunchtime drinks.
   Indeed, most other teachers and ex-teachers I know share my views on Heads.
   I'm not saying the system can be reformed though.
   It needs a revolution  as it reflects the shamocracy of our society itself : consultation is minimal and people on the chalk-face ( digital-whiteboard now) are seen by government and councils as not to be trusted.
   Until power's distributed, the system is wide open to the cheating and bullying I have described.
   With the focus increasingly on results at any cost and at the expense of creativity, such practices will continue virtually unchecked.
   Sadly, those who rise to the top are the very Yes-men or -women who place their own ambition before everything.  


                                  IT'S  CALLED  EDUCATION
​

Contrary to Floyd's 'brick in the wall'
most teachers actually like children
and desire to inspire them.

Those who don't just want
to get out of the classroom :
they are called Heads.

Heads who find they can't stand
the staff who to them are problems
become Challenge Advisors.

Challenge Advisors make their living
out of bullying the teachers
they used to find really annoying.

If they fail enough teachers
because of the results of ludicrous tests,
they end up with promotion.

They are then called Inspectors
who go into the same schools
and find everything wrong with them.

The teachers just cannot be inspiring
as they're busy training kids for exams.
And we call this 'Education'.

     

   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.