It's been a strange week. I woke up at precisely 4.48 am on the first morning of our short break in Llandudno. My wife thought I was rummaging around for indigestion tablets.
'Just writing!' I assured her.
I wrote the first draft of a poem about Tai Chi. I 've been thinking of giving it a try, but fear it might herald the onset of Bopadom.
Our visit to y gogledd followed by son's stay with us, which he managed to combine with work and a story about unemployment in his home town of Merthyr for Channel 4 News.
He'd searched for an angle and , without prompting from me, decided on pursuing a link between poetry and unemployment, which would focus on the poet Jazz from Penywaun. Jazz is a Red Poet of long standing, though he hasn't appeared in the magazine for a number of years.
After saying it would be 'impossible' I did manage to organise a last minute Poems 'n' Pints night at our regular venue The Imp in a matter of days and thankfully enough turned up to fill the small room.
Jazz did his signature poem 'Giro City', a poem which he's used successfully in the past to clear Penrhys of rodent problems, break up riots in Brynmawr and send punters in the Millennium Centre scurrying towards the fire exits in panic!
My son's item appeared on Wednesday's News and , though characteristically bleak, was also sensitive and certainly Jazz did us all proud when he spoke very eloquently.
I made a cameo appearance waving my arms about. I was glad I couldn't play 'How Do You Solve A Problem like Maria?' on the mouth-harp, as requested by the producer.
And so, off up north.........my wife likes to drive through Wales on the A470 and, on a bright day, it was stunningly picturesque weaving our way past Cader Idris, through the slate country of Blaenau Ffestiniog and on to Y Eryri's lakes and mountains.
Llandudno has a reputation as Costa Geriatrica, yet there were more young families there than pensioners and it is an interesting place to visit.
Last time we were there was for the Urdd Eisteddfod. It was a wet and windy Whitsun and we attempted to walk towards the prom, but were blown back townwards.
Then it seemed dull and dreary, but this time we embraced our closeness to Y Gogarth (the Great Orme) and did the Victorian thing of a trip up and back on the trundling tram.
My young daughter's desire for a more risky form of transport was only satisfied after we ventured up and down again straight after on the cable car, this time spotting the famous wild goats which roam the area. Apparently brought here by the Windsors, I did suggest picketing them with republican slogans, but nobody was up for it.
A visit to Oriel Mostyn proved to be the disappointing aspect of our trip.
I should've written 'pretentious claptrap' on the Visitors' Book, but refrained from doing so.
They showed no interest in my joint exhibition with Merthyr artist Gus Payne, 'Dim Gobaith Caneri', and I could see why. Conceptual art and overblown abstract justifications were order of the day........blobs and dots and whole room of photos of cows.
If MOMA in Machynlleth always inspires, then this is the antithesis. The cafe summed up our experience : there was a bowl full of scones, yet when I asked for one I was told these were only 'for display'!
To my mind, galleries should be as eclectic as possible, but always seek to reward those with genuine talent and imagination. Despite being an excellent space full of light and white walls, Oriel Mostyn does neither of these.
Llandudno itself is a curious mixture of the inevitably tacky amusement arcades, the long stretch of well-preserved pier, gradual dereliction of the Grand Hotel and sheer variety of shops and cafes, some with distinctive overhanging entrances.
It was heartening to actually hear Cymraeg spoken in the bargain bookshop, because otherwise I could have been fooled into thinking I was in the north west of England, judging by accents of trippers and shop assistants.
We returned through England, the Shropshire-Hereford route relieved only by Wenlock Edge on one side and Long Mynd on the other.
The only real satisfaction was a stop at Ludlow Food Centre, a foodie and boozie heaven recommended by my son. Here there were pies and quiches galore and real ales and ciders never heard of before. Both my older daughter and I went for a 7% local farmhouse cider because.......'you only need a bottle after all!'
Back to re-work that poem written at a ludicrous hour about seeing Peter Finch doing Tai Chi at Ty Newydd Writers' Centre.
I'd like to emulate him and learn the dynamics of being able to attack somebody, armed only with a fan. It might just come in useful next time I'm up in Llandudno and offered a virtual scone!
PETER FINCH DOING TAI CHI
Outside the house of scribes and scribblers
of wordsmiths and wordcrafters
on a small slate island in the flowerbed,
he was a moving sculpture.
At first I thought attention-seeker
till I realised how oblivious
to watchers in the sun
along the long lawn to the stile
and a sight of the sea after.
An intent, intense art
in slow motion pulse of light,
arming himself to attack
with a leaf or redirect
the breeze to take a pen skyward.
A man of both feather and earth,
I could not have placed a title
on his level plinth,
his arms and palms tracing
currents of air, ley-lines beneath.
'Just writing!' I assured her.
I wrote the first draft of a poem about Tai Chi. I 've been thinking of giving it a try, but fear it might herald the onset of Bopadom.
Our visit to y gogledd followed by son's stay with us, which he managed to combine with work and a story about unemployment in his home town of Merthyr for Channel 4 News.
He'd searched for an angle and , without prompting from me, decided on pursuing a link between poetry and unemployment, which would focus on the poet Jazz from Penywaun. Jazz is a Red Poet of long standing, though he hasn't appeared in the magazine for a number of years.
After saying it would be 'impossible' I did manage to organise a last minute Poems 'n' Pints night at our regular venue The Imp in a matter of days and thankfully enough turned up to fill the small room.
Jazz did his signature poem 'Giro City', a poem which he's used successfully in the past to clear Penrhys of rodent problems, break up riots in Brynmawr and send punters in the Millennium Centre scurrying towards the fire exits in panic!
My son's item appeared on Wednesday's News and , though characteristically bleak, was also sensitive and certainly Jazz did us all proud when he spoke very eloquently.
I made a cameo appearance waving my arms about. I was glad I couldn't play 'How Do You Solve A Problem like Maria?' on the mouth-harp, as requested by the producer.
And so, off up north.........my wife likes to drive through Wales on the A470 and, on a bright day, it was stunningly picturesque weaving our way past Cader Idris, through the slate country of Blaenau Ffestiniog and on to Y Eryri's lakes and mountains.
Llandudno has a reputation as Costa Geriatrica, yet there were more young families there than pensioners and it is an interesting place to visit.
Last time we were there was for the Urdd Eisteddfod. It was a wet and windy Whitsun and we attempted to walk towards the prom, but were blown back townwards.
Then it seemed dull and dreary, but this time we embraced our closeness to Y Gogarth (the Great Orme) and did the Victorian thing of a trip up and back on the trundling tram.
My young daughter's desire for a more risky form of transport was only satisfied after we ventured up and down again straight after on the cable car, this time spotting the famous wild goats which roam the area. Apparently brought here by the Windsors, I did suggest picketing them with republican slogans, but nobody was up for it.
A visit to Oriel Mostyn proved to be the disappointing aspect of our trip.
I should've written 'pretentious claptrap' on the Visitors' Book, but refrained from doing so.
They showed no interest in my joint exhibition with Merthyr artist Gus Payne, 'Dim Gobaith Caneri', and I could see why. Conceptual art and overblown abstract justifications were order of the day........blobs and dots and whole room of photos of cows.
If MOMA in Machynlleth always inspires, then this is the antithesis. The cafe summed up our experience : there was a bowl full of scones, yet when I asked for one I was told these were only 'for display'!
To my mind, galleries should be as eclectic as possible, but always seek to reward those with genuine talent and imagination. Despite being an excellent space full of light and white walls, Oriel Mostyn does neither of these.
Llandudno itself is a curious mixture of the inevitably tacky amusement arcades, the long stretch of well-preserved pier, gradual dereliction of the Grand Hotel and sheer variety of shops and cafes, some with distinctive overhanging entrances.
It was heartening to actually hear Cymraeg spoken in the bargain bookshop, because otherwise I could have been fooled into thinking I was in the north west of England, judging by accents of trippers and shop assistants.
We returned through England, the Shropshire-Hereford route relieved only by Wenlock Edge on one side and Long Mynd on the other.
The only real satisfaction was a stop at Ludlow Food Centre, a foodie and boozie heaven recommended by my son. Here there were pies and quiches galore and real ales and ciders never heard of before. Both my older daughter and I went for a 7% local farmhouse cider because.......'you only need a bottle after all!'
Back to re-work that poem written at a ludicrous hour about seeing Peter Finch doing Tai Chi at Ty Newydd Writers' Centre.
I'd like to emulate him and learn the dynamics of being able to attack somebody, armed only with a fan. It might just come in useful next time I'm up in Llandudno and offered a virtual scone!
PETER FINCH DOING TAI CHI
Outside the house of scribes and scribblers
of wordsmiths and wordcrafters
on a small slate island in the flowerbed,
he was a moving sculpture.
At first I thought attention-seeker
till I realised how oblivious
to watchers in the sun
along the long lawn to the stile
and a sight of the sea after.
An intent, intense art
in slow motion pulse of light,
arming himself to attack
with a leaf or redirect
the breeze to take a pen skyward.
A man of both feather and earth,
I could not have placed a title
on his level plinth,
his arms and palms tracing
currents of air, ley-lines beneath.
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