When I begin to dream in Welsh......
   When words and phrases swirl in my head like those currents the gwylan ( seagull) floats and flies upon.
  I am yn gocls ( drunk) with yr iaith.
   And then....like a penmawr ( hangover) the week after brings a feeling of being bereft, akin to the nation itself in the words of one of Harri Webb's best ever poems ' Colli'r Iaith' ( losing the language).
   It's both privilege and pleasure to attend the Cwrs Haf at the Uni in Trefforest once again and this year's course surpassed all other ones for many reasons.
   I now have more 'hyder' ( confidence) and can chat to both the tutors and fellow course-goers. Being 'rhugl' ( fluent) is only a matter of over the bridge, round the corner, up the mountain......
   Also, the course had far more variety than previously and nearly every day we had one or more visiting speakers, as well as three tutors over the week, each with their own enthusiasms.
   The only baffling aspect of the week was that there were fewer in our class than any of the 9 years I have attended, though the other levels fared much better.
  On the first day local historian Alan Cook told us that Pontypridd was named after  Pont y ty pridd and not a bridge made of mud and how the well-known Turner painting of the stone bridge featured just the one house, as did all paintings of that time.
  It was interesting to find out that Rhydfelen was actually the correct version of Rhydyfelin and that the ford ( rhyd) was almost certainly yellow  because of the iron in the water.
   He spoke a good deal about pilgrimages to Penrhys and I couldn't help wondering what a modern equivalent would be : Dylan Thomas fans to Laugharne maybe?
   We also had a visit from food journalist Lowri Cook ( too many Cooks didn't spoil the cawl!), who explained about the fifth sense of taste or 'umami' , which she defined as the taste of death. Perhaps she had a bad experience in Japan with a blowfish!
   Another day an expert honey-maker showed us how to make our own sgwriad ( hand scrub) using various items. Mine consisted of oats, coco oil, frankincense and lots a other dubious potions. If it were ever to be marketed then the brand name would surely be 'Ych y fi '.
  It was very interesting to revisit the poem 'Glas' by Bryan Martin Davies, especially as I had once written a response to its ending of 'totalitariaeth glo '.
  I'd forgotten just how many times he'd used that colour and others in the poem and how a 'diwrnod glas' is a special day and 'glas' itself can also mean green as in 'glaswellt' ( grass). Though a nostalgic poem, the ending makes you realise just how vital a trip to Swansea was in those days.
   The more you learn the less you seem to know.
   The more you learn, the more you have to un-learn.
   Both were true of the week, as one tutor showed how many Welsh-speakers actually avoided the much-practised versions of 'Yes' and 'No' like Ie/ Nage , Ydw/ Nag ydw ayb.
   Through the week important aspects of Welsh history and culture kept emerging ; the unique nature of cerdd dant (or 'string music', as in the harp) and the way in which poetry and music are inextricably linked. I had never realised before that poets composing their verse were described as 'canu'r gerddi' or singing the poem and looking at the form of englynion with its formally structured musicality, I could understand.
   For a moment I did think we'd have a go at an englyn and I'd have relished the challenge, but others in the group were more musically inclined and when we looked at the work of poet Waldo Williams related to his poem 'Y Tangneddfeddwyr' ( Peacemakers) which is a superb choral work.
   Waldo was certainly a fascinating character : pacifist , Quaker and socialist who went to prison because of his conscientious objection. You could see how his Christian mysticism came from his 'milltir sgwar' ( local area ) of Preseli in Sir Benfro.
   An afternoon's Cwiz Mawr was cut-throat ( without a phone-cheat in sight), but one of the highlights of the week was the visit by my ol' butty Sion Tomos Owen, of Red and republican events and magazines.
   Sion was launching his book of stories about the Rhondda for learners ' Y Fawr a'r Fach' alluding to the two valleys and also to himself today and when young.
  He has become a brilliant presenter on S4C having completed two series of 'Pobol y Rhondda' and also as one of the key presenters on 'Cynefin' , which focuses on various places in Cymru, including Merthyr.
   Sion was on top form with hilarious anecdotes and equally funny readings from the book which - though aimed at lefel Sylfaen ( Foundation) - is eminently suitable for higher levels.
   It's interesting listening to Sion speak and to look at his writing in Welsh ( I was mostly more familar with his work in English). There's a noticeable influence of 'iaith y gogledd' as his mam comes from the north and , quite possibly, many of his former teachers; he uses 'efo' not 'gyda' and 'gen i' rather than 'gyda fi' for instance.
   I find it hard to write in formal language in Welsh, but accents and dialects enthrall me. On the final day we looked at the unique dialect of Caernarfon and how some of the words may well have arrived there from the New York underworld. One of my favourites is 'sglaffio' meaning to gobble up food.
   It would be great to go to the Maes ( square ) in that town on a Saturday night and hear all the 'Cofi' ( as that dialect is called). I might, at last, learn to swear properly in Welsh!
   If there are any learners out there looking for an entertaining and also challenging week's course then I wholeheartedly recommend this one.......every year in June.

        DYSGU  CYMRAEG   

I have come quite a distance, ware teg,
yet my ready answer how long
is inevitably 'amser maith yn ol',
which is easier to say than numbers
when I must use 'y system ugeiniol'.

I am in dosbarth Uwch 4 Plus
which has been invented for us,
not quite ready for 'Hyfedredd'
where there are folk with degrees in Welsh
who've read ' Un Nos Ola Leuad'.

Sometimes I'm full of 'hyder',
some days I feel almost 'rhugl' 
and then get my 'gwaith cartref'
full of green marks and 'gwallau'
( though I do use Welsh in English poems).

I'd like to enter for the 'Gadair'
in the 'Genedlaethol' one year,
but I'm not sure about that spotlight,
sword, dancers and , above all, those outfits :
blame it on that nutter Iolo Morgannwg!

I once had a 'sgrws' with locals
at the Black Boy , Caernarfon over a few pints
and they complimented my fluency 
( I think they'd had one too many,
or maybe they were being polite).

I've come a long way with many others,
we're like a band of aging adventurers
landing on the shores of Yr Wladfa.
History ,culture leading to a Now that matters :
this time, this tense meaning 'amser'.   

              

   I live on Question Street, though I'm a wanderer on Question Island.
   I pick up a pebble and feel the power of the sea and it always calls me.
   But here, in this season, I'm aware of leavings even as the cuckoo calls hope from the distance, unseen.
   Even as I see ring-doves on the rooftops, nuthatches returned to our garden oak seeking grubs.
   This street's a crook, a hook to hang a hill on.
   Sometimes a police helicopter hovers in the night sky with lamp-eye trained on the moors.
   Who is on the run? 
   Will the fox get back to its den?
   Sometimes you look out the window to find everything changed : a flashing light and open midnight door which has remained closed far too long.
   Yet this season has its own music of readiness, of openings as bees are timely in their comings and goings from a gap in the paneling they've made their own.
   Tulips closing with the dark, sleeping through a panic of lights, of a fall, of finality.
   Cats know no boundaries.
   In dreams I wander like one over lines, walls, by streams and nobody shouts at me.
   No leash, but there can be a chase : running against a wind, legs in muddy sand or arms underwater, straining.
   I live on Question Street, but who is asking?
   I pick up that stone and clutch it , so it takes me to another dimension.
   Question Street becomes Question Island again, yet I still don't know where it begins and ends.
   Out into the darkness , carried away by a wave even though the sea is a memory. 

                                QUESTION  STREET

I have lived here long enough
to know this street's the shape
of a question mark.

One by one the lights go out
as houses are vacated.
Soon they'll all be gone.

One night the ambulance arrives,
its doors left open,
couch and tubes waiting.

I look out for familiar lights,
for the insomniac windows,
the moving silhouettes.

See too much darkness,
too many hedges overgrown,
grass weedy and long.

Where do they disappear to?
Moon and stars won't answer,
no notices in the paper.

The street has no full-stop,
it's curved like a hook :
fishing for doubts again. 

  ' I'd be fine leaving the whole thing alone ; the trouble is it won't leave me alone. Last week Harry & Meghan showed up in my kids' book bags - they'd been invited by their schools to celebrate the wedding by wearing red, white and blue or buying cupcakes or both.
   This is propaganda through tasty pastry.' - Gary Younge, Guardian

  I was recently insulted online by a staunch Corbynite identifying me as  a 'Guardian reader'. I am not ashamed to say that I enjoy columnists like Younge (quoted above), Monbiot, Owen Jones ( also a Corbynite, of course) and Aditya Chakrabortty to name just a few.
   Younge's reluctant republican article was in last Saturday's paper and showed how he could be angered by fanatical propaganda in Britain akin to N. Korean levels of brain-washing.
   The Hewitt Bash dominated the media despite massacres in Gaza and the USA and there was a ludicrous presumption that all 'the nation' were enthralled by it.
   There were virtually no alternative viewpoints proffered, and the only dissent I saw came from singer Pauline Black of the band The Selecter, who voiced her antipathy in no uncertain terms.
   Not even Graham Smith of Republic was wheeled out as he usually is, to suggest it's all down to a one-man show!
   To me, the assumption this has anything to do with the history of my nation, Cymru, is an insult.
   The only relevance is to expose divisions in society, as I walked through Cardiff then Newport that day  and saw many people ( mostly quite young) whose only homes were doorways of closed-down shops not mansions or palaces, cast off by a callous system.
   In Newport one doorway consisted entirely of a blue tent and dog's bowl and many sheets of cardboard marked patches ; so many begged for small change.
   It was pertinent that one of the few republican events organised on the day of Hewitt's betrothal should be at Le Pub, a well-known Newport music venue and vegan/ veggie pub.
   This was organised by Patrick Jones, long-time Red Poet, to raise money for local food-banks alongside musicians against homelessness.
   Patrick had been there when Carlo ( Charles Windsor) opened Redhouse in Merthyr, once so important to that great republican Keir Hardie ( our then Labour Council had no sense of the irony!).
   We greeted Carlo with megaphone poems after the police told us ' No swearing, or we'll arrest you!'
   I got away with it by doing 'The Fracking Crown Estate!', but as soon as he saw Carlo, Patrick yelled out 'You fuckin cunt!' He got away with it.
   Day of the wedding I suffered dreadful food poisoning ( maybe a dodgy wrap in the Diff) and a speeding bus almost ran me down.......are there no lengths that Special Branch go to?
   It's revealing to quote Younge again, who explains that a recent poll said 46 % were 'indifferent' to the whole thing, while 29% were 'happy'; suggesting a great deal of the hype was media concocted.
   Patrick's 'Royal Bedding' event was a welcome alternative at a great venue.
   He opened the evening with his band the Quarks, comprising son Ethan on guitar and Dean Meyrick drums : heavy and aggressive music perfectly complementing Jones's forceful, rebellious verse.  
   His next cd should be excellent judging by this set.
   I followed next and nobody danced to my political and dialect poems, though I did a blast on the trusty mouth-harp and someone called out 'Pretty Vacant'.
   ( I couldn't help reflecting on the fact that the Pistols had won Young Businessmen of the Year awards, even as 'God Save the Queen' was so popular). 
   Most of all, I enjoyed reading a poem called 'Ballad of Mahmoud Sarsak' as I'd earlier attended a rally in Cardiff to demonstrate solidarity with  Palestine. The poem shows how an apartheid exists in Israel and I compare the footballer Mahmoud with Bobby Sands, both struggling for political status, both of whom went on hunger strike.
  Next up was singer-songwriter Selena In The Chapel, whose fine voice wove patterns over and around us and served a contrast to Rick Parfitt, once of 60 Foot Dolls and still a legend in the Port.
   Rick wowed the audience just as the Dolls had done in the 1990s.
   Final act was the amazing Rufus Mufasa, based in Ponty but originally from Ammanford, with a rapper buddy.
   What I liked about her music was it's refusal to be classified.....dub-rap-soul- r n b and more......and her voice , so full of emotion.
   These were songs / poems straight from the same streets I'd walked through that day.
   Younge dubbed that wedding ' a cross between Red Nose Day and the Eurovision Song Contest' .
   Patrick's republican alternative raised a fair amount for food-banks and the homeless of Newport, and was an event packed with the power of poetry and song.
   I was delighted to be part of it, even though I nearly had my skull smashed to smithereens afterwards on the pavement.
   As we left I stood next to a bouncer and we heard a resounding crash, frighteningly close! A large pot lay broken, its base like a thick, jagged missile.
   We both looked up at the stories above Le Pub. Darkness and no open windows or sign of life......pretty vacant, in fact.
   It had been a day of dichotomies : of Palestinian flags waving outside Nye Bevan's statue against Union Jack bunting on a few shops and pubs ; of sad and desperate homeless against the opulence and insistent Brutishness of Windsor ; of vacuous pomp against passionate poetry.
   

   ( This is a poem I wrote especially for that event........Diolch i Patrick a phawb eraill!) 


    
Markle’s  Wedding  Dress
 
In amongst the sparkle
And thousands
The diamonds and gloss
Of Meghan Markle’s wedding dress
Are hanging
The plastic shrouds
Of burnt cladding –
Each hole screaming out
For a person lost –
No matter how many layers
She wears to cover it up
Its black mourning
Glowers through –
It weighs her down
As she walks the aisle
A burden she cannot dismiss –
Not all the gold and silver
Can suffocate and smother
Those shapes, lettering
Of terror and distress.  

   

   Every day walking downhill to town I'm accosted by bewildered SatNav followers who can actually see the new mock-castle beyond a fence, but can't find a way in.
   'How do I get to the new Trago Mills?' 
   I'm tempted to misdirect every one of them, with 'Left, left , left and left again.....till you end up where you began!'
   In other words , keep heading leftwards till you're in welshsocialistrepublicananarchosyndicalist territory....the only way to react to a UKIP-owned megastore dominating Merthyr, just as Crawshay's Cyfarthfa did in the heyday of iron and exploitation.
   It's been over a decade coming and is probably the final knockout blow in terms of the survival of the town centre which - apart from market day - is devoid of life.
   The Redhouse cafe is regularly shut, so you can't get to stare at those Tin Tin cartoons of Labour politicians nobody's heard of.
   Only recently Burton's clothes shop closed down on the corner of John Street, which contains the last Bracchi, Viazzani's ; a shop which is part of Merthyr legend.
   'Burton's Corner' was the supposed meeting-place if you wanted a prostitute and, when I was teaching, a few cheeky pupils would say - 'Sir, I seen yew on Burton's Corner las night!'
   I never did see dubious women there, but it was the regular patch of one 'Billy Sticks', an emaciated seller of the South Wales Echo, with grubby mac and limbs like......well, 'sticks'.
   Grahame Davies - a fine writer who unfortunately works as a lackey for Carlo - tells of rescuing Sticks once from assailants and getting set upon himself for doing so.
   Sticks was there of an evening selling the Echo from a doorway and the Pink on Saturday , which I always bought after a Cardiff game.
   'Echo! Echo!' he'd echo. Or sometimes just 'Co!'
   Eventually his career ended when he went to court accused of masturbating in public, looking at himself in Burton's window as chapel-goers were passing.
   He got a 'conditional discharge'! You couldn't make it up!
   Actually, I might have more in common  with him than I thought, as Peter Finch referred to my 'political flash' in a recent review in 'Planet' of Prof Tony Curtis' Selected.
   Now I imagine myself as a political flasher complete with dirty mac revealing a red flag instead of a plonker!
   The characters, like the shops, have disappeared.
   On the bus home the old folks bemoan a centre they recall as bustling not so long ago.
   It all seems hopeless, yet the Portuguese manage to sustain two cafes, a shop and a pub along the stretch of High Street : custard tarts and espressos to get you buzzing.
   On the plus side, the caffi at Canolfan Soar will soon be reopening under the stewardship of the inimitable Jamie Bevan, returning from his Sully sojourn.
  I look forward to the 'coffi go iawn' and 'pice ar y maen' straight from the bake-stone. Everything will be totally Welsh, with coffee beans from the tropics of Bedlinog.
   I once wrote a haiku for the Canolfan and, amazingly, it's still hanging as you enter -
                  Nawr, mae'r Canolfan
                  yn tyfu fel y dderwen :
                  pobl yw'r mesen.
   It's good to see somewhere flourishing.
   As to the town centre, what can be done?
   I do have a wish-list, but know it's pure fantasy -
       * small bookshop focusing on local writers with a cafe for events
       * proper bakery where you can get fresh bread and scones etc ( think of those in small towns in Ireland)
     *  vegan/ veggie deli like the one in Pontardawe ( smaller town than Merthyr) with lots of tasty pies and pasties
       *   pop-up craft/art shop featuring local photographers , artists and craftspeople
       * craft and real ale shop with all the best Welsh beers and ciders....not to mention whisky
       * a tidy restaurant , not too fancy, but concentrating on tasty, nutritious fare : soups, salads and the like
       * tourist advice centre ( there used to be one), directing people to the many wonders of the area and selling the local walking and mini-bus tours which our imaginative Council will no doubt create.
       If all this sounds very Pontcanna, just remember that Canton has many of these features and I believe there are enough people in the borough who would support them and also we could attract far more tourists if there were thematic tours relating to our vital contributions such as boxing, literature, historians and the FWA parading with wooden guns.
   Festivals and one-off events aren't enough and the town will be duly ignored by all the Trago-seekers who snarl up the traffic every weekend.
   Kipper Towers looks like a travesty on the skyline, designed by a 5 year-old playing with his new Lego set.
   I really hope our town centre fights back. ' Bara a chaws!' proclaimed the protesters of 1831.......not just the basics, but so much more. 


Ewge shop
 
They built this ewge shop outside town,
it looks like a cardboard castle
made by a kid in an afternoon.
 
My mate tol me the owner’s racist
an they always support-a Kippers –
but if they offered me a chance….
 
We ewsed t make things yer,                     
people ave soon forgot –
clothes, toys, bulbs an washin-machines.
 
My dad worked down Oover’s,
woz totelee gutted when it closed down –
ee lost it, lost all purpose.
 
I get sent all over f jobs,
anythin t cover up the statistics -  
slave labour even in-a charitee shops.
 
My mam keeps askin agen an agen
‘Wha yew doin now, son?’
Maybe I’ll be gatekeeper in tha fortress,
 
stridin them turrets with keys in and,
watchin out f’r-a bard boyz –
or maybe I’ll join em.  

 

  I was never one for dancing, always sat on the edge of the disco or waited for the Great Emancipation when the women would do the asking.
   Usually I was slurping down cheapo wine enough to fall over and be trodden on by couples who'd smooch off end of the evening after the Stones' 'Let's spend the night together'.....while I'd return to my digs to write that same self-pitying poem again and again.
   But I do remember the ceilidh with the woman who I went on to marry, above the sea on the creaking boards of the infamous half-pier, the sheer whirl and swirl of it ; the circles and spinning like some ancient Celtic pattern.
   I discovered in India that even a baldy, specky Welsh person in sandals and shorts could be a massive hit on Instagram, trying to copy the moves of a former winner of India's 'Strictly'.
   Sure I was like a fledgling flung early from the nest, but I'd left it all behind....the shyness, the awkwardness......a time-zone, a Continent away.
   And all without the aid of alcohol, just water-propelled like some diving sea-bird.
   I found my hands and arms could become sails and wings and, for an evening, floated and flew in a fantasy of foam and air.   


                                        WEDDING  DANCE
​
' I want the cultures of all lands to be blown about my house as freely as possible.' - Gandhi

The DJ plays
techno Hindi
as bride and groom
wander freely
taking partners
to the intoxicating dance -
hennaed hands link
and here you have
the ceilidh swing
the Bollywood moves
the awkward Western shuffle -
but the wildness
becomes everyone
as we are blown
about and into each other
from so many lands -
Kazakhstan, England, Cymru,
Greece, USA, Canada -
here in this movement
the winds of the world
join together as one -
clap as the couple
tumble walls, reach over seas -
everyone a droplet.   

   After a good while in the political wilderness ( despite a brief spell in Plaid Cymru) it seems strange to be back and an active member of Yes Merthyr, local branch of Yes Cymru( not a movement for the People's Republic of Merthyr!).
   It's  pro-independence and non-partisan and reminds me somewhat of the Welsh Socialist Alliance which may have failed elsewhere, but took off in Merthyr where people of various views joined in.
   The different branches of Yes Cymru are bound to have their own emphasis, but so far I like the predominantly socialist republican leaning of the Merthyr one, though it could change of course.
   Moreover, there's room for revolutionaries who a strictly reformist party would surely eye with suspicion as infiltrators or agent provocateurs.
   Several of us are totally committed to peaceful revolution as the main means of change and a non-partisan group allows for this.
   What heartens me greatly is the positive spirit of those involved.
   The Committee all want to advance the cause of independence for Cymru by focusing on our possibilities as a small, neglected nation.
   There are no cliched daffy dragons or racist English-haters and everybody wants to get the message across that we should not remain a poor appendage .
   I've come up with six ideas which may or may not prove to be useful.....it's early days :-
* Wales has the talent........yet wastes so much of it.
* Energy of rivers , wind and waves.....let's harness all of it.
* Food enough to feed us and more.......let's share the wealth of it.
* Water precious as air......let our people benefit.
* A history of working together .......let's learn from it.
* Cymru has ideas high as mountains........let's celebrate!

   We're launching the branch as part of the Merthyr Rising Festival on Saturday May 26th at Canolfan Soar, Pontmorlais, close to the tent where there will be many performances.
   Singer-songwriter Jamie Bevan and also Red Poets will take part just as the latter did at the Indyfest in Cardiff last year organised by Yes Cymru.
   There will be speakers and music in Welsh and English and Yes Merthyr will also have a stall in the main arena in Dic Penderyn Square ( does 'arena' sound too posh?).
   If we can keep and nurture all the great abilities we possess as a community and country, there's no reason why we can't flourish.
   As a revolutionary I'm not keen on the word 'independence' which suggests that any kind of Wales will suffice.
   I much prefer 'national liberation' which intimates an on-going process and one which influences every level of society.
   But for now it's imperative we argue the case for a better world and Cymru where money's spent on our people's dire needs not on weapons of destruction and where everyone has the opportunity to make decisions.
   This is particularly pertinent at a time when vital decisions about barrages, bridges and military intervention are being taken without our consent.
   It should be a Cymru where, if you have a grievance, it is not just listened to and noted but acted upon.
   Why can't we create a different future?
​

                              A  BRIDGE TOO FAR

This is a bridge too far
for Carlo and Wills after.

They know what's best for us :
the Union, Blue Books and the Not.

We'll need Rebecca's daughters once more,
pitchforks at the Second Severn Crossing.

Y faner goch raised above the girders ;
a new Charter of demands.

Tearing down the name itself
like Cymdeithas with road signs.

For those who've struggled yet keep a vision :
a bridge called Pont y Werin.

      

   Neil Warnock cost me £57. Doubt I'll ever get it back though.
   No, it wasn't a bet on Cardiff City going up via the play-offs rather than automatically. Actually, I cost myself the money by using an image of our beloved manager holding aloft our shirt and posting it as part of my blog.
   I had to pay the Press Association copywright, despite the fact I'd withdrawn it. In future, I'll check for free photos and use older ones by Jon Candy like the one above of a fella who used to sit in front of us and go beserk.
   As our players testify Warnock is the very best at man-management and also a motivator who can raise the game of players to astonishing levels. Above all, he creates an amazing 'squad' spirit.
   I emphasize 'squad' because it isn't about just a team any more and with the number of serious injuries we've experienced  , the entire squad has contributed ( well, apart from the mysteriously disappearing Frederic Gougonbe). 
   We are sitting in second spot in the Championship, seven points ahead of third-placed Fulham with a game in hand, their winning sequence even better than our eight-game one.
   Coming up are very tricky fixtures away to Sheffield Utd and home to Wolves, who rightly occupy top spot.
   Friday's match at home to Wolves will be a sell-out and I'll miss it because of a poetry event.....there's dedication to verse for you!
   Significantly, our key midfielder Aron Gunnarsson - captain of an Iceland team who have qualified for the World Cup - is returning to full fitness after an operation and could well prove crucial in the coming matches.
   Our best signing of the January transfer window has been Serbian international Marko Grujic on loan from Liverpool and whenever he's played we have yet to lose a League game. With Gunnars slotting into the holding role, I believe Grujic will have the freedom to play his more natural box-to-box game.
   Joe Ralls - another midfielder who has been consistently good all season    - soon returns from injury and provides Warnock with a real dilemma. How can he leave out the Scotsman Callum Paterson, signed as a full-back, whose goal-scoring record has been stunning.
   Up front, Junior Hoilett is my player of the season without a doubt and 11 assists and 10 goals ( 2 in Cup matches) shows his attacking contribution. Big Ken Zohore and Mendez-Laing have returned to their best form just at the right time : both are powerful, fast and direct.
   Defensively we've been very sound all season and our best centre-back partnership is definitely Morrison and Bamba, both players strong, committed and a real threat on set pieces. Bennett has made the left-back position his own , while either Peltier or Manga have played well at right-back in the absence of Welsh international and Swonzee Boy Jazz Richards.
   Of course, I ought to be more wary......just because Warnock has achieved promotion from the Championship so many times before, doesn't guarantee success.
   But what I love about our squad was typified by the away game at Brentford before the International break.
   Within the first ten minutes, our keeper Neil Etheridge had made a superb save and then they scored. They were outplaying us totally!
   Yet by half-time we were 2-1 up with a spectacular effort from Sol Bamba and typical timed shot from Paterson. Zohore made it 3-1 in the second half and, in the end, they'd run out of ideas.
   I haven't lauded our keeper, but he deserves high praise. Coming from Walsall, he has gradually adapted and now looks a perfect replacement for fans' favourite Marshall.
  So, we dare to dream and I really hope we get to play Swansea next season ( in the Premiership, that is!).
   Sean Dyche the manager of Burnley has shown this season that you don't have to be a mega-rich club to thrive and I hope we can emulate them. 

                                        ALMOST  THERE

We're almost there -
I can glimpse
copa'r mynydd,
but the mist descends.

I see the ship
on the horizon -
but is it heading
for our port?

I'm waiting for the sun
to return after winter
hibernation down south,
to strike with glory.

The cuckoo will call,
crocuses point upwards,
the lambs spring
and Bluebirds fly.

We're almost there -
the last climb
on jagged rocks
with crevices ahead.

I prefer to look up,
I fear the heights,
so easy to trip -
look, there's the top!
    

   Preparations for the wedding of the year : no, not Harry Hewitt and Meghan's extortionate bash , but my older daughter Bethan to Rahil Abbas up in the mountains of Lonavala, between Mumbai and Pune.
   I feel so delighted for them : they complement each other, ying and yang. We've known Rahil for some time and come to love him as one of our own.....I even forgive him for being a Chelsea fan!
   A birthday present from the couple, a kurta to wear for the main ceremony, duly adjusted by the Latvian woman in Merthyr indoor market, who admired my taste in pyjamas!
   A new case from my son, also for my birthday; flights booked and even the tricky visas sorted eventually, but not after a scare when I discovered that the company were based in Barcelona and had no phone number.
   What could possibly go wrong except panic and confusion at Heathrow, so myself and  my wife only just boarded in time.
   All the medical equipment packed : stomach pills, mosquito spray, net, zapper and stomach pump.
   Everyone I'd spoken to who'd been loved India but had tales of the inevitable 'Delhi Belly' and gave me advice what to do : avoid fruit, ice cream, non-bottled water, street food, milk, cheese, rice , ice, meat and fish ( no probs for a veggie).
   Most importantly, I had written and packed my wedding poem....in fact, I'd written three : the first a while ago, second a funny one and third a techno-garage remix of the first.
   Also packed, a framed version for Rahil's parents......to be presented.
   No idea of what would happen, except it would be long , colourful and there'd be many guests.    
   After an overnight flight we landed mid-day and were up for a brief tour of the area not far from the hotel. We went to the beach and Bandra areas and visited a Catholic Church ( of course!).
   On the beach we saw women in full attire submerging themselves in the dubious-looking water and were duly gawped at and photographed in a mono-cultural city.
      Mumbai's traffic un-system was quite a shock.
   Heavily-polluted atmosphere lurked constantly on the horizon, with streets a definition of chaos as tuk-tuks, taxis, motorbikes, buses and cars all blasted horns....with no white lines or regulations, few pavements or pedestrian crossings. Mumbai is the biggest dodgem ride in the world!
   It's a  vibrant, busy traffic jam and no wonder nobody keeps  to schedules.  
   We visited a  restaurant called Maharaja Bhog (a  name to remember), veggie and non-alcoholic and good training for the wedding.
   We were served cold, fruity tea ( far too sweet, like most drinks there) and a minty yoghurt drink which was refreshing.
   We all had the same thali served on a large round metal plate, half-mooned by small bowls : dips and scrumptious breads, vegetable curries and desserts which arrived too soon and I mistakenly ate with the savoury.
   I liked the palate-cleanser to finish : a rosewater and honey tutti fruiti served in a leaf.
   Most of us were suffering, not from the 'Delhi Belly' but the 'Pukka Paranoia'.....we sprayed hands, sprayed banknotes, fished ice-cubes out of mocktails and became temporary veggies.
   We visited a Bollywood/ TV studio and met Rahil's friend Vivek and his wife Divyanka, both of them actors and the latter  famous.
  It was a ramshackle building, the glamour only represented by a golden figure of Ghandi on one set and Divyanka's dressing-room. Everyone sought selfies with her, except me ( knowing how unphotogenic I am).
  In her dressing-room she turned to me and said - 'You must take one here....you're so handsome!' 
  I later told everyone she must be a bit short-sighted!
  Next day we gathered together for a bus journey up to the mountain resort of Lonavala and the wedding ceremonies.
   We were stuck for ages in Mumbai rush hour ( actually , every hour is Mumbai crawl not 'rush', hour).
   Finally, past street stalls selling fudge ( what else?) we were winding up the mountain's U-bends on the old road to Pune ( or 'Poona' as Alun Lewis calls it in his 2nd World war poems from the hospital there).
   By now our ranks had swelled to include folk from Port Talbot, Canada and Kazakhstan; lots of Bluebirds, twitchers and even Swonzee fans.
  We later met many of Rahil's relatives and I particularly enjoying chatting with his uncle, a well-known Indian dialect poet ( we didn't discuss Neil Warnock!).
   Next day was Haldi, when all the women have their hands, and sometimes arms, decorated with intricate henna patterns and all the men go off in search of banks that change dollars, stroppy monkeys and viewing points to strain eyes into the ubiquitous haze.
   A huge lake was dried up to a puddle, reminding me of Crete in the 70s, when a vast river-bed was arid and empty of water. This was only the beginning of India's summer.
   Every event was printed on a schedule which - we soon came to realise - was irrelevant, as 'there was no time here' ( or.....people were caught in Mumbai traffic).
   Some of our party had gone to great lengths to resemble a dapper Nehru; in my sandals and simplicity, I like to think I was closer to Gandhi.
   In the Haldi ceremony itself, bride and groom have turmeric paste plastered on their faces and are fed sweetmeats by friends and family.
  Bethan looked stunning as ever, though I could hardly recognise her  : bejewelled, bright-robed and with long fair hair extensions. 
   The evening disco finally got going when Rahil and his mates took to the floor and showed everyone the moves to the Hindi-techno music.
   Someone filmed me trying to copy Vivek ( a past winner of the Indian Strictly) and this had 44,000 hits on Instagram apparently.
  'Bald, specky Welshman in sandals makes an eejit of himself!' springs to mind immediately.
   So to the following day and main ceremony, or Nikah, which was full of radiant colours and rituals.
   It was intriguing : men seated one side, women the other. Bride and groom would be separated initially by a large , opaque curtain. Prayers in Arabic led by an imam.
   Myself in unfamiliar kurta alongside elders of the Jenkins' tribe and, at last, Bethan and Rahil meeting under a veil, at first seeing each other only in mirrors.
  I did read my poem, though it was a bit lost in the hubbub and I look forward to reading it again at our Cardiff celebration soon. 
   The evening's reception was a massive feast and also photo opportunity alongside the couple on a flower-adorned stage.
   After many sad /joyful partings we returned to Mumbai on a bus called Destiny, which chugged and choked down winding roads and then accelerated on the freeway to all of 40 mph. 
   All of a sudden, a grating, grinding sound and it pulled over, driveshaft collapsed and we were left to be rescued by Rahil's attentive cousins and Uber.
   Our next place of rest was the old, colonial area near the Gateway to India and the docks and , curiously, a building nearby called 'Jenkins House'!
   Up to then, the 'Pukka Paranoia' had turned a few to 'Delhi Belly'. My wife was OD-ing on imodium, younger daughter had stopped eating pizza and sister-in-law stopped eating altogether.
   I had eaten fruit and ice-cream and felt fine till a poolside snack and , maybe, some unwise crudites.
   I made the mistake of joining the rest for an evening meal and afterwards became violently sick.
   Confined to bed for a day I began writing poems about the country and reading the thoughts of Gandhi......unfortunately, I missed the trip to his house Mani Bhavan, now a memorial museum.
   I admired the way he embraced all religions, argued for an inclusive Indian nationalism, expressed fervent pacifism in the face of the atom bomb and  was surprised by the strong undercurrent of Marxism.
   His fundamental role in Indian independence is stressed, yet his advocacy of civil disobedience, attack on the caste system and belief in the equal distribution of wealth are still highly relevant today.
   If his ideas were to be implemented it would transform a country so divided by rampant capitalism and entrenched in both caste and class divisions.
   Reading his work made me realise the strong link to recent Welsh history and to my daughter's party Plaid Cymru, because former leader Gwynfor Evans was inspired by Gandhi when he threatened to go on hunger strike unless a Welsh TV channel was created.
   Even stronger are the connections with Cymdeithas yr Iaith ( the Welsh Language Society) and Gandhi's use of civil disobedience as a peaceful revolution in society.
   Just as he spent many years in jail for various causes, so many members of Cymdeithas have been imprisoned in their fight for equal status for Welsh ( a struggle not yet finished).
   Sometimes you have to go away to look back. This is true of both nations and individuals.

   I am so happy for Bethan and Rahil. Discovering a person is like discovering a strange country : initial impressions can be powerful, but you are always learning and wondering.

  ( This is the first poem I wrote for their wedding :-


                                                     VIOLA  &  TABLA
                                        For Bethan & Rahil’s wedding ( 24/02/18)
 
 
                                      This is music of a different future,
                                      of Continents reaching out
                                      and touching one another.
 
 
                                     A spark, a message and a sign,
                                     on a simple stage
                                     of a table in a room.
 
 
                                     A tune and a rhythm
                                     from one to the other,
                                     music of meeting of cultures.
 
 
                                    The strings and drum,
                                    the bow and palms :
                                    hollowness at last filling.
 
 
                                   This is music of city and mountain,
                                   players needing no applause :
                                   two instruments, two rivers joining.


              
​   

   Shall I wait for Tom Waits' next classic , a rumour not promise?
   Shall I listen to Bob Dylan croaking cover versions or trying to reinvent his best songs but actually demolishing them?
   Shall I keep revisiting favourite singer-songwriters of yesteryear like Kevin Coyne?
   Or shall I focus on last year's releases and the extraordinary output and talent of one Thea Gilmore, still seeking widespread recognition?
   I realise I've harped on about her before.....appropriate, as one of her best album's is 'Harpo's Ghost'!
   Last year was, without doubt, her year, though the media would hardly concur, as she isn't young enough or Swedish enough to be eulogized.
  Instead, she lives in unfashionable Cheshire : an English woman from Irish family whose husband Nigel Stonier is not only her musical accomplice , but a singer-songwriter and producer in his own right.
   Her minor breakthrough was with the 2003 album 'Avalanche' and there are still songs from it like 'Rags and Bones' , 'Juliet' and 'Mainstream' which stand out among her numerous best.
   I was listening to Waits' first album 'Closing Time' the other day and it struck me that only 'Grapefruit Moon' indicated the greatness to come.
   Last year was unprecedented for Thea.
   To begin with, there was her fascinating cd 'The Counterweight'. which represented a return to tackling the problems of society alongside songs on her own struggles with depression which never sound indulgent.
   Private moments like 'Shiver' ( on the deluxe version, which you need to get) are perfectly counterbalanced by public ones of gun-obsessed culture on 'Johnny Gets a Gun' , especially pertinent to the USA.
   'Shiver' can be seen, like good poetry , in many different ways; I interpret the song as a momentary sense of mortality , which is both thrilling and unnerving.
  Even a song which faces her depression full on like 'Slow Fade to Black' is never self-involved : anyone can identify with it .
   Two of the most forceful outward-looking songs are 'The War' and 'Rise'.
   On an ep the former included the voice of murdered MP Jo Cox and it is a moving, poignant tribute to a woman whose life was dedicated to bringing people together. 
   If ever there was an anthem for our times and perfect one for the Merthyr Rising Festival itself, then the stirring harmonies of 'Rise' must be it.
  Public and private worlds merge in this song as we're urged to rise up against loneliness and also in defiance of hatred and division.
   Her lyrics are bursting with poetic imagination, yet never resort to over-cleverness  or deliberate obscurity.
  'The War' describes how 'the teeth of the times grew long' and 'Rise' describes a journey which is never cliched - 'Is that noise too much to bear / Drowning out your cradle song?'
   Gilmore's voice has been compared to Sandy Denny, yet it is far more versatile : it can be rocky, folky or bluesy. It's naturally contralto, but can reach for the heights. Her melodies and choruses are so often memorable and husband Stonier plays a major role with arrangements and guitar-playing.
   Released later last year, her ep 'The New Tin Drum' perfectly illustrates this versatility and power.
   It's a limited ep on Bandcamp and the title track probably refers to Gunter Grass's brilliant novel about Hitler's Germany. But the song is very much about today's troubled times and the racism Gilmore finds so galling.
   As ever, her response is through observation and imagery- 'send your heart to Jerusalem via Dunkirk'.
   More than any song  in the last decade , it encapsulates our demise, yet its buoyant  tune shows the influence of her Irish background, with son Egan playing fiddle and tin whistle.
   'Willow' is such a stark contrast and typical of Gilmore. It's such a moving love song, which uses the image of the willow tree so naturally.
    By virtue of my son's generous present of Apple music membership, I came upon the third cd accidentally and was utterly astonished.
   'Extended Playground' is a combo of various eps she's released over recent years and I was only familar with one song, the poem-song 'Icarus Wind'.
   From the rousing opening of 'Teacher, Teacher' to the finale and mystery of 'Josephine Knots', this album is truly captivating ( I'm running out of superlatives!).
   There are political calls to arms like 'Are You Ready?', a capella ballads like 'The Parting Glass' and a number of emotional ones about women in society like ' Beautiful Hopeful' and ' Girl Mercury', both bitter and defiant.
   'Pretty in Lace' has echoes of Bob Dylan at the very height of his ability, where she exposes the shallowness of a society judging things externally.
   Thea has so many important things to say and so many wonderful tunes to give, I just wish more would listen.
   'The Counterweight', 'The New Tin Drum' and 'Extended Playground' show an artist at her zenith.
   Of course, I could just wait for Waits, couldn't I?


                             OAK   &    WILLOW

                              for Thea and Nigel 

This is the land between
the moorland and garden,
reeds and daffodils mingling.

The willow is a voice,
alto but sometimes rising
to high notes of the blackbird.

The oak a sturdy body
of guitar, frets on bark
touched by hands of wind.

Balanced between them
is the nant, the stream
where melodies brim.

Saplings grow in corners
of the damp, clay land :
shrillness of whistle and violin.

A stage where animals come :
squirrel during winter lull,
bright, shy jay momentary.

Willow bends, its music curing,
oak sap preserves long :
furnish your home with songs. 
 
           

   I've been learning Welsh for longer than I dare remember or admit.
   I actually began when myself and my wife ( a Gaelic speaker) returned from teaching in West Germany ( as it was then) in 1979.
   We attended classes once a week and while she continued to do 'A' Level and a Diploma from the Univ. of Wales, I struggled and stuttered along until, years later in Merthyr I resumed again.
   Lunchtime classes at Pen-y-dre High taken by the inimitable Head of Welsh Vaughan Richards were a bonus, as were lessons at my children's school Santes Tudful.
   However, the best opportunity was at the old Scala snooker club and the inspirational teaching of one Phil Meaker, a legendary joiner of words and phrases.
   I even attended Nant Gwrtheyrn language centre on the Llyn twice at that time : the best place to learn because once there it was virtually impossible to leave!
   My wife refused to drive back up the windy track which had no barriers at all, though it's been much developed since.
   Nine years ago  when I retired prematurely from teaching to concentrate on writing and workshops, my skills had all but disappeared despite the valiant efforts of Rob Hughes ( another fine teacher) at informal classes in the local pub.
   My confidence with languages had always been lacking.
   I was in awe of my wife, who had annually gone away to the Donegal Gaeltacht as a teenager and also done a Celtic Studies degree in Belfast.
   I tried to read and talk to my children in Welsh when they were young ,but they soon overtook  me and I felt left behind.
   In the last decade however, several people have contributed to giving me that vital 'hyder' to speak without caring too much about mistakes.One was Sue Jenkins my tutor in Hirwaun, who always encouraged me to 'have a go whatever'.
   Another has undoubtedly been the ex-chair of Cymdeithas yr Iaith and Merthyr 'boi' Jamie Bevan, who simply refused to talk to me in English and never corrected except in a helpful way. Through Jamie, I came to see the language as a living entity not academic exercise.
   Here was somebody willing to go to prison for his convictions that Welsh should be on a completely equal footing with English in every area of life in Cymru. 
   What made it all the more laudable was that he'd rebelled against Welsh at Comp. when it was forced upon him and only come to these conclusions when living in England, away from his upbringing and culture.
   Through my present tutor Phil Stone I've learnt another kind of dedication and quest. Phil had a career as a Science teacher and then , on retirement, successfully passed a Welsh degree and became a tutor of adults.
  His knowledge of grammar is comprehensive and he's able to explain it so clearly ; he is also very enthusiastic about all aspects of Welsh culture and history.
   I still feel the more I discover the less I know, yet gradually I'm beginning to watch programmes on S4C and understand them.
   It's odd how certain broadcasters are so much easier to comprehend and Huw Edwards is one. Contrast this to listening to an interview with one of my heroes Gruff Rhys of the Super Furries......he might as well be speaking Russian for all I can glean!
   I now e-mail, text and post on Facebook in Welsh, still making errors I'm sure, but doing it regardless.
   As to writing, I try to compose poems in Welsh and one of my favourite poets is Iwan Llwyd, also an excellent bassist in many bands.
   Winning the Chair at the learners' Eisteddfod in Y Fenni a couple of years back was a big boost, though the step up to the Genedlaethol proper would require Bendigeidfran strides.
   Every year I especially look forward to the Ysgol Haf at the Trefforest campus of the Uni of s. Wales.
   It's then I become totally immersed : thinking in Welsh, dreaming in Welsh and searching for better swear words than 'Nefi blew!'
   I've come a long way. There's even further to go.
   Anyone seen me crossing that bridge?


                         DYSGU  CYMRAEG   

I have come quite a distance, ware teg,
yet my ready answer how long
is inevitably 'amser maith yn ol',
which is easier to say than numbers
when I must use 'y system ugeiniol'.

I am in dosbarth Uwch 4 plus
which has been invented for us,
not quite ready for 'Hyfedredd'
where there are folk with degrees in Welsh
who've read ' Un Nos Ola Leuad'.

Sometimes I'm full of 'hyder',
some days I feel almost 'rhugl' 
and then get my 'gwaith cartref'
full of green marks and 'gwallau'
( though I do use Welsh in English poems).

I'd like to enter for the 'Gadair'
in the 'Genedlaethol' one year,
but I'm not sure about that spotlight,
sword, dancers and , above all, those outfits :
blame it on that nutter Iolo Morgannwg!

I once had a 'sgrws' with locals
at the Black Boy , Caernarfon over a few pints
and they complimented my fluency 
( I think they'd had one too many,
or maybe they were being polite).

I've come a long way with many others,
we're like a band of aging adventurers
landing on the shores of Yr Wladfa.
History ,culture leading to a Now that matters :
this time, this tense meaning 'amser'.