Regarding subversion
Regarding subversion
The words are like so many dried bones
Ossified. Dust collects on them
Laid out in their piles in ossuaries
I read briefly a few words, a few lines
And feel myself begin to dry out too
As if the dehydration is contagious
Simply by casting an eye in consideration
Words without meaning or relevance
Seem to threaten to invade my thoughts
I think of Flaubert and his dread of stupidity
Words that were viewed with some importance
Apparently by a particular favoured circle
Concerning kitchen sink dramas or the view
Or the intricacies of a morose sex life
Or the guilt of solitary masturbation
Or the endlessness of the doldrums
Of the middleclass way of life
The writers speak for a narrow few
Of endless shame, of existential threat
But hold nevertheless a stranglehold
On who will be treated seriously
There lies the trick do not be serious
Do not write about spleen or phlegm
Or write with any kind of reality
Or challenge those who helplessly write
But have nothing to say
About nothing in particular.
Subversion is needed no demanded
To bring the ossuaries down.
RAC
Afernoon sleep
Afternoon rest
Poplars
Fluttering
Leaves
Birch trees
Jackdaws unseen
Seeing us sleeping
Soft pink wooden walls
Our small school
Clouds pass overhead
Green canvas
Stretched tight
On steel tube frames
Old grey army blankets
Brought out of storage
Smell
Dampness
There is no rush
Time passes slowly
Lying watching clouds
Sleep again
Afternoon sleep again
Time to wake up
Red leather sandals
Grey socks
Green and red belt
Snake head buckle
Pale brown shorts
White cotton shirt.
Childhood has changed
God knows life was never simple
Growing up in a mining valley
But now a narrowing down
Childhood brings pressure early
The need to perform
The continual auditing
To ensure achievement
Of the goals of learning
In a modern age
Ignoring the needs of a child
So very young
To grow in their own time
In their own way
To socialise
Build friendships
That narrowing down
The increase of prejudice
The re-emergence
Of pre-conceived
Convictions
Of small minded
Preference
Of a previous age
Closing down
Instead of opening
Growing
And looking out at the world
Encouraging curiosity
Of life
This earth
And all who live in it
We cannot remain silent
There is much work to do.
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Autumn Edge
Autumn edge
I count the species in the orchard hedge
Maple, Blackthorn, Hawthorn and Hazel thrive
Blackberry and Honeysuckle intertwine
Overgrown Elder pruned and cut hard
Two Oaks, two tall Maples break the line
A Red Admiral sits on a Buddleia leaf
Needing to find a place to hibernate
An idyllic scene a man laying a hedge
The clear blue skies under an autumn sun
But never far from my mind that other world
Of war in Syria, the unrelenting brutality
And the suffering of people in these times
And of the silence of people of my kind
And of the silence, the silent unravelling
Of the myth of the Wests superiority
Of the myth of the Wests democracy
Of the myth of the Wests morality
We assume the cloak of Pontius Pilate
And wash our hands of responsibility.
RAC
Afternoons work
Afternoons work
I like the business of working
With a hand tool that weighs
And feels right to the touch
The heft of a hammer or an axe
A wood handle and sharp edge
That balance in the hands grip
With the job of the day ahead
I hear the buzz of a chain saw
But I prefer the slow rhythm
Of what I can do over hours
That stretch through days’ time
I listen to the buzzard mew
Overhead and the jack ravens
Call of warning as I tread out
Into the orchards quietness
It’s a place I can feel the strain
And the connectedness again
Of mind and body and soul.
Preparing
Preparing.
In this quiet time before winter draws in the light
We prepare the ground for the months of rest
Bill-hooks, sickles and cutters are sharpened
And so it’s a day to shorten and lay hedges
Birch and poplar are shedding their leaves
Oaks begin to turn though the change is slight
I hate to look at the Ash my favourite of trees
Diseased leaves hang in blackened bunches
But now is the time for the heavy work to be done
And in bad weather winter days writing begins.
50th Anniversary.
50th Anniversary
I was sixteen when that mountain of muck
Roared with the sound of the worst hurricanes
Rushing from the mountain top above Aberfan
To consume the life of a school, of generations.
I was being kept in silence in a dark room
And knew nothing at all of that place
Or that small children were drowning
In the slurry storms black torrent
The blackest news was kept from me.
My lungs were drowning me and I was fighting
For my own life. I make no comparisons.
The old priest sat at the side of my bed
Gave the last sacrament, words I barely heard
I was more concerned with the pain
Of taking the next breath and if the next
Would be my last or the pain would come again.
But I survived bed ridden through winter months
I was told my lungs were free of scarring
And in spring I was allowed to walk the mountain
When life is on the edge of a knife’s sharpness
The sun looks different, light has changed
The air of nights darkness has another meaning
The anniversary of the tragedy is near.
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Watching them fly in.
Watching them fly in
I never agreed with it
Too much emotion
The rejection said
I wrote something
After nine eleven
Watching them fly in
Not knowing
What they’d been leaving
Arriving in distress.
She had a brother
Working in the first tower
A place that I’d known
A place I’d been
She didn’t know
If he was living
The phone call came
And she smiled again
He was alive.
Long ago
As I walked home
I heard
I felt
The explosion
My classmates
Fathers, brothers
Uncles, men
Had been lost
We use that word
Too loosely.
Killed.
Too emotional.
What have we become?
Stone pillars
Wooden Indians
Vacant
People live
Vicariously
Just by television
I’ve lived in a time
That isn’t literally
Real or unreal
I write
About emotions
The connections
People, times and places
That are real.
Celfypridd 