My Right Hand

foto©fionacullen31032021

my right hand

my right hand holds the towel tenderly stroking dry

the pacemaker tucked neatly in under bulging skin

a pouch the surgeon made while I watched the film

the day before wires were pushed from my groin

through the aorta with a camera filming inside me

guided to my heart I watched its voyage on the screen

above my head — then the announcement made

all arteries and veins clear — “vena amoris”

I remember wedding rings on the heart finger

my right hand holds the black as night coffee

sticky as thick molasses swirling in the cup

my right hand holds the spoon, lifts the cup

my right hand holds the knife blade holds the axe

guides the spade drives the steel into the soil

holds the pencil strokes the dog dries the dog

my right hand picks up the phone, opens the front door

touches my mother’s face a foto taken one Christmas day

my right hand turns the key starts the ignition starts the car

my right hand holds your waist cups your breast feels your heart

fills another cup with coffee holds it out for you feels your warmth

my right hand rubs tears from my eyes rubs tears from your eyes

gently smooths your cheek this is the hand that has a tremor

left overs from car crash PTSD flash backs night sweats nightmares

today it stopped — yesterday my right hand didn’t shake at all

my right hand feels the smile on my face the grin feeling the emptiness

of another shielded day my right hand feels the warmth of the earth

my right hand an honest hand wrinkled with age with some scars

some used to be blue with coal dust, a silver scimitar on my right thumb

from an accident in the street when the bike skidded overturned

the day after the coal had been delivered to Mrs. Jones No 9

the fading blue has gone only the memory remains unchanged

may be its healing nerve ends reconnecting forgetting editing out

my right hand raised in a wave as I watch each child leave after a stay

drive away a too short visit close the door on a cold day my right hand

holds you holds your look of sadness holds you tight as I watch tears

fall for each child’s leaving feel you come into my arms my right hand holds you.

this is my right hand that has not shaken another right hand in greeting

for a year this right hand will open the door shake a strangers hand once more

this right hand waiting to be shaken and shaken again by someone else

the right hand of a friend, someone close, someone else — long absent

this right hand holds a voice on the phone perhaps a ghost on a screen

this right hand is waiting to be held feel alive to hold the warmth of someone

else

©robcullen10052021

foto©fionacullen31032021

Remembering Gary Snyder

foto©robculllen01102010.

Remembering Gary Snyder

I came in early

from working

on a day

I’d long planned

to cut back

over grown shrubs

in the garden.

But then the rains came

a grey mist at first

blowing steadily

from the west ridge

over the lee

of the Oak wood

I sat in the kitchen

The back door

had been open

most of the day

I watched rain falling

and recalled

for some reason

the first time

I’d read through

Regarding Wave.

Gusting winds

of a summer gale

blowing in off

the Irish Sea

swept through

the Birch

at the top of the garden.

Littering the soil

with its leaves

I live in a small house

in bad weather

the place 

takes on the feel

of a small ship

buffeted by high seas

swept by Westerlies.

©robculllen18032021

fotofoto©fionaculllen01102010.

Cuckoo Spit&Buttercups/Where snails go when its dark…

foto©robcullen19032021

Cuckoo spit on buttercups

She promised to pay a penny for each snail

not half expecting the bucketful

quickly brought back for her experiments

collected with a small boys enthusiasm

You could say our mother was not best pleased

to find the captives roaming in the night

leaving silver trails laced meanderings

on ceilings and bathroom walls

My sister showed me how to

stroke away cuckoo spit

with a blade of grass

to slowly delicately reveal

the bright green aphid

exposed in its lathering

spurtled white froth

she placed buttercups under my chin

to see whether the glow showed

I liked butter or not

it always did glow under my chin

she bought me frothy coffee as a treat

Older sisters are good like that.

©robcullen19032021

foto©robcullen19032021

I was born and raised in a former South Wales mining village in the Rhondda in the heart of the coal mining area. The mining complex of the Glamorgan Colliery had long been shut down, but the vast hulk and expanse of the colliery yard remained. A place that once had been the work place of four and a half thousand men and six pit shafts, was now left a brooding silence filled haunted shell. It was the place my grandfather and great grandfather worked. Although there were fewer working deep mines my parents were determined that this was not where their children would work -well two daughters couldn’t, so that left me. The message was clear the mines were not going to be my future. Though my dad probably struggled with the reality of a dreamy, artistic son whose only serious interest seemed to have been reading books, drawing and play. Nevertheless gaining an education was the primary goal.

with thanks to Rhondda Cynon Taff’s Library Photography Archive.

My parents lived through both inter-war depressions, the First World War and the Second World War. They met in 1930’s London. My mother had been found work as a young teenager as a maid in a bankers Chelsea Mansion. My father had left Ireland to find work in difficult times and experienced the racism towards Irish people — which was also thrown at Jewish and Black people. My father served for five long years, during which time he was listed as “Missing and presumed dead”. At wars end my fathers employment in London had been kept for him — but he moved to Wales. Finding work wasn’t easy but he got a job cutting grass outside BOAC’s engine plant on the promise that if a vacancy as a fitter came up he could apply for it. And that’s what eventually followed — a position as an engineering fitter and eventually as an inspector of the engines for air safety. So with this background I fully understood my fathers difficulty with a son’s artistic inclination and studying at Art Schools for five years.

During Art Teaching studies I was impressed by A S Neil’s statement that “Play is the work of children”. I came to understand that the concept could also be attributed to Rudolf Steiner, the Austrian educationalist and philosopher and creator of the Waldorf-Steiner system of schooling. Steiner schools often quote him saying, “Play is the work of childhood. When children play they are experiencing the world with their entire being…” But Montessori and Piaget could also lay claim to the concept as well as Frobel and Rousseau.

I think at the center of artistic and creative activity is “play”. Artists and creatives have retained a plasticity in their thinking processes — something that is generally lost for most people as adulthood looms, indeed it is often discouraged with the words “time to grow up”!

Throughout the lockdown I have had growing concern over the invasiveness in the child’s world by the extensive use of online teaching methods. I worry that the extensive use of computer technology has led to a generation of children who have little “independent” experience of the outside world. Adults seemed to increasingly invade the child’s world with technology and increasing supervision. The old bogeys of “stranger danger” and the risk of being groomed by paedophiles (pedophiles) on the internet has led to a heavy price being paid in exchange for protection. Is this an exaggeration?

My memory of my childhood and well into my teenage years was an extended period of play. As young children the street was our play ground. There were generally very few cars in the 50’s, there were only two cars in our street which would miraculously disappear taking their owners off to a workplace. For the entire day the street was our paradise; as teenagers, the mountainside immediately beyond the village was the place we explored, sometimes being away from our homes for the entire day. No one seemed to worry much about our disappearances — we’d turn up for meals, and then back out to play in the darkness of the street.

Iona & Peter Opie’s book “Children’s games in street & playground” (1969) opens with the following commentary:

“And the streets of the city shall be full of boys and girls playing in the street therof.”

Zachariah, viii. 5

“When children play in the street they not only avail themselves of one of the oldest play-places in the world, they engage in some of the oldest and most interesting games, for they are games tested and confirmed by centuries of children, who have played them and passed them on, as children continue to do so, without reference to print, parliament, or adult propriety.”

Observing as an older adult children playing in the local park, supervised by adults, all with one eye on the blue screened mobile in their hands; or when I listen to my wife a Steiner Arts & Craft teacher coming to terms with the difficulty presented by online teaching — I grieve that children are losing something which is of crucial importance to childhood development and the mental health of the adult that child will become. Play and games not overlooked by adults.

“A true game is one that frees the spirit. It allows of no cares but those fictitious ones engendered by the game itself”. Iona Opie.

©robcullen19032021

After the Spate had fallen.

Image for post
foto©robcullen210216

There’s a tide in the affairs of men,
A moon in the affairs of women.

Death and Nightingales ­- Eugene McCabe.

Without respite, a month’s worth of rain fell over a day, through a night.

Unrelenting from lead black skies, in truth, it felt like a judgement of spite.

After the flood waters had fallen, I walked the debris-littered river beach,

tattered plastic festoons hung from trees branches, fluttering, wind strewn.

Where white-grey sand had lain, once flecked with old red sandstone,

brought down from Pen-y-fan*, to rest and lie for a while on the river shore.

Now all is gone, a few bared stones hang on, a tree trunk fallen long ago,

exposed by the floods scouring rip and roar. And everywhere,

the signs of man’s disrespect, of careless stupidity, for the hills, for the rivers,

and the old meadow lands, where I walk each day, raked by desolation now.

The heron has taken up its usual quarter, eating anything that moves nearby.

But the salmon avoids its spring run to the reds, where they were born.

The moon commands the spring tide to rise and stem the waters flow,

and cleansing will slow, so maybe the salmon will stay far out at sea.

The woman, walking the river shore, hunkers down on her knees,

places the blue river glass she’s found to her eye and feels once again,

the coloured glass in her hand, shaped by the sand and the rivers flow,

smoothed over months and years, while the silent ghost moon looks on.

_DSC2215.JPG
foto©robcullen16122020

*Pen y fan is the highest mountain in South Wales.

In February 2020 a storm hit South Wales. A month’s amount of rain fell in two days. Pontypridd town was flooded, and so many homes and shops were devastated by the floodwater. Three Bridges were closed — thankfully not the Victoria Bridge, which carries one of the main road arteries connecting the town to the motorway network. Shops have moved to vacant premises which are above the flood zone. It’s a slow process. And even now many retail premises are closed, and the town has the feel of a place that is going through hard times and an unstoppable decline.

Homeowners who suffered the worst of the flooding were those whose homes had been built along the sides of the river, but sometime back had been flood-proofed and thought safe. Such was the scale of the flooding on this occasion, no flood-proofing stood a chance of holding the floodwaters back. It was a warning that, with climate change and the ominous reality that flooding on this scale in these narrow spate river valleys will become regular events, we had better be prepared and change so much of what we do.

Mountains stripped of trees by clear-felling so that the ability of the mountains to “hold” water and slow its movement to the river are seriously impeded; together with farm land left bear over winter so that there is a continuous erosion of soil and, again, no holding back of rain water. And everywhere the concretisation of large areas so that water just runs off even more swiftly into a river already gorged with flood.

The town is steadily pulling itself back together. I’m constantly amazed by the resilience folk are showing in the face of what has been two devastating blows, the flood and Covid19. But the struggle to survive the hardship life throws is at the heart of valleys people.

But like Covid19, the floods and extreme weather events, such as the floods of February 2020, have been a warningthat lifestyles and industry have to change. Its dismaying to hear of the call for a return to the old days, when the economy will get back to “normal” and the destruction of Earth continues. The announcements of the release of the vaccines has been accompanied by a call to return to normality. But what on earth does that normality mean? And at what price?

The floods that besieged Pontypridd, a small town in Wales have also been replicated all over the world. A flag is being waved. Sit up and take note.

And we wait for February’s rain whatever that will bring!

WRITTEN BY

Rob Cullen

Rob Cullen artist, writer, poet. Rob runs “Voices on the Bridge” a poetry initiative in Wales. Walks hills and mountains daily with a sheep dog at his side.

Murder of an activist

Rob CullenOct 5 · 3 min read

Image for post
foto©robcullen16062016.

“Our lives are brief, a mere fluttering in time. So open the door wide and let the light in!”

So we cut the roses for your grave and let them rest on the wet grass — your life was a golden thing, hope filled and hope given to so many! You will never leave us.

In the early afternoon of Thursday 16th June 2016, after leaving a meeting with her local constituents, the 41-year old British Labour politician Helen Joanne Cox, a married mother of two young children, was chased down the streets of Birstall, England by a man intent on killing her, a killer who was patiently lying in wait. The man subsequently stabbed her, then shot her, and left her to bleed to death in a car park behind the local library.

Murder of an activist

Dress it up whichever way you want,

but what it breaks down to

is the senseless murder

of a woman by a man.

Senseless the loss.

Senseless the pain.

The resort to violence.

The resort to hate.

And the mindless murder

of a defenseless mother.

Whichever way it breaks down,

it’s male violence again.

A tribute to Jo Cox, MP, radical activist, mother of two.

Born 22 June 1974 murdered 16th June 2016.

Jo Cox was murdered by a far right white nationalist. A male.

“It’s not about creating an equal country, but it is about stopping the development of an underclass cut off from the rest of society.”

“Every decade or so, the world is tested by a crisis so grave that it breaks the mould: one so horrific and inhumane that the response of politicians to it becomes emblematic of their generation — their moral leadership or cowardice, their resolution or incompetence. It is how history judges us.”

Quotes of Jo Cox.

©robcullen16062016.

In 1942 Juliette Greco, who has died this week, wrote in her autobiography that she and her sister were arrested by the Gestapo when she was sixteen, as her mother was active in the Resistance.

She was held in a small cell with a light permanently on, the usual sleep deprivation, before interrogation. She later wrote of her Gestapo interrogator “I will never forgive him” — “I know that I myself will fight until the last day of my life, against oppression, against intellectual terrorism, indifference and the denial of the only treasure that is worth preserving at all costs: the right to live as we choose, to think, to laugh, to give, to change, to love without fear whatever and whoever we love.”

Juliette Gréco, singer and actor, born 7 February 1927; died 23 September 2020.

In these times more than any other it is crucial — mandatory that all people oppose the politics of hate, and those who use violence and fear to promote hate to destroy our freedoms. Freedoms that have been hard won by our forebears and should now be cherished and not let go of easily!

My entire professional career of 37 years involved working with men who were violent, abusive and above all hated themselves — transferring that hate onto others as some kind of vindication of their worth, but like all bullies they make themselves feel alright by making other peoples lives miserable and not alright. Women and children, the most vulnerable are their victims — which tells you everything you need to know about them.

In the most extreme cases these men end up killing others whether its Jo Cox, MP in Birstall England or Heather Heyer in Charlottesville, Virginia and so many black lives because they are African Americans living in America. If our political leaders espouse or are sympathetic to those who project violence and hate within our society — we only have one choice. Vote them out! And to paraphrase Juliet Greco “I know that I myself will fight until the last day of my life, against oppression, against intellectual terrorism, and indifference”.

©robcullen250920.

Image for post
foto©robcullen250920.

Afon Rhondda

Rob CullenMar 31 ·

Image for post
foto©robcullen2019

In the Cymer*, a gold eyed, grey white heron,
stilted stands, where two rivers collide,
commands the stream in its stiff eyed gleam,
one peat whiskey brown, the other bottle green.

In the break and rush of an old fords remains,
in its broken, rapid cold crackling ice water,
among worn rounded scoured stones,
Graylings, Queens of the Stream,
gleam and glide, ride the current,
sails aloft, hunting nymphs unseen.

In the slow wash of the silt drop zone,
Goosanders dive through darkened swirls,
hunting with sharpened eyes and beaks,
while green necked mallards cruise serene,
and gold skinned eels burrow roots of trees,
lie glass-eyed grey through winters dream,
and the Cymer’s deep dark pool, waits the run,
of spawning silver spring Atlantic salmon.

Meanwhile horse eyed on the rivers path,
blinkered people thumbing dull blue screens,
walk their way, virtually oblivious to the snare.


*Afon — Welsh for river.

*Cymer — Welsh for the meeting of two rivers.

Afon Rhondda will be published in The Atlanta Poetry Review Spring 2020 Edition.

©robcullen2019Resistance Poetry

Verse as Commentary

Written by

Rob Cullen

Rob Cullen artist, writer, poet. Rob runs “Voices on the Bridge” a poetry initiative in Wales. Walks hills and mountains daily with a sheep dog at his side.

Resistance Poetry

Resistance Poetry

Verse as Commentary

Renewal

Rob CullenMar 28 ·

Image for post
credit:©robcullenMarch2020

“I used to think freedom was freedom of speech, freedom of the press,
freedom of conscience. But
freedom is the whole thing.”
Everything flows – Yevgeny Grossman.

Something is breaking.
It’s broken and won’t be the same.
Life will renew,
It won’t be the same,
Something has broken,
Nothing stays the same,


©robcullenMarch2020Resistance Poetry

Verse as Commentary

Written by

Rob Cullen

Rob Cullen artist, writer, poet. Rob runs “Voices on the Bridge” a poetry initiative in Wales. Walks hills and mountains daily with a sheep dog at his side.

Resistance Poetry

Resistance Poetry

Verse as Commentary

The Ghost Road

Image for post
Foto credit: ©robcullen2016.

Rob CullenMar 22

Lightest pale yellow whitening, stretching away moorland grass,
waving with the winds shift, slow gusts flow on the uplands plateau,
distant raven specked black wheel, unhinged mating glide soars,
in white grey clouded skies above the flat worn track.

Sinister Catherine wheeled turbines, hypnotically spin now,
the latest transient seal that this margin land has no value,
this hard edged landscape has no worth in any time,
giant windmills that stud and transfigure the landscape,
the latest scarring, killing the calm of the ghost road,

another sacrifice made of wilderness, and in this time
a land of golden plovers and the call of curlews,
nothing is sacred where sustainability is concerned.
I walked wild on the high slopes when I was a child,
in a sheep trailed playground on black curtained slopes,

too many lives unlived, cut short and each one,
someon’s child, someone’s daughhter, someone’s son.
For so many days I’d walk out on the ghost road, through summer,
through winter snows,it was a place to breathe clear air,
a place to be alone, a place to sketch Ffynon Saith’s black worn stone,

on the flat mountain plateau tops, where men once walked,
with open still splayed nerves naked in white daylight,
so many breathless men, taking the air on a Sunday,
in the silence of a long year, in those hardest times,
too many deaths, too many sudden unannounced leavings

a gathering place for the collection of remnants, of a day’s thoughts,
a place to make sense somehow and of blanking out teenage doubts,
a place of quietness, a place for forgetting, a place of dreams.


©robcullen2020


Understanding time and other things.

I wrote several years ago the following thoughts when constructing a long narrative history of my family titled — “An examination of time.”


Image for post
Foto credit: un-copyrighted.

The photograph above is like many archive images of the South Wales Valleys in the heyday of its industrial past and the coal industries peak. It is not only familiar because it mirrors so many other photographs of the Rhondda. But the image is all too familiar because it is a photograph taken in 1910 of the village in which I was born in 1950, grew up and left in 1969. The landmarks familiar to me are there in the photograph.

And of course the year 1910 has great signifigance for anyone with a knowledge of the history of this place and the fight by mineworkers forjustice and a living wage in the Rondda and especially those from Tonypandy and Llwnypia. It is the year of the great strike that paralysed the mining industry and left families to strugge in penury and hunger. The subsequent levels of infant mortality and deaths of pregnant mothers was shocking and the highest in Britain. Perhaps the moment this reality struck home was when I discovered the record of my my grandfathers burial and grave to discover there were nine bodies interred.

However my interest in the village is not simply taken up by the associations it evokes or its unusual quality. My curiosity has also focused on the question of the location of the camera when the photograph was taken. The camera in some way had to be suspended high above the ground. However I know that no buildings of that height existed in that part of the valley at that time or since. So I am puzzled as to where the camera was positioned. It is a mystery.

And then there is the matter of the black speck (left of centre in the photograph) which on magnification becomes the form of a young girl running towards the camera. Or at least that was my memory of the photograph when I first viewed and examined it many years ago. I also seem to have elaborated an understanding from the time when I first came across. I rationalised that the photograph must have been taken near the No 6 shaft of Glamorgan Colliery, close to the old dram road tunneled beneath Ynyscynon Road, where the drams could be drawn by long steel cables to eventually spew the pit spoil onto the hilltop known as Mynydd Brithweunydd. Its other name was the “blood field”, purportedly the site of an ancient battlefield. (I wonder how many people know of the blood field and the reason that red bleed of a peat bog each Spring was given that name.)

I’d believed the terraced street to be seen was Ynyscynon Road and that somewhere out of view was my grandfather’s house. And that behind the camera also out of view was a row of tenement housing known as “rotten row” in which children might have friends but with whom they were forbidden to have any romantic attachment and on no circumstances was marriage to be entertained. Such was the fear of the poverty and disease that was believed to be rife there — so called “diphtheria and TB families”.

As mentioned previously the photograph was taken in 1910 the year of the miners strike and the Tonypandy Riots and five years before my mother’s birth. I wondered whether the running girl had seen the funeral procession of the Canadian soldier who had died in 1918 during the great influenza epedemic – which my mother had said was her first memory three years of age.

Or whether the girl herself had died during the influenza epidemic, or hopefully, had survived the poverty and hunger of those days. I wondered too whether she would have seen the great Chestnut tree outside the Ynyscynon Hotel, and the green where men played horseshoes — men including my grandfather. I remember as a child running through the dilapidated walls of the Pub’s old garden and sitting on the rotted out hulk of a great tree that had stood outside the Ynyscynon Hotel. But then it was pulled out and the green tarmacked to make a parking place.

Some two years I’d last looked at the photograph I found myself examining it again — touching base — reconnecting — with what exactly?

But on looking at it again I noticed that the image had changed. Or at least not that the image had changed but that my understanding of it had changed. The image does not in fact show Ynyscynon Road, Trealaw but Partridge Road, Llwynypia a differently named stretch of the same road further along the valley. And the pit shaft was not No 6 but an air shaft or some other kind of minor shaft.

Today in 2018 my understanding of the photograph has undergone another change. I have been researching the number of coking ovens operating in the massive Glamorgan Colliery complex. More specifically I was also researching the number of brickworks operating on the site and the number of women employed in the brickworks. My interest had been spurred by the fact that I was born in the house of a woman who had worked in the brickworks and whose lungs had been badly scarred by her employment there. But I have never been able to find photographic evidence or any detailed account of the numbers of women engaged in this physically arduous work. I found this reference today:

“The colliery (sic Glamorgan Colliery) was also famous for making bricks from clay mined at No 3 pit. Women using hand moulds produced 10,000 bricks per day.”

The photograph below clearly showing the stacks of the brick works in the huge industrial combine hat was the Glamorgan Collieries — locally known as “Scotch” colliery after the Scottish shaft sinkers that were brought in to do the task.

Image for post
Foto credit: by kind permission of RCT Library Photo Archive
Image for post

I also happened upon another photograph that I hadn’t seen before which was the reason for the change in the understanding of the original photograph that I began this post.

Image for post

I had known that there had been heaps of pit waste higher than the houses of Ynyscynon Road. But I was genuinely shocked by the huge mound of pit waste in the centre of the photograph. I had never understood that the slag tip was so enormous. My grandparents’ house is hidden by it, as is my great aunts’ home. It then dawned on me how the original photograph had been taken it was from the heights of this mountain of waste.

However my understanding underwent another change the slag waste heap was not shown in another photograph as the same one taken in 2010. The puzzle of the original photograph remains unresolved.

The first photograph of this article also shows the hulk of buildings, brooding ominously above the village which, I as a child and into adulthood knew as the local hospital. But unbeknownst to me, in reality it had started as a “Workhouse”. In all the time that I had been living and growing up in the village I never heard it once mentioned, or reference made to the “Workhouse”. I know that people feared debt, destitution and homelessness — and the resulting “Workhouse” and all that it entailed. Perhaps that pervasive fear meant that people remained silent. One of the village characters was a Mr. Christmas who was left as a foundling on Christmas Day at the gates of the “Hospital” — he was give work as a kind of janitor and had accommodation in the Hospital where he lived and eventually died. His story was told to me as a child as I was curious about the stories of some of the odd characters who haunted the village like question marks without explanations…not once in relation to Mr. Christmas was there any mention of the workhouse although that was its function throughout my mother’s childhood up until the second world war.

Image for post
Foto credit: by kind permission of RCT Library Photo Archive.

The removal of the tips that towered over my grandfather’s and his sister’s house taking place when I was a child. The viewing point where I suspect the first foto in this article was taken And above the village the Hospital stands, the exact same buildings as the “Workhouse” — there is nothing like fear, fear to silence people, the greater the fear the greater the silence!

Image for post
Foto credit: by kind permission of RCT Library Photo Archive.

©robcullenMarch2020.

Image for post
Foto credit: unattributable

Resistance Poetry

Verse as Commentary

Rob Cullen

Rob Cullen artist, writer, poet. Rob runs “Voices on the Bridge” a poetry initiative in Wales. Walks hills and mountains daily with a sheep dog at his side.

Resistance Poetry

Resistance Poetry

Verse as Commentary

Bitter limp fruit

Image for post
The spoil of a coal waste heap credit ©robcullen2016

Rob CullenMar 18

Imagine fishermen labouring in a heavy swell
pulling in the trawl to find silver bitter limp fruit
entwined in the mesh of drip green nets,
the dead eyed souls of their own young children.
And we stay silent for our history is never told
silenced from the hour, the days, and the years
for we are edited out of the hours of our times.

Imagine coal miners hollowing out the seams,
men stripping coal a mile and more underground
and the hooters above ground call them away,
brought up into blink white light to see the black tip
the waste of their toils washed into the village,
spewed over the school where small children,
sang hymns and songs and were supposed to be safe.
And we stay silent for our history is never told
silenced from the hour, the days, and the years
for we are edited out of the hour of our times.

Imagine the trail of letters written foretelling concerns,
the dead nerved fears that a disaster would occur
and the NCB replies not days, not months but years later.
And on a grey fog filled October day after weeks of rain,
a small children’s school and a day of devastation,
exactly in the manner and the way foretold.
And imagine if no one was held to account,
and those families told make the slag heap safe
from the proceeds raised for the disaster fund.
And we stay silent for our history is never told
silenced from the hour, the days, and the years
for we are edited out of the hour of our times.

Imagine the miner, the father, the brother, the son,
looking out at the sprawl of waste they’d dug.
Imagine the mother, the sister, the daughter,
looking out at the grey listlessness of another day.
Of the silent keening, the numbed grieving,
of the impossibility of using words to describe.
And we stay silent for our history is never told,
silenced from the hour, the days, and the years
for we are edited out of the hour of our times.

Imagine the mothers bringing up children,
the happiness and hopes for the future.
Imagine the sisters who stayed off school.
Imagine the brothers too slow and were late.
Imagine the vacuum where a life had once been.
Imagine a young life where a vacuum is now.
And we have been silenced, our history just words
our fututre is silent and will never be told.
Silenced from the hour, silenced from all our days.
Silenced from the years, silenced from all that might have been.


©robcullen 10/10/2016.

This poem will be published in The Atlanta Poetry Review Spring 2020 Edition.

Footnote: The Aberfan Tribunalfound that repeated warnings about the dangerous condition of the tip had been ignored, and that colliery engineers at all levels had concentrated only on conditions underground. In one passage, the Report noted:

“We found that many witnesses … had been oblivious of what lay before their eyes. It did not enter their consciousness. They were like moles being asked about the habits of birds.”

In the House of Commons debate on the Inquiry Report it was asserted by the Government, on the advice of the NCB and supported by comments in the Tribunal report, that the remaining tips above Aberfan were not dangerous and did not warrant removal, estimated by the Tribunal to cost £3m, but merely required landscaping — a much cheaper option.

No NCB staff were ever demoted, sacked or prosecuted as a consequence of the Aberfan disaster or of evidence given to the Inquiry.

The government made a grant of £200,000 to the NCB towards the cost of removing the tips, and under “intolerable pressure” from the government, the Trustees of the Disaster Fund agreed to contribute £150,000.

10/10/ 2016

On 21 October, 1966 Tip No 7 which forms part of the main complex of tips at Aberfan slipped and descended upon part of the village killing 116 children and 29 adults.

The tragedy occurred just after nine o’clock in the morning under circumstances which apparently precluded the issue of warning. The presence of a mountain mist obscured the cascading torrent of slag so that, except for an ominous rumble, the villagers were unaware of the catastrophic fate which was about to overtake them. To make matters worse the roaring torrent burst the water main in the disused canal and several million gallons of water were released converting the slag into slurry or a muddy slime. Immediately in the path of the torrent was the junior school which was attended by pupils in the age range five to eleven years and classes had already begun. The school received the direct impact of the rolling mass and it was not long before the slurry found entry into the school through windows, doors and other apertures caused by the effect of the damage. Some account of what followed has been given by those who survived the disaster and it seems that, with the total unexpectedness of such an onslaught and the attendant delay in realising what was happening, there was naturally a time lag between the engulfing of the school and the attempts by those inside to escape or to take measures of safety.

Nearby was the senior school which was attended by pupils in the age range eleven to fifteen years. Little damage was done to this school where, in any case, it so happened that classes commenced later than those of the junior school. However, many of the senior school pupils were on their way to school when the avalanche of slurry descended, some of them were engulfed by the slurry and either trapped or injured by the floating debris which it had gathered up during its decent. Many houses were damaged or destroyed causing injury or death to their occupants and others who were in the vicinity.

The search for the injured and the dead continued for several days. Altogether 116 children died bereaving 99 families some which suffered multiple losses not only children but also of adults. In addition 28 adults were killed including the breadwinners of families and in cases persons who had assumed some measure of responsibility for certain of their relatives. Then there were the injured 29 children admitted to hospitals although many of these returned home within 24 hours, after receiving treatment, eight of them however suffered injuries which are likely to affect them the rest of their lives.

Source: United Kingdom Cabinet Office

Tip no. 7, which was 500 feet above the village of Aberfan, near Merthyr Tydfil, started to slide at 9.15 am. It was the last day before half-term at the Pantglas schools below. The valley was in low cloud, so that nobody saw the slide. Everybody heard it, but it was coming too fast to outrun. It first hit a farm, killing everybody in it. Then it engulfed Pantglas Junior School, killing 109 children and five teachers. Only a handful of the children aged between seven and ten survived. The tip comprised colliery waste, liquefied by the springs underneath. The liquefied flow slide of about 100,000 tons of slurry lost energy and solidified again after hitting the school and neighbouring houses. They were buried as completely as Pompeii. A total of 144 people died.

For 50 years up to 1966, millions of cubic metres of excavated mining debris from the National Coal Board’s Merthyr Vale Colliery were deposited on the side of Mynydd Merthyr, directly above the village of Aberfan. Huge piles, or “tips”, of loose rock and mining spoil had been built up over a layer of highly porous sandstone that contained numerous underground springs, and several tips had been built up directly over these springs. Although local authorities had raised specific concerns in 1963 about spoil being tipped on the mountain above the village primary school, these were largely ignored by the NCB’s area management.] Photographs, diagrams and an analysis of the 1966 flowslide, as well as locations of earlier slides at Aberfan are given in a paper by Prof. Alan Bishop.

Image for post
credit: Prof. Alan Bishop.

“Aberfan Colliery spoil tramway in 1964. The spoil heaps are at top left and the school is the red brick building at mid left

Early on the morning of Friday, 21 October 1966, after several days of heavy rain, a subsidence of about 3–6 metres (10–20 ft) occurred on the upper flank of colliery waste tip №7. At 9.15 am more than 150,000 cubic metres (5,300,000 cu ft) of water-saturated debris broke away and flowed downhill at high speed. It was sunny on the mountain but still foggy in the village, with visibility only about fifty metres (160 ft). The tipping gang working on the mountain saw the landslide start but were unable to raise the alarm because their telephone cable had been repeatedly stolen — although the official inquiry into the disaster later established that the slip happened so fast that a telephone warning would not have saved any lives.

The front part of the mass became liquefied and moved down the slope at high speed as a series of viscous surges. 120,000 cubic metres (4,200,000 cu ft) of debris were deposited on the lower slopes of the mountain, but a mass of over 40,000 cubic metres (1,400,000 cu ft) of debris smashed into the village in a slurry 12 metres (39 ft) deep.

The slide destroyed a farm and twenty terraced houses along Moy Road and slammed into the northern side of the Pantglas Junior School and part of the separate senior school, demolishing most of the structures and filling the classrooms with thick mud and rubble up to 10 metres (33 ft) deep. Mud and water from the slide flooded many other houses in the vicinity, forcing many villagers to evacuate their homes.

The pupils of Pantglas Junior School had arrived only minutes earlier for the last day before the half-term holiday. The teachers had just begun to record the children’s attendance in the registers when a great noise was heard outside. They were in their classrooms when the landslide hit: the classrooms were on the side of the building nearest the landslide.

Nobody in the village was able to see it, but everyone could hear the roar of the approaching landslide. Some at the school thought it was a jet about to crash and one teacher ordered his class to hide under their desks. Gaynor Minett, then an eight-year-old at the school, later recalled:

It was a tremendous rumbling sound and all the school went dead. You could hear a pin drop. Everyone just froze in their seats. I just managed to get up and I reached the end of my desk when the sound got louder and nearer, until I could see the black out of the window. I can’t remember any more but I woke up to find that a horrible nightmare had just begun in front of my eyes.

After the landslide there was total silence. George Williams, who was trapped in the wreckage, remembered:

“In that silence you couldn’t hear a bird or a child.”

NB:From the Records of the Aberfan Disaster Inquiry.Resistance Poetry

Verse as Commentary

Written by

Rob Cullen

Rob Cullen artist, writer, poet. Rob runs “Voices on the Bridge” a poetry initiative in Wales. Walks hills and mountains daily with a sheep dog at his side.

Resistance Poetry

Resistance Poetry

Verse as Commentary

Voting for war

Rob CullenMar 15

Image for post
foto©robcullen2016

So they’ve voted for our safety to go to war
And the dead are walking the land once more
And the dead are standing again at the door
Standing there, looking, waiting once more

They were the ones who went before to the war
Now they’re standing waiting for the ones
Going where they’ve been so many times before
Waiting, waiting for the dead to return once more.

And the dead are standing again at the door
Standing there looking, waiting once more.


©robcullen2016Resistance Poetry

Verse as Commentary

Written by

Rob Cullen

Rob Cullen artist, writer, poet. Rob runs “Voices on the Bridge” a poetry initiative in Wales. Walks hills and mountains daily with a sheep dog at his side.

Resistance Poetry

Resistance Poetry

Verse as Commentary