River Taff in spate
Just imagine if every river had an electric generator on every weir!
Drowning
Drowning
I felt the shove
At my back
And tried to turn
To find something
Firm to hold
To prevent my fall
That’s when I saw you
And my breath
Gave out
Hitting the water
But then the sinking began
The dragging down
By my wet clothes weight
Into the depths
I felt the deepening cold
Of lake water
Enter my body
And the fear too
Uncontrollable shivering
Is never
Pleasant
I sank slowly
The surface
The light
Dimming
It was the slowness
That frightened me
I needed to free myself
Of the weight
That drew me into darkness
Shedding clothes
That gripped my body
The barrier
Between life and air
There have been
More recent times
When falling into darkness
And the gut twisting
Feelings of despair
And the coldness of fear
And it was the need to let go
That saved me
And the urge
To grasp life
And head for the light.
Matahara
Matahara
This morning I stopped
to listen to a robin singing
in the tall birch tree
that overhangs our garden.
It is mid-August in Wales
but the robin’s singing
was the wistful and shrill
notes of an October song.
And it’s on cold clear
mornings like this
that I am reminded
of a small town
called Matahara
in the Rift valley
A lorry stop
on the badly cambered
rutted out road
from Addis to Djhibuti.
And of staying overnight
in the old school
over-shadowed by the cauldera
of Mount Fantalle
And woken by the sounds
of camels and the shouts
and whistles of men
returning safely again
from the long search
for nourishing pasture
emerging through
the rising dust
that shrouded and gauzed
the clear light of morning.
The sight of a man
running and carrying
a new born camel
on his shoulders.
And the sounds
of the joy of children
welcoming the men
their fathers, uncles
and brothers safely
back to their homes
All this will stay with me
for the time allowed
as I hear that the rains
have failed again.
RAC
Published in “Uncertain Times” Octavo Press 2016.
A blue dark shawl
A dark blue shawl
The evenings grow
Dark and cold
Even though
Its midsummer
So I gather
An Ethiopian shawl
Round my shoulders.
I feel weariness strain
In my neck and arm
And the need to rest
But the struggle continues
To keep this openness
To listen and hear
And remember
What we learned
From another
People and place
That will remain
Forever close
To my heart.
Karrayyuu people
We cross arms.
The 2016 Welsh Mental Health Arts Festival is looking really good!
So pleased to be taking part!
Uncertain Times
Carol White Film maker Director of Red Flannel “Welsh Mam” reviewed my book “Uncertain Times” – The poems range from the deeply personal to bitter social comment. The language is direct, sparse and honed. Vivid but with nothing overwritten, for a book of poetry… actually a page turner.
About me.
About me.
One night like most nights
Making the long drive home
From working with a damaged child
Somewhere down the road.
My mobile rang and I listened
To Denver’s soft whispered voice
“Hi can I ask you a question?”
“You know you always can.”
“What do you want to ask me?”
Silence just the sound of the road
So I said “What’s the question Denver?”
She said “It’s kind of hard to explain.”
“Go ahead anyway I’m listening
I have plenty of time just ask away”
In a slow voice I heard a little girl say
“Can I have a blood transfusion?”
“I don’t want my blood anymore”.
I asked her to explain so Denver replied
“She told me my dad isn’t my dad
My blood will prove he isn’t my dad.”
“So if I get my blood taken out
And have my dad’s blood put in
They won’t take me away from him”.
Denver was 9 years old today.
She was asleep when her naked
Raving drunken mother broke in
And in a hate filled rage
Killed the pets of the children.
She explained her mother phoned
For her birthday with the news
“Your dad isn’t your dad
He’s somebody you don’t know”.
“But Rob” Denver said
“My dad’s really my real dad.
He’s been there forever.
He’s the only one I’ve known.”
“If I have his blood
They won’t take me away.”
She sighed when she heard me say
“I won’t let them take you away.”
Sequel
I met Denver’s dad today
He smiled when he saw me
Shook my hand and said
Denver’s grown she’s OK
She’s working
And living her life
After a childhood
Straight out of hell
Ten years before
He came asking for help
Somehow it doesn’t
Feel that long to me now.
And the memory of that child
Her struggles with such pain
It’s still so strong I can feel it
But I also see her smile again.
And before he bade me good bye
He thanked me for the advice
And the quiet words to reassure
His small lost child who phoned
Because she knew she could
At times when her worries grew
Too much for her heart to take
And now Denver’s growing too.
From my poetry collection “Time to Heal”.
RAC.
I don’t understand
I don’t understand
I don’t understand the reason
I watch and listen
I’m confused by people
As they stand up straight
In front of the cross
And mouth the words
Of the hymnal and still insist
This is a Christian nation
And I am left in a state
Of wondering in that way
That I frequently find
That leads me to question.
Does Christ’s teaching
Mean absolutely nothing?
Or have no significance at all?
For the self-professed Christian
When they declare that war
Is necessary and can’t be avoided
Even when warmongers are born again
I shouldn’t be surprised or confused.
It was another war in another time
And I remember listening then
To the same rationale
The need to defend ourselves
From a threat by a nation so poor
It couldn’t feed itself let alone
Pay for bullets, bombs and planes.
And I watched that older generation
Mouth the same words, the same
Hymns insisting the need for war
As they raised themselves from prayer
And moved their lips to the “Our father”.
It was enough to set me walking
From the stalls of the choir
And turn my back on the mouthing
Of words without grace or meaning
I’ll say it again I’m confused by people
But perhaps the blame lies with me
For this perpetual confusion
Maybe I expect too much of others.
And as Billie that crooked boned
Hedge layer once said “You know
People never change” with an absence
Of a critical tone but he looked at me
Hard all the same, holding my eyes
To see whether I’d heard his meaning.
From the poetry collection “Time to Heal”.
RAC.
Sequel
A good friend said
I read your work
And burst into tears
when I read about
the friend we shared
in those days
in art college
and her dying
in that way
in 1972.
A good friend remembered.
