Publishing – Page 5

Giulio Regeni Disappeared

Posted on November 8, 2017 by celfypridd

So I posted a poem!

Giulio Regeni Disappeared

On 25th January 2016 Giulio Regeni disappeared?

And nine days later as if by magic reappeared.

Words like disappeared seem so utterly stupid

as if the torturers and killers didn’t know then and now

who I was, where I was, and what they’d done to me

over those long hours, of those nine days and nights.

Now in the silence I will speak about me and them.

three times you broke my bones, and tore the nails

from my feet, and my hands and please forgive me

I confess I fully lost count of the number of times

you burnt me with cigarettes. Did you forget?

and you punctured my body with stab wounds.

and how could I overlook the sparks and electrodes

on my genitals, after all I was a man among you men

and then you severed my spine with that final blow.

And so you took my life. Another of those stupid phrases

but the torturers and executioners have many lives.

So many lives. Far too many for me to describe.

Imagine them with their wives and their children

with all that blood and gore, my blood washed

and cleansed, as they handle their daughters, sons,

mothers too. The intimate way they touch their wives.

How are they clean and free from all that stains them?

How do they forget what it felt like holding me down?

Of the sound of my breathing, of the smell of my sweat

as they strapped me and held me down. Is it forgotten?

Let’s agree not to call them monsters and demons.

Shall we? They are brothers, fathers, uncles, sons.

if we make them different, we act and conspire

to make them special, different to the rest of us.

Making them different provides an excuse for us

to say too that we would not do what they did or do

when in fact they are like us, all of us, me and you.

A sickness has been unleashed on this earth, this world.

Humans look at what you are, and all of what you do.

On 25th January 2016 Giulio Regeni disappeared.

The executioners reality was – he was in plain view!

I received a message from his mother asking whether I knew Giulio. Totally humbled.

Please if you read this post make it your business to get behind demands from the Egyptian Government to provide an explanation for the torture and death of Giulio an academic studying in Cambridge. And murdered in Egypt.

Think of his mother grieving for her son!

Voices on the Bridge – The lull!

Posted on November 6, 2017November 6, 2017 by celfypridd

I’m so pleased to have the following poets and musicians perform at Voices On the Bridge!

This is a free event supported by Pontypridd Museum!

Come put your feet up in a relaxed evening – who knows we need them in the lull!

Giles L. Turnbull is a blind poet living in South Wales. His poetry and articles have appeared with Rockland, Fair Acre Press, Corncrake Magazine, Poetry Wales, Sabotage, and in anthologies by Disability Arts Cymru and Nine Arches Press. His poem, Pooh Sticks, was shortlisted in the 2016 Live Canon International Poetry Competition and he was shortlisted in the Bridport in 2017. His debut pamphlet, Dressing Up, was published by Cinnamon Press in January 2017.

Rebecca Parfitt’s debut poetry collection, The Days After, was published in April 2017. She is a recipient of the Hay Festival Writers at Work residency. She is also founder and editor of the Ghastling, a magazine devoted to horror and the macabre.

Cara Gwen is a bilingual musician and artist from South Wales and a recent graduate from the University of Oxford. Her poetry is influenced by the landscape, politics and folklore of her home.

Rufus Mufasa is a literary activist and lyrical genre hopper who has travelled and toured profusely but always returns to Pontypridd, which she has made her home. Rufus’ work explores a cocktail of disciplines, the avant-garde “ness” of multilingualism, the threading of ancestry, filled with hope and heart. New school call her rapper, old school call her chanter, but she adores her newest title, mother, and is drunk on the lessons it brings, and how it has made her an even stronger dutiful daughter to our planet.

Mike Jenkins Retired Comp teacher, lives in Merthyr. Conducts creative writing workshops for children and adults. Co-editor of Red Poets magazine for 22 years. Winner of Wales Book of the Year for short story collection ‘Wanting to Belong'(Seren). Book of poetry ‘Nobody’s Subject’ (BBTS). Latest book is poetry in Merthyr vernacular, Sofa Surfin.( Carreg Gwalch).

Rob Cullen studied at Bristol and Cardiff art colleges and lived in New York and Brighton. Rob was an expert to the criminal and family courts. He retired in 2012. His short story The Choice was published in an anthology A Fall into Grace in 2015. Rob has written short stories published in Ystrad Stories related to the paintings of Ernie Zobole. His poems have been published in the online magazines I AM NOT A SILENT POET, The Learned Pig, The Bezine. A collection of poetry “Uncertain Times” was published in 2016. He is currently being mentored by a publisher on a novel “Imaginary Beaches”. Rob has also recently collaborated with the photographer Jon Pountney on a film “Beachcombing” providing words and voice over. www.celfypridd.wordpress.com

Mike Church is a radio talk show host, and singer/songwriter. In 2006 Church was named to Askmen.com‘s list of the “Top Ten Shock Jocks in America. He has been called “The Most Radical Man on the Radio”, and has been called the “The King Dude” by listeners since 2001.The Mike Church Show was the first-ever produced talk show on Sirius Satellite Radio . Prior to its cancellation in October, 2015, Church’s show was the longest-running program on satellite radio. His final live show on Sirius XM aired on the morning of Tuesday, October 27, 2015.Church is also credited with creating a library of original conservative-themed parody songs, which include “Manuel Went Down To Georgia,” “There’s Democrats Somewhere” and “Obama,” a take on the Toto classic, “Rosanna.” Most recently, Church’s “Mr. Jefferson,” became a hit song and video. A rendition of the Simon & Garfunkel classic, “Mrs. Robinson,” Church’s “Mr. Jefferson” racked up nearly 200,000 views on YouTube.com – in the first week of release alone. The song was also tapped as the theme song for hundreds of “Tax Day Tea Party” rallies across the country. These can be found online.His show was aired on SIRIUS XM Patriot, SIRIUS and XM channel 125 Monday through Friday from 6:00 am – 9:00 am Eastern time. Shows were generally aired live, with an occasional rebroadcast of a previous show. The show was also later rebroadcast on SIRIUS XM Patriot Plus, SIRIUS 816 and XM 138 from 12 midnight to 3 am Eastern time. His show was broadcast live from self-supported studios in Mandeville, Louisiana, a suburb of New Orleans.

Eric Ngalle Charles was born in Buea, Cameroon on the 29th November 1979. It has a taking me over sixteen years to be able to write about the various incidents that took place back home in my small village of Wovilla, in Buea, Cameroon. Eric became a victim of human trafficking and ended up with a one way student visa to Russia instead of Belgium. He is a poet, dramatist and novelists based in Cardiff/Wales. He runs Black Entertainment Wales, an Arts organisation that provides a platform for artists in the BMEs communities to showcase their work. Since his arrival in Wales, he edited and published Between a Mountain and a Sea, Soft Touch, Nobody’s Perfect, and Festival of the Wolves – poetry anthologies by refugees, other migrants and indigenous artists in collaboration with Hafan books and Dr Tom Chessman. Eric’s first play, My Mouth Brought Me Here, was showcased at Encampment in London Southbank on the 4th of August 2016 and was again performed at the Hay Festival on the 30th of May 2017. Eric’s plays are based around his poetry and proverbs from cultures that exist on the periphery.

Julie Griffin Pritchard is known as the walking poet, she grew up in Ely, Cardiff but now lives in the beautiful Rhymney Valley. Julie is a published performance poet and has read and performed her poetry throughout Wales, England, Ireland, Spain and France. Recently she walked Hadrian’s Wall alone and performed her poetry in Northumberland.

“Spirit Cracked not Broken” Is her 3^rd collection of poetry.

“Writing about abuse does not erase the memory, it lays, the emotion surrounding the memory to rest”

“Spirit Cracked not Broken is pretty amazing, Julie. I felt your voice so strong in the images and words. So powerful. Raw. Honest. Brutally honest. It is true poetry – you took me on a journey. Into a life. Into darkness. Into glittering smiles and braking hearts. “ Poet and Playwright Patrick Jones

She founded and established Rhyme and Real Ale (RARA) Creator and host of Poetry open mic at the Capel and chair of Rhymney Valley Literature and Art festival.

To know more about Julie please look at www.pritchardjulie5.wordpress.com

Mark Curtis has been a familiar face at spoken word events in and around Cardiff for the past 2 years though he has been writing for much longer. As a former Samaritan volunteer who has battled depression since childhood, Mark seeks to raise awareness and understanding of mental health issues through his poetry and performance. His poetry has been published both online and in print, and he is determined 2017 will be the year his long delayed first collection appears. He may even finish his debut novel. Stranger things happen all the time but don’t hold your breath just yet!

Hope to see you on the night good people!

SOS from the frontier

Posted on October 22, 2017 by celfypridd

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Forty years of denial, obstruction and frustration.

Our lives are brief, a mere fluttering in time.

So open the door wide and let the light in!

Excerpt from SOS from the Frontier.

Published in Rob Cullen’s poetry collection “Uncertain Times” 2016 Octavo.

Where are where we were…no surprises!

Posted on October 20, 2017 by celfypridd

Memories of Vigils

Listening to Rachmaninov’s Vespers at Christmas

brought you back into my thoughts from those days

when you were fifteen and expecting your first child.

And you were too frightened to fall asleep

so I sat with you and whiled away the night hours,

playing cards and telling you those old stories.

Night after night from December through to March

of what it was like to grow up in the village as a child

and as we talked the boys would slide into your room

Instead of prowling the streets and alleys like wolves

blowing their heads off with petrol, gas and glue,

and they listened too and laughed as I told you

Of places I’d been to and those Manhattans night views,

of exploring the walkways and hidden stairs and floors

of Grand Central Station New York in the early hours explorations

Of that quiet time before dawn when the night crew

sat around yawning or folded asleep at their desks.

The crazy stories of the village and old Digger Young

And his fight to get away from the awakening dead.

And the boys soon fell asleep on the floor but you

sat up wanting more of those childhood stories .

More of the kind that made you laugh you said.

And you told me your stories too, of North Wales

and the homes and what you had been through.

And you cried now and then. And asked do you

believe me? Do you believe what I’ve said they did?

And I told you I did. I believed you. You cried again.

And then you said quietly I think I can sleep now.

And then one night you looked at me and said

I must be bad for those men to treat me like that

In the way that they did. And you asked me

Do you think I’m bad? I mean really bad?

Is there a sign on my head that says about me

Anyone can do whatever they want with me.

I told you that there are bad men and yes

they do bad things and they did that to you.

But what they did didn’t make you bad at all.

It says more about them than it says about you.

And then you told your story over and over again

To the social workers, their managers and the police.

And they decided you and the rest were just lying

And through the nights that followed I listened

To your anger and the pain of feeling betrayed again

and again and again and again and again and again.

Years later you wrote a letter saying you remembered.