Letter to a Ghost
Letter to a Ghost Had I not dreamed your death, I would have praised this day. Your name rests in a wooden box on a desk in a room far away and twice as old as we were then. My penance in this phas…
Source: Letter to a Ghost
A Square that was never a square. Perhaps?
Farewell Davey!
Within the fire and out upon the sea
Crazy Man Michael was walking
He met with a raven with eyes black as coals
And shortly they were a-talking
Your future, your future, I would tell to you
Your future, you often have asked me
Your true love will die by your own right hand
And Crazy Man Michael will cursed be
Michael he ranted and Michael he raved
And beat at the four winds with his fists, oh
He laughed and he cried, he shouted and he swore
For his mad mind had trapped him with a kiss, oh
You speak with an evil, you speak with a hate
You speak for the devil that haunts me
For is she not the fairest in all the broad land?
Your sorcerer’s words are to taunt me
He took out his dagger of fire and of steel
And struck down the raven through the heart, oh
The bird fluttered long and the sky it did spin
And the cold earth did wonder and start, oh
Oh, where is the raven that I struck down dead
That here did lie on the ground, oh?
I see but my true love with a wound so red
Where her lover’s heart it did pound, oh
Crazy Man Michael, he wanders and walks
And talks to the night and the day, oh
But his eyes they are sane and his speech it is clear
And he longs to be far away, oh
Michael, he whistles the simplest of tunes
And asks of the wild woods their pardon
For his true love is flown into every flower grown
And he must be keeper of the garden
Read more: Fairport Convention – Crazy Man Michael Lyrics | MetroLyrics
Who do you tell?
Who do you tell?
How can you tell when a place
has no soul?
It’s not really a hard question
to answer
I just think count the number
of people
Who if you stopped to ask
the question
Would try to just tick the box
don’t know.
I pay tribute again/East Coast Tribute (excerpt).
I pay tribute again/East Coast Tribute
Recalling Browne’s
For a Dancer
I’m not sure
what it is
about these days
that reminds
me about those times
on the East Coast
and of that Christmas
in 73.
Lets talk about poverty not austerity (excerpt)
I watched Joseph Beuys and his coyote
I didn’t get it. But I got Dusseldorf.
Do you know what I’m talking about?
A square that was never a square when it was a tram stop!
A Square that was never a square
Ernie Zobole and the Square.
In the beginning there was no square it was just a tram stop. Later on there was a “zebra crossing” on Partridge Square. There were no zebras. The tips overlooking Ynyscynon and Pontrhondda stood higher than the houses. A street lamp stood in the centre of a square that was never a square. The old tin shed Saint Cynon’s Church on one corner never stood on the corner of the square that was never a square. And some people of the square were strangers to reality too. Old man Christmas, a foundling left at the workhouse door that loomed over the square was given a job, lived and died in the place he’d been found that became a hospital. Hospitable. Poor mad Mansel stood directing traffic until he caused too many accidents and was taken away. “Nancy” boy Lewis 6 foot 6 inches and size 6 shoes. A retired copper of a gay persuasion ran the grocery shop on one corner and wrong changed you with a smile. Jack Fish the betting office next door with its black and white sign for dog biscuits on the pine end wall and opaque windows preventing wives looking in to see their husbands laying bets with the milk money. Prim and proper Owen’s Grocers on the other corner and everything weighed to the exact ounce by the thin hands of Deunwen. And the mock Chinese pagoda bus shelter complete with ladies and gents toilets absent too. A square named after a bird that nobody had ever seen on a square that was never a square. In reality a legendary provocation to the tyranny of perspective.
Rob Cullen
No answer
No answer.
I was awake sitting upright in darkness
Listening to the sound of spitting rain
hitting the skylights darkened pane
from the rhythm of my hearts racing
I knew that something had happened
that feeling in my gut of hopelessness
And I heard you say “Is it Tourette’s
The way you shout in your sleep”
And it was that waking time again
when nightmares and terrors reign
calling me from dreams so deep
It’s a kind of Russian roulette.
The dream felt as if it was real
as if it was really happening
as if I hadn’t been here before.
But it was the same time, same hour
that same real body feeling
sweating, heart beating. Real.
I was shouting out loud again
that noise echoing in my brain.
That noise that crunching sound.
That noise of steel being ground
brought me out of my sleep
Sweating, heart beating. Real.
Celfypridd 