Just imagine if every river had an electric generator on every weir!
Roofied
Roofied
Twisted sheets,
Egyptian cotton,
pin me.…
my body
collected, studied,
by a face
I don’t know,
although
Its owner has been
here all night.
Has pressed
his weight
into the hollow
of the bed,
and me
underneath,
still as a fawn
caught
in the sights.
He stretches,
hung over,
brushes the nape
of my neck,
wants breakfast,
and my number,
like it never happened.
Yesterday
I went for a drink.
Yesterday …
I struggle …
Yesterday …
I struggle …
to remember.
By the poet Cath Campbell.
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!
SLAUGHTERHOUSE 2016
Khalpe
It is called Aleppo now
Halaba of the silk road
That whiteness
Of marble
Of the white soils
And now death descends from the air
In barrels
Filled with chemicals
Or those bomblets
Frozen figures
The murderous rage
Of a dictator
Backed by another
Who wants to stake a claim
Putin your hands run with blood
And your eyes are filled
With the lies and denial
That tyrants always make
The inhumanity
Is describable
The bombs fall
On hospitals
Even the dying are not safe
This grotesque re-enactment
Of the butchery of the
Basque people
Of Guernica, of Lidice and Lezaky
There are so many more
Testament to the barbarity
That humans unleash
And the useless statements of poets
And artists
Who talk endlessly of shame
Even my old tailor
From the Penygraig Cooperative Society
Trevor Powell by name
Made his way to Spain to fight
While the great powers looked on
With indifference
While totalitarian regimes
Destroyed a generation of lives
We need to walk the streets
Make it plain
Make our voices heard
And don’t stop!
Never stop!
Until this barbarism is brought to an end!
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.
. debate three .
so we chat and laugh, listen to the radio. a british voice, mainly black and white. we swapped jokes, and wondered if they laughed at hitler. at one point . give pots,…
Source: . debate three .
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.
Celfypridd 