SWALLOWS/GWENOLIAD - Menna Elfyn

Fe ddeallwn wenoliad,
briwsion ar fwrdd yr ardd,
yn llygad y drws.
Deallwn eu llwgu,
eu hawydd i dorri bara a ni.

Ac onid adar ydym ninnau,
adar nid o'r unlliw?
Eto'r entrych yw'r encil,
unigedd yn pigo'r pridd.

Ac ym mhob ffurfafen
mae mudo, cymysgu
a'r ddaear am nodded.
Fforddoloion ar aden,
eu clwyfo gan hanes,
yn chwilio o'r newydd, nyth,
man gwyn i orffwys.

Yr adar, a'u plu cynness?
Dylent gofio yr heb-ogion,
yn seri'r tir,
yn chwilio'r tir comin.

Un wen, a wna wanwyn,
un wnnol yn llunio'r haf.

Bird we understand,
spend crumbs in garden,
at back-door's eye;
undertand their need
to break bread with us.

And are we not birds who
don't always flock together?
The sky a high refuge,
lonely, knowing we'll land, meet
beak's needs, at heartbreak

And in every firmament
migrators mingle, mixing
heaven and earth for shelter,
wayfarers a-wing,
histories' hurted,
seeking anew a nest,
a fair resting-place.

So those birds, warm-feathered,
should remember the withouters
scouring the soil
in search of common ground.

One smile a spring,
one swallow making summer.

ROUGH GUIDE - Grahame Davies

Mae'n digwydd yn anorfod,
fel dwr yn dod o hyd i'w lefel,
ond bob tro yr agoraf lawlyfr teithio
'rwy'n hwylio heibio'r prifddinasoedd a'r golygfeydd,
ac yn tyrchu i stydoedd cefn diolwg y mynegai,
a chael fy mod yn Ffrainc, yn Llydaw;
yn Seland Newydd, Maori;
yn y Unol Daleithiau - yn dibynnu ar ba ran-
'rwy'n Navajo, Yn Cazun, neu'n ddu

Y fi yw'r Cymro Crwydr;
yn Iddew ymhob man.
Heblaw, wrth gwrs, am Israel.
Yno, 'wy'n Baleteiniad.

Mae'n rhyw fath o gymhlethdod, mae'n rhaid,
fy mod yn codi'r grachen ar fy psyche fel hyn.
Mi dybiaf weithiau sut beth a fyddai
i fynd i un o'r llefydd hyn
a jyst mwynhau.

Ond na, wrth grwydro cyfandiroedd y cyfrolau
yr un yw'r cwestiwn ym mhorthladd pb pennod:
"Dinas neis. 'Nawr blw nae'r geto?"

It happens inevitably,
like water finding its level:
evey time I open a trvel book,
I sail past the capitlal cities, the sights,
and dive straight into the backstreets of the index
to find that in France, Im Breton;
in New Zealand, Maori;
in the U.S.A.- depending on which part-
I'm Navajo, Cajun, or black.

I'm the wandering Welshman
I'm Jewish everywhere.
Except, of course, in Israel.
There, I'm Palestinian.

It's some kind of a complex, I know,
that makes me pick this scab on my psyche.
I wonder sometimes what it would be like
to go to these places
and just enjoy.

No, as I wander the continents of the guidebooks,
whatever chapter may be my destination,
the question's always the same when I arrive:
"Nice city. Now where's the ghetto?"
d

8 Englynion

MEIRIONETH

Living paradise of flowers, land of honey, land of violet and blossoms,
land rich in crops, land of nut-bushes, and dear land of the hills,
John Machreth Rees ( MACHRETH)

HEATHER FLOWERS

Gaily they grow, the quiet throng, fair gems of the realm of sun and wind, the hanging bells of the high crags, flowers of the rocks, like cups of honey.

Eliseus Williams (Eifion Wyn) 1867-1926


THE POLE STAR

A lamp are you, above all stars of night, to guide sailors in the dusk;
lovely is your colour, sweet maid, standing in the doorway of the pole.

Colsett Colsett (Carnelian) 1834-1910


NIGHTFALL

Silence by the dark night; Eryri's
mountains veiled by mist;
The sun in the bed of brine,
The moon silvering the water.

Walter Davies (Gwalter Mechain) 1761-1849


EAVES

Giving, while the rain lasts, soft noises
Like a thousand being milked;
When the roof's thick with ice,
under it, strange teats appear.

Ellis Jones, 20th century


THE BELOVED

A fair cheek under a merry blue eye, two brows
Under a lattice of yellow curls;
For sure the sons of heaven were called
To splinter the gold for her hair.

David Roberts (Dewi Havhesp) 1831-1884


AN OLD WOMAN

Scant and straggling her yellow hair, from her lip
The bee's honey has fled;
Withered and poor is the white skin,
Briars insted of roses.

D.Gwenallt Jones (Gwenallt) 1899-1968

THE HOUR OF SLEEP

The hour of sleep has come silently, the hour of forgetfulness,
over the ranks of being,
A drowsy hour on the heavy shore
Of the sea men call mortality.

Robert Ellis (Cynddelw) 1812-1875

A CHRISTMAS REVEL - Daffyd Bach ap Madog Wladaidd ( 1340 - 1390 )

I have seen a court, and a dozen courts,
And no court have I seen as gracious
As the court I love for its chieftain's sake,
Not weak is my praise, like Celligwen:
Heaven's bounty on earth in Bachelldref,
Where there is a revel each Christmas,
A crowd of kinsmen, a lake of liquor,
Bright the honour of Meurig's homeland,
Many a minstel and merry fiddler,
And much the mirth on a polished floor,
And a sound of strigs, a deluge of drinks,
And the constant cadence of singing,
And a red-hued lance of Cadwaladr's line,
A blood-gushing blade, promise of meat,
And minstrels' swaying, and children chirping,
And the bustle of boys bringing food,
The cup-bearer weary, kitchen sore-tried,
And three kinds of wine for the thirsty.
Three customs there are, a merry country,
At Daffyd's hight court, blameless boldness:
Whoever you are, whatever you sing,
And whatever the thing you're known for,
Come whenever you wish, take what you see,
And once come, stay as long as you like.




SEASONS GREETINGS EVERYBODY, PEACE AND GOODWILL TOO
UNLESS YOUR A FASCIST ******* THEN **** YOU

REFUGEES - Vernon Scannell (23/1/22 -16/11/07)

British poet, author, one time professional boxer, WW11 deserter, honory Gypsy and Anarchist.

In dusk of helmet brims the eye looks stern,
Unwavering; no matter what they see
Or where they gaze- Bluff Cove, Thermopylae,
Kuwait, The Somme - the pillaged cities burn,
And when the owners of those eyes return
And put away their weapons there will be
An alien music in a harsher key,
New words and syntax difficult to learn.

Wars never end. Across the livid plain
The dark processions trail, the refugees,
Anonymous beneath indifferent skies,
Somnambulistic, patient shapes of pain,
Long commentary on war, an ancient frieze
Of figures we refuse to recognise.

happy winter solstice.

Counting the possible ring of years
on this the shortest day
every thousand years a bird flickers past
and announces, all is not lost
reach out for another shore
quietly and slowly dive.
Snow flakes embrace the moon
finding the same root as us under branches,
breathe the air as needed, look to the stars,
in the evening be at peace among friends,
The earth still breathing
wonder at it's sacredness,
doubtless there will be storm clouds brewing,
the taste of future days to behold
all in the end must come true,
words will not fail us.
Life's mystery, there now
runs silently and deep.
We try to soar above
reaching out,rejuvenating
Let us Sing out

PEACE

HEDDWCH

Choose now gentle
rejoicing.

THE SNOWALL -Gwerfyl Mechain (1460-1500)

Brecon Beacons

White flour, earth-flesh, a cold fleece on the mountain, small snow of
the chill black day; snow like a platter, bitter cold plumage, a softness
sent to entrammel me.
White snow on the cold hill above has blinded me and soaked my clothes.
By the blessed God! I had no hope I should ever get to my house.


THE HOSTESS OF THE FERRY INN

I keep the custom of the ferry, a tavern none can blame, a white-
robed moon giving sweet welcome to him that comes with silver.
'Tis my desire to be, to all men's content, a faultless world to my
guests, and to sing among them in familiar converse as I pour out
the mead



Note :- Gwerfyl Mechain was a poetess, and so a " rara avis " of the Welsh fifteenth century. What we know of her life would hardly fill a wren's egg. She has been credited with a number of avidly sexual poems, but this is to add the unknowable to the unknown.

STEWART HOME - Excerpt from Sixty Years Of Treason ( Neoism, Plagiarism & Praxis, 1995).

Today, anyone who wants to write a book that's worthwhile has to write
it themselves. No one who fears new ideas need be afraid of the lifeless
commodities thrown onto the mass market by those publishing houses active
in Britain. Newspaper and magazine sales have been completely stitched up
by Smiths and Menzies, they control the vast majority of the trade, their retail
outlets are unimportant, it's their stranglehold on distribution that counts.
Book production is no different, a few conglomerates own virtually every-
thing. They throw one Martin Amis imitator at us after another, and hype this
garbage as the future of English Fiction. This is a joke, English fiction has no
future. Subversive ideas would certainly sell, but don't expect to find them in
your local high street, any analysis of books on terrorism and spookery quickly
reveals that non-market forces set the agenda in British publishing.

Maybe you've been knocking around for years and the literary establishmen'ts
stone-walling of your work hasn't succeeded in getting you to shut the fuck up.
No problem! A major publisher will buy you up, put out your new book and then
get cold feet. It's a self-fulfilling prophesy, how could the book sell if it
wasn't promoted or given proper distribution? Bought up or left in the cold,
history will prove us right. Those so called "writers" and "editors" currently stuffing their faces at literary luncheons will be forgotten in a few years time.
We know it, they know it, and this is why they're so vociferous in their attitude
toward talent. The literary establishment is eaten up with tension, with frustration, at not being talented, at not being capable of pleasure of any kind, eaten up with hate - not rational hate that is directed at those who abuse, insult
and enslave - but irrational, indiscriminate hate; hatred, at bottom, of their own worthlessness.

The crippled minds who support the dominant culture value decorum and good taste
precisely because they are incapable of understanding " ugliness " as anything
other than a mirror image of their own deformed intellects. The literary establishment hates the sterility of the writers it promotes and so it projects
this quality onto progressive cultural tendencies. However, the dominant
" culture " eventually becomes so desperate for an infusion of fresh blood that someone whose work has long been the subject of irrational hatred among the
" literati " will suddenly be invited onto the subsidised gravy train of luncheons, readings, residencies, lectureships and grants. The young dog taken up by these vampires will be bled dry in three weeks, leaving official " culture " as sick as ever. The zombies who promote traditional literary values are incapable of facing the fact that their every last thought is a conditioned reflex, entirely determined by past experience, it's much worse than suffering from halitosis, thes people have a corpse in their mouth.

Our most pressing task is to bury this " culture " of mediocrity.

WINTER -Welsh, author unknown; c. eleventh century

sharp wind
stark hill
scant shelter
unforded ford
frozen lake
a single stem
would bear a man
wave on wave
drowns the shore
high cries
from the steep slope
hard even to stand
for a man outside
cold lakebed
before the winter
reeds withered
stalks broken
harsh wind
branches bare
cold bed of fishes
under ice cover
starved stag
bearded reeds
short evening
trees bent
falling snow
white cloak
warriors make
no foray
cold lake
of warmthless colour
falling snow
idle shield
hoar frost
idle shield
on a spent man's shoulder
shrill wind
grass freezing
falling snow
on the skin of the ice
billowing wind
through close trees
a shield sits well
on a well man's shoulder
falling snow
the valley fills
warriors go to war
but I shall not go
a wound forbids it

Patrick Jones - Poet Provocateur

Patrick Jones ( born 1965 ) is a Welsh political performance poet , playwright, activist and filmaker based in Blackwood, South Wales . A poet of our times, controversial, provocative , unflinching in his use of words, an uncompromising no to apathetic acceptance . He writes from the heart, with passion and integrity. Asking questions that a lot of people are afraid to talk about. He seems to want to tear down walls and divisions, and replace them with a better vision.
There have been decades of gradual opening out of media to open discussions on Iraq/Afghanistan War, sexual equality, oppression yet in recent times there has been a closing down of religious discussion.
It is not very politically correct to be an anti religious poet, which is what Patrick is, but he is foremost a poet of humanity, with all it's despair and ugliness. He reflects the closing down of dissent, is not afraid to stick his head over the trenches. Who remembers Thomas Moore, who are the new martyrs on either side. Remember People are still killing in the name of a God, we are in the age of basic new crusades.
Does centuries of struggling for womens liberation - political women's freedom and the right to vote mean we cannot now reach out to the Eastern World, to free their women from slavery, no vote, no education, no career, no equal property rights.
Patrick screams about such injustices as these, whether from a Western perspective or an Eastern one.
Here is a poet that actually challenges and confronts fundamental religion in all its forms, he dares to have the courage to use language some people in the current climate are afraid to raise. A People's Poet of the dispossessed and disenfranchised, an angry voice reflecting these angry times. He refuses to be silenced, a Christian group calling itself "Christian Voice " have called for his works to be banned, vehementally attacking Patrick's work, they have tried unsuccessfully to silence him. A disgusting symptom of reactionary Britain, if one does not enjoy reading something simply don't read it, it reminds me of book burning days , do we simply regress , or do we move forward. I don't agree with everything in the Bible, or other religious texts, but I would not seek to censor them, censorship simply fans the flames. The only weapons Patrick uses are his words, carrying swords of freedom, justice and equality , simply trying to heal the world, fighting division and all its causes, poverty social injustices. Seeking unity between us all . He also writes passionately about poverty, domestic abuse and violence. Fiercely opposed to fascism ,racism , bigotry in all it's forms. A Poet of peace then.
A powerful performer I have seen him a few times and I must say he is definitely worth checking out, he has also released two powerful records combining spoken word with music, collaborating with a numberr of musicians including  his  brother Nicky Wire, James Dean Bradfield, Billy Bragg and many more.
Conversation and Amnesia (Big Noise Production) 1999
Tonques for a Stammering Time (Anhrefn Records) 2009
What follows are a selection of Patrick's poetry, not for the faint hearted, you have been warned

10 million christs

marching cadavers
inconsequential consequences
of another's lust and greed
stapled medals, a rosary for the cordoned
starving for successful failure

backpack messiahs
blinded by visions of paradise
unwashed feet caked in mud
a warrior psychosis
sold to souls
from
saladin's blood
on lionheart's sword
to bush's head
on bin laden's pole

crustacean crusade on overfed donkeys
a jism jihad on blurred video

an olive branch
an oxygen mask
a trident missile attack
purveyors of putrefaction
asinine dumb waiters
drunk on faith
fatah hamas hezbollah
idf scientologist taleban christianvoice

how many more christs
until we are all crucified?
_

in absentia

i light a candle for the absents
the almost forgotten, the waiting, the worn,
a day light for the dark nights
a filament of throat from thought
i light a candle for the absents
the dissapeared, the frightened
the watching, the saturday fathers,
disneyland dads, happy meal patriachs
contact controlled, access asked
permission prayed
the deadbeat, child support agents
no rights only deepest resposibility
i stare into the flame
see love and hate
unite
in
one
silent flicker
a black and white photograph in agolden frame

but
from the slit wrist
the rose will grow
from the distance
blazes the geography of the soul
like candles, we inhabit the night
absence is not abstension
what feeds the wick?
who starves the oxygen?

and

what man is not made from woman and man?
_

hymn

"Any man who prays or prophesies with something on his head disgraces
his head, but any woman who prays or prophesies with her head
unveiled disgraces her head - it isa one and the same thing as having her
head shaved. For if a woman will not veil herself, then she should cut off
her hair; but if it is disgraceful for a woman to have her hair cut off or to
be shaved, she should wear a veil. For a man ought not have his head veiled, since
he is the image and reflection of man. Indeed, man was not made from woman, but woman from man."
1 Corinthians 11: 4-9

cover my face
with burkha so unatural
i'm so ugly in your eyes
or is it my vision is so clitoral

use my holes
to cleanse your souls
paint my image as your icon of immaculation
force the feminine into your crucifixion
an olive branch drowned in thalidomide
they said it would make the sickness go away.

away, away

For the pope and for the imam
all i preach is deicide
just like mary magdelene
i fucked jesus
just like mary magdelane
i have been deemed useless
i shall drift to dust
all around
within,
us
slit my wrist with rosary beads
blind my eyes with testerone veil
turn the other cheek
as you leave your seed

Go to bed with jihad so young
fasten my vulva with catholic tonque
decapitate me while i kneel
as all my sisters bow like culled seals

just like mary magdelene
i fucked jesus
just like mary magdelene
i am in each of us,
-

cut-up/morning prayer

onward christian soldiers marching as to war
with the cross of jesus going on before
the confrontation that we are calling for
does not know socrates debates or platonic law
but it knows the dialoque of bullets the ideals of
assassination
bombing and glorious destruction
gates of hell can never
gainst the church prevail
we have christ's own promise
and that cannot fail.
there shall be no peaceful solution
only pen and gun
by word and bullet
by teeth and tongue
onward christiian soldiers marching as to war
with the cross of jesus going on before
the sinners shall be known by their marks and shall be
seized by the forelock and the feet
run the straight race through god's good grace
lift up thine eyes and seek his face
life with its way before us lies
make a covenant o sister to make
their women widows
and their children orphans
to make them desire death
and slaughter them like lambs

and

let the nile and euphrates flow with their blood

we are brothers and comrades

we stand side by side...
sidebyside
s i d b y s i
d...
_


incursion

i

a bomb is not a bomb until it lands in your living room,
again,
religion gets off its knees,
and attacks,
like sand thrown into eyes,
it blinds,
flags stab borders
and dialect drowns intellect
as the bomb bloated thin line
marks our space, our place
you and i
becomes us and them,
"the birth pangs of a new middle east" says condelozza rice
but the baby will never be born,
as children lay dazed in wrecked hospitals,
oh father, which art in heaven, we praise you
"we have the right to self defence"
but a warplane knows no mortality
just another precisioned target on a silent road
in another country, another country...

ii

you fire
cowardly rockets
that sneer into small villages
then run and hide
pray to your god,
speak of your good deed
and yearn for a fake paradise

as retaliation cannot find you
only the family fleeing their home, unsheltered,
innocent victim
to a crucifix game
they did not begin...
_

cathedra

we must overcome this
we must move higher
clasp branches
hold firm
feel again
know again
real (r) ise
real ise
what we are were and will be
again
know
no
now
this pain can only exist upon the body
there must be a residing place
where one day
we shall be whole
in holes
again
again
for this time these days
the minutes stick like flies in honey
falling
uncompromising
unfeeling
unlistening
unhearing
un dis ir dys an de
everything starts with a negation
can something begin with an affirmation
a somewhered
verb of
unatrophied flesh
to heal
this
again
again;
we have to overcome this/

_
with the sense of an ending

still the mountain
still the walking
still the breathing
still the choking
still the cutting
still the bleeding
still the feeding
still the loving
still the clock ticking
still the leaf shaking
still the silene screaming
still the ink leaking
still
still
still
be
still
still
bestill
be
still
still
be
still
be; still-

the ending
still
still this this still
be beginning
_

For further details of Patrick's works and readings , here is a link to his website.

http://www.patrick-jones.net/