Gwyl Dewi Sant/Saint Davd's Day

Some say, however, that the leek-wearing custom commemorates a great Welsh victory over the Saxons, or that it is favoured because its white and green colours are those of the Welsh flag.
Eat leeks in March, and ramsons ( wild garlic ) in May and all year after physicians may play.

" The leek breedeth wind, and evil juice, and maketh heavy dreams; it stirreth a man to make water, and is good for the belly: but if you will boil a leek in two waters and afterwards steep it in cold water, it will be less windy than it was before. The use of leeks is good for them that would have children,"

Who list to reade the deeds
   by valiant Welch-men done,
Shall find them worthy men of Armes,
  as breathes beneath the sunne;
They are of valiant hearts,
  of nature kind and  meeke,
An  honour on St David's Day;
   it is to wear a leeke.

The Welch most ancient is
   of this famous land,
Who were the first that conquered  it,
  by force and warlike hand.
From Troy stout Brute did come,
 this kingdome for  to seeke;
Which was possessed by savage men,
 then honoured be the Leeke.

He having won the same,
  and  put them to the sword :
Of Brute did Britaine first take name,
 as Chronicles record
The Welch true Brittaines are,
  whose swords in blood did reeke,
Of Pagan men being heathenish,
  then honoured by the Leeke.

And know if you would know,
  why they the Leeked do weare;
In honour of St David's day,
  it plainly shall appeare.
Upon St David's day,
  And first of March that weeke,
The Welch-men with their foes did joyne,
  then honoured by the Leeke.

And being in the field,
  their valour they did try;
Where thousands on both sides  being slaine,
  within their bloods did lye.
And they not knowing how
  their friends from foe to seeke;
Into a Gardem they did go,
  where each one pulld a Leeke :

And wore it in his hat,
  their Countrymen to know ;
And  then most valiantly they did
  o'ercome their warlike foe.
Then were noe colours knowne,
  or any feathers eeke;
The feathers first  originall,
  it was the Welch-mans Leeke.

And ever since that time,
  the Leek they use to weare,
In honour of St David's day,
  They doe that Trophy beare.
A Reverend Bishop was
  St David mild and meeke,
And 'tis an honour that same day,
  for them to wear a Leeke.


By the way, I love Wales
But avoid the nationalism
Men are loud-tongued over their drink
I prefer the mystical, deep streams
Let no man be a slave - heddwch/Peace

YouTube - Llyfrgell Genedlaethol Cymru: Darlleniad Barddoniaeth Patrick Jones Poetry Reading

DRUM ( at Handsworth) - Peter Gruffydd

I beat the knuckled skin
so they prance, trip, sway
round the musty room.
My eyes follow the easy
runs of two negro children,
take time from their feet.

Asian kids glide, balance
on bellies, boys hunch
shoulders, pull themselves
along while a lone white
child pecks the air, lurches,
head leading then halts
to stare, mad with drumming.

His eyes say, Too fast; I stop.
Our story comes to circle us,
their eyes draw words, drink
pictures, still drum echoing.
From violated streets they teach
my tonque to allow the flow,
share the shivering drum.




ALSO FROM
Poetry Wales,Volume 26,No 4

HEAVY METAL - Geoff Veasey ( for Bruce Dickinson)

Here they come,
The Budgerigars of Death;
The Green Rabbits from Hell,
Riding the Devil's Stallion
(Which has just overtaken
An "M"-Reg. Reliant Kitten
Outside Shrewsbury.)
Stand aside for Lucifer's bearded Goblons,
In designer Originals;
Satan's pot-bellied slaves,
Leather lizards from Chippenham.
Beelzebub's Hamsters of Oblivion
On a Yamaha 500.
Led by the Grand Vizier of Evil,
Into Megadeth and Slayer,
Tatooing " Born to Die "
In felt -tip marker, on his knuckles.
Into Helloween and Annihilator,
And a daytime job at the Exhaust Centre.
Ripping out inner Tubes
As if they were Sharon Tate's intestines.
Apollons envoys, high on Gateway dumpies.
They're gonna kick as in Barmouth,
Gonna tear down Aberavon,
Riding chronium serpents,
With ten installments left to pay.
Belial's Boys;
Soldiers of the Seven Serpents
( Not eay to say when you wear dentures
after a serious ruck with your own
handlebars near the A5 interchange).
They're gonna mess up Corwen,
Gonna play Deadbeast and Greyhound
Records in the Jukie in that cafe
Near Llangollen, just to terrify the
Cliff Richard fans.
Worshippping Bauxite Angels
Playing Bantamweight chords
In Groups fronted by sad old men
In Spandex pants,
Nore derivative of Pavarotti
Than Delta Blues.
About as macho as a washing machine.
Unable to lyricise over anything
More creative than Gothic Boyhood imagery
Or 8,000 different, pathetic ways
To humiliate a woman.



FROM
Poetry Wales Volume 26, No 4

IDRIS DAVIES( 6/1/05 -6/4/53) - Poet of the People

A poet I've long admired  is Idris Davies. born on  6 January 1905 at 16 Field Street, Rhymney, Monmouthshire, the Welsh -speaking son of colliery winderman Evan Davies and his wife Elizabeth Ann.  After leaving the local school at the age of fourteen, for the next seven years following his fathers footsteps he worked underground as a miner in the nearby Abertysswg and Rhymney Mardy Pits. After an accident in which he lost a finger at the coalface, and active participation in the General Strike of 1926, he became unemployed and spent the next four years following what he used to call 'the long and lonely self-tuition game'.  In the mines he'd mixed with people who were the most militant and cultivated in the world. and after attending lectures on Marxism at his local National Miners Institute and having become inspired by words , he decided to train to become a teacher,

He then entered Loughborough Training College and Nottingham University to qualify as a teacher, and eight years later gained the University of London diploma in history. Between 1932 and 1947 he taught in London County Council primary schools and in schools evacuated from wartime London to Pytchley, Northamptonshire, Meesden, Hertfordshire, Treherbert, Glamorganshire and Llandysul, Cardiganshire.

He dedicated his life to expressing his love of the people and to me was the only poet to cover significant events of the early 20th Century in the South Wales Valleys and the South Wales coalfield.

He started of writing in Welsh, but later began to write exclusively in the English language in order to reach the masses. Never particularly trendy or fashionable, he had a rather simple style, but as good as any protest singer writing today. I reckon the forbears of his poems were old street ballads and work songs.I regard him as an archetypal poet of the people, a man who happened to have the faculty of dreaming sensibly. An enthusiast of culture who was particularly inspired by the works of Shelley,  his chief inspiration were his people, working class unemployed Welsh miners reduced to begging in indifferent London streets.

His masterpiece was called " The Angry Summer ", a poem in fifty short sections about the general strike of 1926. His verses though simple become slices of reportage from the frontline.

It is a shame some of his shorter poems have been taken out of this context. Some critics saw him as a naive, simple minded, local propogandist poet. This does him a great disservice, he must not be forgotten, he must be celebrated, as he himself celebrated the grandeur and despair of working class resistance to capitalism in Britain between the wars.
He wrote about treachery, he presented pictures of harsh realities, expressing himself with colloquial instructios, he spoke of " the bread of life," "lifes long squalor " " words of your anger and your love and your pride." I see him as a precursor to many a modern folk troubadour. He had passion, he cared, a diary entry of his reads -

" I am a socialist. That is why I want as much beauty as possible in our everyday lives, and so I am an enemy of pseudo-poetry and pseudo-art of all kinds. Too many poets of the left are badly in need of instructions as to the difference between poetry and propoganda... These people should read William Blake on Imagination until they show signs of understanding him. Then the air will be clear again, and the land be, if not full of, fit for song?"

His revolt came out of direct experience, out of deep love for his people, yes he didn't do to many fancy verses, but he wrote to connect. He also had humour , he also had candour.

In 1947 he returned to his native Rhymney Valley to teach in a junior school at Cwmsyfiog, to read, broadcast, lecture and write until his death from  abdominal cancer at 7 Victoria Road, Rhymney on Easter Monday, 6 April 1953 aged only 48, but a red proletarian poet to his core.He was buried in Rhymney Public Cemetery.

Described as a voice of a generation . he remains  a continuing inspiration to forward thinking socially engaged poets, promoting their own views like Idris Davies, with populist devices.

He has  achieved popularity amongst millions in the wider world, thanks to Peter Seegers setting of Gwalia Desrta XV ( The Bells Of Rhymney ) which became a massive hit for "the Byrds" and has subsequently been covered by many others including "Robin Hitchcock" and " Bob Dylan".The following are a small selection of his better known verses. 

 
GWALIA DESERTA VIII
 

Do you remember 1926?

Do you remember 1926? That summer of soups and speeches,
The sunlight on the tidle wheels and the deserted crossings,
And the laughter and the cursing in the moonlight streets?
Do you remember 1926? The slogans and the penny concerts,
The jazz-bands and the moorland picnics,
And the slanderous tonques of famous cities?
Do you remember 1926? The great dream and the swift disaster,
The fanatic and the traitor, and more than all,
The bravery of the simple, faithful folk?
"Ay, ay, we remember 1926," said Dai and Shinkin,
As they stood on the kerb in Charing Cross Road,
"And we shall remember 1926 until our blood is dry."


Mrs Evans fach, you want butter again

Mrs.Evans fach, you want butter again.
How will you pay for it now, little woman
With your husband out on strike, and full
Of the fiery language? Ay, I know him,
His head is full of fire and brimstone
And a lot of palaver about communism,
And me, little Dan the Grocer
Depending so much on private enterprise.

What, depending on the miners and their
Money too? O yes, in a way, Mrs. Evans,
Come tomorrow, little woman, and I'll tell you then
What I have decided overnight.
Go home now and tell that rash red husband of yours
That your grocer cannot afford to go on strike
Or what would happen to the butter from Carmarthen?
Good day for now, Mrs.Evans fach.

MORNING COMES AGAIN

Morning comes again to wake the valleys
And hooters shriek and waggons move again,
And on the hills the heavy clouds hang low,
And warm unwilling thighs cral slowly
Out of half a million ruffled beds.
Mrs Jones' little shop will soon be open
To catch the kiddies on the way to school,
And the cemetery gates will chuckle to the cemetery-keeper,
And the Labour Exchange will meet the servant witha frown.

Morning comes again, the inevitable morning
Full of the threadbare jokes, the convenional crimes,
Morning comes again, a grey-eyed enemy of glamour,
With the sparrows twittering and gossips full of malice,
With the colourless backyards and the morning papers,
The unemployed scratching for coal on the tips,
The fat little grocer and his praise for Mr Chamberlain,
The vicar and his sharp short cough for Bernard Shaw,
And the coliery-manager's wife behind her pet geranium
Snubbing the whole damn lot!

HIGH SUMMER ON THE MOUNTAINS

High summer on the mountains
And on the clover leas,
And on the local sidings,
And on the rhubarb leaves.

Brass bands in all the valleys
Blaring defiant tunes,
Crowds, acclaiming carnival,
Prize pigs and wooden spoons.

Dust on shabby hedgerows
Behind the colliery wall,
Dust on rail and girder
And tram and prop and all.

High summer on the slag heaps
And on polluted steams,
And old men in the morning
Telling the town their dreams

CONSIDER FAMOUS MEN, Dai bach
Consider famous men, Dai bach, consider famous men,
All their slogans, all their deeds,
And folow the funerals to the grave.
Cosider the charlatans, the shepherds of the sheep!
Consider the grease upon the tonque, the hunger of the purse!
Consider the fury of the easy words,
The vulgarity behind the brass,
The dirty hands thstshook the air, that stained the sky!
Yet some there were who lived for you,
Who lay to die remembering you.

Mabon was your champion once upon a time
And his portrait's on the milk-jug yet.
The world has bred no champions for a long time now,
Except the boxing, tennis, golf, and Fascist kind,
And the kind that democracy breeds and feeds for Harringay,
And perhaps the world has grown too bitter or to wise
To breed a prophet or a poet ever again.


from GWALIA DESERTA VII

There are countless tons of rock above his head,
And gases wait in secret corners for a spark;
And his lamp shows dimly in the dust.
His leather belt is warm and moist with sweat,
And he crouches against the hanging coal,
And the pick swings to and fro,
And many beads of salty sweat play about his lips
And trickle down the blackened skin
To the hairy tangle on the chest.
The rats squeak and scamper among the unused props,
And the fungus waxes strong.

And Dai pauses and wipes his sticky brow,
And suddenly wonders if his baby
Shall grow up to crawl in the local Hell,
And if tomorrow's ticket will buy enough food for six days,
And for the Sabbath created for pulpits and bowler hats,
When the under-manager cleans a dirty tongue
And walks with the curate's maiden aunt to church...
Again the pick resumes the swing of toil,
And Dai forgets the world where merchants walk in morning streets
And where the great sun smiles on pithead and pub and church-steeple.

CAPEL CALVIN

There's holy holy people
They are in capel bach-
They don't like surpliced choirs
They don't like Sospan Fach,

They don't like Sunday concerts
Or women playing ball
They don't like William Parry much
Or Shakespeare at all.

They don't like beer or bishops,
Or pictures without texts,
They fon't like any other
Of the nonconformist sects.

And when they goto Heaven,
They won't like that too well,
For the music will be sweeter
Than the music played in Hell.

GWALIA DESERTA XV

O what can you give me?
Say the sad bells of Rhymney.

Is there hope for the future?
Cry the brown bells of Merthyr.

Who made the mineowner?
Say the black bells of Rhondda.

And who robbed the miner?
Cry the grim bells of Blaina.

They will plunder will-nilly,
Say the bells of Carphilly.

They have fangs, they have teeth
Shout the loud bells of Neath.

To the south, things are sullen,
Say the pink bells of Brecon.

Even God is uneasy,
Say the moist bells of Swansea.

Put the vandals in court
Cry the bells of Newport.

All would be well if-if-if-
Say the green bells of Cardiff.

Why so worried, sisters, why
Sing the silver bells of Wye.

FURTHER READING

The cost of strangeness/ essays on the English Poets of Wales
- Anthony Conran, GOMER 1982

Idris Davies - Collected Poems GOMER PRESS 1972

GWALIA DESERTA (1938)

"O What can you give me?"- Nigel Jenkins on Idris Davies/ Poetry Wales volume 40 number 4

The Dragon has two tongues - Glyn Jones LONDON 1968

CUT UPs

The hope of spring,
don't run past
its perplexities
drift towards its absorbed reflections,
lift up our hands
we still have time,
some have departed
some have just arrived,
cupid's funny looking glance
it's sowing done
for another year,
all these years,
I have wondered
I have whispered back
i'm waiting now
for someone to knock back,
I had a dream last night
I was not afraid
it is time now to sing.
contemplation like a door
that never slams shut.

PUNK AM BYTH

CLIFFORD HARPER - ARTIST OF FREEDOM

Gil Scott- Heron - Ladies and Gentlemen the Godfather of Rap is Back!

Gil Scott-Heron is back, next week sees the release of his long awaited new album,
" I'm new here " on independent label XL recordings. Already being cited as a possible contender for record of the year, on all accounts it's going to be a blinder. His first record for thirteen years, I feel it will have been worth the wait.
This legendary poet and political activist had been charting the injustices and cruelty of American society for years, raging against its apparent hypocricy, the irony being, it was this very same system that turned on him, culminating in jail sentences and stretches due to simply being in the wrong place at the wrong time, found with too much gear in his pockets, labelled and spat out. Sure he had problems, but when this man needed help, what did they do? They locked him up, that was really going to cure him, no I don't think so, just another sad reflection of a cold stinkin' rotten system.
Anyway in my opinion a brave, charismatic figure, he was seen as a precursor to many of hip hop and rap. The Godfather.
I was lucky to be able to see him perform on a number of occassions in the late nineteen eighties, once at Glastonbury, can't remember the correct year, perhaps someone could remind me, and 3 times more in London at C.N.D and anti apartheid rallies one I think in Hyde Park? My memory has got pretty obliterated over the years.
He never stood on fences, his language and honesty apparent to all who witnessed him. Apparently the era I saw him perform, his talent was on the wain, but I did not notice, I did not care, all I remember was a powerful, incendiary, sweet , soulful, smoky voice , gently rallying us against the cruelty of the world. He became a bit of a hero to me, so it was sad not to have him around for a while, but the thing is, for some of us he never did go away. His songs of freedom lifting us through our sombre histories, stirring and always inspiring.His sad songs and his melancohly somehow reaching and getting through.
Well lets hope this time around he finally confronts some of his demons, and gets the success he really deserves as a truly original lyrical genius. In the meantime I thought I'd quickly post some of my favourite verses by this mercurial figure. Let his gritty words of truth sing out. Peace brothers and sisters our time is now

PAINT IT BLACK

Picture a man of nearly thirty
who seems twice as old with clothes torn and
dirty.
Give him a job shining shoes
or cleaning out toilets with bus station crews.
Give him six children with nothing to eat.
Expose them to life on a ghetto sreet.
Tie an old rag around his wifes's head and
have her pregnant and lying in bed.
Stuff them all in a Harlem House.
Then tell them how bad things are down South.

SPEED KILLS

Speed on by. Don't seem to have the time.
What about this life, what about this life
Can I call mine?
Issues in the paper, But somehow i'm not concerned.
Seems I've been this way before, but I never learn.
Children slowly turn.

Time sped gone. We didn't see it go.
Now what do we have, now what do we have
That we can show?
Friends you swore you'd never lose melted from your style
Down the tunnels of your youth and now you never smile.
Children learn to smile.


SPIRITS

The world spins around us
we search for a balance
The secrets lie in darkness and light
Our lives are like treasures
Unveiled as perfection
A gift to us from spirits on high
Equator. Divider. Equate us. Combine us.
To seek the answers beyond our sight...

I THINK I'LL CALL IT MORNING

I'm gonna take myself a piece of sunshine
and paint it all over my sky.
Be no rain. Be no rain.
I'm gonna take the song from every bird
and make them sing it just for me.
Be no rain.
And I think I'll call it morning from now on.
Why should I survive on sadness
convince myself I've gotta be alone?
Why should I subscribe to this world's
madness
Knowing that I've got to live on?

I think I'll call it morning from now on.
I'm gonna take myself a piece of sunshine
and paint it all over my sky.
Be no rain. Be no rain.
I'm gonna take the song from every bird
and make them sing it just for me.
Why should I hang my head?
Why should I let tears fall from my eyes
when I've seen everything there is to see
and I know that there ain't no sense in crying!
I know that there ain't no sense in crying!
I think I'll call it morning from now on.

BEGINNINGS ( The First Minute of a New Day )

We're sliding through completly new
beginnings.
Ww're searching out our every doubt
and winning.
We want to be free
and yet we have no idea
why we are struggling here
faced with our every fear
just to survive.

We've heard the sound and come around
to listening.
We've touched the vibes time after time
insisting that we know what life means;
still we can't break away
from dues we've got to pay
we hope will somehow say
that we're alive

BILLY GREEN IS DEAD

"The economy's in an uproar,
the whole damn country's in the red,
taxi fares is goin' up... What?
You say Billy Green is dead?"
"The government can't decide on busin'
Or at least that's what they said.
Yeah, I heard when you tol' me,
You said Billy Green is dead."
"But let me tell you 'bout these hotpants
that this big-legged sista wore
when I partied with the frat boys.
You say Billy took an overdose?"
"Well now, junkies will be junkies,
But did you see Gunsmoke las' night?
Man they had themselves a shootout
an' folks wuz dyin' left and right!
At the end when Matt was cornered
I had damn near give up hope...
Why did you keep on interruptin' me?
You say my son is takin' dope?
Call a lawyer! Call a doctor!
What you mean I shouldn't scream?
My only son is on narcotics,
should I stand here like I'm pleased?"
Is that familiar anybody?
Check out what's inside your head,
because it never seems to matter
when it's Billy Green who's dead.

WHEN YOUR GIRLFRIEND HAS A BETTER FRIEND

Let me give you something straight up my friend
Your whole life can turn super funky
And put a too large foot in your rear end
if you're digging a dame who's a junky.

I'm sure I don't need to take you back down the road
And retell all the details about smack
But I believe me it's still out there breaking the codes
And its ten times worse than cheeba or crack.

And "Fuck! How in the world did we come to be friendly?"
And all them other bullshit cliches
And you don't know what you'da done if you'da been me
Just be glad that there wasn't no fuckin way.

Okay then, just for a minute let's both speculate
And since you would be me, I would be you
So now as you (I) can get puffed up and be fuckin great
About what I (meaning you) should or shouldn't do.

I can hear it all nw knowing just what you'd say
About not hangin' out in the streets
And immediately we know there aint no f'n way
'Cause if it wasm.t no hangin' out it wasn't me.
This is gonna sound weak and it ain't no excuse
But it's been years since I'd been around scag
And acting sel-righteous is the quickest way to lose
And to tell you the truth it's a drag

Remembering the shivers and quivers and shakes
Starts to bring the butterflies back to your gut
But junkies don't care what you think are mistakes
She says "Are you givin' up the money or what?"

You can climb in the pulpit for a sermon or two
Keep your money and watch while she packs
But you know more than precisely what she's gonna do
Go for twenty somewhere lying on her back

Or end up in an alley trying to turn a quick trick
Pushers don't care how the money is made
And when the addict starts getting uptight for a fix
They say "Fuck gonorrhea and fuck A.I.D.S!"

In theend it ain't theories or jive-ass philosophy
Or what the papers or politicians think
And nobody needs no more heroin (metadone) sociology
While the speaker pours himself another drink.

So you're right. Congratulations on what was weak about me
I admit I lok like somebody's flunky
But right ain't always the best thing to be
When the girl that you love is a junky.

THE WORLD

The world!
Planet Earth; third from the Sun of a gun, 360 degrees.
And as the new worlds emerge
stay alert. Stay aware.
Watch the Eagle! Watch the Bear!
Earthquaking, foundation shaking,
bias breaking, new day making change.
Accumulating, liberating, educating, stimulating change!
Tomorrow was born yesterday.
From insde the rib or people cage
the era of our firdt blood stage was blotted or erased
or TV screened r defaced.
Remember there's a revolution going in in the world.
One blood of the early morning
revolves to the one idea of our tomorrow.
Homeboy, hold on!
Now more than ever all the family must come together.
Ideas of freedom and harmony, great civilizations
yesterday brought today will bring tomorrow.
We must be about
earthquaking, liberating, investigating
and new day making change in
thw world.

Allen Ginsberg's - Wales Visitation

Llanthoney Valley


... as I read William Blake
In innocence
That day I heard Blake's voice.
I say I heard Blake's voice...
produced by the reconstruction of syllables on
the printed page in iron rhythyms
that rose to my year in a
voice...

- Allen Ginsberg

Way back when,when acid was good in the year of my birth 1967 and flower children shackled their clothes and inhibitions, an iconic moment occurred in the Welsh cultural underground. Allen Ginsberg came to visit Wales to drop some acid. He had visited london for the "dialectcs Liberation Conference ", alongside R.D Laing, Stokely Carmichael and an anthropologist called Geoffrey Bateson, a guy like Ginsberg into far out ideas, holistic ideas, organic and otherwise.
Anyway Ginsberg came down to Wales with his publisher Tom Maschler, to spend some time at his country cottage in the LLanthong Valley in the Black Mountains near to Capel-y- Ffin , long a place of inspiration to writers and artists. A magical part of Wales, I visit about once a year to recharge my batteries, unwind, relax, chill out and look for some meaning in these turbulent times, change a lightbulb in my head so to speak.
Anyway along the way Ginsberg and his companions stopped to tour the ruins of Tintern Abbey, the sight of which put Ginsberg in an even more relaxed contemplative mood. This was to be the first time he had taken acid since a visit to see his friend, the poet, Ferlinghetti in Late 1965, on his trip he noted details that he said later were " the human things that everybody has seen in nature " that people seldom stopped to recognise and appreciate.
Wales Visitation was his happy accident, with acid he was able to trust his mind, leading to poetry of pure thought, a step into the doors of perception and like his hero William Blake he was able to walk down the hills of eternity itself. This poem was all about his acid trip with nature - total nature. It involved a lot of sitting round cross legged under trees for hours, projecting and plasmecizing his breaths into the cosmos, he compares the heavens and the air and vibes over the valley to an ocean tide slowly moving. He compared the breath that came out of his body with the air that soared through the trees.
It's one of Ginsberg's undoubtedly stronger poems, influenced strongly by the Romantic tradition, he came to a realization " that me making noise as poetry was no different from the wind making noise in the branches. It was just as natural. It was a very important point. The fact that there were thoughts flowing through the mind is as much of a natural object as is the milky way floating over the isle of Skye. So, for the first time, I didn't have to feel guilt or psychological conflict about writing while I was high. Also for the first time I was able to exteriorize my attention instead of dwelling n the inner images and symbols and keeping my eyes closed." This was not his last Acid trip but it was his first trip where there were no heavy judgements to be made. In the past he had been plainly provocative but now he had finally embraced an objectivistss viewpoint. All he had to do was see what was in fact in front of him without any subjective paranoia. Perhaps because of this his later poetry got a little lazier ,he perhaps tried to hard, his mind unable to simply turn of and float gently into natures spontaneity, he was still capable of magic, and flowing beautiful verse, but the layering of detail was never captured quite as magnificently than on Wales Visitation, the holy sacrament had worked its magic. He was just another man in a million seeking out a Welsh acid universe , far out man. Time is eternity, eternity is time, lets not get to hung up. Lets rewind, stop the world, release the anxiety, lets go back in time, sweet nostalgia guided by a sweeter medicine.

WALES VISITATION

White fog lifting & falling on mountain-brow
Trees moving in rivers of wind
The clouds arise
as on a wave, gigantic eddy lifting mist
above teeming ferns exquisitely swayed
along a green crag
glimpsed thru mullioned glass in valley raine-

Bardic, O Self, Visitacione, tell naught
but what seen by one man in a vale in Albion,
of the folk, whose physical sciences end in Ecology,
the wisdom of earthly relations,
of mouths & eyes interknit ten centuries visible
orchards of mind language manifest human,
of the satanic thistle that raises its horned symmetry
flowering above sister grass-daisies' pink tiny
bloomlets angelic as lightbulbs-

Remember 160 miles from London's symmetrical thorned tower
& network of TV pictures flashing bearded your Self
the lambs on the tree-nooked hillside this day bleating
heard in Blake's old ear, & the silent thought of Wordsworth in eld
Stillness
clouds passing through skeleton arches of Tintern Abbey-
Bard Nameless as the Vast, babble to Vastness!

All the valley quivered, one extended motion, wind
undulating on mossy hills
a giant wash that sank white fog delicately down red runnels
on the mountainside
whose leaf-branch tendrils moved asway
in granitic undertow down-
and lifted the floating Nebulous upward, and lifted the arms of the trees
and lifted the grasses an instant in balance
and lifted the lambs to hold still
and lifted the green of the hill, in one solemn wave

A solid mass of Heaven, mist-infused, ebs thru the vale,
a wavelet of Immensity, lapping gigantic through Llanthony Valley,
the length of all England, valley upon valley under Heaven's ocean
tonned with cloud-hang,
-Heaven balanced on a grassblade.
Roar of the mountain wind slow, sigh of the body,
One Being on the mountainside stirring gently
Exquisite scales trembling everywhere in balance,
one motion thru the cloudy sky-floor shifting on the million feet of
daisies
one Majesty the motion that stirred wet grass quivering
to the farthest tendril of white fog poured down
through shivering flowers on themountain's head-

No imperfection in the budded mountain,
Valleys breathe, heaven and earth move together,
daisies push inches of yellow air, vegetables tremble,
grass shimmers green
sheep speckle the mountainside, revolving their jaws with empty eyes,
horses dance in the warm rain,
tree-lined canals network live farmland,
blueberries fringe stone walls on hawthorn'd hills,
pheasants croak on meadows haired with fern-

Out, out on the hillside, into the ocean sound, into delicate gusts of wet
air,
Fall on the ground, O great Wetness, O Mother, No harm on your body!
Stare close, no imperfection in the grass,
each flower Buddha-eye, repeating the story,
myriad-formed-
Kneel before the foxglove raising green buds, mauve bells drooped
doubled down the stem trembling antennae,
& look in the eyes of the branded lambs that stare
breathing stockstill under dripping hawthorn-
I lay down mixing my beardwith the wet hair of the mountainside,
smelling the brown vagina-moist ground, harmless,
tasting the violet thistle-hair, sweetness-
One being so balanced, so vast, that its softest breath
moves every floweret in the stillness of thevalley floor,
trembles lamb-hair hung gossamer rain-beaded in the grass,
lifts trees on their roots, birds in the great draught
hiding their strength in the rain, bearing same weight,

Groan thru breast and neck, a great Oh! to earth heart
Calling our Prescence together
The great secret is no secret
Senses fit the winds,
Visible is visible,
rain-mist curtains wave through the bearded vale,
gray atoms wet the wind's kabbala
Crosslegged on a rock in dusk rain,
rubber booted in soft grass, mind moveless,
breath trembles in white daisies by the roadside,
Heaven breath and my own symmetric
Airs wavering thru antlered green fern
drawn in my navel, same breath as breathes thru Capel-Y-Ffn,
Sounds of Aleph and Aum
through forests of gristle,
my skull and Lord Hereford's Knob equal,
All Albion one.

What did I notice? Particulars! The
vision of the great One is myriad-
smoke curls upward from ashtray,
house fire burned low,
The night, still wet & moody black heaven
starless
upward in motion with wet wind.


July 29, 1967 (LSD)-August 3, 1967 (London)



FURTHER READING :-

The Visionary Poetry of Allen Ginsberg - Paul Portuges
Ross-Erikson 1978

Ginsberg:a biography,- Barry Miles
Virgin 2001 pgs 393-394

Dharma Lion: a biography of Allen Ginsberg _ Michael Schumacher
St Martins Press 1992 

Feeling the ripeness of the moment, Allen Ginsberg requests his host William F. Buckley on 'Firing Line' to allow him to read a poem. When Bill allows this, Allen unleashes ' Wales Visitation '....