LINTON KWESI JOHNSON - Revaluueshanary Dub Poet.

Linton Kwesi Johnson, aka LKJ,  is arguably the most influential Black British poet. Born 24th of August 1952 in Chapelton, a small town in the rural parish of Clarendon, Jamaica. He came to London in 1963, attended Tulse Hill secondary school, and later studied Sociology at Goldsmiths’ College, University of London (graduating in 1973), which currently holds his personal papers in its archives. While still at school he joined the Black Panthers, helping to organise a poetry workshop within the movement. In 1977 he was awarded a C. Day Lewis Fellowship, and was the writer-in-residence for the London Borough of Lambeth for that year. He went on to work as the Library Resources and Education Officer at the Keskidee Centre, the first home of Black theatre and art. 

Much of Johnson's poetry is political, dealing primarily with the experiences of being an African-Caribbean in Britain. "Writing was a political act and poetry was a cultural weapon", he told an interviewer in 2008. He has also written about issues such as British foreign policy, and the death of anti-racist marcher Blair Peach, whose Reggae Fi Peach in 1979, remains, like much of his work, seminal.  His most striking and celebrated work was arguably produced in the 1980's, with Johnson’s spirit of anger and protest finding its ideal subject and opposite under Margaret Thatcher's Conservative government. 

Poems such as 'Sonny's Lettah' and 'Di Great Insohreckshan' contain accounts of police brutality upon young black men, and capture the period’s unwritten attitude of resistance and antagonism in their empathic descriptions of rioting and imprisonment. Told via the uncompromising, yet generous and inventive use of  Jamaican patois, the poems are alive with Johnson’s relish of the tics and rhythms of spoken language.

The 'world's first dub poet', he coined the term dub poetry in the mid-seventies to describe Jamaican DJs 'toasting' over the instrumental B-sides of reggae songs. It stuck to his own work, which blends reggae's bass rhythm with his spoken voice. 

Johnson's poems first appeared in the journal Race Today, who published his debut collection, Voices of the Living and the Dead, in 1974. His second collection, Dread Beat An' Blood, was published in 1975 by Bogle-L'Ouverture, and shares its title with his first LP, released by Virgin in 1978. That year also saw the release of a documentary film about Johnson’s work of the same name. Inglan Is A Bitch, his third book, came out in 1980.  

In 2005 he was awarded a silver Musgrave medal from the Institute of Jamaica for distinguished eminence in the field of poetry. Johnson is the second living poet, and the only black poet, to be published in the Penguin Classics series: Mi Revalueshanary Fren in 2002, with a Selected following in 2006. 

Kweisi Johnson's written work is only one small part of his artistic output, he has also over the years released some outstanding records mixing his voice with a heady dub style. Through this work he has reached outside to people who perhaps have not been drawn to poetry , known perhaps primarily as a performance poet, who offers  you no compromise , with his powerful  words, Music, politics and poetry what more could you ask for?.

Johnson's albums have sold more than 2 million copies, he commands huge audiences worldwide, and his poetic artistry is now praised in the Poetry Review. His best known records include his debut "Dread Beat An' Blood", "Forces of Victory", "Bass Culture" and "Making History". Across these albums are spread classics of the dub poetry school of performance - and, indeed, of reggae itself. 
In the dark days of Thatcher's Britain I remember his "messages from the frontline " his angry voice mirroring ours. Well he's still taking risks, passionate, and inspiring, not afraid to experiment and push boundaries. A mature  people's  poet  of much passion  mixing plain speaking and metaphor. who is still thrillingly subversive. Always on the side of those resisting racism, harassment and oppression. 
" Inglan is a bitch " still but lucky for us their is a voice that refuses to go away . It demands justice and may his struggle become ours. Lets together say no to fascism and intolerance.
Meanwhile I'll leave you with some of his words. Read them out loud.

FITE DEM BACK

we gonna smash their brains in
cause they ain't got nofink in 'em
we gonna smash their brains in
cause they ain't got nofink in 'em..

some a dem say dem a niggah haytah
an' some a dem say dem a black beatah
some a dem say dem a black stabah
an' some a dem say dem a paki bashah

fashist an di attack
noh baddah worry 'bout dat
fashist an di attack
wi wi' fite dem back
fashist an di attack
den wi countah -attack
fashist an di atack
den wi drive dem back

we gonna smash their brains in
cause they ain't got nofink in 'em
we gonna smash their brais in
cause they ain't got nofink in em

REALITY POEM

dis is di age of reality
but some a wi a deal wid mitalagy
dis is di age of science an 'teknalagy
but some a wi a check fi antiquity

w'en wi can't face reality
wi leggo wi clarity
some latch aan to vanity
some hol' insanity
some geet vision
start preach relijin
but dem can't mek decishan
w'en itcome to wi fite
dem can't mek decishan
w'en it comes to wi rites

man,
dis is di age af reality
but some awi a deal wid mitalagy
dis is di age af science an' teknalagy
but some a wi a check fi antiquity

dem one deh gaan outta line
dem naw live in fi wi time
far dem seh dem get sign
an' dem bline dem eye
to de lite a di worl'
an' gaan search widin
di dark a dem doom
an' a shout 'bout sin
instead a fite fi win
man,
dis is di age af reality
but some a wi deal wid mitalagy
dis is di age af science an' teknalagy
but some a wi a check fi antiquity

dis is di age af decishan
soh mek wi leggo relijan
dis is di age af decishan
dis is di age af reality
soh mek wi leggo mitalagy
dis is di age of science an' teknalagy
soh mek wi hol' di clarity
mek wi hol' di clarity
mek wi hol' di clarity

SEASONS OF THE HEART

Bequiled
by blue moon
O enchanting light

we lost our way
like lovers sometime do
searching wide-eyed
for wild flowers
in the 'fragrant forest of the night '

now memories
slowly drifton by
like grey clouds
against a sombre winter sky
and all our yeasterdays are now become
the springtime of our days

life is the greatest teacher
love is the lesson to be learnt
like how the heart's seasons shift
how the sweet smelling blossoms of spring
are soon become the icy arrows of winter's sting
how spring intoxicated by the sun
now throws off her green gown
and summer's golden smile is soon become
the frown of autumn's brown
how passion spent we droop like sapless vines
in the winter of our minds

SENSE OUT OF NANSENSE

di innocent an di fool could pass fi twin
but haas a haas
an mule a mule
mawgah mean mawgah
it noh mean slim

yet di two a dem in camman share someting

dem is awftin canfused an get used
dem is awftin criticised an campamised
dem is awftin villified an reviled
dem is awftin foun guilty widout being tried

wan ting set di two a dem far apawt dow
di innocent wi hawbah dout
check tings out
an maybe fine out
but di fool
cho...

di innocent an di fool could pass fi twin
but like a like
an love a love
a pidgin is a pidgin
an a dove is a dove

yet di two a dem in camman share someting
demis awftin anticipated an laywaited
dem is awftin patronised an penalised
dem is awfin castigated an implicated

wan ting set di two a dem far apawt dow
di innocent wi hawbah dout
check tings out
an maybe fine out
but di fool
cho...

di innocent an di fool could paas fi twin
but rat a rat
an mouse a mouse
flea a flea
an louse a louse

yet di two a dem in camman share something

dem is awftin decried an denied
dem is awftin ridiculed an doungraded
dem is sometimes kangratulated an celebrated
dem is sometimes suprised an elated
but as yu mite have already guess
dem is awftin foun wantin more or less

dus spoke di wizen wans of ole
dis is a story nevah told

ALL WI DOIN IS DEFENDIN

war... war...
mi seh lissen
oppressin man
hear what I say if yu can
wi have
a grevious blow fi blow

wi will fite yu in di street wid we han
wi have a plan
soh lissen man
get ready fi tek some blows

doze days
of di truncheon
an doze nites
of melancholy locked in a cell
doze hours of torture touchin hell
doze blows dat caused my heart to swell
were well
numbered
and are now
at an end

all wi doin
is defendin
soh get yu ready
fi war... war...
freedom is a very firm thing
all oppression
can do is bring
passion to di eights of eruption
an songs of fire wi will sing

no... no...
noh run
yu did soun yu siren
an is war now
war... war...

di Special Patrol
will fall
like a wall force doun
or a toun turn to dus
even dow dem think dem bold
wi know dem cold like ice wid fear
an wi is fire!
choose yu weapon dem
quick!
all wi need is bakkles an bricks an sticks
wi hav fist
wi fav feet
wi carry dandamite in wi teeth

sen fi di riot squad
quick!
cause wi runin wild
wi bittah like bile
blood will guide
their way
an I say
all wi doin
is defendin
soh set yu ready
fi war... war...
freedom is avery fine thing

REGGAE FI PEACH :   

Everywhere you go its the talk of the day, 

Everywhere you go you hear people say, 

That the Special Patrol them are murderers (murderers), 

We cant make them get no furtherer, 

The SPG them are murderers (murderers),

We cant make them get no furtherer,

Cos they killed Blair Peach the teacher,

Them killed Blair Peach, the dirty bleeders.

Blair Peach was an ordinary man,

Blair Peach he took a simple stand,

Against the fascists and their wicked plans, 

So them beat him till him life was done. 

Everywhere you go its the talk of the day,

Everywhere you go you hear people say,

That the Special Patrol them are murderers (murderers),

We cant make them get no furtherer, 

The SPG them are murderers (murderers), 

We cant make them get no furtherer,

Cos they killed Blair Peach the teacher,

Them killed Blair Peach, the dirty bleeders. 

Blair Peach was not an English man, 

Him come from New Zealand,

Now they kill him and him dead and gone,

But his memory lingers on. 

Oh ye people of England, 

Great injustices are committed upon this land,

How long will you permit them, to carry on?

Is England becoming a fascist state? 

The answer lies at your own gate, 

And in the answer lies your fate.

INGLAN IS A BITCH

w'en mi jus' come to Landan toun
mi use to work pan di andahdroun
but workin' pan di andahgroun
y'u don't get fi knowyour way aroun'

Inglan is a bitch
dere's no escapin' it
Inglan is a bitch
dere's no runnin' whey fram it

mi get a lickle jab in a big 'otell
an' awftah a while, mi woz doin' quite well
dem staat mi aaf as a dish-washah
but w'en mi tek a stack, mi noh turn clack - watchah!

Ingan is a bitch
dere's no escapin it
Inglan is a bitch
noh baddah try fi hide fram it

w'en dem gi' youdi lickle wage packit
fus dem rab it wid dem big tax rackit
y'u haffi struggle fi mek en's meet
an' w'en y'u goh a y'u bed y'u jus' cant sleep

Inglan is a bitch
dere's no escapin' it
Inglan is a bitch fi true
a noh lie mi a tell, a true

mi use to work dig ditch w'en it cowl noh bitch
mi did strang like amule, but, bwoy, mi did fool
den awftah a while mi jus' stap dhu ovahtime
den awftah a while mi jus' phu dung mi tool

Inglan is a bitch
dere's no escaping it
Inglan is a bitch
y'u haffi know how fi survive in it

well mi dhu day wok an' mi dhu nite wok
mi dhu clean wok an' mi dhu dutty wok
dem seh dat black man is very lazy
but if y'u si how mi wok y'u woulda sy mi crazy

Ingan is a bitch
dere's no escapin it
Inglan is a bitch
y'u bettah face up to it

dem have a lickle facktri up inna Brackly
inna disya facktri all dem dhu is pack crackry
fi di laas fifteen years dem get mi laybah
now awftah fifteen years mi fall out a fayvah

Inglan is a bitch
dere's no escapin' it
Inglan is a bitch
dere's no runnin' whey fram it

mi know dem have work, work in abundant
yet still, dem mek mi redundant
now, at fifty-five mi gettin' quite ol'
yet still, dem sen' mi fi goh draw dole

Inglan is a bitch
dere's no escapin' it
Inglan is a bitch fi true
is whey wi a goh dhu 'bout it?

EARTH MOTHER for Mickey Jones & Mark Linkhous, R.I.P,

1. 

Crouched at the third door
a robin pecks , it's little wings flapping,
before it's chased away by a three-legged fox.
Peace eyes full of light,
shine down through scented woods,
dream letters offer sweet surrender
as everything about to bloom,
the bushes, the hedgegrows,oblivious to mass parades,
marinade's for the heart
a school of greenflies chatter at breakfast,
all is calm, all is near,
no flags, no borders,
no partition, no destruction,
green bottlenecks crawl
on her muscled limbs,
no destination, no surrender,
prayer meeting over
we retreat into the forest
deeper, deeper
into it's beautiful, translucent sanctuary.
sprayed all over by harmony,
we breathe deep
into the real
and further out.
We are allowed to shelter
in these moments,
as senses fall.
The seeds are waking
the earth burns like the sun
but a thousand times
more beautiful.
We sing our songs,
and in the faraway
a guitar soars,
up high, on and on.
Riding electric waves
to a different land,
the roots carve a wake
as ectasy showers.
Fresh dew
skins up the dust.
gravity is weightless.
hunger a new experience,
comes out to play

Keep on dancing

"Dancing, or saltation, is both a pleasant and a profitable art, which confers and preserves health: it is proper to youth, agreeable to the old, and suitable for all, provided fitness of time and place are observed....
And it is a useful device for ascertaining whether a person be defourmed by the gout... or if they emit an unpleasant odour, as of dead meat."
Arbeau " Orchesographie " 1588

"What clipping, what culling, what kissing and bussing, what smouching and slobbering of one another, what filthy groping and unclean handling is not practiced everywhere in these dancing? And wheras they conclude it is a wholesome exercise for the body, the contrary is most true: for I have known divers, by the immoderate use thereof, have become decripit and lame. Some have broke their legs with skipping, leaping, turning and vaulting, and some have come by one hurt, some by another: but never came thence without some part of his mind broken and lame."
Phillip Stubbes " The Anatomy of Abuses" 1576

NEW WORLD ODOR - Mark Vallen

Just as the need for labor in the United States fostered the development of a Chicano consciousness, Chicano identity has often been expressed in terms of personal and cultural development at the bridge of various systems of economic, cultural and political exchange.
This awareness is reflected in the above work, it's title taken from what President George Herbert Walker Bush used in the early 90s to convey what he thought of the world after the Soviet Union had fallen.
The poster suggests the new world order means nothing but the same carnage under a different regime. The pile of skulls tumbling toward the viewer presents a dark vision of what awaits us in a world dominated by capital and commerce. The gothic lettering reference the typography of the Nazis, perhaps suggesting that the fall of communism has ensured the triumph of fascistic forces. No pasaran!

PADDINGTON BEAR CONDEMNS CHILD DETENTION

Michael Bond, the creator of the much-loved illegal immigrant from darkest Peru, has contrasted Paddington's experience with that of children held in detention centres by the United Kingdom Borders Agency.
Over 60 celebrities added their signatures recently to a letter to the Prime Minister condemning the detention policy and supporting the Royal College of Psychiatrists, Royal College of Paediatrics and Child Health, Royal College of General Practitioners and the Faculty of Public Health in calling for it's immediate cessation.
The letter is accompanied by a message in the words of Paddington Bear:
"Whenever I hear about children from foreign countries being put into detention centres, I think how lucky I am to be living at number 32 Windsor Gardens with such nice people as Mr and Mrs Brown. Mrs Bird who looks after the Browns, says if she had her way she would set the children free and lock up a few politicians in their place to see how they liked it!"

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