MY FIRST LANGUAGE- Eric Ngalle Charles

Oil and water
Never blend-
One stands up,
One beneath.

"Like a gorilla
And a monkey
Claiming oneness,"-
Look closer-
" The monkey is monkey
And the gorilla gorilla."

That's not me.
In captivity I eat banana,
In the wild savagery.

Contained
Leaving my roots,
I was a goat.
I had three kids.
You - a lion -
Had just one,
Still devouring mine.
I replenish my kind,
You wait your turn.
I trespass,
Being a protectorate,
Not Knowing
So many distant borders -
What's the difference?
Not deserving the treatment.

Then I skip,
Learning to jump,
Like doctor Jack Mapanje
The queue staring at me -
I don't have a face
If that's all I am,
As if my mother abused drugs.

Feeling sorry for me
With vouchers as in chids lay,
Buying food from Tesco
As the fat lady
Questions my strangeness
And witnesses point a finger
I thought I was a scarecrow.
So be it.

Clarify intent,
Teach truth in history,
Then they may
Not laugh at me.
Then you ask,
What's my first language?
Ask my granny,
Oh no, the generation's gone,
Still confused
Which language they spoke.
I thought
I am Portugese
Never owning a plantation
Of my own,
Then I thought
I am German,
Then I realised
The English kicked
The Kingdom out.

They said
I was French -
Oh no, Marie! le bread!

Thanks to the queen-
Queen Victoria that is -
I was given the name
Charles.
Rumours say he was the great.
Maybe I'm a Mormon
Tracking a family tree.

Communism never thrived,
Blaming the heat.
Here in Wales
Starting with " Bore da ",
Still wondering -
A first language?
Studying English,
An adopted tonque,
Through life -
What makes you think?
I know mylanguage,
Existing passively,
As others came
And others left,
Surprised why
I speak in tonques.


HAPPY NEW YEAR EVERYBODY DESTROY ALL BORDERS TURN HATE INTO LOVE
Welsh Consortium for Refugees and Asylum seekers
Brynglas Bungalow
Heol Brynglas
Newport
NP20 5QU

01633 855095

HAFAN BOOKS

was established in 2003 by Eric Ngalle Charles, Tom Cheesman and Sylvie Hoffmann, in order to provide an outlet in Wales for the creativity of refugees and asylum seekers, and their supporters; to to educate the public; and to raise money for charities assistind refugees and asylum seekers.
www.hafan.org
tel: 07736408064

Welsh Refugee Council
Phoenix House,
389 Newport Road,
Cardiff
1TP
tel:029 2048 9800
www.refugeecouncil.org

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