Category Archives: Poetry

Saith Maen

saith maen haiku 1

Wales is a land of mystery and magic.

Saith Maen (seven stones) lies high on the slopes of Cribarth (Crest of the Bear). Not far from the brooding depths of Lynn y Fan Fawr and Lynn y Fan Fach with it’s legend of the lady. They point to the circle of Cerrig Duon also called Maen Mawr.

Sleep out on these hills under a full moon and you sink into the mindscapes of myth. This land is powerful and ancient with iron in it’s soul and and birdsong on it’s lips.


Great Aunt Ellen


Tea time and I’m sat down
watching the spikes of grey hair
bobbing about above
the bright shout of an apron

I’ve rattled out my day
with the plates and cups
the table laid to her chorus
of ‘never’ and ‘och away’,

I’m shooed out doors
to sit on the back step
‘away with your blether
tell it to the Ancestors’.

They live In the hedge jostled
between kitchen and coal bunker
my day does not interest them
there’s not whisper or rustle

about the fact Millie is a tongue split
and no longer my best friend.
Nor about my gold star for reading
or any of the rest of it

but there’s a stir of interest in the privet
when Aunt Ellen comes out
and we go down the cinder path,
me with a bowl for the tomatoes
and her with a knife for the lettuce.


In the space between heartbeats sundial

Do the dead lie in summer meadows
hear a lark singing; ribbons
of music drifting down
in the space between heartbeats?

Or feel the warmth of a lover’s breath
a soft intermittence caressing hair
and skin; unspoken promise
in the space between heartbeats?

Or drift along green-arched streams
catching the eddies of dreams,
the long slow swell of silence
in the space between heartbeats?


In Time of Breaking of Nations

Thomas Hardy’s poem was written in 1916 at the height of the Great War and just before  It seems very appropriate to use it as a title in the current circumstances of Brexit.

My Blog has been inactive now for over six months. Two reasons – firstly a complete though very positive upheaval in family circumstances meaning we now are immigrants in France. I refuse to be an Ex-pat. That to me is a word soaked in the dark heart of colonialism and empire and the fact that so many Britons living abroad use that term to describe themselves is probably a clue to the result on 23rd June.

The other reason is that sometimes it is just difficult to find words for how you feel. A feeble excuse and not what a writer should say? The truth is when I wrote my last blog entry ‘Whispering in a Hurricane’ I felt an overwhelming sense of  being a helpless spectator watching a catastrophe unfold but powerless to prevent or stop it.

I cannot in truth determine whether we stand at on the threshold of an unimaginably better or worse world. Our current global capitalist oligarchies are heading toward collapse through overexploitation, climate change and the ever widening gulf of inequality between have and have not. Could Brexit be the act that collapses it quickly before more damage is done and allows a new socially just, non-growth orientated sustainable civilisation to emerge?  Maybe, though on past performance I don’t hold out much hope. I was born at the end of the second world war. I grew up in a society that seemed to have changed irrevocably for the better. Health care, education, decent jobs and homes and not least the shared consensus that the weak and vulnerable needed protection and help. That has vanished. It lasted for about thirty five years which in hindsight was probably remarkable. The subsequent thirty five years have been marked by how remarkably easy it has been to undo all those gains for the ordinary average person.

On Friday when I felt quite desperately depressed and wanted to weep for shame at the sight of Farage triumphant I decided to retreat from the madness and read poetry. I had no particular poem or poet in mind but I turned to Yeats and the book almost of itself opened at the Stare’s nest by my window, a poem which I think speaks even more evocatively than Hardy’s about what it feels like to live in deeply troubling and uncertain times.

The Stare’s Nest by My Window

The bees build in the crevices
Of loosening masonry, and there
The mother birds bring grubs and flies.
My wall is loosening; honey-bees,
Come build in the empty house of the stare.

We are closed in, and the key is turned
On our uncertainty; somewhere
A man is killed, or a house burned.
Yet no clear fact to be discerned:
Come build in the empty house of the stare.

A barricade of stone or of wood;
Some fourteen days of civil war:
Last night they trundled down the road
That dead young soldier in his blood:
Come build in the empty house of the stare.

We had fed the heart on fantasies,
The heart’s grown brutal from the fare,
More substance in our enmities
Than in our love; O honey-bees,
Come build in the empty house of the stare.

Me, the Cat and Dannie Abse – David Jones

This poem was written in 2009 by a friend of mine, David Jones of Merthyr. He hated reading in public regarding it as complete torture both for him and the listeners but over a pint with a few friends he could be persuaded to share his work which was embedded in the rich tradition of Anglo-Welsh poetry. Wonderfully descriptive of Welsh life and the natural rhythms and seasons of the Welsh countryside. Despite friends urging him to do so he never submitted any work for publication regarding the writing and reading of poetry as a personal and intimate pleasure rather than any kind of ‘profession’.

I thought I would share this example of his work  on my blog. I have only a few of his poems and wish I had more but he regarded them as ephemera and often infuriated us by confessing to have lost the only copy of something he had written.  I can only hope that others of his friends have also kept some of his work since this humble and joyful poet deserves to be remembered.

Me, the Cat and Dannie Abse

There’s a small audience
high backed pews cast shadows of emptiness
on white washed walls.
A tousled haired Dannie Abse
Welsh jew – preaches poetry
from the pulpit of nonconformity
free verse set in tablets of stone

I notice a cat walking up the aisle
a street wise walk, haughty, tail up
tousle haired tabby. Stops. Leaps up
nuzzling in to my thigh
he purrs contentedly. Drinking in words
through the black slits of his eyes,
mesmerised. And I think only
of blood-sucking jumping fleas.

Dannie reads ‘In the Theatre’
The cat becomes agitated
at the words ‘brain-mashed’
he sinks his claws in the varnished wood.
Until suddenly, ‘You sod leave my soul alone’
pirouttes him in the air with a shriek
and he is gone through the slit of the door
into black tumoured night.
Dannie stammers and then moves on
‘Leave my soul alone,
Leave my soul alone’.