Wednesday, 9 July 2014

And so it was

This is one of the poems I was prompted to write by events being held around the Dylan Thomas Centenary, which is being celebrated to the full in south and west Wales this summer.
I had the chance to read this at a spoken word event at the Dylan Thomas Boathouse in Laugharne, which was organised by poet in residence Samantha Wynne-Rhydderch.
This was the place where Dylan and Caitlin spent several years of their marriage, and while the celebrations of Dylan’s life were shouting loud, I decided to look sideways and take a look at Caitlin’s story.

And so it was

We boozed and we brawled our way
through the 16 years
we called our marriage.
Fuelled by alcohol,
with oaths and curses
and infidelity;
we’d have fallen down
without the drink,
so we would.

We fell into bed
that first day,
and always lovin’ and fightin’,
drinkin’ and wrestlin’
our lives were raw, red
bleeding meat;
with booze, words,
poems, stories, and sex
 - and kids.

What’ll the neighbours say, you wrote
what’ll the neighbours say.
What he’ll do for drink,
falling in the gutter.
That’s what they said.
You were a hopeless
bloody father,
you drank all the money.
No Good Boyo,
so you were.

And you bedded all the shameless women.
I could’ve killed you,
I banged your head on the floor,
I wanted to kill you
again and again.
It was all our own hopeless war.

I wanted to be worse than you,
I loved the wine
and the men,
the wantonness,
and more and more.
I had my revenge,
so I did.

And when you died,
my struggle was over.
It was a relief, at first,
so it was.
Then I found my leftover life
and I had that to kill.

The sky is torn across, you wrote,
Now our love lies a loss,
and so it does.


Tuesday, 24 June 2014

In praise of journalists

Marie Colvin, National Portrait Gallery

Yes, I did say that -- in praise of journalists. On a day when several people who worked as ‘journalists’ have been convicted of the appalling practice of phone hacking I want to remember some of our number who deserve our tributes, rather than our contempt.

Today also, several Al-Jazeera journalists have been jailed for seven years in Egypt, just for doing their jobs and doing them well.

And many hundreds have given their lives over recent decades in the cause of telling us about countless atrocities across the world. As Marie Colvin, who died while reporting for the Sunday Times in the siege of Homs in Syria in 2012, said:  ‘We have to keep telling the stories or the massacres will be worse, we have to keep getting the information out.’

She and many hundreds of other reporters have died while reporting conflicts in Gaza, Sarajevo, Iran, Iraq, Sri Lanka, Chechnya, Colombia, Israel – the list is limitless. Without them, the traumas may indeed be worse.

These killings aren’t accidents, journalists are rarely victims of crossfire. I am talking here about journalists who worked as war correspondents in modern times and were targeted. They knew they were targeted and they lived with that knowledge every day, every hour, every minute, much of it under fire. Marie Colvin and journalist colleagues from around the world were sheltering in a ‘safe house’ in Homs when it was targeted and blown up. She and a French photographer died.

I wrote this prose poem recently in memory of Marie, who was the last war correspondent in Homs representing the British media when she was killed. She was 56.

The italics are her words in her notes sent home at that time. The rest is based on her reports for the media and on information she sent back to friends and colleagues.

Her last post

Finding the widow’s basement was one of the worst moments. I stopped in the doorway,
and saw women hugging their children as far as I could see into the distance. Three hundred frightened women holding weeping bundles all in the humid dust beneath the factory.
Two weeks they had been there, hiding from the relentless shelling, while their husbands and fathers were killed outside.
And all I feel is cold, ice in my core -
and a terrible need to speak.

Syria - the cruellest place on Earth. I watched a baby die today. I watched as his tummy heaved and heaved, full of shrapnel; the doctors could only stand by - until he stopped.
And all I feel is cold, a stone in my heart –
and a terrible need to speak.

I thought I would die when I was shot in the head; and as I lay in the burning dust, that was when I first felt the cold - winter through my bones – while the hot blood poured out. But I was lucky that day, and I could still see clearly with one eye.  For ten more years of horror and terror I saw it all. I should be hardened by now, but I am feeling helpless, and cold, so cold, as I sit in this house.

There is a terrible need to speak. If we do not tell the stories the massacres will be worse, we have to keep getting the information out.

Homs, February 19, 2012. The scale of the bombing is shocking, shells are going off everywhere in all the civilian areas, all around us; but I don’t feel the fear any more, just cold, cold inside cold, and frozen words block my throat where I should speak.

The house trembles, walls collapse, dust explodes everywhere and fills my eyes and lungs, the ceiling falls, I can’t breathe,
and I can’t see any more.

I need to find my shoes …

Friday, 20 June 2014

A month of treats

The Dylan Thomas Boathouse, Laugharne.
This month is full of treats for the poet in me. I get to read at so many great events – and to hear the work of a fabulous range of other poets and prose writers too.

And I don’t have to travel too far from home.

I was pleased to read a small selection of my work at the Time Café in Carmarthen last weekend, as part of the Whisper and Shout event arranged and hosted by write4word. This is an annual event where live literature groups from across west Wales can gather to share work with each other and visitors to the town.

It was the third annual gathering of community and professional literary groups who make up the Welsh contingent of the WISPA (Wales Ireland Spoken Word and Poetry Alliance). Groups represented included The Cellar Bards, HOWL, Neath Writers group, Red Heron, Haiku and Hipflasks and Lampeter Writer's Workshop.

As part of the PENfro Poets writers’ group I read regularly at the Folk Club held at Rhosygilwen in Pembrokeshire. There is a great selection of folk music here every month too.

And I am one of 12 writers taking part in the launch event on the spoken word stage at Dinefwr Literature Festival today (Friday 20th). So pleased to be part of this wonderful festival.

There is a Poems & Pints regular event at the Queen’s in Carmarthen on Monday (23rd) and I hope to read in the open mic session there too.

Friday, June 27th is the Cellar Bards’ monthly live literature night at the Cellar Bar in Cardigan, where I usually read in the open mic section. This time we have a special guest – writer and broadcaster Horatio Clare. And it is the Bards second birthday, so there’ll be a bit of a celebration. Poetry writing and live reading all started there for me two years ago, so it is a special place for me. I simply wouldn’t be doing all this writing and public reading if it wasn’t for the Bards.

And I am really looking forward to Saturday, June 28th, when I will be reading at the Dylan Thomas Boathouse in Laugharne.  It’s a real privilege to have been invited to read my poetry there with Poet in Residence Samantha Wynne-Rhydderch in this Dylan Thomas Centenary year. Two other Cellar Bards will be reading on the night too – Carly Holmes, who has just had her first novel published by Parthian;  and Charlie Sharp, a great poet.

I have written a poem that has Dylan Thomas connections especially for the night, but more news of that later.
Here are loads of links for anyone interested in the spoken word in west Wales:

Details about upcoming events, plus plenty of other useful info about live literature in Wales here:

Other links:

Cellar Bards, Cardigan:

Poems & Pints, Carmarthen:



Dinefwr Literature Festival:

Rhosygilwen concert hall:

Samantha Wynne-Rhydderch:

Carly Holmes

Dylan Thomas Boathouse:

Saturday, 31 May 2014

The witch of Satis House

By a strange coincidence I was drawn back to Great Expectations and the spectral character of Miss Havisham recently while I was trying to write a poem about insects...

The witch of Satis House
She dwells, yes, that is the word,
down there in the dust of her life,
not living, she dwells
in the wintry room of her making,
in her bloodless bitterness,
where no clock ticks.
Time is still,
the air forever frozen,
her breath a cool vapour that has only
caressed the ash of life.
Her dress yellowed, its silk long dead,
her face a waxwork, eyes inward,
her body withered under the gown,
a shrunken spectre;
her movements small
and cold.
The young man sees
in the dusky candlelight
the detail of her,
but I feel it all,
from my haunt.
I live well in near darkness
and my silk is finely tuned
to the smallest vibration
of my webs.
There is abundance still on her bride’s table,
a great cake.
It is for me.
My blotchy body and speckled legs
are all at home here.