The Cravings Of A Welshman

Oh rampant pains
of a drunken Welshman
as he prowled the streets
for a simple Englishman.
To pick his bones
and lob the stones,
into pools of choir
as Myfanwy groans.

The ale and laver
does hwyl his soul,
from Felinfoel
to fields of coal.
On Burry Port
and Pembrey shores,
the Welshman
knows his cockle chores.
Gwenllian walks in Kidwelly mun,
without her head,
beyond the sun.

Cymru! Wales!
Where bards run riot
The cawl is deep
the lovespoons quiet.
Long he sleeps
on Merlin's hill,
the wizard's Welsh
stirred Bennett's Phil.

Dragon red
lift claw in pride,
three feathers comb
the pride inside.
No fear breaks
the soul of man,
storms lay shattered
by cwtches hand.

Wales! Cymru!
Ancient Celts,
mother's tongue
on dafodil belts.
Sing of old
as sing we must,
the Cymru tribes
of Swansea dust...

©Steven Francis poems 2013

Seamus Heaney: A Huge Loss

As soon as my tea stained eyes fell upon these words, "Seamus Heaney, the Nobel Prize-winning Irish poet and playwright, has died," my heart gave a heave of sadness. Oh my words, what dreadful news to be met with after only a few clicks of the mouse. Especially for a fellow poet/playwright (though not as grand to put myself on Heaney's level) who looked on the Irish writer as a kind of Obi Wan Kenobi figure. One of the last living Master (capitol M) Scribe. What wretched news!
Life, you can be a swine at the best of times but today? Today you are double the pig.
I was fortunate enough to spend time with Seamus Heaney at a poetry reading in Swansea University back in 1998, and it was like being in the presence of someone who knew all the tricks. It was immense, like a film fan meeting Clint Eastwood if you changed the Arts. Believe me, you know when you are in the company of a great man, something in your spirit alerts you, and it was certainly true back in the Taliesin center all those years ago in Swansea.

'Tis a black day, losing such a genius poet when real poets are so rare in this world. I'll take leave to mourn and leave you with words by Seamus himself:

"Be advised my passport's green.
No glass of ours was ever raised
to toast the Queen."

Gleision: Two Days Kicked In The Heart

I am still quite emotional so excuse me if these sentences seem thrown all over the page but im writing as the thoughts come to me, not really thinking about what words will come next. The brain has taken a stool in the Numb Saloon and it is my heart that is producing these words you see tumbling out before you like disjointed, dead flies. I will try to relax later and attempt to gather them should they stray off course.
Today has seen the end of a tragic two days at Gleision Colliery, near Pontardawe in the Swansea Valley, with four miners losing their lives and my deepest sympathies go out to their families and many friends who are mourning them as I sit here typing this. In fact I can almost feel the cloud of depression reach me here in the outskirts of Carmarthen (we are only 30 miles or so away from the valleys) and it is blacker outside now at 10pm than it would be on a normal 10pm.
South Wales has more than its share of mining towns and most people will have a relative or three who has worked in a colliery. (Or 'down the pits' as we like to say). My grandfather was a miner who worked for many years in the mines and when something like this happens it is like a kick in the gut for everyone, but this is where the towns spirit will come alive. Everyone will pull together and rally around those who have been affected by the events at the Cilybebyll mine today and eventhough there will be much sadness and heartache over these next weeks and months, there will also be kindness and people ready to be there for those who have lost their loved one.
Things like this always put other things into perspective, they always show others who are going through minor hassles how much of a stupid brat they are being. That frustration towards a mobile phone that ive been trying to fix by smashing in its smug, glassy face is a streak of pisz compared to what has taken place in the Swansea Valleys in these last 48 hours. I should be ashamed to have ever risen to it in the first place, stoopid dog boy that I can be! What the hell is cold tea, broken jars and Japanese electrics when put up against the dying souls of men?


In memory

I followed this heartbreaking story from the minute it broke on local Welsh news, and sat glued to the radio in deepest hope with every hour that passed. And how much worse it was for families waiting in the community center close to the awful scene.
Four families together enduring unbelievably tough hours; hearts stretched with the agony and strain of being told in the morning that one miner had been found dead, and looking to each other hoping it wasn't theirs but hoping it wasn't the others either. Six hours later being told another body has been recovered and the pain and torture relentlessy continuing, carrying on until it reached its horrendous conclusion that all four had perished. Unimaginable.
Often I looked out over the Carmarthenshire countryside outside my window and asked God to pull these men out of the mines rat black shaft but alas it was not to be.
Words will be little comfort now to those who have lost their loved one because everything is too fresh and raw and terribly painful, but in the coming months the drifts of time will fill those welts of grief. Then death will lose its sombre grip on everything, allowing memories to be visited once more without the bitter stab of loss, for not even death can hold on forever.
In loving memory of Phillip Hill, Charles Breslin, David Powell and Garry Jenkins, rest in peace my Welsh brothers. Hedd Perfaith Hedd.

**** Dim Haul Dros Gleision (No Sun Over Gleision) ****

There was no sun that day
when four miners lights went out for good;
the cave mouth stretched into an endless hymn
as hawks and kinder birds carved the sky
to guide spirits to their rest.
Heroes of an unforgiving underworld,
the earthly tomb,
kingdom of the black.
While I and all of Wales tipped hands to God
four blinded roots were pulled
and the red dragon's one lifted claw
was raised a little higher in honour of the men.
Gartref bois! Home!
From the eyeless santuary of the pit
to the Valleys call,
our father's land
where you will have the symphony of a nation's hearts
to sing you to your rest,

A bydd yr haul ddim farw nawr...
(and the sun won't die now)

@ Steven Francis poems 2011