i hated that old chair
a predecessor of the grave
it wouldn’t sell
it’s weight was great
i left it standing empty there
a chair i never sat in
Poetry
A Grave for Pryderi
One of many interesting articles on Signposts in the Mist
‘In Aber Gwenoli
Lies the grave of Pryderi’
The Stanzas of the Graves
‘He was buried in Maentwrog, above Y Felenrhyd, and his grave is there’
The Fourth Branch
In autumn last year I visited Aber Gwenoli in Coed Felinrhyd, the village of Maentrwog, and the Coedydd Maentwrog. These locations are all part of Snowdonia’s Atlantic oak woodland or temperate rain forest and are associated with the death of Pryderi, ‘Care’ or ‘Worry’, the son of Pwyll and Rhiannon.
Pryderi is the only character who appears in all four branches of The Mabinogion. This has led scholars to speculate he may be the central figure. If this is the case he is a hapless kind of ‘hero’. Although he enjoys success in battle, he is constantly in trouble, sometimes on account of forces beyond his control, at others because of his impetuousness and lack of discernment…
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Flatlining
death changes nothing
death changes everything
the day was calm
and then the sudden shock
a hell of grief
an open wound
don’t bleed!
silenced
sealed
before the sad amen
death changed nothing
death changed everything
the days went on
while i took foolish risks
and tested out my fate
i sought out thrills
i put myself in danger
to feel some deep emotion
as consolation
and a balm
it heals
but still reveals,
in every day that followed,
that everything was flat lined
neutralised
suppressed
by unshed tears
death changed nothing
death changed everything
my heart is tarnished
but the world goes on the same
i know what you would say
if you were here today
i see it now
perhaps it’s not too late
death changes nothing
death changed everything
Y
I came to this place
to express my youth.
That’s the truth.
But I’ve watched it all
with a very old head.
All I see is the quick and the dead.
I look back to a path
that’s paved with regret.
I don’t forget.
But I hide in a world
of positive thinking.
I might be mistaken.
I believe it’s not over yet.
If my soul doesn’t die
and fade to oblivion
(which might be welcome and sweet)
on the next path I take,
when I fall through a vortex
and chromosomes gather again,
let me land on my feet with assurance.
I don’t care when or where.
Bone, sinew and tissue are not the main issue.
I already know who I am.
I seek only one vital key
that opens the door to why.
I saw
I saw who you were;
no empathy,
no vision,
no virtue,
that’s sure.
You went to her place
and took her to bed,
then left her alone for the night,
no phone call for days.
Too busy?
What goes on in your head?
And then you show up at her party,
not even a kiss at the door.
You dance with another girl
and leave her to watch from the walls.
You claim that you have a heart.
Where do you keep it?
Tucked away in your balls?
Now in the kitchen,
over a beer,
you tell me you love her.
It’s clear
that you don’t even know where to start.
Your arrogance sets you apart.
When I look in your eyes
they are dead.
Gone Back
today
for a moment
my mother was here
she told me
we could go back
to the house we all lived in
years before
she knew I’d be glad
there was a shine in her eyes
as she told me
tomorrow
through the doors of dementia
she will have wandered again
leaving me here
I will know
where she’s gone
she will think I am there
with everyone gathered once more
it’s a comfort
to know she got home
but she has left me alone
Peaceful Moments
there is a time to be at peace
there is a time to ask no questions
there is a time to stop all wandering thoughts
lay quite still and feel
there are times of such perfection
i wonder if they’re real
time is always passing
no joy or pain is lasting
here beside the fire
listening to your breath
there is quiet satisfaction
in open simpleness
Crematorium, 1960 – 2018
You should have been buried here
amongst the beans, the peas, the potatoes,
the rhubarb, spearmint and lavender,
the rose buds of hot afternoons
and the berries of winter cold,
in the land that you cultivated,
weeding and planting and hoeing
in the evenings long shadows of Spring.
Instead your ashes were spread
several miles from a desolate home,
left alone,
scattered on lawns and concrete
amid roses that nobody loves.
I would leave you posies of pansies
picked from your overgrown beds
where so little you planted survives
– if i was sure where you are
An After Word on Fraptious Day
She went out when he came in,
they lived inside a weather-house.
They found the decor very strange.
Their hearts were in a dreadful spin.
She was quiet as a mouse
but Hatter wasn’t quite deranged,
not at the moment seasons change.
Sometimes time will stand quite still
and when that hopeful moment came
they built a new house on a hill,
they found a place they both could fit.
If Alice shrinks or grows quite tall
Hatter fails to notice it.
It has no consequence at all.
And when his moods are quite bizarre
he never walks off very far.
Which only shows,
you never know
which way next a story goes.
This Old Pub
this old pub
on a Sunday morning
both i and the timbers
soaked in stale beer
from the night before
my mouth is like sawdust
my head thumps
as the cricket bat
thwacks the ball
on sports TV
massive screen
too loud for me
the old guys in the corner
squint up at it
between backgammon moves
at their table
as they crunch
through their crisps
and pork scratching
my eyes droop
and I’m drifting
through galaxies
the stars turn
and spin me
into older stories
the challenge and change
of the days of old glories
are lost in a haze
stamped out
by lethargy
and drooping inaction
as we watch the big screens
that swallowed us all
