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The day was dull. The air was dank,
and on my hill the grass was rank
and autumn-brown.
A wind complained among the boughs.
Round about my feet was spread
the thick-massed mould of autumns dead,
and on the boles of ancient trees
lichen ruled in verdigris,
and each stone wore its emerald cap
of moss. Upon the midmost slab
in silvern trail
there clung the gleaming citron snail.

And in the twilight long ago
I lingered on this stone, I know,
and felt her oread arms entwine
my helpless soul, and drank the wine
of ancient eves; felt Lethe flow
within my veins.  And I would know
that dream again – if dream it were –
and I would ministrate to her
as on that eve when first she swayed
against the stars, and met my gaze.
Her limbs were soft, and warm, and lithe,
and pagan fires were in her eyes;
flowers wound her darkling fleece
and corybantic pulses beat
the drums of time. Her moon-round breasts
pursued my chest,
and love diffused its gramarie.

But some Cybelean devilry
took her, and all, away –
and rising in cold light of day,
I stood alone
beside the stone.
And no nephenthe
would assuage the cleaving memory.
That bitter morn I can but grieve.

As, languorous, I strove to leave,
from sullen shadows – bleak, morose,
the faint notes of the syrinx rose.

From ‘Otherworld’

Dai was togged in blazing scarlet,

likewise Wil his long-time butty

with a spot of green to top it

for to see the game in Cardiff.

Both went striding down the valley,

down the long and winding valley

with their tickets in their pockets,

tickets for the game in Cardiff.

Stopped to have some Brain’s for breakfast

– for the Colliers Arms was open –

bright and burnished Brain’s for breakfast

frothy as the spit of cuckoo,

gleaming like a stained glass window,

amber nectar of Valhalla.

Missed the blydi bus by seconds

– quaffed again the heavenly liquid –

got the next one in an hour.

Entered then the hallowed stadium,

sacred centre of the nation,

proud omphalos of the Cymry,

ground revered by all and sundry

where their fathers had lambasted

brawny men from many countries,

Pumas, Wallabies, Springboks, Kiwis

and of course the #?!@%! English –

taught the last some hardy lessons,

tied them up in scarlet ribbons,

packed them back across the border,

handy little dyke of Offa.

Joined the swelling shifting thousands,

shifting, singing sixty thousand

voices drawn from hill and valley,

from Cwmscwt and Bethyngalw,

from the far and distant places,

from all far-off towns and hamlets,

belting out the bread of heaven.

And the fifteen never faltered –

speeding, jinking, swerving wonders,

coursing, sprinting swift magicians

blitzing through the opposition

scoring tries in quick succession,

till the red fifteen, victorious,

brought the game to its conclusion.

Wil and Dai went out ecstatic

carried by the joyous thousands

swirling in that happy river

sweeping through the streets of Cardiff,

drizzly, shining streets of Cardiff.

Then they stopped to have some supper

made of hops and served in tankards,

long and drawn-out frothy supper

held in tankards big and brimming,

brimming with the gold-and-flowing

soft-as-velvet wonder-water,

fabled patriotic potion

strong as steel and clear as crystal;

tossed it down their throats with vigour

as had mighty men of valour

in the days of yore before them

in the storied Mabinogion.

Missed the blydi bus by seconds

– quaffed again the heavenly liquid –

missed the next one in an hour.

So it was that stars were fading,

starry skies of Wales were paling

when our bloated, tired heroes

trekked the road that led them homeward.

Both went stumbling up the valley

(stupid, never-ending valley)

with no money in their pockets

but with plenteous pints inside them;

step by tired step they went, then,

gloating on the game in Cardiff.

Gwen and Bron were waiting for them,

waiting for those two delinquents,

for those boozy, beery rascals

lurching slowly up the valley –

chased the miscreants up the mountain,

tackled one and then the other,

beery belly, legs like jelly

no match for those Welsh girls’ fervour.

Hauled them back and not politely

booted them to bed and scowling,

wagged their fingers, loudly warning

they would cop it in the morning.

But clever Dai and Wil woke early

(clever from the Brain’s inside them),

mooched around for several hours

till the Colliers Arms was open,

stopped to have a frothy breakfast

(followed quickly by another)

and – with consummate dissection –

lived again the game in Cardiff.

From ‘Welsh Past and Present’

Welcome to The Igam-Ogam Mabinogion. By way of explanation, especially to those who might be completely unfamiliar with such a title, the Mabinogion is a renowned collection of mediaeval Welsh tales, while Igam-Ogam is simply Welsh for ‘zig–zag‘. ‘Mabinogi’/’Mabinogion‘  has the meaning of ‘youthful tales’ – and combined with ‘Igam-Ogam’ the intention is to represent what you will discover here as ‘diverse and wandering jottings, young at heart’. They are diverse in the subject matter they cover, and in their varying styles; they are young at heart, I like to think, even though their composer is not exactly a spring chicken.

What will you expect to see on The Igam-Ogam Mabinogion?  Well, basically poetry of all kinds —rhymed, unrhymed, metrical and unmetrical, lengthy and brief, descriptive and imaginary, serious and humorous. There is little which employs traditional verse forms—you will find no Petrarchan sonnets, ottava rima, etc.—with many of these I am simply a ‘No-good Boyo’; neither, in the other extreme, will you find that which is deliberately and fashionably obscure. What characterizes much of the poetry shown here is rhythm; for it may be safely said that without rhythm and its attributes there can be no poetry. Subjects are both Welsh and universal, dealing with personal memories and reflections, journeys real and imaginary, the affairs of gods and goddesses, men, women, and love, the fascinations of the natural world and of the Otherworld, and, of course, the Welsh past and present. There are the shorter epigrams and Haiku, and a selection of translations—a handful from the French, and a good many from the Classical Chinese. I embrace archaic language where it is fitting, as well as the occasional slickness found in the modern. There is the playful, and the downright daft.

A little about myself: A good many years ago (perhaps I should say ‘Once upon a time’) my poetry appeared alongside that of R.S. Thomas, Vernon Watkins, Dannie Abse, and other Welsh poets writing in English at that time—Roland Mathias, Harri Webb, John Tripp, Meic Stephens, and others. Outside the Welsh circle I shared pages with poets Thomas Kinsella, Donald Davie… and now I’m mentioning too many names, but will go ahead and say that I was honoured to share publication space with Eugene Ionesco and Vladimir Nabokov. These were heady, happy days which I remember with a sense of satisfaction. But duty called me away from this – there was a young family to care for, and a career to be pursued, and the writing years were all too brief and a long time ago. In the intervening decades, though, I seldom ceased scribbling, and now, with around a thousand poems including the translations, and much else tucked away, I thought it opportune to enter the stage again.

Please see the full poems below in the order they were posted up, or select by name from the menu at the top right. If you like what you see and wish to be informed of new poems as they are posted, simply leave a comment beneath any of the poems. Thank you!