PS...

Whilst I don’t have a television set, I do occasionally watch programmes online. 

Browsing through the schedules, I discovered a BBC Wales production of Under Milk Wood, the celebrated play for voices by Dylan Thomas.   

Originally conceived as a radio play, Under Milk Wood has been performed in many guises over the years and the definitive version exists in an audio recording featuring Richard Burton in the role of Narrator, whose famous opening line: "It is spring, moonless night in the small town, starless and bible-black ..." always makes me shiver with anticipation. 

As an admirer of the Burton version, I approached the new BBC production with trepidation. It features numerous well-known Welsh performers, including Sian Phillips, Jonathan Pryce, Michael Sheen, Bryn Terfel and Tom Jones, speaking to camera, interspersed with images of Laugharne, where Dylan Thomas lived and worked.

I am happy to report that the performance was a triumph and the visual dimension, together with an excellent cast, brought added energy to the poetry of the original script.

If you want a hugely enjoyable literary treat, I recommend you watch it while it’s still available at:-  

http://www.bbc.co.uk/iplayer/episode/p01x5k4n/under-milk-wood

SWINGS AND ROUNDABOUTS

A version of this poem appears in my second collection, Strange Journey, published in 2012. It sold surprisingly well and copies found their way to places as far away as Canada, India and New Zealand.

Poetry books tend not to be big sellers, unless your name is Roger McGough or Pam Ayres, so even modest sales in this field may be counted a success. 

My earlier collection, The Man Who Landed, which appeared as one half of A Guernsey Double with The Boy Who Fell Upwards by UK poet, Peter Kenny, also notched up significant sales though, since we chose to market it online through Amazon, whose trading terms are not overly generous to authors, so far we've been unable to retire on our earnings.

Copies of Strange Journey, The Man Who Landed and The Boy Who Fell Upward are all still available. Simply contact me here or go to this link:-  http://www.anthologyofguernsey.com/

THE SWING

As we launch out, the air feels clean,

the wooden swing's a pendulum

divining or recording time,

as sunlight stabs, pure platinum,

through woodland chestnut, cedar, lime,

into our playground, softly green.

It takes our joint weight on taut ropes

as we, in tandem, drive it on,

gathering momentum, we rise:

you grip the seat I brace upon

with boots, knees, adolescent thighs

and boundless, adolescent hopes.

The swing is like a storm-tossed boat,

the wood a bold kaleidoscope

of light, leaf patterns, soaring dreams.

I sing within the cradle-ropes,

the sound extinguishing your screams.

Free from confining earth, we float.

CRYING WOLF

Some people eulogise dolphins but, for me, a wolf pack’s surely one of Nature’s proudest sights. 

Sadly, wolves have suffered centuries of bad press and, in many parts of the world, have been hunted almost to extinction. 

It’s heartening to learn that much has changed in recent years and Man’s perception of this beautiful creature has become much more positive. 

If you’re interested in wolves, their conservation and wellbeing, then check out Wolf Watch UK at this link:-  http://www.wwuk.org

 I wrote this poem some time ago, reflecting as I did so, how much the fate of wolves mirrors that of feared or hated groups within the human species.

WOLF

Out of a world corrupted 

and made vile, 

beyond the stricken tree, 

the murdered mile,

past poisoned streams and over tainted snows, 

copper-eyed, the wolf goes: 

beyond recall, 

beyond arresting cry, 

into an exile’s land where shadows lie.

His paw marks, 

his very scent, 

create his fleeting monument.

LOST BOYS

I’ve written numerous poems over the years but many have been consigned to the wastepaper basket. 

It’s always a difficult decision, particularly if the poem in question has involved a good deal of hard work; but a bad poem benefits no one, neither reader nor writer.

The saving grace is that it’s sometimes possible to salvage a good line for future use or simply to serve as a starting-off point for another, better poem. 

One line that survived the destruction of a bad poem, was ‘brotherhood is built, not born’ and it encouraged me to write Twenty-One, a poem about a close childhood friend, John Simpson, who died in tragic circumstances, half a century ago this year.

The image below isn’t us, but it’s probably the way we saw ourselves at the time.

TWENTY-ONE

We started out with cocoa tins

attached by string: 

a telephone

of sorts; progressed to proper phones,

old army surplus; wired them up

and strung a line from my bedroom, 

to yours next door. 

We formed a link

that bound us fast through teenage years:

fifth form, sixth form, till, 

on you went to uni, I to unsought work.

Where you were cerebral and gauche,

I was the opposite, and yet

we hit it off: no other friend,

before or since, meant half so much.

In those strange, final months, we seemed

to drift apart: you went away

and I, in turn, 

went elsewhere too.

Estranged at twenty-one, we were.

You didn’t live to twenty-two.

Your picture, pale, in newsprint grim,

beside the stark facts of your death,

remains my image of you now

a half a century away.

My vanished childhood friend, 

you look so innocent, 

so fresh of face:

forever in a state of grace.

CROUCHING INFANT, HIDDEN DANCER

It’s disquieting when a child discovers that its parents have identities other than those of Mother and Father and that the stranger hidden within the familiar shape has his or her own fears and yearnings, dreams and doubts. 

HIS MOTHER DANCES

Crouched on the stairs, he sees her dance:

her feet glide over lino squares,

the wireless playing sweet and low.

She waltzes, as though in a trance,

alone, amidst pans, table, chairs, 

white kitchen sink: her eyes aglow.

Those slender arms grasp empty air:

her partner is invisible.

She circles, sweeps and murmurs words,

song lyrics or a lover’s prayer.

What seems to him incredible

is how the music, like small birds,

whirls round his sleepy, tousled head

and makes him sad. The dancing stops.

His mother, hungry for romance,

settles for washing plates instead;

talks to herself, while he eavesdrops.

His father never liked to dance.

WRITING WRONGS

Congratulations to Tasmanian author, Richard Flanigan, who has won this year’s Man Booker Prize with his novel, The Narrow Road to the Deep North.  

I've been working my way through the six-book shortlist but not speedily enough to be able to challenge or agree with the judges' choice. 

I have, however, already read the winning novel and commend it. 

The book combines a love story with a harrowing account of the terrible fate of thousands of Anzac troops captured by the Japanese during the Second World War and forced to work as slaves on the notorious Burma Railway. 

Not an easy read, The Narrow Road to the Deep North nevertheless rewards the reader’s perseverance.  

Admirers of Camilla, Duchess of Cornwall, will be pleased to hear that she presented the prize again this year. The Duchess, who is a patron of a number of organisations which promote literacy, handed over the coveted trophy to the winning author.

A rather different version of the Duchess can be found by clicking on this link.

http://camillalookalike.com/#/blog/4556036903/_page/3

PS ..

The idea of compiling a selection of Desert Island Discs intrigues me, as does making a choice of Desert Island Books or Desert Island Films. 

My preferences in these categories vary as I explore new areas of music, and as new books are written or films produced.

One piece of music, however, has remained at the top of my Desert Island Discs list for many of years and seems unlikely to be ousted from that position. 

It’s from a rarely performed opera, Die tote Stadt, by Erich Wolfgang Korngold and is a soprano aria sung by the character, Marietta. 

Its electrifying and never fails to engulf me in its sweet sadness. 

There are several You Tube performances of it, notably by Elizabeth Schwartzkopf, Inessa Galante and Kiri Te Kanawa but, for me, this Rene Fleming interpretation is unsurpassable. 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Rzym2T0CJRo 

Listen to the note that she holds, four minutes fifteen seconds into the You Tube clip, and be astounded.