Please send us your poems so that they can be shared amongst us all. Perhaps a lovely poem you read or maybe one that you wrote yourself.. tell us which

I'm sure we'll get a wide variety, in the future they'll be categorized but for now they'll appear in one list - hang on tight it could be a bit of an emotional roller coaster!

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No coal but the fire still burns
What's left in the valleys,
Now there's no coal,
No life in the steel works,
No pride on the dole,
Where's the heart in our rugby,
The song in our soul,
No reason to sing,
No pride on the dole.

The dragon has slumbered,
While sleeping did dream,
And raged at the plunder,
Of each underground seam,
Then with fresh burning passion,
Long awaited rebirth,
For this Land Of My Fathers,
Such sweet smelling earth.

Stirred by the singing,
Of an army in red,
The beast of the valleys,
Once again raised its head,
And the fifteen selected,
With hearts of Welsh gold,
Rekindled the fire,
That warmed us of old.

Now the mountains re-echo,
The deepest sweet sound,
Of the choir of Welshmen,
Long lost underground,
Proclaiming the sweetest.
Of victories won,
Their song not forgotten,
Their nation lives on.

By Andrew Tovey

--- - ---

Answer the Call

That mighty roar, as you run out
to wear that shirt with pride
can you feel the dragon's fire
that burns so deep inside

Are you ready to meet your foe
and battle till the end
for on your skill and passion
this nation does depend

As you sing our national anthem
does a tear come to your eye
and think of all the victories
we've had in years gone by

For years no one could touch us
we were way above the rest
you must believe our time has come
to once more be the best

The crowd is right behind you
no matter what the papers say
for there's seventy thousand people
just come to see you play

All they ask, is you play well
it's a bonus if you win
make us proud to say we're Welsh
and make our rugby great again

Graham Davies, Aberdare

--- - ---

The Fan's Prayer

Our Father, who art in Millennium,
Hwyl be thy name.
Thy Grand slam come,
Tries will be done,
By Jones, Peel and Williams.
Give us this day our bread of heaven
And forgive us our offside,
As we ruck those who trespass against us.
And lead us not into bad discipline.
But deliver us from England.
For Wales is the kingdom, the Dragon and the Daffodil.
For ever and ever.Amen

Ken from Llandre

--- - ---

A little miner
I am a little collier
and I gweithio underground.
The rhaff will never tori
while I go up and down.
Bara when I'm hungry.
Cwrw when I'm dry.
Gwely when I'm tired.
Nefoedd when I die.

Gweithio; Work
Rhaff; Rope
Tori; Break
Bara; Bread
Cwrw; Beer
Gwely; Bed
Nefoedd; Heaven.

Anon

--- - ---

AN ODE

A young lass I was when she taught me of home
Instilled in my heart a hiraeth to own

She showed me my country from green grass to rugby
My smile couldnt be wider as she fondly did hug me

By my hand she did lead me through many y taith
As I learnt of the importance of keeping our iaith

‘Our history’s sacred and must be kept iach
From true calon lan to wholehearted sosban fach’

So far I do roam and miss her now she’s gone
Thinking of her often and her great love for song

A mother, sister, best friend she was to me
But above all else, she was my mamgu.

For Rado, hope Tipparary and Jericho are as wonderful as you.
Elen xxx 2005

--- - ---

Caitlyn wrote this specifically for the site!!..

WorldWideWelsh

Once was an ancient band of Companions
who wended their way through foggy canyons.
They fended off enemies
for many long centuries
by Dragon fire and rainy night.
Never once did they acquiesce
to the Crown's unrelentingly attempts
to cease their freedom fight.

With harp and song The Language of Heaven
filled the valleys and many a glen.
Despite the treachery that stole their land
they carried on proudly to stand.

What finally drove them out?
not tyrrany nor slavery nor drought
but a great depression and many a death
that wrent the Land of Companions a last.

With harp and song The Language of Heaven
left the valleys and many a glen.
The Companions carried on to new lands
with the painful Yearning of Hiraeth strong.

We make our homes far and wide
singing our songs of our hillsides.
The Language of Heaven eases our pain.
The world-wide Welsh sing of home again.

by: Caitlyn Johnston - Tucson - Arizona

V e r y   M a n y   T h a n k s   C a i t l y n

Being Welsh is like nothing else

You can’t buy it or try it

You can’t explain it

It’s in your heart and in your soul

It’s in every breath you take

You can’t touch it but you can feel it

No one understands except a Welsh person

You are proud you are true

To your country through and through

Are you English someone said

NO I’d rather be dead

It’s the country it’s the land

You have to be born Welsh to understand

You can’t just hold it in your hand

If you could wouldn’t that be grand

I am so proud and would say out loud

That being Welsh is like nothing else

words 'from the heart' by Brian Donovan

Lavatory & Coalhouse

Years and years ago
in the darkness
they sat
out the back

Side by side
almost hugging each other
one capable of radiance
pampering me during long days
always a warm welcome on others
while the other
pure functional
chilly in its welcome
did not encourage me to stay long.

In spite of their differences
they stayed together
as practical necessities
but both wasteful
in the end.

cheers Brian

--- - ---

Bluff Cove

Below a sky as grey and cold
and solid as a chain-mail cage,
An alien wind whips up the snow
to frozen powder, and in rage
The travel-weary metal groans
Beneath the feet of those engaged
In rages of their own.

With patience tried and nerves as stretched
as space allotted will allow,
A ghost that howls to drown the wind
speeds up the heart and wrinkles brow,
And cutting through the freezing mist
a gift from Hell for those below,
Whose senses rake the clouds.

And then in sound to end all sound -
a sound that tears the flesh from bone,
To mangle steel and boil the sea
as from the very air is blown
the stuff of life, and twitching limbs
no longer do the will of those
whose life itself has flown.

Then in the chaos following
Of the living and the thankful dead
From this ‘away game’ comes to mind
The home encounter – no blood shed
When everyone linked arms and sang
And no-one cried, or died,
The day Las Pumas fought the men in red

Bob Rogers

--- - ---

A Miner`s Ode

Rattling of chains, the cage`s coming up,
Bringing the men from the mine,
The sound of footsteps on the old cobbled hill,
And the day hot and fine.
Miners singing old welsh songs,
Faces covered with dust,
A child runs up to meet his dad,
And searches his box for a crust.

Tom Davies leans on the wall with his pipe,
And remembers old days in the pit,
Glyn Tomos stops by for a quick little yarn,
And looks for a place to sit,
I`ll see you in the "Arms " tonight, says Glyn,
We`ll have a pint and a chat,
Young Davy`s doing alright in the mine,
How`s your wife and your daughter Pat?

Another day and the miners going back,
Along the old cobbled hill,
Dew on the grass, the birds singing,
And the trees and the leaves stand still,
The men have been down an hour or so,
Working for all they are worth,
Tasting again the dust in their throats,
As they dig in the heart of the earth.

That night Tom Davies was alone with his pipe,
And the tears flooding his eyes,
Young Davy his son was killed in the mine,
Among the fire and cries,
Glyn Tomos and Will were killed as well,
No singing tonight on the hill,
No sound of footsteps and children laughing,
For the village`s in mourning and still.

Old Tom will drink on his own in the "Arms",
And think of Glyn his old mate,
He`ll have a joke and yarn by himself,
As he passes the cemetry gate,
The rest of the lads are still in the pit,
Not one of them could they save,
Their bodies black with the dust from the coal,
Aye, the mine has turned to a grave.

Many thanks to Arfon Jones
who wrote this poem about 30 years ago

--- - ---

TREES

I've gazed at Architechture real monuments in stone,

And wondered at the grandeur wrought by man,

Their Ingenuity and cleverness is something to applaud,

They always seem to come up with a plan,

And yet-If you have ever stood and gazed up at a Tree,

And through it's leafy branches splayed out wide,

Enjoyed the cool green mantle of it's shade and filtered

Sun,And felt a glow of awe well up inside,

It soon becomes apparent that mans art is really small

compared with natures edifice that's swaying there so tall,

Nigh on two Hundred years to reach a true mature height,

Then felled in fifteen minutes to a chain-saws cruel bite.

No poem so it's said is quite as lovely as a Tree,

Many might contest that Phrase,

But certainly Not Me.

Received from and thanks to: Don

- - -

'Men of Cambria'

O, men of Cambria, why do you choose
Lifetimes of methane and dusts,
Disfiguring anthracite tattoos
And silicosing chests?
O, sons of Wales, why do you go?
What secrets are you hiding?
Does He meet with you down below?
Are you down there at His bidding?

To dying coal-pits filled with grief,
And rats and props and pillars,
And grunts and groans and injuries,
You go to seams familiar.
You're there to toil. And toil you should,
For loved-ones else learn hunger.
You rant and rave and curse aloud
To exorcise your anger.

With throbbing ears, and smarting eyes
In coal-encrusted sockets,
You line your lungs with viscid pus
While you line pit-owners' pockets.
Deep underground, you journey far,
Clutching feathered companions,
Whose sudden deaths too often are
Ill-fated premonitions.

To terraced houses filled with fun,
And comfort, warmth and sharing,
And loving daughters, wives and sons,
You go to feel the caring.
You're there to rest. And rest you should,
For the shift has wrought its toll.
You'd lay for ever if you could,
And to hell with all that coal.

To public houses filled with drear,
And dartboards, friends and leisure,
And poverty, despair and fear,
You go to make your pleasure.
You're there to dream. And dream you should,
For reality can break you.
And mild and bitter from the wood
To kinder worlds can take you.

To chapel basements filled with song,
And pianos, bass and tenors,
And whirling batons urging on,
You go to join your choirs.
You're there to sing. And sing you should,
For colliers know the value
Of harmony and brotherhood
When others bank upon you.

To playing fields filled with teams,
And rugby-boots and jerseys,
And dead-ball lines and corner posts,
You go to show no mercy.
You're there to play. And play you should
For clogging lungs need airing,
And win or lose, the fans applaud,
Rewarded for their shillings.

To crumbling chapels filled with prayers,
And hymns and guilt and gossip,
And muffled coughs and creaking chairs,
You go to make your worship.
You're there to pray. And pray you should,
For fragile are your fates,
And certainty of life's not found
On brass collection plates.

As sermons from the pulpits tell
Of miracles and morals,
You hear the sounds of outside bells
And you look around your chapels.
Their windows, bright as lantern slides,
With God's sun the source of power,
Are casting saintly images
On the cassocks of the choirs.

To village churchyards filled with death,
And gloom and damp and sorrow,
And moss-green headstones, musty earth,
You go to your tomorrows.
You're there to sleep. And sleep you should,
For none begrudge your slumber.
No strangers to being underground
Are you, brave men of Cambria.

 

NORMAN THOMAS

- - -

'The Tumbled-up Welsh Village'

In the tumbled-up Welsh village where I was almost born,

The farmer planted flowers, and the florist planted corn,

The carpenter made things from iron, the forger things from wood,

And I made oats and sowed wild hay as often as I could.

 

In the tumbled-up Welsh village where I was city-bred,

The baker sold us pints of milk, the milkman loaves of bread,

Our sailors went to trenches, and our soldiers went to sea,

And I never was wherever I happened to be.

 

In the tumbled-up Welsh village where I nearly went to school,

They taught swimming in the classroom, and history in the pool,

They fell asleep in libraries, and read their books in bed,

And stopped at traffic lights when green, and passed through

them when red.

 

In the tumbled-up Welsh village when I was just a lad,

We called our fathers 'mammy', and we called our mothers 'dad',

The townsfolk lived in villages, and the villagers in town,

Some lived a little lower up and others higher down.

 

In the tumbled-up Welsh village where I grew up big and strong,

To tell a lie was honourable, to tell the truth was wrong,

We'd listen to the skylarks moo, and hear the cowherd sing,

Advance our clocks in Autumn, and put them back in Spring.

 

In the tumbled-up Welsh village where I became a man,

The bookies' runners always walked, jaywalkers always ran,

The moon shone brightly all day long, the sun came out at night,

And brides were always dressed in black, and mourners always white.

 

In the tumbled-up Welsh village where I met my bride-that-was,

There were knockers on the windows, and curtains on the doors,

The smoke went down the chimney, and the water up the drain,

We'd moan and groan when feeling well, and giggle when in pain

In the tumbled-up Welsh village where friends of mine reside,

 

They pebbledash the walls indoors and paper those outside,

They mow the fitted carpet and vacuum-clean the lawn,

They breakfast well when going to bed, and then they dine at dawn.

 

In the tumbled-up Welsh village where I fell gravely ill,

The doctor who attended me said I was going uphill,

He put two needles in my mouth, and a tablet in my arm,

And said to wear no blankets or I'd catch my death of warm.

 

In the tumbled-up Welsh village on the very day I died,

My family laughed their heads off, while strangers for me cried,

They put me in an earthen box and buried me in the wood,

And they never came to visit me whenever they could.

 

To the tumbled-up Welsh village where once I died and lived,

I'll tell you now a secret, and this I freely give.

It's also in the afterlife that things are turned around,

For hell is high above the stars, and Heaven's below the ground.

 

NORMAN THOMAS

"LlanfairPG"


The lovely church of St. Mary lies

In a setting that account defies.

Its garden is a hollow glade

Where leafy white hazels furnish shade,

Where within the throw of a pebble stone,

A whirlpool eddies round and down.

 

The church of St. Tysilio's near.

The guardian of its sister dear.

Here, centuries of worshippers

Laid down their kin, their sins, their fears.

And warriors their life-blood gave.

Their monument, the red-walled cave.

 

Yet history will deem it fair

That tongues went through such wear and tear.

Just sing it gently, sing it slow,

Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgo-

Gerychwrndro-

Bwllllantysilio-

Gogogoch.

 

Author's notes: A town in the county of Anglesey, North Wales. English translation: (roughly) "St. Mary's (church) of the hollow of the white hazels near the rapid whirlpool, and St. Tysilio's (church) of the red cave."

NORMAN THOMAS

- - -

 

The Air-raid Shelter

It was no big deal to a ten-year old

To be woken at two in the morning and told

"Hurry up, get dressed, then turn off the light,

And wear a pullover, it's going to be cold

Down the air-raid shelter tonight."

 

Though you'd rather sleep on, you don't have a choice,

For you sense the fear in your mother's voice.

So you do as she says, and you rush downstairs,

Gathering up some of your kid sister's toys,

For you know she's going to be scared.

 

Yes, you do as you're told, and you run like mad,

(It's the seventh night in a row you've had

The disturbing wail of the siren's blow.)

All the time clutching your comics’ wad

To be read by a candle's glow.

 

To a kid of ten, it was fun and games

To hear the drone of the German planes,

And the crack of the nearby ack-ack gun

As it tried to shoot them down in flames

Before they could drop their bombs and run.

 

"Where are you, where are you?" so sounded their drones,

As their bomb-sights trained on anonymous homes

“We’ve lots of incendiaries still to drop,”

One could almost hear, in Germanic tones,

“The sooner we get you, the sooner we’ll stop”

 

With our shelter’s light shielded, our black-out intact,

We unwrapped the sandwiches our Mam had packed.

When at last came the sound we’d been praying to hear,

As we sipped from the small cups of tea from the flask,

The welcoming wail of the siren’s all-clear.

 

The one big question on everyone's mind

Was what destruction we'd emerge to find.

What devastation would be wrought this night?

But our home’s silhouette proved a positive sign

That we'd weathered the Luftwaffe's might

 

NORMAN THOMAS
and Many thanks to Norman for his excellent contributions to our poetry section - Paul www

- - -

 

Jewels In The Grass

Sitting at my breakfast table feeling rather gloomy
looking at the trees and rugged lawn,
the sky had shed the grey of early morn,
and beams of light from a bright new sun
brought a beautiful and warm new dawn.

I thought of mother nature and the wonders
she had wrought
on this our tiny planet we call home.
And then my eyes beheld a sight beyond my window pane,
the grass was sparkling in a beam of light on the
raindrops the night had left behind,
each drop of rain was shining with a colour all it's own
colours that I'd never seen before,
not the colours of a painting or a photograph but
an aura of mother natures crown.The beauty
I beheld chased away the gloomy feeling
and I couldn't wait to see another dawn,
but then the sun rose higher and the wind
began to blow, those glorious colours
faded from my sight.

In my mind I can
still see those colours, that nothing
can surpass,they were surely Mother Natures,

Jewels In The Grass.

Don Thomas

---

'The Day our Valley Stopped Singing'
by Norman Thomas

"Come on now, Davy, you'll be late for school."
At eight came his mam's last warning.
"Young Megan next door has long since left.
You've got to shape up in the mornings."
Through the damp and misty streets he ran
T'ward the sound of the school bell's ringing.
He ran for his life, yet he ran to his death,
For the streets that he raced were of Aberfan
On the day our valley stopped singing.

In the classrooms sat the future of Wales
At the Pantglas Junior School.
Young Davy sat with a group of his friends
At their desks at the back of the room.
A full day of lessons ahead, so they thought,
Of arithmetic, reading and writing.
But it wasn't to be, for this was to be
The day our valley stopped singing
And the world kissed our children goodbye.

It was soon after nine on the twenty-first day
Of October of year sixty six,
That the call went out to emergency teams
To hurry with shovels and picks.
The Junior school and some nearby homes
Were the object of their desperation,
And the reason our valley stopped singing
Was soon to be shared with the nation.
And the horror was just beginning.

A slag heap high on the mountainside
That towered above the school,
Had begun to creep in the morning's mist
Unhindered by God, man, and tool.
There was nothing on earth that could hold it back;
Small wonder our valley stopped singing,
For that hump-backed monster draped in black
Continued its slide, unabating,
Till it totally covered the school.

 

All fire brigades and Civil Defence
Were rushed to the ravaged scene.
There were miners, teachers, and parents,
And police and ambulance men.
On the day our valley stopped singing
It was full of volunteers,
And though the rain fell through the day,
It couldn't out-fall the tears
The results of their labours were bringing.

Roughly half of the twelve score pupils were safe,
While the others were smothered or missing.
Each rescuer toiled with the strength of two
On the day our valley stopped singing.
With spades they shovelled, with hands they clawed
At the quagmire for signs of the living,
And every live child was ample reward
For the sweat, and the toil, and the effort,
And the time they were selflessly giving.

The medical staff at St. Tydfil's
Had not before known such distress,
And this day our valley stopped singing
Was to bring even more grief, not less.
After only an hour it was gravely feared
That the trapped childrens' chances were slimming,
And then, near the stroke of eleven o'clock,
The last of the children still living
Were pulled from the sludge where they'd mired.

They'd recovered the sixtieth body by ten
Of the evening our valley stopped singing,
And they'd pull lifeless forms out again and again
By the seventh and last day of digging.
One hundred and sixteen dear children,
And twenty-eight adults would die,
And after their bodies were cleaned of the slime
They were put in the care of their loved ones
To be buried a second time.

 

On the day our valley stopped singing
We recalled pit disasters of yore,
But the impact was not quite so chilling
For the victims, the miners, had been more mature,
And had known of the risks they were taking.
What now touched all the hearts of the nation
Were the maimed and the dead girls and boys,
And the people responded with kindness,
With donations of money and toys.

Young Davy lost his life that day,
And Megan the use of her legs,
And even those children who came out unscathed
Had suffered the loss of their friends.
Life's not been the same in Aberfan
Since those hopes and young bodies were crushed,
And it's not been the same in a certain two homes,
For Davy can't dawdle, and Megan can't rush
Since the day our valley stopped singing.

Author's note The ascending order through verses 1 - 9 of the phrase "our valley stopped singing" symbolizes the souls of the children ascending into Heaven. In verse 10 it is used to end the poem.

-------

A Friend

Everyone should have A friend

And If your Friend's in need

Give Him or Her the Comfort

For once do one good deed,

You May Need a friend someday

A Friend you can rely on,

For a friend in need is a Friend Indeed,

And if You Need another,

I'm Sure You Haven't Far To Go,

For Your Best Friend is Your Mother

Cheers Don

---------------------------------

'As Stars Hopscotch'
by Norman Thomas

As stars hopscotch across the black Welsh night,
The man-faced moon stares down the moon-faced man
Who, like the fishes once his prey, wide-eyed,
Lies deep unsleeping, counting down
The nettling hours 'til the new day's burn,
For mercy's urgent errands need to be run.

Through seabirds' calls, through fish-boats' foghorns' wails,
On bedrid legs he runs the gauntlet of the night
Unhindered by the angry channel's squalls.
Clinging like a limpet to the hull of his hopes,
The snaring net he views now from inside,
And feels still the lash of the frozen rope.

Anchored fast to his watered-down-filled bed,
His landlocked thoughts trawl back, and quake.
The sailor's whistle's still a song of dread,
Its lanyard like a hawser round his neck.
His sea-legs now, no match for a gull's walk,
His old salt's skills just jetsam in his wake.

Encompassed by a going-nowhere sea,
Four walls alone his north, south, east and west,
He's run aground upon a bank of grief,
The only tides, those in his chamber pot.
His failing sight perceives the swirling mist,
The blowing wind's just flatus in his gut.

His life, from stern to bowsprit, fate had dared,
The jolts from port to starboard he had fought,
For more austere a course no man had steered.
The quiet disturbance in his mind became
The storm now carried in his raging thoughts.
Ten fathoms deep and no-one carries blame.

Dayspring to dusk, he'd plied the coast of Wales,
The pregnant belly of Britannia,
Taking from St. George's channel's swells
The squirming stench of mackerel and dab,
To unload by the shoal at harbour's pier,
Yet buy for a bob, off the monger's slab.

 

Endurance was a quality he'd mastered,
For sanity's a fickle frame of mind
When north-east winds that test the sturdy mast-head
Can cut the souls of hardy men in two,
And put their hearts through terror unimagined,
And leave to prayer alone to pull them through.

Gentle are those winds at their first rising,
The creaking boards the first to air complaint,
Though soon duetted by the snapping ensign;
No tuneful shanty to a practiced ear,
For leaping waves the hull will quickly torment,
And the deck will flow with the sea's own tears.

The smile behind warm, weather-beaten eyes,
And tales galore, once thrilled the hearts of youths,
Who'd crowd the harbour wall at turn of tide,
To feast their ears on fiction, fact and fable.
Their Aesop he, their beautifier of truths,
Whose mouth and mind's, alas, no longer able.

No dab hand now, he simply lies in wait
(In striped pyjamas now, no black sou'wester)
For that last haul into the gale's bite,
Though feet he's dragging, not the ocean floor.
For time is near to cast his noblest gesture,
When, for audience, nor flesh, he'll fish no more.

It was at dawn he reached his final mooring,
His hatch was battened down once and for all.
The deck of life has felt his heels' last pounding,
His skin no longer fears the stinging spray.
His life throughout was everything but peaceful,
Yet at the end, he quietly drifted away.

 

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