There was a shop on the old town road
which sold nothing but coffee,
and many came to stop and behold
the wonders of cups of caffeine.
All that is except two cleaners,
tea drinkers through and through.
They both loathed all things coffee
and what its drinkers aspired to.
That coffee could eliminate falsehoods,
cure poverty and war,
that it held the font of all things good,
was what coffee stood for.
And so the tea maestros simmered,
their anger just about restrained
until some friends invited them to coffee
and they laughed through their pain.
So they went down to the coffee shop,
and raised it to the ground.
They fled with every bean in the place,
gone, never to be found.
Tuesday, 15 August 2017
Saturday, 12 August 2017
The Tiger Poet vs. Owen Sheers - 'Mametz Wood'
For a long time, I've heard it said that Owen Sheers is a bit of a prodigy. He excelled at poetry at a young age, and his skills have only improved over time to the point where he is one of the strongest voices in Welsh poetry. His work tackles a variety of subjects, including love, farming life, landscapes, and the effects of war as demonstrated in his verse drama Pink Mist. For me though, Sheers will prove especially helpful as a source of inspiration in my attempt to tackle Mametz Wood, a defining moment for Welsh soldiers in the First World War.
Sheers is no stranger to Mametz, having written about the battle in verse and staged a play to mark the centenary of the action which took place during the Battle of the Somme. So now, in my own attempt to tackle the subject, let's see what Sheers makes of it in his eponymous poem 'Mametz Wood'. Written in 2005, the poem is comprised of seven tercets with a fairly regular pattern of ten to twelve syllables per line. Without making this sound too much like an A Level English Literature exam, this meter gives 'Mametz Wood' a similar feel to the poems of Shakespeare written in iambic pentameter. This structure gives the poem an almost elegiac feel, and it becomes very effective when it delves into the aftermath of the action at Mametz Wood.
The poem opens with Sheers describing farmers discovering the remains of fallen young soldiers as they plough their fields. The last line of the first stanza is particularly effective as it conjures up images of the devastation inflicted upon the landscape during the war, and conveys the struggle to return to normality for years afterwards. From this Sheers moves into describing the soldiers' remains, delivering some potent imagery by using alliteration, particularly with comparisons to china plate and how a damaged skull resembles a shattered bird's egg. Such remains are still being found at Mametz Wood today, and such discoveries highlight the senseless brutality of war.
The combination of human tragedy, precise metaphor and terrific imagery hammers home the true cost of the battle. Sheers momentarily describes how the Welsh soldiers were ordered to walk towards the wood while facing heavily fortified machine gun positions, conveying an accurate representation of the layout of the battle, before seguing into perhaps the poem's best metaphorical imagery. Here, Sheers describes a land still recovering reminders of what happened, which he compares to a foreign body being dredged up from a wound in human skin.
This one stanza encapsulates the aftermath of the First World War better than any epitaph I've read. Many thousands of soldiers perished or went missing in the chaos of the war, and every now and then skeletons are discovered on the old battlefields across France and Belgium. My own experiences travelling to Ypres in Belgium to visit the Tyne Cot Cemetery and the Menin Gate have given me a clear picture of the sheer scale of the casualties, and the sense of an entire generation being wiped out. While this seems more abstract in poetic form, Sheers gives us a concrete image to exemplify the reality of Mametz Wood.
He describes the discovery of twenty men buried together in a grave, which he describes as something similar to a 'dance macabre', as the skeletons have their arms interlinked. Such vivid imagery, coupled with the rhythmical meter of the poem, evokes paintings of the battle such as the famous one by Christopher Williams, which depict similar scenes of Welsh and German soldiers alike trapped in a strange, horrific death dance. This imagery, although somewhat abstract, conveys an eerie atmosphere, further reinforced in the following stanza, which adds to the previous description by including visceral detail. Sheers describes the remains of the soldiers boots, their skulls and in perhaps the most disturbing image in which he mentions that jaws are dropped open on the soldiers who still possess them.
Having maintained the rhythm and structure of the poem, filled with a balanced mixture of abstract and concrete imagery, with a clear metaphorical line running through it, Sheers ends by finding poignant meaning in the open jaws of the soldiers' skeletons. He posits that it is as if notes sung by the soldiers are only now slipping from their tongues after having been buried for so long. It strikes a beautiful abstract image against the visceral horror of the mass grave. It drives home the tragedy of the First World War in a relatively simple yet effective way, in how the mass slaughter of industrialised warfare destroyed millions of lives and the potential within them.
All in all, it's safe to say that now having analysed 'Mametz Wood' from beginning to end, Sheers more than lives up to his reputation. As a poem encapsulating the battle, it's a terrific piece of work, and there's a lot I can learn from it in my attempt to write my own Mametz Wood poem. If it will be anywhere near as good as Sheers' effort, we shall wait and see, but if you want to read the entirety of Mametz Wood, go and check it out.
Sheers is no stranger to Mametz, having written about the battle in verse and staged a play to mark the centenary of the action which took place during the Battle of the Somme. So now, in my own attempt to tackle the subject, let's see what Sheers makes of it in his eponymous poem 'Mametz Wood'. Written in 2005, the poem is comprised of seven tercets with a fairly regular pattern of ten to twelve syllables per line. Without making this sound too much like an A Level English Literature exam, this meter gives 'Mametz Wood' a similar feel to the poems of Shakespeare written in iambic pentameter. This structure gives the poem an almost elegiac feel, and it becomes very effective when it delves into the aftermath of the action at Mametz Wood.
The poem opens with Sheers describing farmers discovering the remains of fallen young soldiers as they plough their fields. The last line of the first stanza is particularly effective as it conjures up images of the devastation inflicted upon the landscape during the war, and conveys the struggle to return to normality for years afterwards. From this Sheers moves into describing the soldiers' remains, delivering some potent imagery by using alliteration, particularly with comparisons to china plate and how a damaged skull resembles a shattered bird's egg. Such remains are still being found at Mametz Wood today, and such discoveries highlight the senseless brutality of war.
The combination of human tragedy, precise metaphor and terrific imagery hammers home the true cost of the battle. Sheers momentarily describes how the Welsh soldiers were ordered to walk towards the wood while facing heavily fortified machine gun positions, conveying an accurate representation of the layout of the battle, before seguing into perhaps the poem's best metaphorical imagery. Here, Sheers describes a land still recovering reminders of what happened, which he compares to a foreign body being dredged up from a wound in human skin.
This one stanza encapsulates the aftermath of the First World War better than any epitaph I've read. Many thousands of soldiers perished or went missing in the chaos of the war, and every now and then skeletons are discovered on the old battlefields across France and Belgium. My own experiences travelling to Ypres in Belgium to visit the Tyne Cot Cemetery and the Menin Gate have given me a clear picture of the sheer scale of the casualties, and the sense of an entire generation being wiped out. While this seems more abstract in poetic form, Sheers gives us a concrete image to exemplify the reality of Mametz Wood.
He describes the discovery of twenty men buried together in a grave, which he describes as something similar to a 'dance macabre', as the skeletons have their arms interlinked. Such vivid imagery, coupled with the rhythmical meter of the poem, evokes paintings of the battle such as the famous one by Christopher Williams, which depict similar scenes of Welsh and German soldiers alike trapped in a strange, horrific death dance. This imagery, although somewhat abstract, conveys an eerie atmosphere, further reinforced in the following stanza, which adds to the previous description by including visceral detail. Sheers describes the remains of the soldiers boots, their skulls and in perhaps the most disturbing image in which he mentions that jaws are dropped open on the soldiers who still possess them.
Having maintained the rhythm and structure of the poem, filled with a balanced mixture of abstract and concrete imagery, with a clear metaphorical line running through it, Sheers ends by finding poignant meaning in the open jaws of the soldiers' skeletons. He posits that it is as if notes sung by the soldiers are only now slipping from their tongues after having been buried for so long. It strikes a beautiful abstract image against the visceral horror of the mass grave. It drives home the tragedy of the First World War in a relatively simple yet effective way, in how the mass slaughter of industrialised warfare destroyed millions of lives and the potential within them.
All in all, it's safe to say that now having analysed 'Mametz Wood' from beginning to end, Sheers more than lives up to his reputation. As a poem encapsulating the battle, it's a terrific piece of work, and there's a lot I can learn from it in my attempt to write my own Mametz Wood poem. If it will be anywhere near as good as Sheers' effort, we shall wait and see, but if you want to read the entirety of Mametz Wood, go and check it out.
Friday, 14 July 2017
New Feature Announcement: Slam Poetry on the Spot
With so much going on right now, it may seem foolhardy of me to be announcing another feature, but that's exactly what this post is about (if you didn't already guess by the title). As my second new feature on this blog, I'm pleased to announce the first installment of Slam Poetry on the Spot will be up in the next week or two.
On my YouTube channel I have a playlist consisting of who I consider to be the best British slam poets working today. There is a thriving slam poetry scene in America where poets are doing lots of great things, and I have covered the topic of spoken word and performance poetry before. So, for the foreseeable future, I will be analysing a slam or spoken word poet and one of their poems (or several), looking for what makes them great at their work.
If this sounds like your kind of thing, then stick around and check it out. Seeing as I talk about written poetry quite a lot on this blog, it will be fun to discuss performance poetry again, especially as it appears to be taking off and growing into a larger community by the year. The first installment will be focusing on spoken word poet Suli Breaks, so keep an eye out for that. In the meantime, coming up next is my long awaited analysis of Owen Sheers' poem 'Mametz Wood'.
Hope you're all enjoying the summer, and see you again soon.
On my YouTube channel I have a playlist consisting of who I consider to be the best British slam poets working today. There is a thriving slam poetry scene in America where poets are doing lots of great things, and I have covered the topic of spoken word and performance poetry before. So, for the foreseeable future, I will be analysing a slam or spoken word poet and one of their poems (or several), looking for what makes them great at their work.
If this sounds like your kind of thing, then stick around and check it out. Seeing as I talk about written poetry quite a lot on this blog, it will be fun to discuss performance poetry again, especially as it appears to be taking off and growing into a larger community by the year. The first installment will be focusing on spoken word poet Suli Breaks, so keep an eye out for that. In the meantime, coming up next is my long awaited analysis of Owen Sheers' poem 'Mametz Wood'.
Hope you're all enjoying the summer, and see you again soon.
Tuesday, 11 July 2017
Trials of the Fennec
Desert sands hide many things.
The roots of heat-withered grass,
the coils of fierce-eyed vipers
and the prey of the Fennec.
A fox with satellite-dish ears,
its fur the colour of the sands,
a buccaneer of the dunes
on an endless trek.
Anything goes on the Fennec's palate.
Bird eggs, shelled treasure chests,
unwary rodents, luscious carveries,
scorpions, refreshing yet barbed cocktails.
Then there are the Fennec's foes,
the beasts which lurk by day and night.
The devious caracals, the fearsome hyenas,
even the death shadows of owls on the air.
And yet this little fox pressed on,
prowling the crest of the dunes
across the driest of oceans
on to find its bounty and a place to rest.
The roots of heat-withered grass,
the coils of fierce-eyed vipers
and the prey of the Fennec.
A fox with satellite-dish ears,
its fur the colour of the sands,
a buccaneer of the dunes
on an endless trek.
Anything goes on the Fennec's palate.
Bird eggs, shelled treasure chests,
unwary rodents, luscious carveries,
scorpions, refreshing yet barbed cocktails.
Then there are the Fennec's foes,
the beasts which lurk by day and night.
The devious caracals, the fearsome hyenas,
even the death shadows of owls on the air.
And yet this little fox pressed on,
prowling the crest of the dunes
across the driest of oceans
on to find its bounty and a place to rest.
Thursday, 22 June 2017
The Tiger Poet Goes on Holiday
Everything's been quiet for a while, and I owe an explanation. For the last week, I've been on holiday in Italy, which is an unusual occurrence for me as I rarely go on what one might call a standard holiday anymore. Specifically, I went to Limone sul Garda, a small village on the shores of Lake Garda near Verona, and sandwiched in-between the lake and the mountains around it. So, as a way of apology for the lack of activity on this blog, here's a run-down of my experiences holidaying on the shores of Lake Garda.
Limone is quite a small town, which is understandable when you consider that it has its back literally against the wall. The hotel I stayed in had parts of the mountain behind protruding through the walls where the normal walls ended. Its two biggest exports are lemons and fish, not surprising as Limone was fairly isolated for much of its history. However, despite the obvious similarity, the town is not named after its lemons, but instead derives its name from the Latin word "limen" meaning "border". Nevertheless, the lemons are impossible to avoid when staying in Limone. All of the buildings carry a number on a lemon-emblazoned plaque, and one of the groves stood directly beneath my hotel. The tiny harbour which was also below the hotel stands as a reminder of how isolated Limone was as a small fishing village before a road was built in the 1930s.
In many ways, I was quite reminded of my home village of Frynwys. Although neither Limone nor Frynwys are completely isolated today, they both share the same common past of having gone from a state of isolation to one of contact with the wider world. However, in Frynwys's case, the most it has provided to the world was coal from the old mine which has long since closed, but Limone has provided something quite remarkable. I spotted an old newspaper article written in English in the hotel lobby, which detailed how it was discovered by accident that the residents of Limone possess super-scavenger genes which prolong their lives. Many of the residents live to ninety or beyond. There are still ongoing attempts to use this gene, known as ApoA-1 Milano, to help prolong lives across the world.
Aside from that, Limone is pretty quiet. That is why I took several trips to other towns on Lake Garda's shores, such as Riva del Garda, Malcesine, and Sirmione. Each of these towns has its own distinct character. Riva is a sporty, active place, full of modern buildings but with an emphasis on outdoor activity. Malcesine is a network of cobbled streets and small piazzas, sitting in the shadow of Monte Baldo, which I visited via cable car. On the top of the mountain the air is a lot fresher, with an altogether more alpine feel, along with several handy refreshment stops. Meanwhile Sirmione, situated on a peninsula on Lake Garda's southern end, is more Mediterranean, with several high-end shops contained within the narrow streets. It is also where Gaius Valerius Catullus, a Latin poet who lived and wrote during the days of the Roman Republic, lived in a villa along with his family, which proved a nice surprise to a visiting amateur poet such as myself.
Add to this a visit to Verona (which requires a week of exploration for itself), during which I spotted the balcony featured in Romeo and Juliet, and it made for an interesting week. Aside from relaxation and the occasional bit of excitement, I purchased a lemon-themed notepad in which I attempted to write a poem about Limone. It needs quite a bit of work, but it is still in the early drafting stages, so it will appear on the blog in due course.
In the meantime, now that my holiday is over I am getting back to work on my outstanding commitments. My analysis of Owen Sheers' poem 'Mametz Wood' will be up very soon, along with several other new features. Hope you're all enjoying the heatwave, and see you soon.
Limone is quite a small town, which is understandable when you consider that it has its back literally against the wall. The hotel I stayed in had parts of the mountain behind protruding through the walls where the normal walls ended. Its two biggest exports are lemons and fish, not surprising as Limone was fairly isolated for much of its history. However, despite the obvious similarity, the town is not named after its lemons, but instead derives its name from the Latin word "limen" meaning "border". Nevertheless, the lemons are impossible to avoid when staying in Limone. All of the buildings carry a number on a lemon-emblazoned plaque, and one of the groves stood directly beneath my hotel. The tiny harbour which was also below the hotel stands as a reminder of how isolated Limone was as a small fishing village before a road was built in the 1930s.
In many ways, I was quite reminded of my home village of Frynwys. Although neither Limone nor Frynwys are completely isolated today, they both share the same common past of having gone from a state of isolation to one of contact with the wider world. However, in Frynwys's case, the most it has provided to the world was coal from the old mine which has long since closed, but Limone has provided something quite remarkable. I spotted an old newspaper article written in English in the hotel lobby, which detailed how it was discovered by accident that the residents of Limone possess super-scavenger genes which prolong their lives. Many of the residents live to ninety or beyond. There are still ongoing attempts to use this gene, known as ApoA-1 Milano, to help prolong lives across the world.
Aside from that, Limone is pretty quiet. That is why I took several trips to other towns on Lake Garda's shores, such as Riva del Garda, Malcesine, and Sirmione. Each of these towns has its own distinct character. Riva is a sporty, active place, full of modern buildings but with an emphasis on outdoor activity. Malcesine is a network of cobbled streets and small piazzas, sitting in the shadow of Monte Baldo, which I visited via cable car. On the top of the mountain the air is a lot fresher, with an altogether more alpine feel, along with several handy refreshment stops. Meanwhile Sirmione, situated on a peninsula on Lake Garda's southern end, is more Mediterranean, with several high-end shops contained within the narrow streets. It is also where Gaius Valerius Catullus, a Latin poet who lived and wrote during the days of the Roman Republic, lived in a villa along with his family, which proved a nice surprise to a visiting amateur poet such as myself.
Add to this a visit to Verona (which requires a week of exploration for itself), during which I spotted the balcony featured in Romeo and Juliet, and it made for an interesting week. Aside from relaxation and the occasional bit of excitement, I purchased a lemon-themed notepad in which I attempted to write a poem about Limone. It needs quite a bit of work, but it is still in the early drafting stages, so it will appear on the blog in due course.
In the meantime, now that my holiday is over I am getting back to work on my outstanding commitments. My analysis of Owen Sheers' poem 'Mametz Wood' will be up very soon, along with several other new features. Hope you're all enjoying the heatwave, and see you soon.
Wednesday, 7 June 2017
Cryogenic Foetal Lizard
One silver tadpole,
encased, embalmed,
caught mid-fall
from an oasis
in the branches.
A lizard, curled up,
almost foetal,
scales and claws
preserved, pristine,
by cryogenic sap.
A midge, taking off
from a petrified perch,
framed, glistening,
wings rendered still,
yet in permanent flight.
A red ant, crooked legs,
frozen in its prison,
a bulging abdomen,
a honeypot,
a golden bubble.
(This poem was inspired by a documentary about amber presented by Sir David Attenborough back in 2002. Check out The Amber Time Machine if you get the chance, it's really worth a watch.)
encased, embalmed,
caught mid-fall
from an oasis
in the branches.
A lizard, curled up,
almost foetal,
scales and claws
preserved, pristine,
by cryogenic sap.
A midge, taking off
from a petrified perch,
framed, glistening,
wings rendered still,
yet in permanent flight.
A red ant, crooked legs,
frozen in its prison,
a bulging abdomen,
a honeypot,
a golden bubble.
(This poem was inspired by a documentary about amber presented by Sir David Attenborough back in 2002. Check out The Amber Time Machine if you get the chance, it's really worth a watch.)
Sunday, 4 June 2017
Y Ddraig Goch (The Red Dragon)
A scream is all it takes
to introduce a legend.
A clash of winged beasts,
red against white scales.
The scream wreaks devastation
on all who hear it.
Red against white scales,
the scream brings misery
on all who hear it,
till a bold prince silences it.
The scream brings misery,
no end is in sight
till a bold prince silences it,
with the dragons underground.
No end is in sight,
but now the old feud slumbers,
with the dragons underground
till a wayward king wanders.
So the legend is born
and so it spreads,
till the heat of its flame
graces green and white banners.
(This poem was inspired by the story of Llud and Llefelys, the earliest known reference of the Welsh Dragon. It can be found in the Mabinogion.)
to introduce a legend.
A clash of winged beasts,
red against white scales.
The scream wreaks devastation
on all who hear it.
Red against white scales,
the scream brings misery
on all who hear it,
till a bold prince silences it.
The scream brings misery,
no end is in sight
till a bold prince silences it,
with the dragons underground.
No end is in sight,
but now the old feud slumbers,
with the dragons underground
till a wayward king wanders.
So the legend is born
and so it spreads,
till the heat of its flame
graces green and white banners.
(This poem was inspired by the story of Llud and Llefelys, the earliest known reference of the Welsh Dragon. It can be found in the Mabinogion.)
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