I've often mentioned slam poetry on this blog, but until recently I haven't examined it much. On my YouTube channel is a playlist consisting of what I consider to be some of the best slam poets in the British slam scene. In this new and hopefully ongoing feature, I'll be analysing the poets and some of their work to see how slam poetry works and how it fits in to the wider poetry spectrum. Kicking off the proceedings is spoken word artist Suli Breaks and his absolutely terrific spoken word poem 'I will Not Let An Exam Result Decide My Fate'.
Darryll Suliaman Amaoko, better known by his stage name Suli Breaks, was born in London and first performed poetry in 2008. Since then he has gone on to become one of the most influential spoken word artists operating in Britain. 'I Will Not Let An Exam Result Decide My Fate' was released on his YouTube channel back in 2013, and having watched and listened to it a couple of times now, I can tell you it's a tremendous piece of work.
The poem starts off with Breaks conveying a conversation between a mother and her son after a parent's evening. The son is falling behind in his studies and asks his mother why he needs to study subjects he won't use in later life. The mother replies with the oft-repeated mantra of parents that he needs the grades to get a good degree which in turn will lead to a good job. She adds that she never had the same opportunity at her age. The son replies with an armour-piercing response:
"But you were born a long time ago, weren't you Mum?"
With this one line, Breaks brilliantly encapsulates the first part of his argument, which is that the rules of the societal game have changed for the younger generation. The mother ignores the question, but Breaks explains that it is because she doesn't know any better other than what the teachers and society has instilled in her. In the last part of this first section, Breaks notes that the child in question has a very sharp mind, but is instead labelled as problematic due to his individuality, which the education system works very hard to erase.
With this set-up, Breaks then launches into the meat of his argument against the current education model in Britain. This is where Breaks hits his stride, and the message he delivers is brilliantly illustrated by his versatility with words. He wastes no time in taking the education system to task for its emphasis on memorising facts and figures ahead of exams, asking why such a rigid system is used to test a group of individuals who have varying skills. Breaks then launches his next assault on society in general, and its hypocrisy in regards to subjects. He includes in this abortion, wealth and social inequality, charity and greed, and the disparity between the importance placed on education and its increasing cost. He uses a mixture of word play and great rhyming to convey this message. The line which struck me the is most is as follows:
"Parents that say they want "educated" kids/
but constantly marvel at how rich Richard Branson is.".
Throughout all of this, Breaks uses a refrain at the end of each train of thought; "Huh, the irony", to convey the internal contradictions of the education system promoting equality but treats individuals far from equally. He then proceeds to argue that the current system of education doesn't prepare its students for surviving in the outside world, and that the results children get at the end of education often define them to their prospective employers. An interesting situation Breaks illustrates is a pretentious English teacher dismissing a student's work for being too 'informal' before going on to reference Shakespeare, only to be told by the kid that Shakespeare was regarded as an early "innovator of slang'. Pervading all of this is a sense of such severe contradiction between the aims of education and the outcome, where some students are left feeling undervalued due to a low grade despite it not amounting to much in the wider workplace.
Breaks brings his thesis to a stirring conclusion where he dedicates the piece to those who found their future outside the world of education and academics. Those he includes in his dedication include those with followings on social media, unemployed university graduates, "shop assistants, cleaners and cashiers with bigger dreams", as well as self-employed entrepreneurs. To this Breaks pledges that no matter the number or the grade, they will never let an exam result decide their fate, and thus the title is dropped at the end of the poem. It's a strong message for anyone struggling with education in school, university or anywhere else, and by the end of the poem Breaks has succeeded in explaining his position while performing poetic acrobatics.
Ultimately, "I Will Not Let An Exam Result Decide My Fate' sets the bar pretty high as far as performance and slam poetry goes. Not only is it impressive as a feat of rhythmic and poetic sophistication, but in using these techniques to convey an argument and break it down through each stanza, Breaks demonstrates his complete mastery of the format. The use of refrains and a consistent rhyming structure add to the musicality of the piece, which only enhances the point Breaks is trying to convey. A lot of the slam poets on my list demonstrate such ability, but the potency of Breaks's argument combined with his brilliant choice of words and structuring make this poem one of the best I have heard in recent years.
(Original Poem: Breaks, Suli. I Will Not Let An Exam Result Decide My Fate)
Wednesday, 28 February 2018
Wednesday, 31 January 2018
In Defence of Hollie McNish
It seems that the literary world is on entertainingly dismissive form again. I've talked about spoken word poetry a couple of times on this blog, and how my personal opinion is that while it can sometimes be too serious and on-the-nose in conveying social messages, the poets themselves are brilliant at what they do. So you can imagine my interest in seeing an article in PN Review apparently about the effect of spoken word on modern poetry, but in reality a critique of the work of Hollie McNish.
I do not claim to be familiar with Hollie McNish's work, but I did include her poem 'Embarrassed' in my Best of British Slam Poetry playlist on my YouTube channel. That poem is a great example of versatility in wordplay and rhyme to convey a social double standard. However, it seems that McNish's poetry has riled up the PN Review's reviewer, but the reasoning used to justify her criticism was something that was so hilarious I had to talk about it.
I should note before starting that McNish has already responded to the article in question, and since she hasn't named the author of the article in her response I will not do so either. She addressed the author's specific complaints, but I will address the overarching themes of the article which is the death of modern poetry via amateurism and ignorance.
The first thing to address about the PN Review article is the utter contempt for modern forms of poetry displayed by the author. In the first half of the article the author decries the current trend of posting poetry on social media and it's supposed 'dumbing-down' effect. The author attributes this to a desire for instant gratification from young poets. Of course there are a lot of problems with social media, especially its ill-defined rules and regulations, and the narcissim that often comes with sharing your whole life online, but in the right circumstances social media can be a useful tool. I see nothing wrong with poets sharing their material on social media platforms (technically I myself fall under that heading), as it helps to spread poetry to a wider audience than the establishment would seem to prefer.
The author goes on to bring Hollie McNish into the conversation along with Kate Tempest as poets who gained recognition online before being picked up by publishers. What follows is a critical mauling of McNish on the grounds of too much honesty, "slapdash" use of words, "faux-humility", insufficient education regarding the poetry canon, refuge in audacity, vanity, insulting her audience through use of a false working-class persona, and to top it all off the author accuses McNish of luring in her audience to purchase and consume deliberately bad poetry.
Several problems with this article. The first is that the author assumes the level of McNish's intelligence and education. She criticises McNish for lacking a literary mind, to the point that she uses the word 'mind' in quotation marks, and decries her ignorance of the greats of the poetry scene; Shakespeare, Wordsworth, Larkin etc, claiming that poets like McNish are pretending that they are the first to address taboo subjects in their work. Making assumptions about people's education and intelligence is not only childish in the extreme and equivalent to name-calling, it adds nothing to the author's critique of McNish's work, and she ends up reviewing the artist's personality rather than her poetry. Also, while a lot of reading is essential to the development of the individual poet, influences are not limited to the wider backlog of the poetry canon. Influences can come from anywhere, be it the literary or the visual arts, and to suggest otherwise resembles blinkered-vision.
On to the more amusing subject of elitism; the author notes that poetry can no longer be accused of being elitist due to poetry publications being afraid to critique amateur poets. She then asserts that we expect our doctors, hairdressers and athletes to be the best of the best (which in itself is a fair point), but to equate the live-saving and psychically demanding work of doctors and athletes with writing poetry is a bit unfair. The author goes on to accuse McNish of being a "warrior" intend on leading an "invasion" of poetry by amateur on the basis of equal opportunities.
This situation strikes me as somewhat self-fulfilling prophecy. There has long been a concerted effort to introduce poetry to the masses, which is essential if the art form is to thrive, and yet someone like McNish who is doing just that is criticised by a reviewer on the grounds of leading an amateur "invasion". Engaging new audiences with poetry is key to its survival, no matter what form it comes in. To disregard spoken word artists like McNish on the basis of their "amateurish" style is a bit like a classical music reviewer dismissing rock music on the grounds of "too much noise". Different styles and forms of poetry carry equal merit; just because McNish is not as polished or refined as the Wordsworths and Coleridges of this world does not lessen her value to poetry as the PN Review's writer seems to imply. To see a reviewer so frightened of poetry reaching new audiences is as amusing as it is ridiculous.
Another problem in the article is the claim that McNish is somehow attempting to bring poetry down to its base level by tricking her audiences under the pretense of representing the working class. This is a serious accusation to level at a poet, and although it is true that this kind of faux working-class persona can be problematic, I have not seen enough of McNish's work to comment on the validity of this criticism. What I can comment on is the suggestion that McNish is out to con her audience. Everyone is entitled to their own opinion; there are many who enjoy McNish's work, and others who don't, but to continually suggest that an audience has been tricked into liking her poetry seems like a concerted effort to discredit her as an artist, turning the article into a hit-piece rather than a straightforward review.
The reviewer also accuses McNish of "faux-humility", whereby she protects herself from accusations of substandard poetry by admitting her own flaws, resulting in praise from critics for writing honest poetry. Self-deprecation is an old tool of stand-up comedians used to endear them to their audiences, and I think its use in spoken word poetry is not necessarily a bad thing. If a poet exposes their flaws and shares their early poetic efforts before moving on to their current work (which is presumably of a higher standard) then it shows the progression of the artist. Anyone looking to take up poetry can see that an experience poet like McNish had to learn their craft, thereby creating a connection between the artist and the audience.
There are many other things in this article which trouble me, such as the reviewer's pretentious assertion that McNish's work would have enraged Schopenhauer (a long since deceased person who's opinion we can't claim to know), suggesting that publishers push her work because they feel it is all that working-class audiences deserve, and continually inferring that McNish lacks the education, the influences and the mindset to produce worthwhile poetry. The one that makes me laugh however is the suggestion that poets have a job. Not a job with a fixed hourly salary, but a moral obligation to "safeguard language" and to continually strive to make it memorable as a defence of "civilised values". The reviewer suggests that no one should be encouraged to listen to artists such as McNish because their work is based on "what I think", thereby making it irrelevant.
Firstly, poets are not obliged to do anything. If a poet takes their work that seriously, thinking that poetry is some kind of barometer of the state of civilisation, good for them. However, I'd like to think that poets write because they enjoy the act of writing, instead of striving to uphold some abstract company mission statement. As such, it is not my, McNish's or any poet's job to do anything unless they choose to. To ascribe this mission to all poets is obtuse in the extreme. And thus the assassination of Hollie McNish and her poetry is concluded with the suggestion that audiences should not be encouraged to listen to her work. It may have escaped the reviewer's attention, but each poet writes from their individual perspective, which is no less legitimate or worthy of reading than the next poet. It goes back to my earlier point of if the audience enjoys something, who are you to tell them they only reason they like it is because they've somehow been played?
The reviewer concludes her article by imploring a resurgence of intelligence thought, and that we can start by not celebrating "amateurism and ignorance in our poetry". For a piece in the professional poetry outlet which PN Review is, I am surprised to see such amateurism in critiquing a poet and her work and such a blatant underestimation of the intelligence of spoken word audiences. For what it's worth, all I have left to say is this; Hollie McNish is free to write whatever she wants, just as audiences and critics are free to like or dislike her work, and loftier poets are free to write what they want and to adhere to a higher mission if they wish. After all, poetry is subjective and it's beauty is in the eye of the beholder.
(Check out Hollie's own response to PN Review here. Alternatively have a read of the original article here. In the meantime stay tuned for more good stuff coming soon!)
I do not claim to be familiar with Hollie McNish's work, but I did include her poem 'Embarrassed' in my Best of British Slam Poetry playlist on my YouTube channel. That poem is a great example of versatility in wordplay and rhyme to convey a social double standard. However, it seems that McNish's poetry has riled up the PN Review's reviewer, but the reasoning used to justify her criticism was something that was so hilarious I had to talk about it.
I should note before starting that McNish has already responded to the article in question, and since she hasn't named the author of the article in her response I will not do so either. She addressed the author's specific complaints, but I will address the overarching themes of the article which is the death of modern poetry via amateurism and ignorance.
The first thing to address about the PN Review article is the utter contempt for modern forms of poetry displayed by the author. In the first half of the article the author decries the current trend of posting poetry on social media and it's supposed 'dumbing-down' effect. The author attributes this to a desire for instant gratification from young poets. Of course there are a lot of problems with social media, especially its ill-defined rules and regulations, and the narcissim that often comes with sharing your whole life online, but in the right circumstances social media can be a useful tool. I see nothing wrong with poets sharing their material on social media platforms (technically I myself fall under that heading), as it helps to spread poetry to a wider audience than the establishment would seem to prefer.
The author goes on to bring Hollie McNish into the conversation along with Kate Tempest as poets who gained recognition online before being picked up by publishers. What follows is a critical mauling of McNish on the grounds of too much honesty, "slapdash" use of words, "faux-humility", insufficient education regarding the poetry canon, refuge in audacity, vanity, insulting her audience through use of a false working-class persona, and to top it all off the author accuses McNish of luring in her audience to purchase and consume deliberately bad poetry.
Several problems with this article. The first is that the author assumes the level of McNish's intelligence and education. She criticises McNish for lacking a literary mind, to the point that she uses the word 'mind' in quotation marks, and decries her ignorance of the greats of the poetry scene; Shakespeare, Wordsworth, Larkin etc, claiming that poets like McNish are pretending that they are the first to address taboo subjects in their work. Making assumptions about people's education and intelligence is not only childish in the extreme and equivalent to name-calling, it adds nothing to the author's critique of McNish's work, and she ends up reviewing the artist's personality rather than her poetry. Also, while a lot of reading is essential to the development of the individual poet, influences are not limited to the wider backlog of the poetry canon. Influences can come from anywhere, be it the literary or the visual arts, and to suggest otherwise resembles blinkered-vision.
On to the more amusing subject of elitism; the author notes that poetry can no longer be accused of being elitist due to poetry publications being afraid to critique amateur poets. She then asserts that we expect our doctors, hairdressers and athletes to be the best of the best (which in itself is a fair point), but to equate the live-saving and psychically demanding work of doctors and athletes with writing poetry is a bit unfair. The author goes on to accuse McNish of being a "warrior" intend on leading an "invasion" of poetry by amateur on the basis of equal opportunities.
This situation strikes me as somewhat self-fulfilling prophecy. There has long been a concerted effort to introduce poetry to the masses, which is essential if the art form is to thrive, and yet someone like McNish who is doing just that is criticised by a reviewer on the grounds of leading an amateur "invasion". Engaging new audiences with poetry is key to its survival, no matter what form it comes in. To disregard spoken word artists like McNish on the basis of their "amateurish" style is a bit like a classical music reviewer dismissing rock music on the grounds of "too much noise". Different styles and forms of poetry carry equal merit; just because McNish is not as polished or refined as the Wordsworths and Coleridges of this world does not lessen her value to poetry as the PN Review's writer seems to imply. To see a reviewer so frightened of poetry reaching new audiences is as amusing as it is ridiculous.
Another problem in the article is the claim that McNish is somehow attempting to bring poetry down to its base level by tricking her audiences under the pretense of representing the working class. This is a serious accusation to level at a poet, and although it is true that this kind of faux working-class persona can be problematic, I have not seen enough of McNish's work to comment on the validity of this criticism. What I can comment on is the suggestion that McNish is out to con her audience. Everyone is entitled to their own opinion; there are many who enjoy McNish's work, and others who don't, but to continually suggest that an audience has been tricked into liking her poetry seems like a concerted effort to discredit her as an artist, turning the article into a hit-piece rather than a straightforward review.
The reviewer also accuses McNish of "faux-humility", whereby she protects herself from accusations of substandard poetry by admitting her own flaws, resulting in praise from critics for writing honest poetry. Self-deprecation is an old tool of stand-up comedians used to endear them to their audiences, and I think its use in spoken word poetry is not necessarily a bad thing. If a poet exposes their flaws and shares their early poetic efforts before moving on to their current work (which is presumably of a higher standard) then it shows the progression of the artist. Anyone looking to take up poetry can see that an experience poet like McNish had to learn their craft, thereby creating a connection between the artist and the audience.
There are many other things in this article which trouble me, such as the reviewer's pretentious assertion that McNish's work would have enraged Schopenhauer (a long since deceased person who's opinion we can't claim to know), suggesting that publishers push her work because they feel it is all that working-class audiences deserve, and continually inferring that McNish lacks the education, the influences and the mindset to produce worthwhile poetry. The one that makes me laugh however is the suggestion that poets have a job. Not a job with a fixed hourly salary, but a moral obligation to "safeguard language" and to continually strive to make it memorable as a defence of "civilised values". The reviewer suggests that no one should be encouraged to listen to artists such as McNish because their work is based on "what I think", thereby making it irrelevant.
Firstly, poets are not obliged to do anything. If a poet takes their work that seriously, thinking that poetry is some kind of barometer of the state of civilisation, good for them. However, I'd like to think that poets write because they enjoy the act of writing, instead of striving to uphold some abstract company mission statement. As such, it is not my, McNish's or any poet's job to do anything unless they choose to. To ascribe this mission to all poets is obtuse in the extreme. And thus the assassination of Hollie McNish and her poetry is concluded with the suggestion that audiences should not be encouraged to listen to her work. It may have escaped the reviewer's attention, but each poet writes from their individual perspective, which is no less legitimate or worthy of reading than the next poet. It goes back to my earlier point of if the audience enjoys something, who are you to tell them they only reason they like it is because they've somehow been played?
The reviewer concludes her article by imploring a resurgence of intelligence thought, and that we can start by not celebrating "amateurism and ignorance in our poetry". For a piece in the professional poetry outlet which PN Review is, I am surprised to see such amateurism in critiquing a poet and her work and such a blatant underestimation of the intelligence of spoken word audiences. For what it's worth, all I have left to say is this; Hollie McNish is free to write whatever she wants, just as audiences and critics are free to like or dislike her work, and loftier poets are free to write what they want and to adhere to a higher mission if they wish. After all, poetry is subjective and it's beauty is in the eye of the beholder.
(Check out Hollie's own response to PN Review here. Alternatively have a read of the original article here. In the meantime stay tuned for more good stuff coming soon!)
Thursday, 25 January 2018
Jumbo's Lament
I sit with my keeper in the dark
of my den, guzzling the whisky
he brings for me most nights.
When the toothache and memories
overtake me, I smash the cage
they made to contain my strength.
King of the Elephants they call me,
not my lineage of birth-right,
the first of my kind to see these shores.
Man has always been there
at the centre of my memory,
when they riddled my mother with spears,
snatched me from the grasslands,
when they chained and jailed me,
dragged their prize across the sea.
Then I met him.
A man unlike the others,
the first to see me for myself.
A man who sat apart from his herd,
who swore to protect and nourish me,
our first taste of friendship.
He dredged the disease from my skin,
guided me as my masters set me to work
carrying their children on my back.
Pain endures through the night.
It wakes me from my sleep,
from dreams of grass and acacia trees,
yet he is always there, whisky in hand,
to sooth the pain away,
his and mine, night after night after night.
(This poem was inspired by the recent David Attenborough documentary on Jumbo the Elephant, entitled "Attenborough and the Giant Elephant". There is also a video version of this poem available on my YouTube channel.)
of my den, guzzling the whisky
he brings for me most nights.
When the toothache and memories
overtake me, I smash the cage
they made to contain my strength.
King of the Elephants they call me,
not my lineage of birth-right,
the first of my kind to see these shores.
Man has always been there
at the centre of my memory,
when they riddled my mother with spears,
snatched me from the grasslands,
when they chained and jailed me,
dragged their prize across the sea.
Then I met him.
A man unlike the others,
the first to see me for myself.
A man who sat apart from his herd,
who swore to protect and nourish me,
our first taste of friendship.
He dredged the disease from my skin,
guided me as my masters set me to work
carrying their children on my back.
Pain endures through the night.
It wakes me from my sleep,
from dreams of grass and acacia trees,
yet he is always there, whisky in hand,
to sooth the pain away,
his and mine, night after night after night.
(This poem was inspired by the recent David Attenborough documentary on Jumbo the Elephant, entitled "Attenborough and the Giant Elephant". There is also a video version of this poem available on my YouTube channel.)
Tuesday, 23 January 2018
Belated Happy New Year!
Happy New Year everybody! Sorry I haven't been posting anything since last autumn; it's been a busy few months. I managed to get myself a Christmas temporary job over the festive period in the grand old town of Cardiff, so I've had to push back most of my poetry projects until now.
Thankfully, now that my real world job has eased up a bit, I can let you guys know what's going to be happening on this blog in the foreseeable future. In the immediate future I have a couple of poems which have been completed and are almost ready to be posted, along with an article about Hollie McNish and her recent troubles with a certain literary magazine. Aside to that, I'm also still working hard on my analysis of Suli Breaks' poem 'I Will Not Let An Exam Result Decide My Fate', and I hope to have that posted as soon as possible.
As for Frynwys, the village is as quiet as ever, although like those of you living in the UK, we've experienced a bit of snowfall during January, and at times the areas on my usual walk looked like something out of The Polar Express. Not that we have a railway line here, but if you added one in then you have the idea of how much snow was on the ground.
Anyways, here's to another great year of poetry and everyday adventures, and I'll see you all again soon.
Thankfully, now that my real world job has eased up a bit, I can let you guys know what's going to be happening on this blog in the foreseeable future. In the immediate future I have a couple of poems which have been completed and are almost ready to be posted, along with an article about Hollie McNish and her recent troubles with a certain literary magazine. Aside to that, I'm also still working hard on my analysis of Suli Breaks' poem 'I Will Not Let An Exam Result Decide My Fate', and I hope to have that posted as soon as possible.
As for Frynwys, the village is as quiet as ever, although like those of you living in the UK, we've experienced a bit of snowfall during January, and at times the areas on my usual walk looked like something out of The Polar Express. Not that we have a railway line here, but if you added one in then you have the idea of how much snow was on the ground.
Anyways, here's to another great year of poetry and everyday adventures, and I'll see you all again soon.
Saturday, 21 October 2017
Howling
They howl in the night
when no animal stirs,
they howl in the darkness
where all sounds blur.
They hunt down the weak,
the small and the defenceless,
with such ferocity
to bend a victim's senses.
Eyes electrified at night,
ghostly forms in the trees,
the bravest of beasts
all fall to their knees.
The woods they haunt
are in their autumn throes,
and their presence besets
all manner of woes,
they clad the forest
in a cloak of screams,
then slip away silently
never again to be seen.
when no animal stirs,
they howl in the darkness
where all sounds blur.
They hunt down the weak,
the small and the defenceless,
with such ferocity
to bend a victim's senses.
Eyes electrified at night,
ghostly forms in the trees,
the bravest of beasts
all fall to their knees.
The woods they haunt
are in their autumn throes,
and their presence besets
all manner of woes,
they clad the forest
in a cloak of screams,
then slip away silently
never again to be seen.
Friday, 13 October 2017
Songs of the Lemurs
Singing floods the forests, melts the dawn frost,
the Indri's serenade to the treetops,
songs from the days of a sanctuary lost.
The fossas still lurk, dangerous beasts to cross,
though as bipeds invade their hunting grounds,
singing floods the forests, melts the dawn frost.
Sifakas leap spaces too wide to cross,
fleeing the hands which reach out to strangle
songs from the days of a sanctuary lost.
Troops of ring-tails flee from progress's cost,
away from the songs of hungry chainsaws,
singing floods the forests, melts the dawn frost.
The mouse lemurs shelter amongst the moss,
ears tuned to the last notes of old harmonies,
songs from the days of a sanctuary lost.
At last the lemurs huddle in a glade,
homes torn asunder, new symphonies in the air.
Singing floods the forests, melts the dawn frost,
songs from the days of a sanctuary lost.
the Indri's serenade to the treetops,
songs from the days of a sanctuary lost.
The fossas still lurk, dangerous beasts to cross,
though as bipeds invade their hunting grounds,
singing floods the forests, melts the dawn frost.
Sifakas leap spaces too wide to cross,
fleeing the hands which reach out to strangle
songs from the days of a sanctuary lost.
Troops of ring-tails flee from progress's cost,
away from the songs of hungry chainsaws,
singing floods the forests, melts the dawn frost.
The mouse lemurs shelter amongst the moss,
ears tuned to the last notes of old harmonies,
songs from the days of a sanctuary lost.
At last the lemurs huddle in a glade,
homes torn asunder, new symphonies in the air.
Singing floods the forests, melts the dawn frost,
songs from the days of a sanctuary lost.
Sunday, 1 October 2017
Frynwys Features #3: Return of the Goldfish
It's that time again. A lot has happened in Frynwys since the last installment, although in Frynwys terms "a lot" is often what other towns and cities would call "nothing much". This time around there is more news from across the village; at the ponds, on the roads, in the fields and not too far beyond.
The first thing of note is the sudden increase in the number of people repairing fences in the area. This in itself isn't uncommon; homes need maintenance all the time and so to hear someone repairing a bit of woodwork in their garden isn't a strange occurrence. However it's become such a regular occurrence that I'm beginning to wonder if there's a club somewhere encouraging it. Is there a local group which organises Sunday afternoon meetings in someone's front room, filled with china-laden cupboards and linen-clothed tables? This isn't so much a news item as it a personal grievance, but if I hear another hammer hitting the back of a fence or a shed, I might have to start investigating this phenomenon further.
In other news of the slightly less infuriating variety, it appears that someone did not take the nature warden's warning about releasing fish into the pond seriously. Somebody in the village recently noticed up to thirty enormous goldfish swimming around in it, big enough to qualify as small koi carp. The last time this happened the local wildlife which inhabit the pond took a major blow, especially the frogs which use the pond to nurture their frogspawn. That was just a few small fish. After about a week it seems that these fish are not only thriving in the pond, but multiplying. I don't know if the wardens have spotted them yet, but I've spoken to a few people who live near the pond and they certainly have. What sort of measures the wardens will put in place this time remains to be seen, but if they put up another sign I suspect they might need to rethink their deterrence strategy.
With regards to the local animal population, a few new dogs have been spotted in the area. Not strays but dogs with owners attached, and in particular a black pug has caught my attention. He appears to be less than a year old, and is quite hyperactive from what I've seen of him. He runs around the fields to the south of the village in search of other friendly dogs. Most of the other dogs take little notice of him, but if he meets another puppy then an impromptu greyhound race will certainly take place. He's only run up to me once, and I haven't seen much of him since, but hopefully I'll catch sight of him again in the near future.
And last but by no means least, it appears that a few ravens are making their home in the nearby forests. It's not often that you see a raven (at least as I've found), and they're fairly distinctive compared to jackdaws and crows, not by any subtle difference in their plumage, but in their size. They are as big as seagulls, and seeing them foraging in the fields next to smaller birds really highlights this. Also the characteristic rattling call they make is now becoming a semi-regular feature in the skies above Frynwys. Why I never noticed them before is slightly baffling, but alongside the resident jays, crows, jackdaws, magpies and other birds, they make a nice addition to the local ecosystem.
That's all for this installment of Frynwys Features, with my home village more than living up to its reputation. Hopefully by next time something more interesting will have happened, but until then the wait continues.
The first thing of note is the sudden increase in the number of people repairing fences in the area. This in itself isn't uncommon; homes need maintenance all the time and so to hear someone repairing a bit of woodwork in their garden isn't a strange occurrence. However it's become such a regular occurrence that I'm beginning to wonder if there's a club somewhere encouraging it. Is there a local group which organises Sunday afternoon meetings in someone's front room, filled with china-laden cupboards and linen-clothed tables? This isn't so much a news item as it a personal grievance, but if I hear another hammer hitting the back of a fence or a shed, I might have to start investigating this phenomenon further.
In other news of the slightly less infuriating variety, it appears that someone did not take the nature warden's warning about releasing fish into the pond seriously. Somebody in the village recently noticed up to thirty enormous goldfish swimming around in it, big enough to qualify as small koi carp. The last time this happened the local wildlife which inhabit the pond took a major blow, especially the frogs which use the pond to nurture their frogspawn. That was just a few small fish. After about a week it seems that these fish are not only thriving in the pond, but multiplying. I don't know if the wardens have spotted them yet, but I've spoken to a few people who live near the pond and they certainly have. What sort of measures the wardens will put in place this time remains to be seen, but if they put up another sign I suspect they might need to rethink their deterrence strategy.
With regards to the local animal population, a few new dogs have been spotted in the area. Not strays but dogs with owners attached, and in particular a black pug has caught my attention. He appears to be less than a year old, and is quite hyperactive from what I've seen of him. He runs around the fields to the south of the village in search of other friendly dogs. Most of the other dogs take little notice of him, but if he meets another puppy then an impromptu greyhound race will certainly take place. He's only run up to me once, and I haven't seen much of him since, but hopefully I'll catch sight of him again in the near future.
And last but by no means least, it appears that a few ravens are making their home in the nearby forests. It's not often that you see a raven (at least as I've found), and they're fairly distinctive compared to jackdaws and crows, not by any subtle difference in their plumage, but in their size. They are as big as seagulls, and seeing them foraging in the fields next to smaller birds really highlights this. Also the characteristic rattling call they make is now becoming a semi-regular feature in the skies above Frynwys. Why I never noticed them before is slightly baffling, but alongside the resident jays, crows, jackdaws, magpies and other birds, they make a nice addition to the local ecosystem.
That's all for this installment of Frynwys Features, with my home village more than living up to its reputation. Hopefully by next time something more interesting will have happened, but until then the wait continues.
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