to americymru poetry comp 2012

Siglo'r Babi Bach

I hold him close,

His weight, heavy as a feather,

Nestled in a silken gown

Hand-me-down lullabies

Darned flannel blankets.

A blue skein and

Veins unravel. Auntie Mali,

Ninety three, threading needles

Recharging batteries on the 'pentan',

Her head alive in the 'News of the World'.

'Bara caws' for 'brecwast'

When I was a girl'

Mamgu in her 'fedog'

Baked the bread on Friday,

Dipped eachchild in melted sunlight,

Buckets brimming from the well.

Henry in South Africa,

Buttoned his dreams in a three-piece-suit.

Often, when the wind was cruel

Mamgu heard him in the shining darkness

Calling out her name.

Catherine, the 'new woman'

Rode her bike to London,

Wore a boater and man's tie,

Sharpened her tongue

On the anvil of language

'Miss Davies, Latin',

Carmarthen High.

Auntie Hannah never strayed.

Mamgu kept her for her own,

Tweezing fluff balls from the rowan

Placing pom-pom dahlias on the grave.

He stirs inside my arms.

'When you were little

What was your name?'

I hold him close,

This child who is and isn't mine.

A little known fact but interesting, nevertheless: Sir John Perrot, knight,one-time citizen of Haverfordwest, is said to be the true (illegitimate) son of of Henry V111.

Born in Haroldston, Haverfordwest, John Perrot's mother wasMary, the beautifuldaughter of Lord Berkeley and the wife of the ageing Thomas Perrot. They lived in Haroldston Mansion,said to be one of the loveliest houses in Pembrokeshire.

When he was nineteen, John Perrot took his place at the court of Henry V111, whom he closely resembled; there he proved to be a great favourite.

Perrot receivedhis knighthood from Edward V1.

During the reign of 'Bloody Mary', he had to be discreet, for it was known he sheltered heretics at Haroldston.

In 1583, Sir John was appointed Lord Deputy of Ireland, where he ruled with characteristic brutality, until his half-sister,Elizabeth 1, intervened.

Sir John was Sheriff of the Port of Haverfordwest at a time when piracy was rife. He developed a cavalierattitude to the pirates' ill gotten gains, accepting a share of the booty. Taking his lead from hismaster, one oldretainer requisitioned a ton of Gascon wineforSir John's pleasure.

Encouraged by Sir John's example, three Mayors of the townaccepted gifts from the pirates. This was an abuse of power and it was in vain that Vice Admiral Vaughan triedto stop their activities but, withnoforces of law and order to back him,he was left powerless.

A row of cottagesstill standing in the town are dedicated to Sir John, Haverfordwest's most famous benefactor.The image he leaves is that of a benevolent despot, but his temper was uncertain and he was fond of threatening people with execution. This led one old servant to slit his own throat, so terrified of his threats was he.

Sir John's end was ignominious and he died in the Tower of London.

'Those who live by the sword shall die by the sword', applied in his case.

Jung says our innerconsciousness responds to colour on a deep level.

My tastes areeclectic.I went through a 'white snow' patch, wearing white jumpers and blouses, especially in winter, and I felt fresh in whiteuntil Inoticed itgave my face a pallor.

(White is not termeda colour, as it reflects all other colours. Therefore it is good for keeping cool in very hot climates).

I adored yellow one summer and worea cotton knitted jumper in astinging shade, completed by a skirt in similar hues. I always felt happy and upbeatin this combination.

One dayin Tunbridge Wells, where Emma was living, a Buddhist monk who had been sitting on a wall, swiftly approachedme, chanting. His robes werealmost the same colour as my clothes and I felt mesmerised by him, but Emma nudged me away.

Blue is another colour Iwear, butit can be difficultto decorate with.

I had Wedgwood bluetiles forty years ago and they felt cold in a north facing bathroom. However, blueis good for promoting creative thought and should be used in work places.

Why is green so ubiquitous in factories and offices? Said to be calming it could be too tranquil for places other than the bedroom, but I wouldn't like it in my boudoir - (cream and white).

Orange is ennervating and Ayurvedic medicine advisesdrinking from orange glasses and looking at orange fabric if suffering with gallstones.

I have a Melyn Tregwynt blanket in purple and black another in pink and cream and throws in beiges. My next one is going to be a blood orange red, to warmmysoul in winter-time.

Purple isone of my top colour-pops. Ithas a spiritual connection and promotes clear thinking.Purple was a royal colour hundreds of years ago and costly, too.

Whentired, I prefer pastel colours. I associate black and navy with work clothes and I try to avoid them. (Noticed how Snow White is dressed in red,yellow, white and black? Minnie Mouse, chooses red white and black. Dramatic winter colours, suiting pale skins.)

In mynovel 'Salt Blue', the heroine, Stella, suffers from the tedium of daily life. She needs a colour 'vitamin' to bring her to life.

Stella has recognised, like Oscar Wilde, that : 'Colour speaks to the soul in a thousand different ways'. Sheknows that changing your colours can change your life, if you dare to dare.

I passed a beauty parlour today offeringbotox, microdermabrasion (say it slowly, watching your lips in the mirror - sounds a bit like 'supercalifragilistic', too), chemical peels, lasers, 'advanced beauty' (no idea what that might be- brand new head and face, no doubt) and dermal fillers.

All these treatments are intended to literally peel away the cruelties of time.You could even put your feet in a tank and let fishnibbleaway your hard skin if you're too stiff to pumice them.

Shakespeare said we 'ripe and ripe' and then we 'rot and rot' in 'As You Like It' but, trouble is we don't like it (rotting and rotting, I mean).

If my memory is still working, I believe Somerset Maugham said there are many advantages in growing old, though he was unable to think of one.I'd say being alive is much better than the alternative.

Other bonuses aregoing to bed and getting up when you like and eating and drinking what takes your fancy.Being retired is another.

Age is a question that has vexed people for thousand of years. (In Athensyou had to be fifty years old before becomingan elderof the city - the equivalentof a CountyCouncillor nowadays).

Yeats, the Irish poet, equated age with 'being full of sleep', so there are negative and positive aspects to the process.

I once had a tutor who, when he got stuck duringa lecture, would walk to the window and murmur softly: 'But at my back I always hear Time's winged chariot drawing near'.This was followed by: 'Girls, this lesson is coming to a close, so let's discuss homework', which rather spoilt the effect of Marvell's 'To His Coy Mistress', but that's as good an argument as any for getting on with the job, I expect.

I might have been known as 'Catwoman' at one time, becausewe had five cats. No, don't say it. I understand neutering pets (or at least the vet.does).If lost kittens did not find their way to our doorstep, my daughters found starving creatures who had lost their way home.

New members of the colony learnt the pawing order of the tribe,who was TopCat and who got pushed to the side.

Two weren't too keen on each other butanother two shared a chair, blissfully wrapped around each other. My husband used to say he had to look carefully before sitting down in case a cat was sleepingbeneath a cushion.

Cats were highly honoured in ancient Egypt and in our house, too. One day Isat on the edge of the chair to eat a mealbecauseI did not want to disturb the sleeping feline behind me. I remember Peter saying: 'This is being ridiculous. Move that cat so that you can sit comfortably'.

Cats and babies are very alike. (I'm thinking word associations: 'cat's cradle, 'the cat who got the cream' etc).They like warmth, food and love and, if possible, they'll share your bed with you. We drew the line at cats in the bed.

Most 'professionals' (there are many, many of them) advise against letting babies 'have their way' - ie enjoy the comfortof sleeping next to their parents.

There's lots of advice online about bringing up children, too. One very popular blog is 'Mumsnet'. (I've never been on it butthere are those who are addicted to it.) I don't know their views on letting babies sleep with their parents, but there are quite a few 'earth mothers' out there.

I used to hear motherscomplaining they'd never had a night's sleep since their child was born three years previously.Not so in our house.If one of ours awoke, she would get into bed with us and immediately fall into a deep sleep. ('Those two are like you. Nothing much disturbs them', Peter would say enviously.)

Now this is not merely a ramble about my methods of parenting but pertinent to latest research.

(Think nuclear physics, please). Thisresearch (it cost thousands of pounds and the way Greece is going I do tend to questionmoney spent on anything useless) but, wouldn't you know? Children who sleep with their parents are far less stressed and more relaxed throughout their livesthan those who are put in cots.

I know of some other research, published a few years ago, based on patterns of parenting in ethnic communities in Cardiff. Theseimmigrants often have children sleeping in the parental bed and they have less cot deaths.Whythis should be (perhaps the parents have a closer awareness of children's breathing sounds, or changes in vital functionings) I don't know but statistics back it.

The Great Bed of Weare could sleep up to sixteen people (take yourboots off before getting in, of course) and perhaps they were smaller in those days. Beds have featured extensively in history and, just to let you know, Shakespeare left his second best bed to his wife and I was born in Mamgu's feather bed on a cold winter's night.

So, shouldmy end be in my beginning, it's going to work out alright, as long as the cats get off the bed.

There's a certain blogger who had a mound of clothes she did not wear. I'm not condemning her. I have a pile of garments, labels still on some of them, that have never been on an outing.

I'm not extravagant, oh no nee no! Quite the opposite. I can't resist a bargain. Asales label affects methe same waya pot of jam affects a bee: we both feel theattraction. Consequently, Ihaveclothes I have forgotten about. Usually, they're 'Occasion Clothes', like evening dresses orgarden party things, but not always.

Iwear white trousers on holiday. These can be expensive,but not at the end of the season. Then, they can be very, very reasonable. So inexpensive, I bought ten pairs recently. Not all at the same time, but over a four week period.I will wear them (I'm wearing a pair now, with a deep purple and blue top, encrusted with a few sparklies). Yes, I'll have to store them over the winter but that's bye the bye.

On the plus, or minus side, I'vecoats I've kept for years and still wear.What I should do iswear a different outfit each day and, this is the point, photograph myself and post it on the web. I could bea sensation. Yep! Sixty thousand pounds a yearsensation, which is how the fashionista bloggermade her bucks. Now sheattends fashion shows, commenting and blogging. Don't ask me the details but it's true. There's onlyone snag. You have tolike blogging and tweetingfor sixteen hours a day if you want to keep the dough rising.

If you didn't know, the colour forautumnis a yellow leaf, mustardy custard, not a good look on me.How do I know? Emma gave mea voucher one Christmas, entitling me to havea 'Colour Consultation', analysing what suited me so, come the New Year, (New Me) I presented myself at the Beauty Parlour.

I was sceptical, I knew what I liked and thought I knew what suited me but, keep an open mind, girls, I changed mine. Yes. Right there, right then.

First I had my face made up. I chose lime and pink eyeshadow, (what the heck, I had nothing to lose and January is soo-oo drab) and soongot into the groove, that is pile it on, I'll give it a whirl, sort of mode.

My haircolouring, skin tone andthe colour of my eyeshad been keyed into a computer and an analysis came back. Oddly, pale green and a pink, with silver accessories, was one of the combinations that came up.

Trouble was, the analyst could not decide if I was 'Warm Spring' or 'Early Autumn'. I told her not to worry, leave the rest to me, babe.

I had never worn this combination before, preferring violets and fuschias but, know what? I went straight out-(Procrastination is the thief of time: seize it)- and bought a pink woollen coat and matching dress. On the way home it did occur to me, briefly, thatI'd gone encrer bonc. To buy a scarf in the colour, or a jumper, would have been sensiblebut, Sweet Mary Jane! I'd spent a fortune! Just like that.

However, trust your gut, not your mind. I wore that outfit every winter for ten years (even found matching shoes) and each time I stepped outside someone asked me where I'd bought it. Ie, cei siwr. I was in the pink and it suited me. Perhaps I'll post some pictures and end up in the front row of a Paris fashion show. Move up, Anna Wintour, please, I've arrived.

The Garden

Crochet filaments

Measure time,

Spaces,

Eau de Nil, cubed Queen Anne green,

Massed leaves. Capacity of sunlight

Fan-vaults this side of the sky,

Copper-cognac treen.

Solar flares,

Hurdy gurdies, hot or white;

I plant the seeds-

Sweet Williams, Canterbury Bells,

Mercerised caesuars-

As though I have the answer

To a universal need

Or just

A single lily,

Cicatricule of leaves.

Prism of lime pickle spice

Cusping a cloth of gold:

Salt chilli squid, magenta,

Bilateral harvest of crimson crabs.

It's the sun-fast colours that flavour-

Oil of Neroli, cafe granitas,

Tincture of Sedum Matrona;

Wine and my plasma brimming

A song of the day I was born.

I've been whisking about the house with my feather duster (Art Course starts tomorrow).

Hanging at our windows are silk, cotton and linen curtains - (sorry, I don't want to sound like a mercer in fine fabrics-never mind the width, feel the quality, tra la la la) but natural fabrics have a weakness in certain respects.

Drawingone set back this morning, Mercy me! (or just 'Mercy' as Roy Orbison says)I awoke a sleepy moth.I soon flicked that duster around, watching little bits of down feather floating through the dusty motes illuminated by the sun.

Anyone would think I was a prestitigitateur (conjuror - don't say you came home from school again today and didn't learn anything) the way that darng moth disappeared.

It was comatose when I disturbed it but no sight or sound of it was to be seen. Now,I do not usually flap my wings at the sight of a moth, but a friend has losta few woollen jumpers and coats after a recent invasion, and it is not the moths so much as the larvae that are the culprits, though I shall hold the whole bunch of them responsible.

I have a flexible brush to go behind the radiators and use the nozzle of thevacuumto disturbthe dust in awkward corners, so I don't know how that moth made it onto the curtains.

The room (and curtains) has hada vigorous pounding and I've not seen another winged creature since, neither any larvae. However, I've taken the precaution of buying a few lavender bags and placing them on the windowsill, so I hope this means the moths will be dining elsewhere in future.