North Shore Quarterly

16 11 2019

The North Shore Poetry is a quarterly event of poetry and fiction in Providero Coffee in Llandudno, North Wales. The opening night will feature the poets Zoe Skoulding and Fiona Cameron. Zoe Skoulding is the former Editor of Poetry Wales and a Senior Lecturer at Bangor University and will be reading from her Seren collection, Footnotes to Water. Fiona Cameron also lectures at Bangor University and her collection, Bendigo, was published by Knives, Forks and Spoons Press.   

Thursday 5th December. Free entry. Cake and tea (and more cake) will be available from 6pm. Readings to begin at 6:30. north-shore-1_42102376





Upcoming Readings: Llawn / Swansea

26 08 2019

 

LLawn

Llawn Festival: Llandudno

See Llawn website here for details of other events

milieu event

Swansea Fringe

See full festival line and events details here





North Wales launch of ‘Vertebrae’

30 05 2019

July 4th: Providero Coffee House, Llandudno 6-8

Please feel welcome to attend an informal launch of my debut poetry collection, published by The Lonely Press.

There’ll be music and coffee and a reading and a very high chance of a emotionally blackmailed purchase of a signed copy of the book.

See you there!





Take Me Home a Thousand Times

8 04 2018

Poetry Day Ireland is March 21st 2018 and the micro-literature project Label-Lit has offered fifty poets around the globe the chance to share twenty verses.

Together with poets across Ireland, there will be contributors spreading from England and Scotland all the way to South Africa and Australia.  There will one thousand pieces of poetry stimulated this year by Belfast-based Maria Mcmanus.

Today, I made the twenty labels from Wales and began hanging them in Llanberis.  All the labels featured a quotation from a poem that will feature in my poetry collection to be published by The Lonely Press later this year.

For more details about Label-Lit and Maria Mcmanus, follow this link: Label-Lit  (https://labellit.wordpress.com/2018/03/04/take-me-home-a-thousand-times/).





Poems: Wales Arts Review and DNA

4 03 2018

Two Valentine’s Day poems of mine were hosted by the Wales Arts Review in February, together with a wonderfully framed poem in the DNA magazine. Please follow the links to read all three poems, and find a wealth of other wonderful literature on the websites.

http://www.walesartsreview.org/a-frontal-lobe-love-poem-by-glyn-edwards/

http://www.dnamag.co.uk/issues/locations/





The Birthday Waltz

6 12 2017

A piano accompaniment by my friend, Daniel Trevithick, of a poem featured in Issue 8 of The Lonely Crowd.  The poem was written during a ten day residency in the Dylan Thomas Boathouse and seeks to interpret the voice of Vernon Watkins as he searches for his friend Dylan Thomas in and around his Laugharne home.  The poems structure is based on Thomas’ The Birthday Walk.

Daniel is a guitarist and percussionist in the band Black Mountain Lights.





Shijiazhuang Education Seminar – 2015

15 10 2015

IMG_1575 Having taught English in China in 2004, when the opportunity to return to Shijiazhuang to deliver a speech at a seminar centred on reading and scientific literacy was presented to me, I was eager to accept.  Then, however, came the practicality of preparing for the speech, preparing for the convoluted route via Hing Kong and preparing to deliver to a room of five hundred teachers.  Shijiazhuang had me immediately nostalgic; the population had grown as much as the skyline but the streets were still quick to smile familiar structures at me and to wink temperate skies.

I stuck to the scriptnotes I had contrived for the translators to follow, referred to Keira Knightly more than anyone has done in literacy lecture and generally bluffed my way through thirty minutes of a twenty minute session by parrying applause-less moments with terrible Chinese.

A success, sort of.  I thought. A former pupil of mine at the school sat beside me, balancing on the arm rest of the chair.

‘It was hard to believe your Chinese could get any worse.  It was also very, very long; luckily, I think you were stood on the microphone wire for most of the second half.’

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Poet in Residence – Dylan Thomas’ Writing Shed – Chester Literature Festival

13 10 2014

The one way system to the city’s traffic had tide changed. There was a new estate in the street I had expected to park my car in.  Chester had been building in the six years since I’d left it and my walk to Dylan’s writing shed was diverted by streets newly formed and structures newly thriving.

In the centre, however, the city remained similar: same pubs, The Red Lion (where I will forever remember watching Liverpool’s fortnightly Champions League melodrama simmer as surprisingly as any Dickens’ potboiler), same squares of grass (the Cathedral cricket strip that I watched fallen catches break like birds’ eggs, then clutched a fizzing ball on the boundary in the gloom), the slightly squalid Town Hall square (that my girlfriend of a decade, in the middle of Christmas Markets, let me leave our lonely love behind).

It was exhilarating to step in the Writing shed again, to sit in the sagging wicker chair and look up at the portraits of Brooke, Lawrence and Dylan himself.  It was a relief to be away from my nostalgia and enter somebody else’s.

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The first gentleman who asked for a poem declared, ‘I’m not a great lover of poetry, music is the new verse’ and, thus, verbatim, I wrote down the opening lines of a piece which tracked the calm cadence of his voice and compared him, albeit kindly, to sheepdog and candle smoke.  He took his poem like a medicine, wincing, then swallowing the concept whole.

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The next couple, watch checking restlessly, requested a poem for their forty-fourth anniversary.  They told me that, four years before, they had celebrated their Ruby Anniversary but this one was one for a dinner, calm, the afternoon, a walk on the walls.  I don’t think they came back to claim it.

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And the afternoon strode on and I was quickly left clutching a pad of bespoke poems that had nothing but titles.  I wrote one about a local charity, one about the journey on the A55, one about poetry, one about a woman’s wonderful neologism, one about pens, one about pain, one about, one about, one about.

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When it began raining the crowds huddled away and I held on to a stack of orders.  But instead of filling them out, I contrasted the swollen, pencil point-eyed poet from the Collected Stories I was using to lean on, with the one in the Augustus John painting above the shed window.  I wrote for a minute and cursed him his infinite flaws.

The final poem I hung to the washing line was for the festival organiser, who asked for something to remind her of a Bucket List success in Moorish Spain and the watercolours it had stirred in her.  The poems I have still to produce are for a creative writing student from the local university, for a kind fellow of the festival who gave me the compelling catalyst ‘hedgehogs’ and for the two people who have rolled the Writing Shed both around their imaginations and the country for the past year.

So, when I left and followed my footsteps back to the car, I tried to think of how I write something that would do more than acknowledge the efforts of the last pair, something instead that could crown their commitments.  Something that will aptly say thank you to them for taking Dylan Thomas to schools and imaginations, something that will thank them for bringing him back to me.

Somewhere damp, burrowed under the crimsoned leaves of Aumtum, I’ll find the right words searching for worms and tease them out into the weak winter sun.

In a fortnight, when we will fill the space again at the Touch and Go: Dylan Thomas in Montgomery event in Mid-Wales, I will begin by pinning up these poems.





Ted Hughes and Sylvia Plath, North Tawton

21 07 2014

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We scoured the map for North Tawton and saw it pulse almost in the centre of the county; it was, fortuitously, only miles away from the cottage we were renting.  It took minutes to find the village, moments to find the blue plaque commemorating Ted Hughes’ life there.  The landlord of a pub, rolling barrels into a thirsty cellar, reluctantly pointed the way, behind the churchyard’s arrowhead spire, to the house.  We brushed our hands against the fingernail-thin gravestones on the channelled track and found a view over a lush land lake of a garden.  

Hughes’ wife Carol, the daughter of Jack Orchard, who later ran Moortown Farm (subject of the poet’s collection ‘Moortown Diary’) near Winkleigh, still lives in the home but the site is better known as the home he shared with both Sylvia Plath and Assia Wevill.  From a horse chestnut tree that leaned from the garden to the graveyard, I unhinged a conker; it looked too juvenile to contain anything inside the fruit. 

I saw
The dreamer in her
Had fallen in love with me and she did not know it.
That moment the dreamer in me
Fell in love with her, and I knew it.

Ted Hughes, Dreamers, Birthday Letters

 

Fumy, spirituous mists inhabit this place

Separated from my house by a row of headstones.

I simply cannot see where there is to get to. Sylvia Plath, The Moon and the Yew Tree

 





Dharamsala to Shimla

29 12 2013

‘I witnessed everything…it was so rich I had to select senses’

(Michael Ondaatje, Monsoon Notebook i)

Circular drains belch out torrents of mustard
while fresh streams tumble over lime verges.
A rhesus monkey is umbrellad by a hunchbacked
road sign. SHIMLA 226km

Traffic is moving backwards on this roadriver,
barefoot cyclists peddle by, schoolchildren wade.
Few stores have unshuttered mouths today
but the brown tide probes every jaw with hungry tongues.

There is a boulder in the road. A fallen planet.
An obstinate, unmoveable holy cow. Mud, lorries, life
churn around it. There is a boulder in my stomach,
sandy bile hurries past it.

Everything could be swallowed up by India.
I retch my breakfast into this mess of monsoon.