Cheval 10: Edited by Rose Widlake, Glyn Edwards, Jonathan Edwards

28 06 2017

This week the Terry Hetherington Award celebrated its tenth birthday.  The prize, created in memory of the eponymous poet is awarded annually to a Welsh writer aged between 18-30, and was won by Christopher Hyatt.

The award was presented at the Dylan Thomas Centre in Swansea and featured readings from many of the writers published in the associated Parthian anthology, Cheval 10.

Editing this anthology with previous winners Rose Widlake and Jonathan Edwards was a great privilege.  The book features a tender foreword by Terry Hetherington’s partner Aida Birch, and his poem ‘The Veteran’, an intelligent preface Editor Jonathan Edwards, a front cover designed by Sion Thomas Owen, and new storied and poems by over twenty talented writers.

 

Cheval 10 is available from Parthian books for £7.99 and also includes previously unpublished work by Katya Johnson, Thomas Tyrrell, Kathy Chamberlain, Mari Ellis Dunning, Conor Derbyshire, Thomas Baker, Marina Baker, Martina Biavati, Rylan Clarke, Ellen Davies, Rhodri Diaz, Rhian Elizabeth, Emily Green, Kimberley Houlihan, Lucy Ann Jones, Philip Jones, Rebecca Lawn, Lowri Llewelyn, Cynan Llwyd, Mercia Louise, Jonathan Macho,  Patricia Mathes, Lucy Menon, Durre Shahwar Mughal, Nathan Llywelyn Munday, Jack Orchard, Rhea Seren Phillips, Jack Rendell, Jessica Mae Shelley, Gareth Smith, Christina Thatcher, Daniel Williams and Rhys Owain Williams. https://www.parthianbooks.com/products/cheval-10

To submit work for next year’s prize, and for consideration in Cheval 11, please follow http://chevalwriters.org.uk/young_writers_award.html

 





The Girl with a Ponytail (Picasso, 1954)

27 03 2013

(published in Cheval 4)

Image

 

Subtle, for him. Understated. Flattering even.

That first painting was angled with beauty enough

to lure me. Postman blue, pond green. Shy lips

and one eye, wide enough for two.

 

He sketched me furiously in June. Always

demanding my hair tumbled. Winding my fringe

between oily fingertips, breathing wine,

gesturing bottle after glass.

 

Every portrait a picture of a sculpture,

a Greek bust in Gallic July dress.

 

The signature brought the world to Vallauris

and each time I smiled at the cameras,

dimpled when he shared the lens. He painted

in the evening only now. His colours

darkened and he insisted my collar

inched lower to reveal secrets I would not tell.

 

In the last nights he sat me on his knees

I confessed he had become my second father.

He was sullen in August and relinquished

with the final composition, without goodbye.

 

The final painting revealed only my naivete: 

my ponytail a noose for an old man to risk

his reputation, my breasts a rectangle of

rheumatic grey. My webbed ringlets, a duplicitous stare

and my fingers knotted in his frustration.