Friday, 21 October 2016

Bird calls, feathers and extreme flights of fancy


The Rockhoppers -- left to right: Annie, Jackie, Mel and Maggie.



I’m pleased to be part of the newly formed poetic foursome, The Rockhoppers. We had our debut gig on National Poetry Day 2016 as guest hosts of the monthly poetry event at the famous Dylan Thomas watering hole, The Brown’s, in Laugharne.

The Rockhoppers is a group of four poets based in west Wales. Annie, Jackie, Maggie and Mel are four strong distinctive individual poetic voices. They also work well together and collaborate to produce innovative and sometimes surreal pieces for performance. They have a strange and unexplained affiliation to small penguins.

Here's the link to our intro at the Words& gig on November 30th at Aberystywth Arts Centre:

https://youtu.be/IEJynA8R1Lo

And here are some comments from audience members after The Rockhoppers'  gig at 
The Brown’s:



‘Surreal, musical, sublime!’



‘They play off each other very well’



‘Excellent, varied’



‘Lovely mix of styles, very amusing’



‘Fantastic combination in the last piece, great evening.’

Annie Butler
Born and educated in Cardiff, Anne Marie Butler worked as a civil servant. Her career took her to west Wales where she also studied Fine Art and Design. She now works as a landscape artist, book illustrator and writer.  Her written work fetes the everyday. She shares a natural awareness of the rural landscape and relies upon nature and people to inspire her.  Her poems reveal clear observations, together with exploration and experimentation with the surreal.  She is currently working on her first collection of illustrated poems.

Jackie Biggs
After a successful career as a journalist and editor, Jackie Biggs started writing poetry five years ago.  Her first collection, The Spaces in Between was published in September 2015 by Pinewood Press (Swansea). She has also had poetry published in many magazines and anthologies. She reads her work at spoken word events all over west Wales – and anywhere else that will have her.
contact:  jackienews@hotmail.co.uk

Maggie Harris
Maggie Harris writes poetry and prose. Caribbean roots and Kentish shoots now growing in west Wales. Proper jobs have included teaching Creative Writing and an International Fellowship at Southampton University. Maggie has won the Guyana Prize twice for poetry and the Commonwealth Prize for a short story. Now loiters in gardens and cafes and anywhere that accepts poets. 

Mel Perry
Mel is a writer and spoken word performer from Llansteffan, Carmarthenshire, and is a frequent visitor to the north Wales island of Bardsey. She is a regular performer at spoken word events and is a member of the Coracle- Kultivera residency in TranĂ¥s, Sweden through which she is co-delivering writing workshops on line for Swedish young people.  Her poetry and short stories appear in a range of publications including Two Thirds North from Stockholm University. In 2016 she collaborated with Carmarthen Symphonic Wind Band to perform her Bardsey poetry to music.
Mel is now also studying for an MSc in Creative Writing for Therapeutic Purposes.

to contact the Rockhoppers please email Jackie:

Thursday, 6 October 2016

Splatchwordy world

We recently celebrated the centenary of the wonderful writer Roald Dahl. This poem uses many of his made-up words and a few I created myself, including the title. It was also inspired by a sketch called 'Endless Column' by Jude Macklin, which was part of a printmakers exhibition held this summer at the Old College in Aberystwyth. 
You don't really need to know what all the new words mean, but I would say that a 'quogwinkle', according to Dahl, is an alien from space.

Splatchwordy world


(in memory of Roald Dahl)

How’s the view from up there,
quogwinkle?
                Cast your goggler over the way we live our patchwork lives --

criss-crossing
                cross-stitching
cross-matching

                wiggle-waggling
splatch-winkling
                jumbly-mumbling

are we worth just a glimp
from your perch
                above
that purple morning haze?

                Are we wobble-crossing
down the street,
                not finding a path,
just tripping the stones beneath our feet?

How is the view from up there?
Can you spygog us
                down that
middleclasping
mundane road -
among everyday traffic in the
cloudy mauve
                jiggered morning
kind of rain

How is the view from up there?
Are you biffs-quiggled by our scrotty lives?

                Can you see
through your violet shadows
                our darksome,  jumbly froth-buggling,
                fluck-gangled, whopsy-waddling,
                                poisnowse world?

Tell us, quogwinkle,
                what do you see with your glimpy-gumbled spy in the sky?
                     What do you see?




Wednesday, 21 September 2016

Haiku on the page



Here’s a selection of some of my haiku that I have been fortunate enough to see published over the last year or so in Blithe Spirit (Journal of the British Haiku Society).


try to describe love
as summer flowers –
                speechless


valley lost in cloud
rain falls steady all morning
drips glisten on twigs


dry leaves crack
under silent skies
empty wires, too quiet


in the middle of
an open field
the only shadow


summer meadow
deep and tall under
scythe of swift


walk to the beach
on a spring afternoon
my shadow goes first


and one from a recent edition of Haiku Journal

misty air whispers
in a forest full of dreams
                love breathes through trees

Wednesday, 27 July 2016

Jingo lingo



This poem is in remembrance of my Dad, Walter Biggs, who was born on July 27th, 1912. He died on June 24th, 1978.

Jingo lingo

After he died we found his
service book -
Royal Air Force blue
                            faded.
Flight Sergeant,
               Class A release.
That meant he was too sick
                to repost.

India and Burma, 1942 to 1945:

                ‘Character and general conduct:
                very good throughout his service’.
                ‘Proficiency – exceptional’.

It was a ‘special discharge’:
                appendectomy, pneumonia.
Dysentery and malaria hit in the jungle,
hiding from the nips.

                He nearly died in the heart of it,
                that darkness,
until they remembered
to bring home the forgotten troops.

Three months in hospital.
He never spoke about it all.
No complaints.

So wasted, so thin,
even his own mother
                saw a stranger at her door.

Saturday, 18 June 2016

The day after that man killed Jo Cox


Strange how poetry comes to us sometimes. A friend posted on Facebook a poem full of happy thoughts, incidents in her day.
I wasn't going to write about Jo Cox MP, murdered in her constituency while she was doing her job. But my friend's poem started me off. At times like this, maybe we should all be writing up those happy moments, about our own little lives. It's what we have to give. We will always need poetry to tell us the truth, to give us honest reactions.

I was pleased that the wonderful webzine I am not a silent poet chose to post up my poem. I reproduce it here for the record.

Please go here to see more work by poets that has been inspired by abuse of all kinds:

https://iamnotasilentpoet.wordpress.com/


The day after that man killed Jo Cox

I ate strawberries
for breakfast,
because they were fat
and red
and ready with the sweetness of joy.

I walked to the top of the hill
and saw the sea, grey and cold,
but breathing, below,
all the while
on its incoming tide over endless sands,
rolling always and forever.

I sat on a seat
in the sun
and emptied my mind,
watched the waves --
sheets of steel
rolling on.

I listened to Bach played on guitar,
massive concertos
pitching
in six stunning strings.

I spoke to a young woman,
who I had known when she was a girl,
and we talked about her glorious baby,
due soon,
on some happy day.

I bought a new novel,
to read later …
That anticipation
that it is there,
the words waiting,
for me
when I am ready,
sometime,
this summer.

I picked herbs from the garden –
mint and parsley,
and watched the cat rolling
in the catnip,
quite off her face.

I saw the swallows
scything over the fat meadow,
gathering feed
for their young;

and I thought of life,
this life,
how we
have to keep breathing,
over our own endless sands.

I sent you a text,
on a pretext,
just to make sure
that you were there,
still there.

And I read a poem
on Facebook,
by a friend who said,
we have to do this,
because
however bad the world is
there is love
and light
and you can't take that away
from us.

And I wrote new poetry,
about love,
because that is
all there is.

Love, love, love …