events and news

It Takes Some Seeing . . .

. . . the heart on the door for instance. Simon the master carpenter pointed it out to me.

Every time I go to Llwyn Celyn, there’s a new thing to see. Layers of paint and plaster have been peeled back, slab stones lifted, centuries of paint, varnish, fats from cooking have been stripped from the doors, but perhaps that’s not why these discoveries are being made. Simon had worked for a great deal of time on this door and had never seen the heart, ‘only when it was over there, probably in the sunlight’ and the door ‘was [off its hinges] at an angle’ that’s when it was visible. Maybe the heart is back in the house, it certainly feels like that.

I’ve been sitting in this house and in its grounds before the craftsmen came and the bats had left, for two years. I thought I might ‘capture’ a moment of its history, see a creative vision of one of the inhabitants, hear some story. I realise, I’ve been trying too hard, been, at times, too focused and pressing, looking for what I’ve wanted to see. The whole process therefore has been about learning to just be present, open and aware.

My companion at the house has been Lungs of My Earth by William Henry Searle; it has been a guide in teaching me how to dissolve the self in a landscape and become part of it.

‘There are places we must stay with for the good of our soul. These places will accept you when they know that you know them. . . stay[] with a certain place for as long as the place asks you. . . let its moods overshadow yours. Stay put. . . when it knows you mean business, these places will unveil their inner light to you.’ (96)

This poem ‘The Hours I’ve Sat’ shows that when we try too hard to be the knower, the landscape teaches us a lesson (one we have to unpick). This time, when the house refused to tell me anything (or I was not in a place to listen) nature had something to say . . .

At lunch when everyone had gone to eat, all the radios were off, I sat in the new courtyard and leaned against the wall of the cider house. My hinges were off, I was at an angle, the sun was glorious. Only then, when I took a break from my work, my aims and imaginings, only then did I have a moment where I felt completely outside of my body, and my objectives, and was completely present with the house, which offered ‘a mutual release and growth’ (Searle) that felt like a blessing. . .

 

When I listened back, I thought I heard sight of another voice, electrical interference no doubt, coincidence probably. Or maybe a collision, me sat there reading out my poem and someone else from another time, a woman who had just cleaned the apples, pulled  off the leaves and was singing, and maybe for a brief moment, I heard her and she heard me  . . .

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Hay Festival Scribblers Tour

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Plesur i gweithio gyda’r criw o feirdd dawnus yma fel rhan o Sgriblwyr Gŵyl Y Gelli

As part of the Welsh language Hay Festival Scribblers Tour, it was a pleasure to work with these brilliant poets/musicians.

We listened to Aneirin Karadog wow the 200 or so school children with his rapping and cleverly constructed cynghanedd; he was on fire! He had the whole room, teachers too making an incredible group piece. Then Rufus Mufasa shook the roof off with a performance that had us laughing and in tears. She showed the importance of using your voice to tell your truth and talked about her new relationship with the Welsh language.

 

Then we broke out into mixed-school groups and had to create a ten line poem about place. Roedd e’n profiad da i fi gweithio eto trwy’r iaith Gymraeg. On i dan pwysau. Amazed though at the poems that ensued. I love how first language Welsh speakers (the students here) were so supportive of those of us who have learned it. My confidence in working through Welsh is increasing, but only because of the support of others. (Especially Jon Gower who is unceasing in his kindness and encouragement).

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A dyma ein cerdd ni . . .

Hen ysgol yn Llandysul, wedi cau nawr
Afon Teifi ym Mhentrecagal, ‘Pot holes’ mawr
sy’n llenwi’r llawr!
Nant Madog, Cwm Elan, Llanfair ym Muallt,
Cilmeri, Pontwely, a Chastell Cidweli.

Poppit yw fy hoff lle fi
Tonnau mawr sy’n hwyl a sbri!
Bae Caswell, moroedd tawel.
Parc Cwmdonkin, Castell Newydd Emlyn
Pontarddulais ‘Du a Melyn!’

Ael y Bryn i Sir Feirionydd
Abertawe i aelwyd yr Wyddgrug,
cartrefi, teuluoedd, ein hysgolion,
ein Cymru! Ein Cymru ni!

 

Thanks to the Hay Festival, particularly Aine Venables, Paul Elkington and Marta Codello

Memories of y Bwthyn

Today I’ll be joining artists Heather Parnell David Mackie and Becky Adams in a series of workshops to gather people’s stories, memories of the hospiral/hospice Y Bwthyn in Pontypridd. Sadly the hospital is closing, however a new Y Bwthyn Unit is being built in the Royal Glamorgan hospital. Our aim is to gather people’s images and words to make a beautiful piece commemorating all the ways Y Bwthyn has impacted the community for a hundred years of service.

Please come along and share your thoughts.

 

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Rivers: Wales Arts Review Residency

I’ve known rivers:
I’ve known rivers ancient as the world and older than the
flow of human blood in human veins.
My soul has grown deep like the rivers.
~ from ‘The Negro Speaks of Rivers,’ Langston Hughes

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I’ve begun my month as Wales Arts Review‘s Artist in Residence where I’m exploring the two rivers I grew up between: the Rhymney and Sirhowy. I’ve been interviewing people who are connected in various ways to these rivers, walking with them along their favourite stretches. I’ve been otter spotting with Jeff Chard, listened to my father talk about coal and river song, and learned much about the fluidity of language from Dr. Elin Jones, one of the last speakers of Gwenhwyseg, a Welsh dialect of Gwent.

Here’s a link to my first piece introducing the residency.

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