St Augustine’s, Penarth by Gillian Clarke

 The church is like the prow
Of a smoky ship, moving
On the down channel currents
To the open sea. A stone

Figurehead, the flowing light
Streams from it. From everywhere
You can see Top Church, remote
As high church is from chapel.


Church high on the summit
Of the climbing town
Where I was a child, where rain
Runs always slantingly

On streets like tilted chutes
Of grey sliding on all sides
From the church, to sea and dock,
To shopping streets and home.

Bresting the cloud, its stone
Profile of an ancient priest
Preaches continuity
In the face of turning tides.

by Gillain Clarke
from The Sundial (Gwasg Gomer, 1978)

Information: St Augustine’s Church is a Grade I listed Gothic Revival nineteenth-century parish church in Penarth, Vale of Glamorgan, Wales. Wales has, historically, had a strong chapel community in the valleys where small community cogregations, with their lay preachers, were far more common than larger organised churches.

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Message by R.S. Thomas

 A message from God
delivered by a bird
at my window, offering friendship.
Listen, such language!
Who said God was without
speech? Every word an injection
to make me smile. Meet me,
it says, to-morrow here
at the same time and you will remember
how wonderful to-day
was: no pain, no worry;
irrelevant the mystery, if
unsolved. I gave you the X-ray
eye for you to use not
to prospect, but to discover
the un-malignancy of love's
growth. You were a patient, too,
anaesthetised on truth's table
with life operating on you
with a green scalpel. Meet me, I say,
to-morrow and I will sing it for you
all over again, when you have come to.


By R.S. Thomas


from Experimenting with an Amen (1986)

Looking Glass by R.S. Thomas

 There is a game I play
with a mirror, approaching
it when I am not there,
as though to take by surprise.

the self that is my familiar. It
is in vain. Like one eternally
in ambush, fast or slow
as I may raise my head, it raises

its own, catching me in the act,
disarming me by acquaintance,
looking full into my face as often
as I try looking at it askance.


by R. S. Thomas
from Experimenting with an Amen (1986)

Blog Update: Blwyddyn Newydd Dda! Happy New Year! С новым годом! 2019

For over a year I’ve updated this blog daily and seen a surge in the number of visitors and views for which I’m deeply grateful. However, as I’m sure you’ve already realised before I even finish this sentence, such a frequent rate of uploading can’t be maintained.

I’m not stopping the blog but just altering to a more manageable frequency of posting. There will definitely be one poetry entry per week with the possibility of additional posts if there’s an opportunity. On the bright side this gives me time to post longer poems as you’ll have noticed that, more often than not, there’s a limit to the length of those featured so far.

It’ll also give me a chance to post the reviews and other such articles that I keep drafting but putting to rot in a folder. There are a number of events dating back years now that should have been posted at the time but I can now look at them with hindsight and better assess their impact.

So yes, in brief, there will less frequent uploads but there’ll be more variety. It’ll only be reduced down from daily to weekly posts which is surely still reasonable as I am just one person and you’ve multi-person teams who barely upload something once a week (if that).

Most likely it’ll be more reviews and such coming alongside a weekly poem. I’ll try to remember to alternate between Welsh and Russian poems but I might throw in some others from different sources too.

There are over 800 posts on the blog so you’re welcome to delve into the archives in the meantime and comment on anything if you’ve any views or questions you would like to express.

So what’s with the title image?

Have you heard of the following Welsh traditions?

The Mari Lwyd is a wassailing folk custom in South Wales conducted around this time of year. The tradition entails the use of an eponymous hobby horse which is made from a horse’s skull mounted on a pole and carried by an individual hidden under a sackcloth. It represents a regional variation of a “hooded animal” tradition that appears in various forms throughout Great Britain.

Also recently there was Plygain: a traditional Welsh Christmas service which takes place in a church between three and six o’clock in the morning, traditionally on Christmas morning.

On a sidenote I’ve gotten into Folk Horror recently and attended Snowcat Cinema’s evening of BBC Ghost Stories at Penarth Pier a few weeks ago so look forward to a few posts about that topic too.

I hope you have a nice New Year’s Day and if you’ve any suggestions for the blog such as Russian films to review, Folk Horror stories to read, films/TV episodes to watch or anything about Wales you’d like to hear about then please comment below as everyone is welcome.

Pause by R.S. Thomas

 'Rest a while,'
says the muse,
but I press on
losing myself between
the dictionary and the blank
page. Wisdom advises,
'Call ber bluff and
she'll come cringing.'
But I am all nerves,
running vocabulary
through my fingers, faster
and faster. And somewhere
before me is
the great poem, wrapped
in its stillness, that
I fool myself into
thinking I will overtake soon
by putting on speed.


by R. S. Thomas
from Unpublished Poems

The Casualty by R.S. Thomas

 I had forgotten
the old quest for truth
I was here for Other cares

held me: urgencies
of the body; a girl
beckoned; money

had never appeared
so ethereal; it was God's blood
circulating in the veins

of creation; I partook
of it like Communion, lost
myself on my way

home, with the varying voices
on call. Moving backward
into a receding

future, I lost the use
of perspective, borrowing poetry
to buy my children

their purpose. The past was a poor
king, rendering his crown down
for the historian. Every day

I went on with that
metallic warfare in which
the one casualty is love.


by R. S. Thomas
from Laboratories of the Spirit (1975)

Tenancies by R.S. Thomas

 This is pain's landscape.
A savage agriculture is practised
Here; every farm has its
Grandfather or grandmother, gnarled hands
On the cheque-book, a long, slow
Pull on the placenta about the neck.
Old lips monopolise the talk
When a friend calls. The children listen
From the kitchen; the children march
With angry patience against the dawn.
They are waiting for someone to die
Whose name is as bitter as the soil
They handle. In clear pools
In the furrows they watch themselves grow old
To the terrible accompaniment of the song
Of the blackbird, that promises them love.


By R.S. Thomas
from Not That He Brought Flowers (1968)