Cuckoo by Dic Edwards

Again the soldiers fill the valley.
Driven by necessity
The men forge cannon
And the women spin cloth for uniforms in their parlours
Soon, the snowdrops.
Young wives weave boots from palmetto fronds
And aunts save their piss
For the nitre that makes
All the sloshing about in tears
And furnishes the men in war.

Soon, the primrose.
The children in the little games
Have nothing to say of war
But die.
The older girls knit socks for the dying.
The young men cut up the bodies playfully
Notwithstanding history’s immanence
And not yet fearful of the waking
From their drunk and bloody spell.

Soon, the cuckoo
And the cuckoo-flower;
Cuckoo-pint:
Arum and wake-robin
And navelwort and pennywort
And all the crazy flowering
Of even the monocotyledonous plants.
And in the lacunae between horrors
Much is fulfilled as the comedian entertains
And flaps the colours of war hanging
From rope made of Spanish moss.

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By Dic Edwards

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Information: Dic Edwards (born 1948) is a British playwright, poet and teacher of creative writing. His writing often touches upon political and social issues, nationalism and democracy.

Class of ’68 by Merryn Williams

Men were selected for the Vietnam war

by dates of birth. I watched a drama where

schoolboys sat round their own screens, waiting for

a voice to pick a date out of the air.

‘The twenty-sixth of June’. I felt a thrill

of horror, as the actors froze – that’s my

son’s birthday. Young men can refuse to kill;

much later on, they can’t refuse to die.

Now, the Reaper cuts a first swathe through

the ranks of men who did and didn’t fight;

no guessing if it’s him, or him, or you;

we’ll soon find out. It’s random, like the date.

The men, and smaller groups of women, go;

this is one war to which you can’t say no.

 

by Merryn Williams

Rhymney by Idris Davies

For Ceinfryn and Gwyn

 

When April came to Rhymney

With shower and sun and shower,

The green hills and the brown hills

Could sport some simple flower,

And sweet it was to fancy

That even the blackest mound

Was proud of its single daisy

Rooted in bitter ground.

 

And old men would remember

And young men would be vain,

And the hawthorn by the pithead

Would blossom in the rain,

And the drabbest streets of evening,

They had their magic hour,

When April came to Rhymney

With shower and sun and shower.

 

by Idris Davies

The Lay Preacher Ponders by Idris Davies

‘Isn’t the violet a dear little flower? And the daisy, too.

What nice little thoughts arise from a daisy!

If I were a poet now – but no, not a poet,

For a poet is a wild and blasphemous man;

He talks about wine and women too much for me

And he makes mad songs about old pagans, look you.

Poets are dangerous men to have in chapel,

And it is bad enough in chapel as it is

with all the quarelling over the organ and the deacons;

The deacons are not too nice to saintly young men like me.

(Look at Jenkins John Jones, the old damn scoundrel!)

They know I can pray for hours and hours,

They know what a righteous young man I am,

They know how my Bible is always in my pocket

And Abraham and Jonah like brothers to me,

But they prefer the proper preacher with his collar turned around;

They say he is more cultured than I am,

And what is culture but palaver and swank?

I turn up my nose at culture.

I stand up for faith, and very simple faith,

And knowledge I hate because it is poison.

Think of this devilish thing they call science,

It is Satan’s new trick to poison men’s minds.

When I shall be local councillor and a famous man –

I  look forward to the day when I shall be mayor –

I will put my foot down on clever palaver,

And show what a righteous young man I am.

And they ought to know I am that already,

For I give all my spare cash to the chapel

And all my spare time to God.’

 

by Idris Davies