In general, the Editor’s preference is for work that grabs the attention straight away; is going somewhere; has something to say to a modern Wales and stops when it gets there. And, ideally, says what has to be said with a touch of humour. The cartoons - for the want of a better name - are by Gremlin.
Any contributions - literary or cartoons - must be sent in a computer compatible format to the e-mail address below. The editions of the magazine are free and future contributions will depend largely on contributors. Any work published still remains the property of the writer.
The Editor:
Alun Howell.
e-mail: cymro56@msn.com
Tel: 029 20889403
Some recent contributers:
Edgar Rider has worked many dead end jobs. But no job ever felt as hopeless as The Place nicknamed the Works. He now works for Children’s Museum of Phoenix. He has been published in Dead Mule, Ragged Edge and Avatar Review.
CHARRED FRIED WORKS by Edgar Rider
PART I
COSMETOLOGY VAN
Working at the hamburger joint had some advantages. Free food and free beer although technically taking the latter wasn’t legal. The only way we could get through our job was finding ways to pass the time.At this time, I had met a friend or a partner in laziness, his name was Mike. He was usually the cashier-order taker I would manage the burger flipping. He would say ,"Watch this," he took off his hat, combed his hair slightly parting it sideways trying to get rid of his impending bald spot. He would smile,showing his two front missing teeth,
as if he had just achieved a major accomplishment.He was also, from his point of view, an accomplished comedian. He repeatedly told me bad jokes. I must admit, his show stopper was terrible. He would say ’I am a dyslexic on coke.’ Instead of snorting the powder on the table he would blow it off the table. He would then laugh like he was an interchangeably cross between Beavis and Butthead. It was not as funny as the cartoon. Sometimes it would give me nightmares. Other than these selective scary moments, Mike and I became good buddies. Even planned on doing a public access tv show. We would sit outside, right after Mike opened his locker and showed me vodka bottles in it. He would mix it with Coca Cola before he got ready to clock in for his night shift. During, the evening a vehicle vaguely resembling a Winnebago would pull up. We sat outside and watched people come out of this van with the word ’Cosmetology’ on the side of it. I became suspicious because
everyone that came out of it didn’t look any different. The owner of the van was named Raphael and had the worst perm I had ever seen on a woman much less a MAN. He was a regular barfly.
He sat at the end of the bar watching sports and betting til the end of the evening. He was friends with Gene, the main bartender, Gene hooked everyone up. He was always rubbing his nose and seemed to moving at an always increasing speed. Gene looked like a cross between the kid from Eight is Enough and John Mellencamp. Mike repeatedly would tell me that the van was a place you could readily buy drugs. One day I wondered in the restroom found an empty bag with little powder left in it.This place was nick-named the Works and was aptly named.
Not just due to what was on the condiment table but also in life experience.
PART II
YELLOW MAN AND HIS BLUE FATHER
Ecclesiastes 10:1
’As dead flies give perfume a bad smell, so a little folly outweighs wisdom and honor.’
After work at the burger factory we all headed over to a bar called the Hidden House. It was a small bar dimly lit filled with late night patrons and barflys from our work place. We would drink all night play pool. Each of us dreaming of a way out. We spent our days charbroiling hamburgers and deep frying chicken wings. It felt like the situations surrounding my life were also becoming char broiled and deep fried. MIke was growing weary of the hamburger factory. We were hanging out less and less.He called me one day and asked me to go to the doctor. He told me he had developed a skin condition and his father had tuberculosis. He said anyone who was in contact had to go get tested. He picked me up at my apartment complex. I noticed his skin had turned yellow. He had jaundice. I took a series of test and found it I was fine.I had not contacted tuberculosis. I was a little worried about the jaundice situation.
I didn’t see Mike much after that until one day I walked into the bathroom at work and he was standing there. He had a knife in his hands and was twirling it around. He laughed and told me his father was dead. He said he looked in his chair and his father wasn’t moving. He knew he was dead because he turned a lighter shade of blue. I found it odd that he was chuckling about his father’s death. I imagined him the yellow man yelling at his blue father at what point did he realize he was already dead. It seemed like all of us were becoming detached from our surroundings.
I had to leave. I sat ironically at another burger joint contemplated my future, put my closing keys in an envelope mailed it and never went back. I knew the only way to quit was just to walk away..Nothing would compare to the miserable atmosphere I surrounded myself and been surrounded by. After this, I would have a couple more dead end jobs but also new moments of inspiration Graduating college,getting to go to Africa and becoming a published author. Nothing makes you feel good as finding your way out of hell. Or a Negative purgatory.
Hallelujah.
Rebecca Mayers
Accident
Down in that valley of rain flooded weariness
Lithe girls in leggings sit sat on the wall
While long-faced librarians sip pints in abjectness
The cheerless bell of last orders is called.
From piss stained red carpets and stale floor-spilled Worthington
Onto the puddled road punters must pour
The rugby boys chant, run and dance with their flies undone
And barmaids bleat flirty goodbyes at the door.
Embittered old vicar swigs water and whisky down
Scribbles his sermon alone in the hall
While outside the rabble retreat through the village now
He closes his eyes tight and prays for them all.
Thick in the night air of cheap vodka drunkenness
Car hurtles closer to window and wall
Newspapers will headline it ’Tragic Vale Accident’
The risk of survival declared to be small.
Catherine Davies
kymbcathdavies@hotmail.com
http://www.myspace.com/catdaviescomedy
Laugh
The crowd won’t wait
Tell a joke, man
Take a deep breath
Walk to the stage
The crowd roars now
Smile through the tears
Act like a clown
You’re good at that
Take a deep breath
Pick up the mike
He shakes and frowns
A sweat bead falls
He wipes his brow
Please speak to them
It’s a full house
Don’t let me down
I took the risk
“Well, now,” he says
Then he looks down
“A joke for you”
I know he’ll freeze
Nerves will take over
More sweat beads fall
Pour out your soul
Talk about your life
Let them see you
Sieve out the jokes
Feed them a line
Now it’s too late
They point and stare
Go home and purge
You’re good at that.
Prayer Board
Heaven’s Gate
sitting on a ward
biding my time
having to wait
Spironolactone
I pass this darkened, heavy tunnel alone
armed with a catheter and pride
no one will be standing at my bed side
A bud furrowed and took root
blossomed and grew
aches, pains, bleeding
if only I knew
Capecitabine
I retrace the lowly footsteps of things I’ve seen
The E
The air, purple air, and the
people in the trees, demons who
watch me, mocking, laughing,
waiting, hating, angels I see,
their gowns fade to black and halo’s fall away.
Like confetti, writing scattered
on the floor, face in the cracks,
eyes like a doll, talons tapping,
panic attack, the child of me
passing who is tied to a tree.
Senses infected, smell of
searing flesh, like a fresh tattoo,
burning, scouring, in the blood,
there’s nothing I can do,
withered faces of the dead, as the feet give way.
I can’t breathe, my P.I.N? I
can’t see, hold me, kiss me,
walk me, taste me, crown me,
my keys? we can’t get in,
it’s two or three,
exit music of a narcotic dream.
The Human Condition
Run at the first sign of trouble You fall down before your time
Don’t seem to fit in with the others
Shut down and cry
It’s closing time
Burned out at the first sign of trying
Tied down, bound by all you know
Words that fail you under the covers
Trip up and hide
Fast falling through
Locked in a cage made to die in
Frosted and chained, with no key
Box cast in stone and trapped alone
Confined and lined
Barbed wire complacency
Begin with a fragile condition
Broken and fading under lights
White noise that drowns you when you listen
Hiss and buzz of a
Human production line.
I am Vivekanand Jha, The poet and research scholar, from
India. I am composing poems on contemporary and relevant
themes. I am also performing Ph. D on the poetry of the great
Indian English poet Jayanta Mahapatra. I have attached a bunch of
poems for your kind consideration.
Email address: jha.vivekanand7@gmail.com
Dear Friend, I am not a prolific bard
I have something to be heard
I am nothing but a singing bird
Who is hungry of coining a word
And live by pen not by sword
Hands Heave to Harm and Hamper
Our hands heave
To harm and hamper,
Not to help and heal.
Not to assist
The damsel in distress
Instead feel refresh
In molesting mistress.
Not to weaken
The woes of widows
But apt to weaken
Their only credos.
Not to stop
The rape
But we are top
In viewing the naked tape.
We have destitution
In deleting the prostitution
But we are to the fore
In bargaining the whore.
Not to prohibit
The child labour
But not hesitate to inhibit
Their favour.
Not to curb
The poverty
But ready to disturb
The Poor’s liberty.
We use stick
To persecute the weak
We use flower
To adorn the tower.
Not to ameliorate
Law and order
But not fret to generate
Chaos and disorder.
We have temptation
To incur evil reputation
But we have palpitation
In getting good inspiration.
We praise
When our hands raise
To tarnish and damage
The image of sage.
We neglect
The existing institution
But we accept
The amendment of constitution.
What a relief!
If our hands heave
To leave
Harm and hamper
But to help and heal.
Happy! Happy! New Year
Happy! Happy! New Year
Enjoy without fret and fear
Drive yourself in top gear
Make even your foe dear
Hug your friends who are near.
This year shouldn’t have any peer
Colour of ecstasy is to smear
We should tolerate and bear:
If unwarranted things hear
Enjoy reading Shakespeare’s King Lear.
This day comes in year bare
Forget the life’s wear and tear
Don’t be lonely and despair
Enjoy with family and in pair.
Take part in picnic and fair
Jokes and bantering are to share
In the temple offer prayer.
It is the occasion rare
After digging the 365 layers
Wish to all for cure and care.
Not to kill decency and demeanour
But to kill sin and sinner
Not stand and stare at the river
But to be an adept diver
For the needy be depriver.
Wherever reach the ear
There is one and only flare
Happy! Happy! New Year.
Let me live even in the dark
You keep with you your creative art
Even though you don’t help me to start
Yet I will try to play my part
In the face of the reality stark
My only request to you to mark:
I don’t need your brilliant spark
If you let me live even in the dark.
You keep with you your Eden Park
I will request you to hark:
I would be happy with my Jurassic Park
If you let me live even in the dark.
Although your journey upon the sea embarks
You keep with you your witty remarks
Sated with the pond I will accomplish my task
If you let me live even in the dark.
You enjoy pampering in the lark
I needn’t your euphony, your skylark
I’ll be contended with my cacophonic bark
If you let me live even in the dark.
Intolerance
There was a world
When pen was mightier than the sword
This is now the world
Of the sword
Giving the degree third
To the scholar writing foreword
Men fight over nonsense
They know no tolerance
As they colour their hands with blood stains
For a penny and pence.
Men are ready to murder
Without thinking what will happen further
They defy the almighty’s order
Of living all together
Now man is measured by a different parameter
Radius is no more half of the diameter
One is known by how much he earns
Not by how much he learns.
Thank God! God is really clever
Not to allow anybody to live for ever
So it is time to mend our ways
Let good sense prevail now or never.
Trauma of Terror
Wherever eyes go, we sigh to see
Be it a day or hours wee
In the mud we find our knees
Thunderous voice rends the ears
Two little eyes dipped in the ocean of tears
Tender soul is infected with fear
Life is nothing but error
Teeming with trauma of terror.
God made comely creature
Apart from the lovely nature
Man made it a field
With red bloodshed filled.
Life is endless tale of peril
In the hands of the devil
No one wants to take a risk
So the corps takes to frisk
By working on the tips
This time terror is to rip
In the guise of will o’ the wisp.
We feel insulted on being frisked
Irritation reaches its zenith
Earth revolves the feet beneath
To see the baggage and bag
Treated as a piece of rag.
The Prime
It is time
We are in prime.
It is time
We should shine.
And feel fine.
It is time
We should climb
To destine
And feel cloud at nine.
It is time
We should be sublime
To define
The doctrine.
It is time
We have strong intestine
Ready to dine.
It is time
We should not commit crime
And resign
To any design.
It is time
We should not assign
Meeting clandestine
Lest we repine.
It is time
We should determine
To become Einstein
Or compose rhyme.
Humanity Died
There was a gathering on the mid road
I have also excited to join them
Expecting some interesting things to see
I found humanity has met with an accident
It bleeds and cries in pain
And seeks some solace from onlookers
Who called themselves
Wonderful and beautiful creatures of the world.
We remain mute spectator
As if it were a scene of movie.
None of hands heave to help him:
In some they were blinking like a cursor
In some they were like a flip-flop
In some they try to reach
But their deaf and stony emotion
Fail to respond.
But the heart of Atropos in heaven
Melt as He listend the pain and moaning
Of the humanity and He extended His hands
To support and succour
And we found humanity died.
My poem falters and falls
I write with ink of blood
To testimonialize and give
A touch of eternity to it
But my poem falters and falls
In the poetry of the world.
I pluck words from
A flowry and ornated garden
And weave a garland of them
To adorn the world
But they trample it
Under their feet
Like they crush the stub
Of the cigarete to prevent it
From catching the fire.
I discover the words
Hidden in the unhaunted
Recess of the mind
And juxtapose them
Like an ideal couple
Of bride and bridegroom
At bridal chamber
And turn my poem on new leaf
But they tilt their stony eyes
And turn deaf ears to it.
I infuse my heart and soul
Into the poem
Thinking it would be
The best and the last of my life
But they simply say:
Since it is the beginning
You would learn by mistakes.
Dawn dwells on the bank
Swim across the river of dense dark
As on the bank dwells the dawn
Let the tears trickle from eyes
As it has only the magical power of Puck
That would transform them into smile.
Let the whole world in jealousy burn
As it is only parameter of how much
You have developed and grown.
Let diseases and failures
To make you cripple and weak
As they are only tonic
To lead the path to succeed.
Let the time
To mock and scorn
One day when you would die
It would only mourn.
Advance ahead
With same zeal and zest
As he who tries
Only he climbs the Everest.
An elegy to the poem
I send you to represent
In various magazines and ezines
From my country
To the world of every region
But you fall victim
To the predators
We call them poetry editors.
They are prepared
with ready witted reply:
to the guidelines
your submission doesn’t comply.
Some says:
Thank you for your interest
But we decided to pick up the best
Some says:
You are committing a crime
By composing the poems in rhyme.
Better if our guidelines you rehearse
As we consider poems only in free verse.
Some says:
We don’t accept
Unsolicited submission.
So before sending works
You must seek permission.
Some says:
Sorry, not what we are looking for
Best of luck for publishing them
In other journals.
Some says:
Our magazine is limited
To the poets of our nation
So we don’t accept submission
From out station.
Some says:
Your submission permanently fails
As we don’t accept it by email.
They don’t have time
To read and waste
Stereotype reply
They simply copy and paste.
Some says:
Due to large volume of submission
It is not feasible to give
On all critical depreciation.
Some says:
We have decided
To pass on these
But next time don’t forget
To send, please.
Some says:
We only publish
The works of established poet
So keep on trying,
Watch and wait.
These are only
Small lists of rejection
Poets are victim of
Numerous persecutions.
I keep on sending
In spite of your insults
The poets do poetry
Irrespective of the results.
Dispossessed Motherland
I am from the land
Reduced to handful sand
Where is only mud
Left by devastating flood.
Here is no crop to reap
But only blood to creep
On our fate to weep
And feet not rise to leap.
Here is no food to eat
No room to express the wit
No place to peacefully sit
Good enough to cause the fit
As we are by poverty hit.
Here is no fuel to be lit
No milk in the mother’s teat
We have only dust to beat
Bleak and barren land and wit.
Here is no work to do
So we have earning few
And we have courage to muster
To gather the bread and butter.
Here is no life utility
Here is only killing by brutality
Which exposes administrative futility?
By their nature of duality.
Here is no feather in the cap
Only the news of kidnap
In the mean time you nap
Child is dispossessed from mother’s lap.
Here is no morality to be taught
If you do death to be bought
Don’t give the suggestion unsought
Which only misery to be brought.
Here is only the battle to be fought
One-year flood is another year drought
We are caught in the current of time
There is no difference
Between the age of old and prime
Here is no moment of auspicious, only ill omen
People are living in the devil’s domain
To earn livelihood, what can do the men?
Go miles and years away to deadly den
Lovelorn of their children and women.
Here is no magic wand
Men beat their own drum and band
Here are only foes, hardly any friend
Here is none for mistakes to amend
Here is no right for dignity to defend
This is a dispossessed motherland
This is nothing but a Waste Land.
Y Gondolïwr gan Gareth D Jones
Torodd trwyn du fy ngondola yn esmwyth trwy dd?r llonydd y gamlas. Roedd y llong lefn wedi fy ngwasanaethu’n dda am lawer blwyddyn, yn cludo teithwyr trwy ddyfrffyrdd y ddinas, dan ofal cenedlaethau o’m cyndadau.
Roedd yr haul yn machlud dros yr hen ddinas, yn troi’r d?r yn ruban inciog rhwng yr adeiladau tywodfaen. Cymerais anadl ddofn o awel oeraidd yr hwyrnos.
Oes yna harddach le na’r ddinas ryfeddol yma yn llawn camlesi? Wrth i’r bad orffwys i’w hangor, syllais lan yn fodlon i wybren dduog Mawrth.
Y Diwedd
Translated by Lili Fach
Stop Press:
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