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New Poem
In a few weeks, Portsmouth Poetry will be hosting the fabulous Carys Eleri's one-woman show about the Welsh poet Gwerful Mechain whose poetry praised female sexuality and exposed the oppressiveness of men. Her work is wonderfully yet depressingly relevant more than five hundred years later. In view of the revelations about the appalling misogynistic behaviour in Parliament little more than a year after the kidnapping and murder of Sarah Everard, we are proud to add another poem by Rowen Brittany, an angry, saddening outlining of what it is to be one half of the world's population! [New Poem at the foot of the section]
Poems by
Rowen Brittany
Poems by
Rowen Brittany
For those who don't know the country, Wales is easily caught in cliché's - Snowdonia (though we call it Eryri and the mountain Yr Wyddfa), coalpit valleys, cold chapels, male voice choirs and ladies in tall black hats. Or maybe Tom Jones, Shirley Bassey and men in red on the 6 Nations pitch.
They are all part of a pride grown like a carapace over centuries of ridicule and prejudice from a nation who stole the land and tried to eradicate its culture. But these simplicities do not fit the country today.
The decline of the chapel, the disappearance of old industries and, of course, the violent destruction of 'King Coal' tore the heart out of many Welsh communities leaving crime, violence, despair, cross-generational unemployment and poverty. It's a Wales somewhat distanced from Dylan Thomas or druid-clad eisteddfodau. But poetry is alive and well in Wales, it has endured centuries of despair. Rowen Brittany is a Welsh poet based in Bristol. Her poems tap that darker reality but the traces of rhyme and cynghanedd are there. I bumped into Rowen at the Laugharne Weekend, the annual three day festival of literature, comedy and music in the town made famous by Mr Thomas, and was determined to get her onto the Portsmouth Poetry website. She is a talented and passionate writer, as the raw honesty and pain of these examples of her work show. 'Shakespeare sux' is a perfect expression of the frustration many pupils endure being force fed the classics in school (the subject of our 'Power of the Beat' project). I love the internal rhyme in "the soft woe is me type of imagery in the form of buttercup honey dew simile". National frustration is vented in 'EngErLaNd' for centuries of misuse at English hands in, for example, the lines "why cant you speak it well / tongues and hands were tied / Knotted and forgotten with each conquest" and I'm pretty sure Rowen is cleverly playing with the word knot both to reference the subjugation of the Welsh and the two hundred year practice of the 'Welsh Not' in which children as young as five in schools were humiliated and beaten for speaking their native language. All the voiceless youthful misery and frustration in Post-Thatcher Wales is captured perfectly in the closing line of 'lifeinsouthwales' - "experienced south welsh happiness pit valley shit / feel like i dont have any words left / at least any words worth it " Grief is one of the oldest human sufferings and so a frequent subject for poetry. Though no less painful or pertinent for its recurrence it is hard to imagine another poem could bring anything new to over-stated tragedy but Rowen does. Birdsong is a poignant counterpoint to the rough urban setting of part 2 and, yes, how many poets have noticed the guilt at the heart of grief? 'Soliloquies', a hard look at the rough realities of Dylan Thomas's 'ugly lovely' town today begins with a nod to Ginsberg's classic 'Howl' and lays out its harshness with the same gritty honesty and a clever reference to ancient Welsh history at its close. 'muse for a minute' is a necessary rant against men - and the line "now im just a girl in your gaze" is a wonderful understated summary of how women are treated every day both as objects of lust and as something not significant! Social divisions today have taken on new forms and in the myth that class and inequality don't really exist anymore they have adopted new dimensions of arrogance and dismissal. 'Gentrification cru' is marked by its restrained vitriol nicely embodied in the dichotomy between a £6 sourdough (both financial distance and status consumption) and a homeless man. These are powerful testing poems that push the reader to acknowledge that life isn't always easy but with the reassurance that poetry truly is alive and there in everything except prose!
Josh Brown


Shakespeare sux
im proper bored
of all my written work
like it was some old mans writing
comparing thee to a rose shit
keats yeats and wilde are on none of our sides
mate
they jus pass down archaic expectations from white man to white man
boring english classes to death
with ruler str8 lined biros and double spaced essays and worrying cos wuthering heights withered our eds
and
la belle dame sans merci isn't that great like i give credit where it's due but that rhyme scheme n rhythm is fuckin basic dude
the soft woe is me type of imagery in the form of buttercup honey dew simile
saying my pain is like anything, assumes too much if you ask me.
"Ohhhh the wretchedness of my demise !
Soft rosey cheeks catch gentle cries !"
the world keeps turning consciously contrite an I can’t always be bothered to write
id sooner sip beers soakin up sun rays talkin shit with my girls
buh they wan us to
find synonyms for sad for days on end til you
hit a target that'll have english lit teachers questioning the use of the colour red
or what a drawn out vowel could meeeeaaaaaan
but
i like it raw n mainly off the dome
and i find poetry in everythin but prose
EngErLaNd
“why are u in england then if you hate it
so much”
well devolution's not in full swing until it is i'm reaping the benefits my great grandparents
couldn't
so i ..
Found my national identity in England
surrounded by saes
Repeated my home town once, twice -
Llan. Genn. Ech.
Yes. Lots of spitting sounds
No I don't know Ellie Jones just cos she's Welsh…
actually wait I do yeah, she went to Olchfa loves wind street she does….
deffo copped off with a couple of the under 21s scrum half on beaujolais day….
anyway
i find over ere tho
our welsh ness is constantly tested like
why cant you speak it well
tongues and hands were tied
Knotted and forgotten with each conquest
On their horses and in their pillages
wore down , drowned our villages
for power pride and resources
moved my great great grandmother to the towns from the fields mind
My bilingual love story cut at the seams by westminster's torys
so
This is to our culture crammed in one hour lessons a week,
rugby clubs, cawl and shagging sheep
Wales is The land of my fathers,
Ar hyd a nos
It’s the beauty of the North
to the grit of Gendros
It’s the matriarchal Moores towering over Thatcher torn towns
Poetry’s in my veins
in words I will drown
In the rushing river streams to the steelworks strewn apart
i'll continue it tho
my ancestors art,
the dregs of it all
Editors Note -
‘Saes’ is the Welsh word for the English. ‘Olchfa’ is a comprehensive school in the Sketty area of Swansea. ‘Cawl’, also known as Cawl Cymraeg is a traditional stew of vegetables, leeks and lamb and a national dish of Wales. ‘Ar Hyd A Nos’ is a Welsh song known in English as ‘All Through the Night’. Gendros is an area of Swansea.
lifeinsouthwales
waitin for the school bus
chloe got benson and edges from her mam shirley
and im in a hurry to toke this n make myself dizzy
an show grace i dont care wha my mam might say
dinner money goes on coke an snickers duo, hannah can eat my sandwiches
im starving myself for a feelin see
joints in the woods at the bottom of the field welsh countryside
we hidden in plain sight
adamant on attractin older eyes got me grown
got a big boy readin age
not quite gifted n half talented mind you;
half arsed my school work learnt to roll a biff good n
coasted til college where i met my dream boys
gower college swansea, jake’d already fucked up the shelter in a val rage bender
so when we smoked joints we’d get wet, four of us got a fiver so an 1/8th it is
cradle this for me en,
whos got baccy for a spliff they aint gettin twos from?
ow and whos got roach? Or a lighter an a skin
spent my last 89p chippin in for this blem..
fuck sake…..the boys get older n the girls stay the same age
we nor even workin for minimum wage just dole pays
we was warriors tho
I said it before n ill say it again when the tides in, down swansea bay
an we’re diggin up our bones in the sand
burying heads and roaches
an our hearts got 3 more beats than it should
untouchable n rude
scowerin mirrors for more delectable substances to misuse
drug analogues stopped the clock for a week or two
and indefinitely for some of yous
now The offy sees me more than my friends do
bossman takes note of my mood tho
he says “Owe me the remainder next week kid,
remember when you’d be in here 5 friends for a bottle and some king skins?”
now
your walk to the booze shops your solitude
your tough skins peeled away for a new one
eyes dodging eyes
paranoid
as if i can even talk about it
experienced south welsh happiness pit valley shit
feel like i dont have any words left
at least any words worth it
Grief
grief part 1
It started with an unknown number
it had been years since we spoke through no fault but growing
your unsteady voice tried to tow vowels and consonants but not much sense
“He’s gone Rowen”
we took it in turns to cry and took it in turns to breathe
im sorry for us all
The first of many apologies, poems about grief and the guilt of just surviving
part 2
bird song means something else to me than it does to you
affected
possibly
by doped up philosophy
birds sing the comedown song waiting for the offy at dawn and sinking cans
to help forget we don't have much
serotonin left for the takin
but when we wake we take
steal crates and middle man to afford fun
we're lucky mind.
mornings on the beach
you'll never feel better than the salts in the sea
downers settin in
warm welsh sun all over your skin
reborn from sin
of the night before
of past remorse
all told before
You left a hole when you passed
You always knew how to make an entrance
with a cheeky smile
and a
fuck aye,
who's got twos for me en?
i got us semi sober spent in my village
then back to parties in the roundhouse
drunk off frosty jack freedom and knee deep in research finding them chemicals but losing our heads
i wish it stayed fun forever
we knew we weren't invincible
you affirmed the unbelievable
we was half hearted angels in the city of distilled pride
we never thought it would would be you
never thought
not for a second or a minute or an hour
and you're gone
our places remain
special spot. brymill. cwmdonkin.
st. helens. gowerton. three cliffs bay. langland. llangennech. sunday dinners at your mams and smoking out my window.
now im walking past our old haunts to the station
never further up than there
i still can't look tha street in the eyes
swivel away like it never happened
ignorance is crisp and brittle and im down to my last couple of crumbs
til white blizzards entrap negative
thought patterns taut skin grabbing
take a look in your discerning reflection from tha man made translucent environment youre stuck in
and you're gone
but i'll remember you by 6am birdsong
part 3
reduced to numbers, grouped up
desensitised but overcome with emotion
friend groups are meant to grow apart
not go to wake after wake
before anyone can see 30
is this normal for towns to be so devastating .
a landfill of shredded hearts
where concrete meets the sea
and friendships are embedded in jpegs
four tinnies and a trammy
i remember why i used to rely on it
and i'm grateful i can do two and put the packet down
and i'm guilty for tha privilege
for feeling any type of way cos
there's guilt in surviving
and the selfishness that thought brings
part 4
i dun belong with the recoverers
the together only now pieced ourselves together folks
cos i'm scared i'll bring it right back for em
like my negative neurons will seep into their new pathways they've created painstakingly over years and years
and
i can't hang out with the fiends
cos i'm scared that'll be me again
fighting for ends on a spliff
askin 2 clean up the mirror with a card when the bags run out and the clock
strikes 6
i got my friends but where am I between mortgages, houses n engagement celebrations?
between babies, dogs or sniffing
off a
tiny spoon in
the park
all afternoon
balance out prescriptions
with prescriptions not prescribed
i
dominate the emotions that mindfulness can't override
i
keep it as stable as established
we know where i am
we know where it was always gunna land
cos cautious predictions are premeditated instances
i'm baby faced but you can age me like a tree
by the rings round my mouth from toking n grinding down my teeth in my sleep
cos its always a
nother phone call nother wake nother phone call updated case
so i'm down the hospital again cos the bottle drowned me
same old week long
bender ended in
minor disaster
do you want the
crisis team nah
i'll pass thank ya
soliloquies
i seen the best minds of my generation picking up fag ends to chuck in their bong
wearin head bandages like halos parading the high street screamin-
“fuck aye the boys!!!!! there’s a war to win and i’ll tell ew how its done
its selling 0.6 tens and valiums you mates brawd stole from auntie pam
Its scrapin coins for frosty jacks before the smack got lots of us attached
before party drugs turned necessary
Wasted youths my dad would call us
raves down the gower, underweighed bags to the youngers
we know the secrets of the universe man i knows cos i just smoked dmt through a plastic bottle in my mates livin room
as if spirituality comes by watchin acab graffiti on the wall come to life
dave hughes wrote ambition is critical, before u thought dylan thomas did but wha he didn't do was write about
But not how DEEP
they dug our graveyard round here...
Ambition drops off on tick
Ambition thinks you're a prick
Ambitions cross eyed nodding off and desensitised
Ambition is fucking critical so
sign me on en!
fiver at the door to stick to the floor
chuck us a key in the toilets (had one too many ciders)
livin for the weekend forgettin how
many weekends have been
an how many are to come when i'm
Stil love tha shitty place
Soliloquies of swansea city
the silures still remain.
Editors Note -- 'Silures' were warlike tribes of what is now South Wales who opposed the invading Romans
muse for a minute
inspiring was i?
showed you there didn't ave to be pretentiousness in prose,
that anger has an important role to play and shoutins usually always the way
for pobl like us
so wha changed?
after locked mouths, drunk calls an loose lips
now im just a girl in your gaze
nor even a friend now jus a
mistake
you developed assumptions based on your pious bias
can't see how low ur self esteem is
cos it's
bold of you to assume cariad
my inspiration comes for free n youre oh so friendly til
u find a better me
aw did i help show u theres power n anger
in prose?
til u found ur tone
til u “made it out of home “
an hop on tha big city scene
big boy things ye?
forgot where u come from before you’ve even left
big boy things ye?
ill take ur “self hatred” in just.
Editors Note -- 'pobl' = people and Cariad means darling or sweetheart
substances
i burnt my bottom lip sucking the last substance from the roach
says a lot tho
it said slow down you're killing yourself
cos you never did have the guts did you kid
toy with the idea like a cat with some yarn
so you dance with fermented barley water n think
this'll be the end
but for now it's just a dance
its just a dance for me
pigeons of easton
i see specific spots under pigeon tunnel
of their collective shit
i run across them or try walk on the road if it's late try avoid that
embarrassing fate
in ur hair or on ur back
they sit on top under the railway track
n onto the lentils tha people throw out
well fed fuckers n hard as fuck
not scared of no one
fly right in ur face
easton
pigeons
own this fuckin place
Editors Note - Easton is an inner city area of Bristol
dissociatepoemtxt
Sorry while i dip out of this place my eyes are glazed lips parted undecided and unstartled
I got a few million synapses circulating you know
It gets quite busy up here at times
An they all got their conflicts all lined up auditioning
To be the main character of the show
Though i talk to them out loud to regulate our process
Talk through patterns of chaos then contentment then crying for days
Shits madness
Im not completely subdued, so its okay
Just enough to keep the dissension at bay
Til our discourse changes
Im not completely subdued, im just okay
contempt takes it day by day
Still…..im
Bending backward breaking bones to understand self disorder
Out of control to understand
Like who was i before all of you
Cant come to terms
Cant coax our mood out of bed
Cant keep them heavy as led on the floor til you come i pick up our contempt
Stoic and hellbent stockholm to all my sins
The right of passage is a confusing with no definite end
Cross and stable
Accomplice to all of my crimes
Lights stay dimming while no ones home
No one but you
And whatever rope threads us together,
cross stitched life of misfits
consider this a pint of prose - its tedious
34 lines of improper sentences - a linguistics issue
I stay clambering through these stages im fucking homogenous with my own fine print
Add all the disobedience i was born with
Adaptation takes control til i'm enrolled in this new shit
Life, expectations and growing pain myths
Another way to feel low in the pits
Issa minor though
The less you try the harder it is
For people like us
Gentrification Crew
narrow my eyes in line with the gentrified cru
got a homeless man crouched near this place tha sells sourdough for 6 quid a loaf
no one in the queue got a penny for him just the
apple pay app from their iphones that
reflects lights from the screen to
form halos on their heads round their heads
they donate to charities sometimes every christmas sometimes some clothes to a food bank
and at least they voted labour they say
at least they voted to stay
“he’s probably gunna spend it on drugs anyway”
like their colleagues aint smashing wine and scripts
to get through their version of mundane and interpersonal shit
its different for you tho cos you can afford it
you’re lining up to smell freshly baked dough
chattering overbears a rumbling stomach.
the coulette wearing etsy wool gloves n organic chai drinkers
with no money for him.
hes scrapin his pockets for baccy
I chuck him some
and coins if i got any
while most don't even say hello or
‘no sorry’
but go share statistics of
homelessness on their instagrams
when they get home
Self care
herds her thoughts to the slaughter rounded up by coiled sprigs mechanical pigs rule the roster...
sweeping bottles under the rug
so now she's just
thoughtless for all the wrong reasons
good for now but the futures smirking
little girl you know the drill by now
you know tha
when the last pills popped out the foil
an paradises' lost;
"The dismal situation waste and wild.
A dungeon horrible, on all sides round,"
her head screws penultimately
waiting to loosen
proving intrusions right and wasteful rights of passage to the privilege she was gifted
shes got it bad. spirits half alight
lines eyes with razor sharp ink to make a mans heart beat hard
no harm in momentary secondary validation cos we all know how it ends anyways
she's independent buh she can't possibly love
shes a shell of abundance of hate
she’ll try the headspace app
used to much data
so she deleted tha crap
her shadow work starts at 5 o'clock
a fear mindful influencers provoke
and far far away purgatory's the prerogative cos
you can't fear
what you don't know
self care is therapy shes told herself
but missed sessions got her kicked
support worker said sorry it's just policy
she'd tried her best
like you'd tried yours
can't measure scars on my skin if they were self inflicted
after all
can't measure how hard it's made it to
just exist
shes sick.
boys with saviour complexes tryna cover her in the shinin support
and bein shocked when their light dimmed to match hers
not that it was ever strong enough to shine thru all of it in the first place.
Cara
When you say ‘we’ it's the first time i ever believed it
Our weekly phone appointments means
I cant judge your face or trace your frown or follow laughter lines
and assume your lifes been fine
That you went uni at 18 and graduated normally
And that you dunno know pain like mine.
You want me to do well, i can hear it in your voice
And skim my lows on some tidal wave manic shit.
Not much purpose when they don’t scratch the surface
A balancing act i “could be capable of learnin”
..But “we’re happy i am self aware” - still
helpless at conflict's knee but i believe you get me .
And it is we
but ultimately
Its just me
I went home like you told me to, llangennech
river stillness, the absence of other sound makes me wanna
bend to your will but i aint that malleable to be mindful
I'm trying to journal jot while drinking peppermint tea affirmations like
“you got this mun”
It's still validation
tainted at the seams
to thread into my worth
a tapestry of vapid words n needless nerves
To confirm
im coal, im concrete,
i’m toxic waste disguised as a sweet
i'm unsure and half willing,
make plans live fast if them forces will it
“You ought to be proud im getting good marks”
Finding adequate lines is like a needle in the haystack
Relax your muscles, start with your toes,
and untense your jaw, if you have the patience
But i dont
Im face painted concerned,
a byproduct of my nerves
Standard practice really
Wake up prescribed med induced mania,
100mg of guilt free energy
Make a coffee, ride that wave get shit done then
Then wait while you quietly crash down
And iv been too long at sea,
Long enough to get over the sickness
Not long enough to come back home
New Poem


i learnt to be afraid of men as soon as my dad
told me how to hold my keys on walks home
when i learnt no didn’t mean no
when i got rewards for the gazes cast upon me
when i
wore a marks n spencer skirt that my teacher
said was too short
when i
wore a top that my abuser said was too
woman like
when i
didn’t know how to say no
couldn’t say no
didn’t think it was an option
when i got called frigid to when i’ve been
called a whore cunt bitch slag
it ain’t safe to be as free as they think we are
and my bravado is louder than anyone’s
and my walk and demeanour doesn’t scream
vulnerability
but my existence as a woman is so loud
it attracts the sight of every eye for miles
every step forward helps to flee from their
indoctrinated contempt of us
every step backs cautionary but fair
we don’t know you won’t do to us
what other men before you did
New poems by
Byron Beynon
New poems by
Byron Beynon
Byron Beynon is a Welsh poet from Abertawe (Swansea). His poems, essays and reviews have featured in several publications including the Independent, Planet, Cyphers, Agenda, The London Magazine, The Seventh Quarry, Wasafiri, The Galway Review, the human rights anthology In Protest (University of London and Keats House Poets), Poetry Ireland and, of course, Poetry Wales. He has read his work in venues in Wales, the Edinburgh Fringe and Hay Festival, and is the author of several collections including Cuffs (Rack Press), The Echoing Coastline (Agenda Editions), and Where Shadows Stir (The Seventh Quarry Press). Portsmouth Poetry is proud to join this impressive list with some of his latest poems. These collections are available from the usual suppliers and we encourage you to support local booksellers.
WITTGENSTEIN IN SWANSEA
He is no longer in Berlin,
Cambridge or in the Austrian army,
but poses for a photograph