Silver tresses, tumbling, streaming
framing my syndromic face.
Like the snowflake Gorilla of Barcelona
I am transforming, metamorphosing.
My Pax3 gene is mistaken
my inner-elf doth awaken.
Heterochromia iridis – eyes of Bowey
Lengolas hair which is snowy.
Skin like a splotch-mouse, streak like Amy Winehouse.
Eye colour fluxing, patches floating,
skin lighting, whitening, freckling,
burning, patching, spoiling.
Dystopia canthorum – telecanthus:
Inner-eye-corners strangely spaced, pupils usual placed -
make eyes appear wide spaced;
an optical illusion to cause confusion.
Leukoderma on skins of all races
characteristic features, parallel faces
signature uni-dimple and hypertrichosis.
Mallen girl forelock, early grey scalp hair
pigmentary abnormalities, which tend to run in families
congenital deafness, a broad nasal buttress.
We’re freaks with streaks: Lily Munster-esque and all things scary
yet on Providencia island, ‘tis a sign of great beauty.
Affecting folks the world over, regardless of skin colour;
we’re unusual, unique – yet eerily the same.

Sara Louise Wheeler writes the column ‘Synfyfyrion llenyddol’ (literary musings) for the community newspaper ‘Y Clawdd’ (Wrecsam) and she recently won two prizes at the ‘Eisteddfod y dafarn’ with a poem called ‘Llygaid’ (eyes) and ‘Yr asyn gwellt’ (the straw donkey) a piece of micro fiction about childhood memories. She has had poems published in the literature magazine ‘Tu Chwith’ and in the previous issue of ‘Voice’, and she is currently working on ‘Glanrafon’, a collection of short stories inspired by Jean Rhys’s ‘The Left bank’. Her work can be viewed on her blog at http://saralouisewheeler.wordpress.com.

INVITATION TO POETRY

Poetry is an invitation
To share your imagination
With all of the nation.
It could mean a translation
With a lot of co-operation.
Meditation in this situation
May need some penetration
And be quite an education.
It will also help relaxation.
Tell your friends or a relation.
Let them share in the radiation.
Also the satisfaction
Of not suffering from stagnation
It gives a great feeling of jubilation
So please give it some consideration.

VIOLETTA JEAN FERGUSON

THINKS  PARTY

Went to the party
last night.
Sat in a corner
Drinking whiskey,
Too old to be frisky,
To dance and prance,
Glance sideways at talent.

It’s a balancing act now
I’ve had a stroke.
I just joke about it,
My affliction, I mean.
I’m still keen on the opposite
Sex, but it vexes me
There’s no close contact
When couples dance anymore,
If there was
I’d take a chance myself.
Instead I’m drunk
In charge
Of  a walking stick.

SALLY PLOMB

Realisation

In this town of wondering people,
I see the difference in the sky
A unique place with unique people,
A sparkling peace in every eye.

As I wander through the streets,
I see people I’ve always known
Old friends and new friends,
Show the heights that we have grown.

Bright flowers make the scene,
A beautiful sight to see
Delightful views in certain areas,
A wonderful place to be.

Birds are singing the sweetest tunes,
Right outside my window,
Bright and early in the morning,
Sometimes I wish they wouldn’t though.

So this message in a bottle,
Sent directly to you,
Says everything around me
Guides me to what I want to do.

REBECCA THOMAS

Out Of Sight

If your eyesight is diminishing there are advantages
The glowering clock face won’t tell you
All the things you must do.
You’ll miss those people with collecting tins who’re out after your cash
You won’t know that your ties and shirts all clash.
By the mirror you won’t be afraid.
You’ll see nothing there to leave you dismayed.
That bird of prey the traffic warden
Won’t  bock your way.

You will be spared the cooking, cooking, cooking and
Frenzied  dancing that you used to see so often on T.V.
Yes, true, you can’t now watch the cricket match
But you won’t know your son’s fiancée has teeth
That don’t match.

You won’t be alone.
You’ll meet numerous new people whom
You miss-dial on the telephone.

DEIRDRE GOLDEN

LIP READING, by Jenny McGregor

MUM               ‘What did you say? I can’t hear you.  Ice in my water. Are you stupid? Why would I want ice in my hot water?’

JEN                 ‘But mum, I didn’t say that.’

MUM               ‘Speak up girl.  Stop mumbling.  You’re just like your father. You don’t move your mouth.’

JEN                 ‘I do.’

MUM               ‘You don’t’.  Stop arguing with me.  I’m ill!’

JEN                 ‘Mum…I’ve been thinking about lip-reading lessons…’

MUM               ‘Lip-reading lessons; Why would you want to lip read?  You’re not deaf are you?’

JEN                 ‘No, mum, you are.’

MUM               ‘What  did you say? Deaf? You’re deaf.  When did you realise?  You didn’t tell me!’

JEN                 ‘No mum.  I’m not deaf.  I just thought it would do you good to get out and mingle; flirt, you know?’

MUM               ‘Flirt with deaf people? How? Show me knickers!’

JEN                 ‘No mum.  How about coming with me?  You know I’m shy.’

MUM               ‘You’ve got a sty? Don’t be silly.  Your eyes look o.k. to me. Always something wrong with you! No wonder you haven’t got a fella!’

JEN                 ‘Mum, I don’t want a man.’

MUM               ‘Frying pan.  You’ve got a really good frying pan.  What do you want another one for?  You girls are all the same, buying new.  I’ve had my frying pan 50 years!’

JEN                 ‘I can tell…’

MUM               ‘Smell, what smell?  You’ve burned the potatoes again. Will you never learn”

JEN                 ‘Mum, do you want to go?’

MUM               ‘Go where?’

JEN                 ‘ The club.  Lip- reading. You know.  Watch my lips…’

MUM               ‘Chips.  Yes, I’ll have some chips.’

JEN                 ‘Shall I write it down for you?’

MUM               ‘Write it down?  Write what down?  What for?  I’m not going out.’

JEN                 ‘Come on mum.  You’ll have fun.  Learn lots, then we can do it together when we get home’

MUM               ‘You’re gurning at me again, Jennifer!  It doesn’t look good at your age! And stand up straight!’

JEN                 ‘Come on mum. Say yes.’

MUM               ‘You’re stressed!  You haven’t got a mad woman making funny faces at you.  I’m the one that’s stressed.  A mad woman for a daughter!’

JEN                 ‘Agh!’ Jennifer screamed as she ran out of the door and down the street…

MUM               ‘Jennifer!  Jennifer!  Come back!’

JENNY  McGREGOR

The day, with its’ darkening rain clouds, is drawing to a close, and the night is slowly creeping in.  I am alone in this place I call home, just me and my thoughts.  I sit staring at the wall opposite me, the framed “Disturbed” poster (the one used for their “Indestructible” album with its’ burning eyes) staring right back at me.  The place is silent; the only noise that can be heard is coming from the pattering rain as it begins to beat outside against the window.  The street lights outside give the room an eerie illumination, made even creepier by the fact that no indoor light is switched on, nor is the television turned on for the evening’s viewing.  I sit in the near darkness of the room, silent, with the burning eyes staring at me, and there is a reason for this…

I sit in my chair, listening, waiting…hoping for something to happen.  I am trying to outstare the burning eyes in the picture on the wall, but to no avail.  I can hear the clock ticking, counting the seconds as they not so quietly, pass me by.  This, in itself, freaks me out a bit; I don’t own a ticking clock.  The only timepiece I have is on my ‘phone which is snugly placed in the pocket of my jeans.  I give up on the picture and begin thinking of what has happened this day.

A tear rolls down my cheek.  For many years now my heart has yearned for this one moment and tonight it could be fulfilled, but for now, I am waiting…

The silence is broken.  Broken by the opening chords of “Damnation Angels” by WASP, a song I have on my phone so that I can listen to it whenever I’m on a bike ride, a song I chose to let me know I’ve received a text message.  A song that now has my heart racing, I jump up from the chair, fumble through each of my pockets, searching for the elusive phone.  It’s amazing how quickly you forget which pocket you put things in when you need to reach it urgently.  The palms of my hands clammy with sweat, I pull the phone from my pocket.   Its’ back-light adds even more eeriness to the room’s ambiance as I flip it open.  The screen reads “1 new message”.  Going into its’ inbox, I press the button enabling me to read the new message.

“Hello there”, it reads, “it’s me, your daughter”. After eighteen years, the rain is not the only droplets to fall this night.

Finding composure, and giving time for my eyes to dry up a bit then calming the shakes that forcibly take hold of my hands, I click the reply button.  I have much to say, so much catching up to do, so much-so much of everything that my mind is as blank as the screen in front of me.  What do I say to my girl who I have not spoken to before?  What do I say that will not scare her off or show that I don’t care?  I know…

“How have you been keeping?” pressing the keys slowly to ensure I make no mistakes (no more than I have already made so far), pressing ‘send’ I offer a quick giggle to myself.  What a dumb question!  For the past eighteen years she has carried a broken heart of not being able to wish her dad a “Happy Father’s Day”.  For the past eighteen years…!

“I’m doing fine.  What have you been up to?” The new message comes back quicker than I anticipate, with the music scaring the living heck out of me as it kicks in to tell me of it arriving.  Do I expect more messages?  I don’t know, but I sure am glad for them.

We send text messages back and forth to each other.  We each introduce certain people to each other, mine being my brothers (her Uncles), sisters (her Aunts) and most importantly, her sister.  She tells me about her friends and the one special lad in her life (if I ever get my hands on him!!…)  Hoe could I have allowed myself to miss so much of this young person’s life?  How?

Our conversations continue over the next few days.  I tell her about my ‘exciting’ job, whilst she relates what she is doing at school.  The subjects they have in school these days are amazing.  We share our hobbies, our music tastes and more information about family and friends.  I feel a closeness to my daughter which I thought I could never have.  Our next step will be the hardest step, meeting each other.  This will take a lot of time, patience and we both need to be emotionally strong for this to happen…until then…!

Now the text messages are not as frequent.  This is really a testing time for me.  Do I keep sending her messages and have the possibility of scaring her off? Or do I ease off and fear that she may feel that I no longer care for her?  What a path of broken eggshells I walk on.

I get the text message of all text messages; this is the one I’ve feared most, it reads

“Love you dad”…

The floodgates to my tears open, but all my fears are laid to rest, well, almost.  The only fear left is the one of meeting and I’m scared.  Can’t begin to wonder how my daughter is feeling.  But for now I tell her …

“Love you too x x”…

The more I wipe away these tears, the harder they flow.  This is the emotion of true happiness!

Dedicated to my daughter, Sarah, for the courage she showed by making that first step…

By Graham Mitchell  2010

As the brutal sea waves crashes on to the delicate sand,
He leaves traces of tiny circles indented onto the tickly grounds,
Permanently stamped.
Who could have made these circles?
It could only be the Pebbles of the sea.
The tiny surface of hard cold stones wept across the soft,
Sizzling land of golden gravel, no single life has ever touched the sea’s treasures, wonder why?

If a soul innocently puts a tiny toe on just the tip of the sea’s possessions,
The sea’s wrath would rage against the poor soul.
He would order his mighty army of gnashing tides to capture this trespasser,
With his mighty powers he would end his enemies struggle for life by diminishing the so cold thief.

The sea has no compassion for those who dare to step on his fortunes.
He knows that his rocks are the only transitions of his life,
Family, guardians of the sea.
With out them he would loose control,
His contempt of life to control his armies.
He would bring upon misery by covering the whole island,
With his powerful salt-water body.

The sea’s treasure has mesmerised many creatures,
But with his contempt of greed and desire, he has no mercy.
So why is the sea so obsessed with them?
Because the pebbles of the sea,
Are the only sources of light that keep the sea alive.

Nature

Hallowing trees rooted to the ground,
shake their lonely branches.
Water lily pads are floating gracefully on,
The gleaming still waters.
The rosebuds shine with, the reddest red beauty.
The tall green grass, stands high and tickles, beneath the bare feet.
The sunflowers are, brazing with the richest gold.
The Bluebells sway with the first summer breeze.
The Tulips open wide as, they are no longer small little buds.
Lavender and rosemary have a gift,
to spray their heavenly scents.
Water Falls drops their, refreshing wonders.
The rainforests spreads the luscious greens.

On a Chilly December Evening

On a chilly December evening,
Everyone feasts on the scrumptious plum pud
Whilst awaiting a friendly visit from a certain someone
Dressed in red with a white beard to drop down the chimney.
An Elf by the name of Elven accompanies him too.
On a chilly December morning,
A lonely blue peasant bird perches its tender feet outside an oak tree, famously known as The Partridge.
Having being rejected by his own kind, the bird leaves his heritage beside the gene pool.
On a Chilly December afternoon,
Everyone gathers in church for dutiful vespers,
Afterwards they rejoice in delightful harmonious choirs.
On the eve of December,
There are no litigious conversations on this day; there is just peaceful silence, until a ripsnorter comes to lighten up the day with exciting surprises for all.
On 25^th December, celebrations once again for the birth of Jesus, but to non-Christians, that day still remains somewhat of a mystery.

Tears of joy roll down cheerful cheeks
Knowing now that this journey end
A bursting heart that’s filled with love,
Too all around happiness it sends.
Time will answer for us to meet,
My angel, my princess
You are my soul,
The question I asked is finally done,
My family’s together,
Total and whole.

By Graham Mitchell who says, “I have realised that things are not as bad as I thought, all we need is time”. 12/7/2010.

(A chwestiynau difyr eraill)

Y Llinell, nid y linell.
Yllong, y llinyn, y llyfr, y llwyn.
Mae Sali Mali’n cirri’s brechdanau.
Un, dwy, tair, pedair,
Gan mai benywaidd y w brechdanau ynte?
Ond pam fod brechdanau’n fenywaidd?
A sut mae gwybod pryd I dreiglo -
A phryd I beidio?
Meddal. Trwynol. Llaes. Cysefin.
Mae gen I’r tabl ym mlaen fy ngeiriadur,
Ond waeth iddo fod am fecaneg cwantwm ar y blaned Siwenna wir!
A beth am yr acen grom te?
A’r symbolau deniadol eraill?
Maen nhw’n edrych yn neis iawn ar y dudalen,
Ac yn ychwanegu ryw Je ne se quoi at enwau pobl,
Mae’n rhaid I mi gyrated,
Sion, Sian, Llyr ag Andrea.
Ond dwi’n methu’n glir a chofio’r rheolau,
Ac maen nhw’n niwsans I’w teipio ‘fyd -
Codau cymhleth fel rhyw fath o semaffor hunllefus,
Mae’n ddigon I gadw rhywun rhag blogio
A sut mae sgwennu’r dyddiad hyd yn oed?
-af, -fed, -ydd, -ed,
A pam fod rhai pethe yn un-deg-tri,
Tra bod eraill yn dair-ar-ddeg?
Rwyn ddiethryn I iaith fy nghalon -
Mewn pob ffordd “cywir” beth bynnag.
Ag eto, mae yna brydferthwch I’r cymhlethdod.
Hen iaith urddasol, swynol, cyfriniol,
A’I idiom pert a’I eiriau barddonol.
Mae yna ddyfnder sy’n deillio o’I hanes maith,
A’r traddodiadau morffolegol yang ngwreiddiau ‘r iaith.
Y mai cyfoeth yn deillio o’r tafodieithoedd inferus.
A sioncrwydd yn yr yenned pan fo Cymraeg ar y wefus.
Ac felly rwy’n fodlon straffaglue a marciau diacritic,
am yr anryhydedd o ‘sgrifennu yn yr iaith fendigedig.
Anwesaf yn awr y teg, teach, a’r teced,
A’r drud, y drutach, y drutaf, a’r dryted.
Y mae’n bleser I ddysgu sut I gwywiro fy ngwallau,
A dysgu’r ffordd orau I gyfrif brechdanau.

The above poem was written by Sara Louise Wheeler in Welsh in a similar style and spirit to “The Wife of Kava” by Patience Agbabi and “Over the Dishes” by Aled Lewis Evans.  Originally written in Welsh, Sara has attempted a translation into English (see below).  Sara suffers from dyslexia.

Why are Sandwiches Feminine?

(And other interesting questions)

The llinell, not the linell
The llong, the llinyn, the llyfr, the llwyn
Sali Mali is counting the sandwiches,
Un, dwy, tair, pedair,
Because sandwiches are feminine aren’t they?
But why are sandwiches feminine?
And how to know when to mutate -
And when not to?
Meddal, trwynol, llaes, Cysefin.
I have the table in the back of my dictionary,
But it may as well be on quantum physics from the planet Siwenna!
And what of the acen grom?
And other decorative symbols?
They look very nice on the page.
And add a Je ne se quoi to people’s names.
I must admit.
Sion, Sian, Llyr and Andrea.
But I can’t for the life of me remember the rules
And they’re a nuisance to type as well.
Complicated codes like some nightmarish semaphore,
It’s enough to keep someone from blogging!
And how to write the date even?
-af, -fed, ydd, -ed,
And why are some things un-deg-tri,
While others are dair-ar-ddeg?
I’m a stranger to the language of my heart -
In every “correct” sense anyway
And yet there’s a beauty which lies within the complexity,
Of the old tribal language shrouded in mystery.
With its pretty idioms and poetic phrases,
Steeped in history which continually amazes.
Morphological traditions which contemporaries respect,
And the richness derived from each dialect,
A vivaciousness of spirit when Cymraeg is spoken,
So proud are we that it has not been forsaken.
And thus I am willing to study diacritics,
For the honour to write with their added aesthetics.
I’ll embrace now the teg, tecach and teced,
The drud, the drutach, the drutaf, the dryted.
It’s a pleasure to learn how to correct my gwallau,
And to learn the correct way to count the brechdanau.