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Issue #1
Kintsugi - Kat Savage (Read More)
"We thrive in the cracks of society, We, the Artists. We have never quite fit in to anywhere ‘solid’ really- schools, churches, nine to fives- we are too restless you see, too electric." Kevin Tole reviews David Markson's Wittgenstein's Mistress in the style of the book.
Plus poetry from Susan Taylor, Barbara Anna Gaiardoni, Stephan Delbos, and Marieta Maglas.
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Sarah Mayo in the spotlight discussing being an 'insider-outsider'.
Feature column from Kenwood Blenderhand 'The Age of the Screen', plus more special content released throughout the month of April.
Photograph 'Do Not Hang' by Thom Boulton |
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Spotlight - Sarah Mayo I’ve realised that as a poet I seek a more accurate understanding of myself and my connections to others; furthermore, through writing I have started to emerge from my shell in unexpected forms, releasing colours hidden within. From insecurity has come a strength I didn’t expect to find. A Starting Point: ‘An Insider-Outsider’ I was struck by this description of Aberdare poet Alun Lewis by the critic Daniel Hughes, thinking ‘Yes, that’s me too’. I created the three poems I explore in this essay with a sage love for the Valleys, my birthplace and home – even when this theme is the least explicit in the final poem. Nevertheless, I have been troubled by the self-critical belief that I am a Valleys outsider (a weak accent, time away, lost connections, a relatively isolated childhood). And yet I’ve never strayed that far, and in recent years I’ve returned, living, and working in the Valleys again. Thus, these poems were birthed on train journeys from Pontypridd to Aberdare, as I squeezed in writing time before ‘the rain and pavement blow the whistle’ (the final line of ‘Penrhiwceiber Peaks’). The act of writing in response to my environmental stimulus has offered the possibility of repairing a fractured inner sense of belonging, strengthened further with the bind of becoming part of the local creative community. The Peregrine Falcon Wings it to Asda The dai cap poet puffs partaking in the beer garden chat. ‘They wanna find tha’ fire startin’ fiend settin' alight the Mohican quiff of trees up on the rock where the serpent’s tongue runs red with the boiling blood of mothers tampin’ coz tea’s ready, but the fella’s half- cut down the pub’. High on the molehill masquerading as a mountain, the shrooms serenade the smatter of autumn rain tempting teenage traders to tramp fields to tender trips to friends. The green growing in the hill farm’s shade for street corner meet & greets & living room exchanges. Boy racers buzzing with death denying kicks.. We wander wonky over platitudes on pavestones, sick scattering near suntan salons & chippies. Our peripheral vision glimpses poets & composers’ inscriptions, followed by apocryphal stories pouring from two for one cocktail lips. Open mic psyched .. I was, they were.. everyone saw, knew the score.. sorry sir slur. Sloshed slammed slumped. Clink fist bump. Ding ding ding. Last orders. Hit the door. I’ve seen this.. dreamed it.. sun seeking sheep.. sowing the seams.. the stream careens.. the scene seems ..in this rain.. the same (First published in ‘Valleys’ Imaginings’, 2024.) This was inspired by gazing at the low-lying mountains before me and imagining what tales they might tell, and as memories swooped round my mind like birds of prey hunting for food. I thought of characters I know in the local Spoons and a narrative voice soon emerged; I began to write a kind of free verse narrative poem where the characters are ‘extraordinary’ only in that their wet, booze-soaked anecdotes and pub crawls lead to a grasping towards mean making, a search for the profound amongst the mundane which has a pathetic nobility to it. ‘I was / they were / everyone saw’ – our efforts to be someone even for a flash is worth it. So, without being explicitly political, this poem centres working class voices, and as the poet witness, I also attribute meaning to my own existence. Penrhiwceiber Peaks my waking wondering sleep with her train station sign snapping my in the moment consciousness to action. Words whir between my ears like skaters set astir by the engine’s onwards rush, this kinetic pressure to hit deadlines, fulfil schedules, squeeze creativity into time & motion caffeine craving bundles before the rain and pavement blow the whistle. This is one of a series of ‘train’ poems I have been writing, exploring the mental / physical journeys I undertake on the train (symbol of the industrial revolution started in South Wales), and as I bridge the world of poet-time and the demands of work and responsibility. Aside from its alliterative quality, the title alludes to the poetic tradition of spotlighting (now former) mining communities, a nod to Idris Davies, although this would be where the comparison ends. I write on my phone, recording snippets of inspiration as my brain pulses into writer mode, and the title is an allusion to the typical moment this arrives – about a third of the way into my journey, ‘with her train station sign snapping / my in the moment consciousness to action’. As I write, my mind tries to imagine merging with the motion of the train, its slowing down and speeding up, and I strive to echo this rhythm and pace. ‘Words whir between my ears / like skaters set astir by the engine’s/ onward rush..’ Composing the poem represents my preparation for the finish line when I must switch back into ‘doing rather than thinking’, back to action rather than pursuing my passion, whilst the poem itself anticipates the energy demanded by work, as it consumes your mental resources outside of the boundaries of the workday. The Rhythm of Living She m e a n d e r s to the pace of her heart’s slow tempo struts with its rising drumbeat gallops through mind space dimensions raving, roaring, speed of thought g n i r a o s s l o w i n g as she savours his gift, wraps her tongue around his flowing fauna leaping time to kindle fire flowers from lips to fingertips pumping a second heart, conducting the march of her ink pressed steps his verse imbuing the air she breathes. Here this preoccupation with speed and pace transitions to a focus inward towards noticing the body – and specifically heart rate - as a guide to the mercurial moods of the subject. Although a very different poem to the two above, ‘The Rhythm of Living’ is thematically linked, although this is not obvious. Informed by the insight of Mindfulness Cognitive Behavioural Therapy about the importance of listening to the body to better manage mood disorders, it is an experimental poem which attempts to use form and layout to mimic the changing energy levels it describes.
The poem’s subject is written in the third person to create distance – a possible safety seeking strategy- as if by writing it in the first person instead, I would risk exposing myself, somehow (even though a first-person poem does not necessarily imply that the poet herself is the actual voice). It is an oblique way of addressing – in a subjective, poetic manner – a hint of the ‘ups and downs’ of a person living with bipolar disorder, as manifested in the action verbs – ‘meanders’,’ struts’, and ‘gallops’, and then: raving / roaring, speed of thought g n i r a o s The consequences of such moods are not made explicit; the reader may infer them. And yet, this poem also relishes the creative energy and heightened sensitivity also associated with bipolar, building towards the solace found in finding a connection with a great writer, slowing its pace again: ‘As she savours his gift, wraps her tongue around his flowing fauna leaping time to kindle fire flowers from lips to fingertips’ The ‘gift’ belongs to Alun Lewis, of course, (now transformed into muse) and thus I can thematically connect the three poems as they are driven by a powerful yearning to achieve a sense of belonging to the South Wales Valleys. In the final poem this desire is channelled in an oblique tribute to one of the Valleys’ most significant literary figures. All three poems are different approaches to understanding my place within this specific range of mountains and hills I call my birthplace and home. I am but one of many Valleys’ creatives who live and have lived, worked, struggled, thrived, and survived in this small but beautiful spot on this planet of ours and I’m grateful that I have reached this point of self-knowledge. The future will show its way.
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