If you are expecting our national poet, here in the rain sodden post industrial nation that is Wales to be called Williams, Thomas or Ap something or other think again. While my son delights in having his birthday on Owain Glyndŵr, or Owain ap Gruffudd Fychan to give him his Welsh name, day and this house often echoes to the sound of spoken Welsh, our national poet since 2022 is a different sort of Welsh.
Yes, you guessed it, this self proclaimed Nation of Sanctuary whose Government’s crowning achievement this year is translating Star Wars into Welsh delighted that our national poet is a Muslim Iraqi Welsh woman, Hana Issa. She ticked all the boxes except, in my view, that of having any talent. Ms Issa was asked to create, at taxpayers expense, a poem to honour the visit of King Charles to our great land but the offering, was rejected as “too political.”
I’d reject it for
a) having nothing to do with the Welsh Spirit or welcoming the King
b) demonizing Israelis responding to the biggest one day slaughter of Jews since 1945 as Wolves or cursed seeds, is anti semitic and as attacks on Jews in Britain reach levels not seen for 90 years that is not acceptable
c) being a totally crap poem
Why the hell are my taxes going on this nonsense? Judge for yourself.
Llan’ is a simple seed. A word for gathering, glade, or garden.
In Wales, the llan of trees or people is sacred. Words variegate,
infused with the contents of Ceridwen’s cauldron,
they interlace like clasped hands and soon those words
till the soil, birth shoots, sting like poison or soothe as antidote.
The toil continues and a country stirs. A gardener’s task
is the growth of hope, yn dreftadaeth dragwyddol.
For Wales’ caretakers, gofalwyr, khulafa that fresh soil beckons —
Oh how this garden could bloom! But a poet’s role is to notice:
In the summer I saw a bryn sliced in half. One side sat scorched
as the other sulked in sodden green. What new taunting,
of both flame and flood, must we add to our land vocabulary?
Caretakers watch for lurking wolves, they wait for a gate left open,
to plant their weapons here, yn fy ngwlad. See their gazes drift
to cursed seeds scything at Gazan children. Weed them out!
But gardeners know the risk, know you can prune too much —
Cutting trans healthcare, closing endo centres, such harsh stunting
when brambles of fascism scuttle unchecked across this sanctuary.
We say the river has a mouth but ask the aber,
will she smile through cracking lips as her dregs
are slurped up by a datacentre and and and.
This poem sounds overgrown now. Planting too much
can cause a clamour, cause vibrant words to lose their colour.
Often we confuse them for clunky hedges, thorny metaphors.
Gardeners are the caretakers of hope. Sometimes
fresh-turned soil is mistaken for mud. But beneath it,
your planted bulbs are dreaming — of promise and seasons to come.
We hope for Ceridwen’s gift. Hope she scatters her inspiration
and knowledge like dew drops across the land. Perhaps Voltaire was right?
Perhaps the garden begins within. But hope is a simple seed.
To grow, it needs tending by those who gather.
Ends
Presumably in pointing out that this is complete rubbish I expose myself as “bramble of fascism”