where art collides philosoperontap

14 November 2009

A nomad I

Filed under: thoughts — Trefor Davies @ 12:40 pm

A nomad I, wandering these flat, people-scorched streets of sunless stone. Infinitely deep puddles crater the roads, obstructing my senses, confusing an endless search which already, unsignposted, makes no sense. Tall buildings obscure the vision and without a map make impossible a plan.

I pass brightly lit front rooms with televisions flickering through uncurtained windows, the occasional canned roar of a compliant audience sometimes audible. Not stopping in case I’m seen looking I move on and leave them to their entertainments.

Further on I come to the pub. It too is brightly lit and I can see faces leaning forwards at the bar. A log fire dances in the grate and some drinkers sit at tables either side of the hearth, warmed inside and out. More occasional laughter.

It is a Sunday and I walk by a church. Dim lighting shines through the multicoloured stained glass above. The door is open and another column of light illuminates the entrance. One of the faithful scurries past, enters and is consumed.

Arriving home at last with cold hands I fumble with my keys at the lock and open the front door. The house is dark but I switch on a light and then prod the heating. I make a cup of tea, sit in my chair and think.

13 November 2009

Caledonian Double Dark Oatmeal Stout

Filed under: poems — Trefor Davies @ 9:17 pm

life suddenly appears in slow motion.
the brain, inspirational but ephemeral,
leaves the body and floats above the table before us.
conversation, with no physical evidence of existence
remains a permanent fading record
slowing as the battery runs down.
the door shuts and the lights go out
freezing us in no time, timelessness that is.
finishing the glass, the reality of responsibility
raises its unwelcome head and leaves for the door
which, open, sucks me into the cold wind outside.
my coat buttoned up and collar raised I, head down,
return to normality and the noisy heart of the family.

Guest Beers 13th November 2009

Filed under: the art gallery — Trefor Davies @ 8:57 pm

Brains SA 4.2% £2.95
Copper Dragon Best Bitter 3.8% £2.85
Stonehenge Pigswill 4.0 % £2.85
Oldershaw Regal Blonde 4.4% £2.95
Caledonian Double Dark Oatmeal Stout 4.6% £2.95

12 November 2009

A one way street named Hopback Entire Stout

Filed under: poems — Trefor Davies @ 9:09 pm

Sometimes life comes at you full on. Maybe it can’t get any better or perhaps you get handed one of those hospital passes that smack you in the face and leave you wondering…

One sinking sip, another inhalation and a deep palateal reflection. Mesmerise into the darkness of the caramel. What a disguise! There is music but no road out. The talk flows around you just as the flavour rolls across the tongue; sensation penetration. Gentle inebriation.

A one way street named Hopback Entire Stout.

8 November 2009

A golfer’s eulogy

Filed under: poems — Trefor Davies @ 10:08 pm

When his game is up,
And prompts no more debate,
And life’s unerring drive,
Ascends the green of fate,

It will I’m sure be said,
By crowds that filled the gallery,
That upright was his stance,
Whilst stood upon the final tee,

And when the last put drops,
Stewards will murmur from afar,
In marking of his card,
He played his round in level par.

sediment

Filed under: poems — Trefor Davies @ 9:04 pm

Brussel sprout flavoured isosceles triangles
available from a good gastro geometric outlet near you,
banana trapezium, its full flavour slips down well at the gymnasium,
merry go round in toffee apple infused circles,
square noises chop through imperfect ponds and
glass fronted hurricane shop windows stir up
enthusiasms not yet tempered in pink.
Estate agents spin their ceramics on
bamboo pole extensions, losing the pattern
as simply as arboreal baby castanets,
discretion being valued as highly as
enthusiasm amid the placations of the assuaged.
The fire crackles on and the guitar rests
calmly on the spots of the sofa,
notwithstanding the variously striped cushions.

Passing conversations

Filed under: miscellany — Trefor Davies @ 8:35 pm

Passing conversation in the queue at one of the mens toilets in the Millenium Stadium – one person coming out talking to another going in. It lasted five seconds.

Hey how’d the MOT go?
Not bad thanks – only forty quid.
Good, got away with that then!

They continued on their separate ways.

He turned to me and said – that was my dad.

5 November 2009

Looks like AA Gill

Filed under: miscellany — Trefor Davies @ 6:19 pm

Smart grey suit with dark lapels, grey silk Liberty handkerchief, crisp white shirt & expensive watch on his right wrist

Effeminate voice.

Completely out of place at the buffet bar on the 7.29 from Newark Northgate to London Kings Cross.

1 November 2009

Dark outside

Filed under: miscellany — Tags: — Trefor Davies @ 5:07 pm

It’s getting dark outside. The clocks went back last week and the nights have closed in on us. I like this time of year. This afternoon I cleaned the grate out and set the fire ready for a cosy evening on the settee.

As I fetched in some kindling from the woodpile at the bottom of the garden a small bird flew across the lawn and into the hedge. Getting ready for a quiet nestle in the nest for the evening no doubt.

We are all at it. All is well.

30 October 2009

IOM 2009

Filed under: prose — Trefor Davies @ 8:39 pm

Then. Island living. You make your own entertainment. Long winter nights radiating around coal fires in smoky-dark front parlours of elbow-worn public houses.

The road outside leads grimly to the tidal harbour, lashed full of herring boats battened down against the storms that visit now as regularly as tourists in summer.

There is little movement during the shortened days. Beds stay occupied when there is no fishing and the nets have been seen to. Oil lamps supervise the weekly news from the rest of the island. Shadows are cast and the narrow cobbles between the houses rarely see direct sunlight.

Quilts are stitched and there is the unvarying routine of keeping the household going. Fireblack, scrubbing the doorstep, breadmaking, the Monday washroom mangle, the gossip over the doorstep with the neighbours.

Sundays present little variation to the theme. Some tidy up and in their best suits pay homage to the All Powerful, praying perhaps for a gap in the weather.

Now. The jungle is long tamed and grows tidily in pots and on trellises seen through French windows. Concessions are made to island life. The internet brings a choice of entertainments and world news updated by the minute. Virtual escapism.

Beds stay occupied when the storms lash the golf course though nowadays the Church only half fills. The occasional sortie to Safeway replenishes supplies and the hatches are closed again.

There is little fishing except in the long summer days when generations come to visit and chaos reigns. The noise and the laughter evokes memories of other times.

Walks down to the promenade and the lifeboat lead to a spot of rock pooling around the castle. Ice-cream parloured sticky- faces complain about sandy feet and want lifts back up the hill.

Maturer beer-stirred relaxations outside the marina facing Creek Inn are followed by gourmet dinners back at HQ.

Visits all too short though as long as anyone can cope with.

After early morning goodbyes, it grows quiet again and a deep peace settles over The Grove. Old friends, the couple, fifty years young, reflect on the harmony of their half century together and smile.

For Alun and Eileen Davies

Dolgellau 1961 – 1967

Filed under: prose — Tags: — Trefor Davies @ 8:36 pm

They made it. Across the Cambrian divide and with it came total immersion for her in the language of the hills. The lush surroundings a fertile backdrop for the young couple with a growing family.

Friday night out with the boys, Saturday mornings refereeing rugby matches. Nursing, the stroll down the hill into the village, post office and corner shop, Christmas came with Babycham and bottle top badges proclaiming Pale Ale by the crate.

Mountains were climbed, sandcastles built and long, cross country journeys spent in the car back to the coalfields.

Machynlleth, Aberystwyth, Aberaeron, Lampeter, Cross Hands, bus trips into Llanelli, Carmarthen and Swansea.

Carwyn James, The Farmers Arms. Slack coal on tips picked with Rachel Mary drws nesa’. The shed with the gas mask and world war two helmet. Bryn’s pop factory; coloured bottles that could never be successfully hidden from small prying eyes. Welshcakes, visits from Uncle Glan and Anti Lilian, Cei and Clarice.

John the baker and the co-op van vied with the mobile library to provide distraction. Tenby. Cricket in the back garden, hide and seek in the front. The tin bath in front of the fire, the cupboard under the stairs and the cold, dark, downstairs toilet out the back.

For Alun and Eileen Davies

London 1959

Filed under: prose — Tags: — Trefor Davies @ 8:34 pm

He set off, it seems like yesterday. A valley born boy from the western edge of the South Wales coalfield, the census reported religio-mill-working-mining stock with a farming heritage.

A strong community held together by hard work, hard living and a religion. The green valleys scarred indiscriminately by industrial activity shaped his mindset. Echoes of the chapel pulpit bounced off the walls of the cottages lining the road to the pithead where he lived.

He arrived. The dirty, humanity littered streets didn’t feature in the ad. Still it was an adventure. An adventure mapped out by a job offer and piece of paper with an address to hide in.

Everyone succumbs, for at least a part of their lives. Some make it, some don’t. Those that don’t stay trapped, cage-bound in suffocating concrete, bars gripped desperately through which the stares of the lost meet but don’t see.

Outside these prison bars was a jungle. Stark inner city schools and hospitals, emerging still from a bombed-out, war-ravaged London. National service fresh in the mind, petrol rationing a periodic feature, grey surroundings with splashes of occasional colour relieved the monotony, the smog smothered red of the Routemaster bus.

Nurse! An Irish country girl with a strong character that the convent couldn’t kill. A large family meant farming out the kids. Childhood meant driving the donkey and cart into the town dairy to deliver milk. Green fields the playground unaffected by the war that waged on outside the dream.

Country migrants with eyes open wide and gaping mouths learned the language of the streets. They found new words that spelt feelings. There were moments. Cliff Richard, Tommy Steele and the Two I’s coffee bar, rock and roll and the sound of skiffle.

They met and lost touch. An age sped by and the jungle forced them together again. Age old instincts cut through the formalities.

19th December 1959, Ammanford Roman Catholic Church. Interdenominational with a hint of inter-racial. It rained. It could rain all it liked. No-one cared. Then back to reality and the return to the city. The time stamped struggle of a young family fighting their way upriver.

For Alun and Eileen Davies

3 October 2009

The function room is back!

Filed under: poems — Tags: , , — Trefor Davies @ 10:37 am

It’s been a while.

Sometimes you get a feeling and when it comes you just have to follow your instincts. It works for rooms just as much as the punters that occupy them.

So we lost the function room.

It went, disappeared, vamoosed to a place where function rooms go where no-one even knew it was there, where nobody could book it or ask questions. Can we change the seating? Do you do food? Can we have a late bar?

What went wrong?

No-one knows for sure. We got there for early doors one evening and there was the sign: “Function room closed until further notice”. What had happened? Human curiosity took momentary hold but none of the bar staff would come clean. Perhaps they really didn’t know. It was a mystery.

It was there one day and gone the next.

It spent time out of our lives which were poorer without it but we coped. We soon forgot it had been there at all. Occasionally someone would bring it up in conversation but by and large it had gone. Then we stopped talking about it and went back to our usual beer-inspired bar room banter. Where’s the cheapest place to buy car batteries? One hundred and one ways to cook with mushrooms. Guaranteed ways of getting an upgrade to business class on a long haul flight! Not!

Where did it go?

Only it can tell us that. Function rooms are notoriously discrete. What goes inside a function room stays inside a function room. It’s part of the contract. It’s what makes the relationship work. It’s kind of special. And anyway it wasn’t there for us to ask.

Then one evening we came in.

Something was different! Something had changed. We looked around. The condiment tray was there in its usual place on the mantelpiece. The blackboard had a different list of guest beers but that was normal. Guest beers come and go.

I looked at the notice board.

I probably stared at it for some time before the realisation hit me. I was only half concentrating, listening to the conversation at the small round table where I was sat. There it was!  A new posting  shouting at me in bold  black lettering on white paper .

“The Function Room Is Back”

The staff carried on as if it had never been away. Nobody mentioned that time in our lives where it had not been a part of our lives. We still carried on talking our undoubtedly witty conversations, the meaningless drivel that should stay inside the pub, where it belongs.

But now there was more.

Christmas Parties @ The Victoria. Bookings now being taken. Speak to the events coordinator at Charlotte House (or Neil).

The function room is back!

Guest Beers, Victoria, Union Road, 2nd October 2009

Filed under: the art gallery — Tags: , , , — Trefor Davies @ 7:53 am

Phoenix Arizona (4.1%) £2.95
Brewster’s Decadence (4.4%) £2.95
Everard’s Sundance (4.0%) £2.95
Potbelly Aisling (4.0%) £2.85
Weston’s Traditional Cider (6.0%) £3.00

1 October 2009

consciousness

Filed under: thoughts — Trefor Davies @ 7:33 pm

streamofconsciousnesssittinghereinthekitchentryinghardnotousethe
spacebarandlisteningtoclassicfmontheradiojosephissittingoppositem
ereadinghisbookwhilstisipataglassofchileanmerlotitisveryrelaxingivej
ustfinishedmyfishandchipsbutnotyetclearedthetableoftheremnants
ofthemealanneisoutatanotherofhermeetingsnotsurewhetheritissund
ayschoolteacherspccoreastgateschoolgovernorshannahisupinherro
omiveheardherbutnotseenherjohnhasjustchangedintohispyjamasino
rdertobeallowedtowatchtherestoftopgearandtomhasjustfinishedhis
foodhavingbeenoutatsirenfmandnowgawdonlyknowswhatheisdoing
upinhisroomthatsasnapshotofmylifebetweeneighttwentyandeightt
wentytwoonthursdaythefirstofoctobertwothousandandninewhere
doesthetimego

« Newer PostsOlder Posts »

Powered by WordPress