Cymru/Wales: Bipolar Nation

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Sunday 25 January 2015

I don't go to Funerals





I don't go to Funerals

Please don't come to mine and I won't go to yours
You see
I don't go to Funerals
to stand around like lemons
 in heavy dark suits and old fashioned hats,
to sing a few tinny hymns before being
ushered out of the Crematorium because of the clock
 to sit and eat stale bread.
I don't go to Funerals
because I think that it is so unfair to have to die
without knowing what it was like to live.
No matter what age
you take your regret to the grave.
There's Ron 'claddu pawb' who like a vampire
 renews and reforms after another's demise.
I am so surrounded by death that when it actually happens
it is a shock that life goes on unchecked.
We continue to eat, shit and make small talk
there's shopping to be done.
I don't go to Funerals because life is like a living death
but if your soul, hovering above the coffin, sees me there,
and tries to reach out for one last goodbye,
it's not me
because 
I don't go to Funerals.

*claddu pawb:buries all



Friday 23 January 2015

Taxes to Tincture




Taxes to Tincture

It's survival of the fittest
at the Pharmacy
in the supermarket
in Wales
where your tablets, potions and lotions
are free.
"Am Ddim" the pensioners cry, moving
en masse, arm in arm to the chemist's counter.
"Excuse me my good man, are you the apothecary,
the alchemist that turns taxes into tincture?"
"I am the very same"
said the man with the skeleton head cane.
"What can I do you for"?
"Doctor do ave given me a script,
summat to keep me away from the crypt.
I'm down the surgery every day
as you know, I don't have to pay
I get 10 minutes with the nice foreign man
cos nobody listens
now that I've lost Mam.
Surgery is Ok but if he mentions Hospital
I go away.
I can't walk up to Bronglais on the Hill
I'd rather take a F**k Off suicide pill.
There's nowhere to park
People go there to cark"
There's something not right
People are taking the piss
time to start charging, pay
or it's the Glasgow kiss.
"Am ddim" they cry
"we'll take anything,
cos we don't want to die". 


am ddim: for free 

Charles Bukowski's Haemorrhoids


Charles Bukowski's Haemorrhoids


In March 1966, Bukowski went into hospital to have his haemorrhoids removed.
I was born in March 1966
and in my more grandiose moments
 I imagine that I came to earth
as one of Henry Chinaski's piles
Robert Crumb said of him
"The guy just says it right for me, I do believe that it takes
a strong dose of alienation to make a good artist or writer in the modern world.
You can't be too well adjusted and still have anything interesting to say"
So I am alienated and I share his anger,
I've given up the bottle and my misanthropy continues
 but
the Buke did not hate people.
'All the Assholes in the World and Mine'
"Who is dis guy? mentioning himself in the same breathe as Charles Bukowski?"
I am the Shark Fisherman of Wales
I am my very own anti-hero
a Punk Poet by definition
for me and Bukowski, the establishment doesn't exist.
we'll get by just fine without them.
we lose friends easily
we cannot stand intimacy
we are quick to anger and jealous as fuck.
He was the Poet Laureate of the Low Life
and it would be an honor
to have been one of his haemorrhoids.
Who knows?


Tuesday 20 January 2015

Claustrophobia


I'm not sure what Claustrophobia is in Welsh but I am feeling Claustrophobic in English and in Welsh. It is a feeling that creeps up on me every so often, linked to my over thinking. I am feeling smothered by the country that I am writing about in this Blog. I feel smothered by Cardiff and by Aberystwyth because I am so familiar with them. The two places, South and West where I am obliged to be, or more accurately where my conscience obliges me to be.  I feel that my senses have been dulled and my movements are slow. I could I suppose move to London or to Manchester, places that I am familiar with and where I know people but I have been there before and there is a part of me that requires novelty and variety. Everywhere is very much the same if you drag your tired, worn out old psyche with you. I've done the 'Grass is always Greener' bit. This feeling of Claustrophobia is heightened when you are faced with mortality, not so much your own but that of your family members and perhaps that of your country. Wales will never die of course but the idealised Wales that each one of us who lives here carries with them is destined to die. I don't know if I can accept Wales as it is because it is not dynamic. It is dull. It is a country marking time between Rugby Internationals. It is a country that reads the Western Mail and Wales Online. It is a country that will be voting Labour and UKIP en masse in the next general election. Even though I turned 18 in 1984, the first time I was able to cast my vote was in the General Election of 1987
I remember being desperate to vote. I was living in a flat above a clothes shop in Colwyn Bay at the time and travelling to work in Kinmel Bay in North Wales. I remember voting Plaid Cymru, another attempt to stop the 'smothering' of Wales perhaps. The same year I moved down to Cardiff and it is here that I have been ever since with a few escape attempts namely to London, Amsterdam  and most recently Manchester. Now my attitude to voting has come full pendulum. I am almost desperate not to vote because of how disillusioned I am with the present 'Two Party' system. The alleged Representative Democracy. I probably will vote but in the part of Cardiff I live in it will have to be a protest vote for the Green Party or the Communist Party. The present 'political party' obsessed situation makes you literally want to gasp for air. You cannot help but buy into the cynicism of 'They are all the same', 'My vote wont make any difference'. I suppose that now it might be a case of go where you are celebrated, not just tolerated and I realise that by writing this post that my grandiose self is just being tolerated here in Wales. I need air.

Monday 19 January 2015

3rd Anniversary Guest Blog Post

So today it's the 3rd Anniversary of the Shark Fishing in Wales or Pysgota Siarcod yng Nghymru in Welsh. Today is the day I’m publishing my very first poetry collection, and today is the birthday of American horror short story writer Edgar Allan Poe. 
So what should I write? Well I’ll just start writing and we shall see.
With the owner of this page we have many similarities, one of them is the mania for writing. I was in high school 14 years old of age when I tried to write a play, heavily imitating Shakespeare, then a few years afterwards when I was 16 I wrote 3 more plays imitating Shakespeare not so imitating this time. In my last year in high school when I was 17 I had just begun writing my first poems, very absurd but they entertained me a lot when I was bored in class. I put them all together in a notebook that is now lost and I gave it the title “Blätter der Dichtung“ which is German for Leaves of Poetry. In loving memory of that lost early collection I gave my today's collection the name 'Leaves of Poetry' and this collection contains 69 poems most of them in English some in Greek, Cypriot Greek and one in Spanish.
I have to say I started writing in English for the first time in Spring 2009 and I wrote a story in English for the first time and I won the first prize in that year. This gave me the push and impulse to write more, and then I started writing plays in English and poems too, one or two of these are being anthologised in my collection.  I think I have to stop praising myself with what I did and what I do, it’s time to say a few words about the reason I write, the reason that many writers choose to write. I love literature and I want to express myself in the same or similar way other writers do. Literature and especially poetry is like psychoanalysis. The page on your desk is Herr Freud and you are the patient or rather visitor. I say whatever I feel and I write it on the page. If I like it, I keep it if I don’t, I keep it, but hidden. I might revise it but the essence is that I just lifted a weight off my chest. Whenever I am angry or happy or worried I write down  a poem and the creature/poem I have created as another Victor Frankenstein I see it as my child so I won’t leave it alone and I won’t show it to anyone unless I am sure for it. Showing my writings to others is like getting into an amphitheatre stark naked like a new born baby exposing my naked flesh to everyone. That’s pretty hard for anyone to do, and that’s the true with me. When someone asks me to read one of my poems it’s like asking me, “Take off your clothes”.
I said I have to stop praising myself but I still go on and on but I promise after giving you a brief introduction on my collection I will move on and talk about how I met Red Button, or David Williams or Dafydd Williams.
So I am publishing today my first poetry collection called Leaves of Poetry. This is my first poetry collection. I have been writing poetry since high-school as I said earlier on but these last two years, my poetry became more poetic and more appropriate for an audience besides myself. Writing poetry and theatre are the two major forms where my language is flowing easily, and where sometimes you don’t need to revise it a lot of times, because most of the time it comes from the soul and soul doesn’t need revision, only a few times, and these occasionally. This poetry collection contains 59 poems in English, 6 poems in Cypriot Greek, 2 in Greek and 1 in Spanish. This indicates my love of languages as well. Some of my (English) poems are a collage of words from different languages all stitched together making another multilingual creature.  
I will just leave the description of my poetry collection as it is and I will just add a short poem from it and the picture of my cover.

[Look at the sky]

Look at the sky
It’s blue again
Let’s go out
Let’s go out and play
Let’s go out while we have time
Let’s go out and play before it’s too late
Ð
Eight bells are chiming
A clear sound, the sign
For us to go out,
For us to stop what we are doing
For us to go out
For us to go out and play, while we are still young
Ð
The grandfather’s clock is chiming
Every chime is a step away
From proper dreams,
From fairyland
Each chime is the time that passes
We grow up but we still have time
Let’s go out and play

Kyriakos Sorokkou Manchester 2014

Now it’s time to say a few words about how I met David. He said that there was no need to praise him or mention him but I can’t just write a guest article in someone else’s page praising myself like a vain Dorian Grey. So I think I have to say a few words. It was in early October 2013 when we first met and talked in the first session of the MA for Playwriting. He asked me a lot of things about Cyprus and its history and culture and I was answering every question delighted to speak about my tiny island country. And so every week we had a meeting for the course and there we took a chance to talk about Cyprus, teaching, theatre and writing. Then in early December David played the father of George one of the two characters in a play that I wrote in 2011 and revised in 2012. Through this active reading I saw my characters become alive and I saw some flaws and we were all discussing them. So the following days I started revising the play once again (Letters from a friend) Then I came  to Cyprus for Christmas holidays and then I went back to England and we started having extra meetings for coffee too, talking again about teaching literature, society and writing. We also had a few culinary trips in Manchester (Afghan Cuisine) and Liverpool (Caribbean Cuisine) and a few visits in galleries and museums. Then it was time for me to leave but through the power of Facebook we kept the contact and we’re waiting for our next physical (in person) meeting in a café or a kafeneion (Greek Cypriot traditional coffee shop). I have nothing more to say than, Happy anniversary to the Shark Fishing in Wales and many good returns to his owner.







Monday 12 January 2015

Tosturi/Compassion









Ym 1980 mi es i i'r pictiwrs yn Rhyl. Yr Astra oedd ei enw ar y pryd. Mi roeddwn i yn 14 mlwydd oed. Mi roeddwn newydd gael 'annus horribilis' yn 1979 felli mi roeddwn yn hogyn yn fy arddegau 'bregus iawn'. Ar ôl dod allan o weld y ffilm yr 'Elephant Man' mi roeddwn dan sioc. Doeddwn erioed wedi gweld ffilm fel hyn o'r blaen. Mi roedd wedi ysgwyd at fer fy esgyrn. Beth wnes i sylweddoli fod 'tosturi' a thosturiaethau' yn rhan annatod o fy nghyfansoddiad. Ddim yn beth dda i hogyn ifanc sylweddoli. Maes y merched oedd tosturi i fod ond fel tyfu yn oedolyn, sylweddoli na hap a damwain os oedd y rhinwedd yma yn perthyn i chi neu beidio, bod dyn neu ddynes.
Talcen caled oedd sylweddoli pa mor greulon oedd y byd ar bobol yn gallu bod. Darllen am yr Holocaust mewn llyfrau a'r disgrifiadau yn saernïo ei hunan mewn i'r isymwybod. Ond sut mae pobol yn gallu bod more glen a hapus meddyliais? Ffugio oedden nhw mae'n amlwg. Y wers ddysgais fel crwtyn ysgol oedd bod bobol yn greulon a natur ddynol yn hunanol. Mae'r meddylfryd yma wedi aros da fi ar hyd y blynyddoedd ac roedd hyn wedi amlygu ei hunan ar strydoedd Paris dydd Mercher diwethaf. Dwi'n cofio mynd i brynu'r llyfr 'The True History of the Elephant Man' ar ol gweld y ffilm. Doeddwn i ddim wedi cael digon o'r cyffur yma 'Tosturi'. Ar ôl fod yn blentyn ysgol ac ar ôl fod yn athro dwi yn ymwybodol o un peth. Yn y byd sydd ohoni mae rhaid i 'Tosturi' cael ei ddysgu. Mae digon o blant a phobol yn oddefgar ond dydy hyn ddim yn ddigon. Mae rhaid i ni ddysgu sut i fod yn 'Dosturiol'. Gwersi Tosturi bob wythnos, dangos y ffilm 'Yr Elephant Man' neu ei debyg. Allwn ni ddim gadael i siawns a ffawd cymryd gofal o feddyliau ein hieuenctid.     

In 1980 I went to the pictures in Rhyl. The Astra was the name on the front at the time.  I was 14 years of age. I'd had my own 'annus horribilis' in 1979 so I was considered and considered myself a 'fragile teenager'. After coming out of the cinema, I was shaking and in shock. I had never seen a film like this before. The realisation came upon me that I might be 'compassionate' but how do you keep something like that 'secret'. Compassion was for girls but as I became older and more cynical I realised that this personality trait was not in everyone. In fact it was a lottery whether you had it or not, or perhaps more importantly whether you showed it to the world or not. It was a tough life lesson to realise how cruel the world could be and how selfish people could be. There was one particular book in the school library that I returned to time after time, a book about the Holocaust. How could people be happy and kind? They must be acting, they must be pretending thought my teenage mind.  This aspect of human nature  played out its cruel and ruthless scenario on the streets of Paris this week. I went to buy the book 'The True History of the Elephant Man' after seeing the film. I couldn't get enough of the drug 'compassion'. Even though it wasn't something you could show to all people, it was something that you felt intuitively was correct. After being a school pupil and then experiencing life the other side of the desk I am now convinced more than ever that we need 'Lessons in Compassion'. Enough people are 'tolerant' but not enough are compassionate and it appears that it must be taught, that it isn't with you at birth. Unfortunately in such a brutal world we cannot leave the learning of compassion to chance or there will be none left.


Friday 9 January 2015

Ched Hebdo


I've thought long and hard about the title and contents of this blog post and I know it's going to offend some but 'Publish & be Damned' or so thought the staff at satirical magazine Charlie Hebdo. I had never heard of the magazine before the events of last Wednesday but I had heard of Ched Evans and his story on a daily basis. What have these two stories in common, well in my eyes they have become scapegoats for man's dark shadow. This is a term coined by Carl Gustav Jung, the Swiss Psychiatrist and Psychotherapist to encapsulate the part of the subconscious that we do not acknowledge or essentially disown.
In 2005 a Dutch Court found me 'Insane' essentially because I over reacted to the events of 07/07/2005. I won't recount the history here but you can read about it in  http://chipmunkapublishing.co.uk/shop/index.php?main_page=product_info&products_id=2571
These events were for me like a premonition 'the shape of things to come'. The murder of Lee Rigby in 2013 and now the events in Paris are not for me, a shock. I tut tut and shake my head like everyone else but because I reacted (Over Reacted) to the events of 07/07/2005 perhaps I am now compensating in my non reaction. What has this got to do with Ched Evans? Well he is Welsh and the title of this blog is Shark Fishing in Wales and by this stage in the proceedings I am starting to think that he is becoming the scapegoat for man & woman's dark collective unconscious. Women blame Men, the 'Penetrator' for rape, but they do not blame 'alcohol' or the effects that it has on them, the drug so beloved of the secular society. The effect that alcohol has on a testosterone, lustful, man has been investigated I presume. Alcohol does not equal rape, some men are able to rape, not all men. His case is as complex as the events unfolding in Paris because they engender strong if not hysterical reactions from different elements of society. How can we explain his girlfriend standing by his side through all this? If I was a woman and especially a woman who had been raped then I would be writing a completely different blog post to this one but I would still be writing because it is the collective noise about this case which is unprecedented, a collective hysteria which wishes to blame professional footballers and men as role models which bursts like a demented football crowd who will all shout 'rapist' if he touches the ball or scores a goal.  95% of those shouting 'Rapist' will be men who will either be acting on the orders of their wives and girlfriends or on the orders of their dark shadow. These men are hypocrites especially the ones who have hit their own wives. "We tend to keep the domestic abuse in house my friend" whilst he shouts 'rapist' at Ched Evans and then goes back to his blue collar job on a Monday.  
Who will become the Scapegoat in France next Monday when all this will be over? The Muslim Society? The Secular Society? The people who carry guns? Who are the Scapegoats in the Ched Evans trial? Oldham Athletic, Hartlepool Utd, Sheffield Utd OR the Woman that Ched Evans raped ?    
What worries me more than anything as the Shark Fisherman of Wales is mob rule. I worry that my offices will be charged and closed down for speaking my truth! We are in a war, Yes, but a war against dualistic thinking, #black #white, #right #wrong #goodguy #badguy. There will be repercussions from these events for the rest of our lifetimes and beyond. We wont be able to relax, we will be even more distrustful. We will need someone to blame because we always need someone to blame because what we see unfolding has got absolutely nothing to do with us!!! Perhaps we have been too selfish but that is all. You can't blame me for Ched Evans or Charlie Hebdo! Non? 
If we were all to own our dark shadows instead of running away from them by following fundamentalist religion, playing football or drinking alcohol then we might start getting somewhere but you, like me, know that it has gone too far for that!  



Friday 2 January 2015

Cardiff Crazies Cricket Team




I went for a long walk today and on my return I saw an older man than myself practicing a run up and bowling a cricket ball in Sophia Gardens...on the 2nd of January!!! And what made it even more interesting was that he was bowling to nobody, so after a run up and a throw he had to walk all the way to pick it up again and he didn't even have a dog to do it for him. My mind drifted back to my teenage years as it often does and to the bowling of a cricket ball against the wall at home and once putting it through the shed window to much chagrin from Pater. I, like this man, was and am, Billy No Mates. Playing cricket on your own?! How odd!! As I walked down the Embankment to home I thought, it has been about 34 years since I played my last game of cricket and if this bloke who looked older than me can practice his Denis Lillee then why can't I....come the cricket season. I looked up the Cricket Season and it starts on April 1st so it is my intention to start a Cricket Team and I am toying with two names at the moment, The Cardiff Crazies or the Non-Conformists. My dream as the Captain is that this team is made up of real characters, those that wouldn't grace the village green usually. They will all, of whatever gender or sexual persuasion have to self identify as 'Crazy'. In a wheelchair or on crutches, the Cardiff Crazies will find a place for you on the Cricket Pitch. It might be an informal knockabout on Pontcanna Fields in our 'offwhites' with turnips for wickets. If we can find our very own Dickie Bird for Umpire so much the better. Even though I haven't played for such a long time, I used to devour Cricket Books and took a years subscription out to 'The Cricketer' once. The last time I played aged 15 I took 2 wickets in one over so bagsee bowling. I will be a bowler and Captain (to feed my delusions of grandeur) I would like to include an Australian in the team, but they are a bit thin on the ground in Cardiff, someone handy with their hands to play wicket keeper and the rest.. well bring on Cardiff's Craziest & Finest. Expressions of Interest should be left in reply to this Blog Post. Thank You.

      There's a breathless hush in the Close to-night—

Ten to make and the match to win—
A bumping pitch and a blinding light,
An hour to play and the last man in.
And it's not for the sake of a ribboned coat,
Or the selfish hope of a season's fame,
But his captain's hand on his shoulder smote

"Play up! play up! and play the game!"
      Henry Newbolt

A Bear of Very Little Brain

Well it's Friday 2nd January 2015 and I still feel under siege. I don't feel that it's safe yet to come out from the Bat Cave. The Keyboard Warrior has been busy firing off his little shots on Facebook and Twitter, every little gibe or witticism against the Establishment makes me feel better but they care not a jot. Revolution is in the air! Or is that the smell of the lumpen proletariat getting ready to go back to work? Work, I remember that! Work, I should really try and do some of that but work and imprisonment are one and the same thing to me, hang on a Conservative/UKIP supporter has just stuck his head through my open window "You should count yourself fortunate that you live in a country that looks after the likes of you with it's generous benefits" "What, the likes of me? Writers, you mean?" The Tory/UKIP thing carries on, "well you call yourself a writer, but anybody can call themselves that, can't they?" "You're unemployed and very quickly becoming unemployable, 50 is on the horizon, you need to take any job available". With that I karate chop blokey's neck and smash the window down hard on his head, shattering little pearls of glass around the room. The bloke is not unknown to me! That bloke is my subconscious, my inner puritan urging me daily to give up my anti-establishment struggle and to go and conform. I stand in the middle of the living room in my pink silk kimono, cigarette ash dangling from my Bette Davis inscribed golden holder, rolling my R's like Noel Coward and wishing that I was the statue of Ivor Novello in Cardiff Bay. I am scared damn it! Scared of admitting that I am like everyone else. Scared of living another year like the last one. Scared of being scared of other people! I am a macho hunk with a hipster beard. Why am I scared? Tune in to future Blog Posts to find out why and don't forget SharkFisherman fans, this Blog celebrates it's 3rd Anniversary on the 19th January. Look in the Western Mail for the notice of our huge hedonistic Birthday Party. Date and Venue to be announced.   

Fruity old fruit bats

  Hello my fruity old fruit bats! That is a term of endearment by the way. I thought I would treat you to a piece of prose rather than the b...

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Hitler navigates the A487 from Aberaeron to Aberystwyth

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David's books

How To Be Idle
Second Sight
Freud: The Key Ideas
The Yellow World
Intimacy: Trusting Oneself and the Other
Going Mad?: Understanding Mental Illness
Back To Sanity: Healing the Madness of Our Minds
Ham on Rye
Electroboy: A Memoir of Mania
Memories, Dreams, Reflections
Mavericks
Murder in Amsterdam: The Death of Theo van Gogh and the Limits of Tolerance
On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft
I Bought a Mountain
Hovel in the Hills: An Account of the Simple Life
Ring of Bright Water
The Thirty-Nine Steps
A New Earth: Awakening to Your Life's Purpose
The Power of Now: A Guide to Spiritual Enlightenment
The Seat of the Soul


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