Welsh Journals

TRADITION AND THE FABER STORIES Of 26 selected tales who's cracking up old so and so ? (ever intimate portrayal utterly Welsh in essence) having no higher standard as isolated suicide and her brick wall 2 idly muse in pleasing fashion they scram, for Dylan who tilts his cart of words like holy scavenger X in skins creates a mild diversion my line's girlish gushing on Personality Parade contrary to popular belief (Antony's audience) it's no book of which a countryman may well be proud rather would one leave than live with most of the characters for all the world is so little with us peasant life is too poor a thing its song seems sadly lacking. MAIR Evans. RHONDDA POEMS Below, Ferndale squats in a gash of cwm, its trelliced streets spat from a tube of road that crashes through: streets huddling fire from cliques, coloned by chapels and commaed by pubs and cinemas, inoculating soul- silicosed men against the hate-red cough of discontent and breathless war for food. Flanked by moon-greased eggs of mountain sprawled tense to chest a sore back of sky, sore as tense, and harsh unnipplcd breasts of tip, and pins of stack that belch but r.ir, spued belly-cold. Its houses gummed together like a toy, glum and squint, munching their cud of hate, All alike like Siamese polyplet cats, but a varied drabness labelling their eyes. The rows converge like half-a-cart-wheel spokes upon the Strand, where hill is wall-steep dam against the overflow of valley streets, and but a thread of road drawn taut, drawn down from Little Moscow up beyond the hills. MEURIG Walters.