Welsh Journals

BARDDONIAETH POEM Like poor people the edge of the bulbous symphony is liquidly listless. It cannot stamp an ascent, rattle fire-fingers at a sky, but downs and downs like the scholars head through sheets of free perplexity. A little boy's often a cannon, all his movements battling on the pavement elicit gladness. A frantic norm, and a sour, and enormous eager jailor. All should be a superb haggling and ogling inside an Albert Hall, where large people diminish sanity. with a hearty grip of your heart, and some operations with iron instruments on that unfit brain you were born with. Watch me I'll flog the stink into one of you in the twinkling of an if you give Me a free hand Shrill, shrieking [eye in the train of his bastard ability the black filth steaming like a Christmas pudding from fresh immersion in the middleclass roars straight through civilisation to the shaking child: scissors, blood, bright hard sticks to crush his flesh and bend- his life. A biff in the eye-(it was alright)- a dome of fat talk on his head, gripping his throat tight till he can spit like an electric angel details of who (Mother, Father) gave him food, dropped from saintly tongs into a schoolyard, where efficient savages shave him of individuality Makes master john Meet Life. PHILIP O'CONNOR.