An Interview with Welsh Poet Mike Jenkins

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'Moor Music' by Mike Jenkins

In this innovative new book of poetry, Mike Jenkins continues his life-long obsession with the history and fate of Wales, embodied, in this instance by both the glories of the landscape and the depredations suffered in years of decline.

A view from the window of his writing room across the moors inspires reflections on the dereliction and renewal of the old industrial valleys, in poems like ‘Bonfire on the Waun’ and ‘Came the Ram’.

Mike’s career in teaching left him with a sense of optimism about young people, and with an eagerness to embrace changing times, evident in the lively ‘Einstein at the Comp.’ These poems, like his prize-winning short stories, are full of colourful characters, dialogue, and incident. A love of music and a sensitive awareness of the natural world in an urban context, in poems like, ‘Insomniac Jazz’ and ‘December Roses’ also enliven this new book.

Mike Jenkins lives in Merthyr and is a full-time writer and Creative Writing tutor, having spent over 30 years teaching in secondary education. The author of seven previous poetry collections for Seren, he has also published novels and short stories. He has won the John Tripp Award for Spoken Poetry and Wales Book of the Year, and is former editor of Poetry Wales and founder and co-editor of Red Poets magazine. As well as a blog, he writes regularly for Cardiff City fanzine Watch the Bluebirds Fly and reviews music for the political magazine Celyn.

Buy 'Moor Music' here

For any Mike Jenkins forthcoming readings/events please visit Seren website at www.serenbooks.com/events

Mike Heap, THE LEGENDARY CLAMPETTS

MIKE HEAP is bassist and songwriter for The Legendary Clampetts from Springfield, Illinois. Mike talked to Ceri Shaw for Welsh Steel and AmeriCymru

CERI: How long have The Clampetts been playing together? MIKE: The band's been together about 3 years. We originated from a project that Matt (Erley - drums) and I were involved in called 'Banzai Kitty'. The Legendary Clampetts was more or less the moniker that Matt and I chose as an inside joke after our original guitarists left to start another project, and it just sort of stuck. We've actually been recording and performing as The LC's for about 16 months now. CERI: How would you describe your sound? MIKE: Our sound is really a 'mash-up' I suppose. I know there's punk, funk, progressive metal and a lot of old school classic rock sounding type stuff in there. It actually depends on what I'm trying to convey in the song. For example; 'Riot In The Hospital' has a straight up punk / rockabilly feel to it. The melody and progressions were written to capture and express the tongue in cheek outrage of the lyrics. All of our material is meant to 'stand alone' and tell a story or express an idea or opinion, so we don't really pay any attention to, or try to stick to any particular 'genre' or label. CERI: You are the main songsmith for The Legendary Clampetts. What inspires your lyric writing? MIKE: Lyrics, to me, are the most important part of songwritting. So, I take a lot of time with just that aspect of the song writting process. Everything I've ever written starts with expressing a story, an idea or an opinion. The subject matters are diverse, 'Cry Havoc' is an anti-war protest song, while 'Bird Thing' is a song about growing up and leaving home and how scary, exciting and sometimes sad that can be. CERI: Who would you count amongst your musical influences? MIKE: Wow, musical influences. Okay, here we go....I do this in a couple of ways. As a bassist, my all time 2 greatest influences are John Entwistle and John Paul Jones without reservations. As a lyricist and composer, I really admire Ian Anderson from Jethro Tull. As far as bands go, Blue Oyster Cult, Queen, Thin Lizzy and Genesis top a really really long list. CERI: Any tours or live appearances in the near future? MIKE: We're currently in our home studio working on some new material at the moment, so other than the possibility of appearing on the Ernie Ball Stage at The Warped Tour stop in St. Louis, MO , we don't have any shows scheduled until late August in the midwest. CERI: Where can people go to hear/buy your music? MIKE: You can hear us at several different sites - We're on ReverbNation and of course Myspace. On both Myspace and ReverNation, you can stream all the songs there and the ReverbNation site has some special free downloads available to anyone that becomes a member of our fan base. I'd like to take this opportunity to announce that we'll be launching a new website this coming fall where among other things friends and fans will be able to 'rent' and 'recommend' (R&R) our material ( songs and videos). Long story, short answer - we believe the old methods of 'selling' music is dead, and we're approaching this is a new manner that befits the digital age.....stay tuned for more, is all I can say at the moment. You can also find us twitter at ww.twitter.com/clampettsspfld, on www.imradio.com/theclampetts and our youtube channel CERI: Care to tell us something about the Ernie Ball Battle of The Bands? MIKE: The Ernie Ball Battle of the Bands is an annual contest that the Ernie Ball company conducts in conjunction with the Vans Warped Tour. The concept is to give a platform for undiscovered bands to showcase their talent to a larger regional or national audience. The contest has launched the careers of several major artists over the last 10 years or so. We're currently in the running for one of 5 available slots during the tours stop in St. Louis, Missouri. At last glance, we occupied the # 2 position after having spent 20 days as the number one contender. Fans must create an account in order to vote, but don't let that stop you - you won't be inundated with junk emails from either the Ernie Ball or the Vans companies or any other sponsor or participant. What we've seen thus far, is that a lot of the bands involved have their fans go 'trolling' for return votes from other bands and fans in order to benefit their chosen band.....and it seems to work. We'd certainly appreciate all the help and support that we can get. We've been discussing offering logo t-shirts to any of our friends and fans that are helping us out, not only in this contest, but in any of our efforts. CERI: On your AmeriCymru profile you describe yourself as a first generation Welsh american. Care to tell us a little about your Weslsh background? MIKE: My dad was born in Swansea. He and his mother moved to New Bedford, Mass. when he was 7. My brothers and I were constantly exposed to our culture and heritage from my dad, but more so from our grandmother. She insisted on speaking to us in Welsh as much as possible. My dad was a history nut, and had an extensive library of Welsh history and social traditions, which he 'tutored' us boys on....he went so far as to insist that we watch the movie Zulu at least once a month....why? Well, as he put it, and I'm paraphrasing here - ' the most glorious victory in the british army belongs to a Welsh Regiment'. My Welsh heritage was and still is the most defining aspect of who and what I am....I even have the goch ddraig with the words Wales Forever tattooed on my left arm. CERI: Are there any Welsh or Celtic influences on your music? MIKE: I couldn't claim that my writting has any more Welsh or Celtic influence than anyone elses music I do, however, like to image myself as keeping alive the old bardic traditions of my ancestors in some remote fashion. CERI: Any final message for the members and readers of AmeriCymru and WelshSteel? MIKE: I'd just like to say to you Ceri, thank you for the opportunity to introduce myself and speak to the members of AC and WS and connect with them via these forums and websites. And, on behalf of The Legendary Clampetts, thank you for taking the time to give us a go, we hope you enjoy the music. Interview: Ceri Shaw Email

The Journey of the Taf

This afternoon we received the following communication from Mike Jenkins ( excerpted ) ".....dear friends, Here is a poem which I recently wrote , which you can use on your site if you wish......"

We are extremely pleased and proud to present "The Journey of the Taf". We resisted the temptation to add complementary graphics of Castell Coch, Pen y Fan etc because we wanted nothing to distract from, or dilute in any way the power of these words.

Journey of the Taf - Mike Jenkins

It begins in the centre of a mountain,

waters breaking.

Nobody can say

exactly where

I come from :

parents Earth and Water

and the midwife Air.

Soon Fire, the sun

and everything

I feed upon.

This place of summits

called a watershed :

tears as light

stings my eyes.

I am just a stream

a nant, a toddler

finding my way

downslope, over the edge

of my mother

and with my father's constant

push of rain.

One like many others

till I start to cut teeth,

to haul stones

to erode the bed

and banks into a gorge.

I'm moving quicker

with steeper gradient,

my veins pulse

with the thrust of water

like a salmon at the point

of a journey across the world.

Soldiers with back-packs

and booted outward-bounders.

fight against my movement,

believing it's a challenge.

The children who paddle

squeal, splash and fling

their stones, sound like

an echo in my bones.

The Sun, my teacher,

comes and goes

promising destinations

and then, dips down low;

so any season

I could be bellyfull

or parched to a trickle.

Sheep sip clear water

heads bowed as in prayer

to a lost mother ;

or they're dead weight,

blood mingling with light,

soon a veil of flies.

Winding and wending around

scarp and spur

I reach a sudden drop,

a ledge of resistant rock:

the descents of childhood

then youth when greys

and blues and browns

become a frothing white ;

into the devil's punchbowl

and a whirling might.

Here secret swimmers come

to shed their many skins

and exuberant leapers

plunge into a scream

and come out laughing.

I am joined by others.

by brothers and I'm 'Fawr'

to their 'Fechan',

they emerge on the scene

demanding confluences,

driving deep into chasms

before we're all lost

in a man-made lake :

they term it 'llyn'

but it is reservoir,

a store of water

we are schooled into

( even in most vivid reflections

we wear our grey uniforms ).

I straighten, I widen,

my girth held by bridges

and above are viaducts

which span into another age.

Rocky islets - trees and bushes

growing from them - bring doubts

as I begin to be fixed,

my route determined by walls

and a weir which parodies

the earlier waterfalls.

Now salmon struggle upstream,

as I welcome the many heron

whose measured wing-beats

are like the peace I strive for

and the returning colours

of the kingfishers diving

like winged rainbows.

All this, as I am dumping-place

for trolleys, cans and bottles

like some cess-pit of the past,

some cholera-infested slum.

My parents seem so far away :

mountains aloof, quarried or conifered

and clouds that drop their load

then move on. They call me Taff

but I much prefer my Welsh name

(it’s what I call myself

and sounds like a stone’s edge).

Sometimes I seem to slumber along

all controlled by sluice and gate ;

sometimes I’m far too busy

to notice those who gaze

like seagulls on the bars,

or those who cavort in heat ;

too busy with the flow, the downward trek.

I have too many shadows :

rail and trail, the once canal,

higher up the road obeys the curve.

Each shadow more purposeful

to traffic and trade;

I begin to wonder

why I move in such haste

and whether I will be

beyond it all, lost.

There are so many white weeds

hanging in the trees,

fluttering like flags of surrender

sometimes falling and filling

into tumours on my surface.

Just as cormorants are fishing

so I begin to sense the sea.

Silt accumulates in my bed,

slows me down after years

of scraping and scouring;

I begin to meander,

to waver across the floor,

the buildings start to ignore

my presence and there are outpourings

secretive and poisonous

which seep into my limbs.

Becoming sluggish, my murky waters

of blurred vision in the suburbs.

I try to remember stretching terraces

where the only vines were children

spreading tendrils of imagination.

The mud is gathering,

the flood-plain’s a resting-place

for birds on their journey south.

Anglers wade out to tempt

the fish with threaded flies.

I yawn into the city

past a parkland of lovers

and solitary office-workers,

I am broad and straight now

without the energy of gradient.

The grand stadium looms

as if it were a ship of state,

but finds no reflection.

I have almost forgotten

the distant mountains I came from,

the fact I am water at all.

‘Afon’ is a slow way of saying ,

it seems to suit me better

than the rip of ‘river’.

Already I can feel the saltiness

creep into my body

and seagulls’ mocking calls

hover then swoop all day.

At the Bay, I’m trained and tamed.

On calmer days feel stagnant;

when there’s a restless breeze

I begin to wave and voices

of my ancestors come back :

‘Once you were black, all thick

with dust like a collier’s throat.

Once this was flats of mud

where waders and dippers

would pick for worms.’

Now I am becalmed,

waiting for the gates to open,

where I will lose my name.

It is a different sun,

one that threatens to burn up,

to leave me dispersed

into the Channel and after.

A roof of slate, façade of glass,

the twirling pipes of a carousel

all bring back reminiscences

of pebbles carried, reflections borrowed,

stirrings under a waterfall.

It is night-time and the moon

is whole and crying out

like a barn-owl over moorland.

I must go and never know

what will become of me.



Mike Jenkins