Sleeping With Cymru Poets

If poetry was sex
my body would be exhausted,
exhume my heart from the bone factory
but it isn’t.

R.S. Thomas taught me the discipline
of kindness over lust
your namesake Dylan
was just an alcoholic rage
and, really, do any of us go gentle into the night?

Dorothy Edwards, creep into my bed at dawn crack,
let me flick the hair from your weary eyes
give you comfort between your legs
Oh forgive me, that’s what all the misogynists write.

When all the words for love and death
have fallen into Lynette Roberts cradle
England cry like a baby, we were the brother
you wished you never had,
there are no jewels in Jerusalem
just the chandelier crash of imperialism falling.

Baby bleed for us
Dysgu ar y cof still send me poetry
from beyond our grave.
I should have written my initials onto your neck
tattooed our passion onto eternal flesh,

Cyrmu skies are so dark,
I went back to the olde house
where I shared my dreams with Mum and Dad
and left my words, as wreaths, on the doorstep,
number 6 Geufron, I am so sorry Dad,
she only went and fucking died.

A young poet who simply craved
love and affection, he moved
Birmingham to London and Brighton
A shoeless child on a swing could have been mine.

Somewhere, stars labelled one to a hundred  and thirty three
And on my favourite number 37,
I pray you are dancing with my Mum in heaven.