Friday, 18 August 2017

Womb sea Tomb sea


From the womb of the sea,
when the waters break,
deliver me safely to the shore,
and I will suckle the cradling sun.

When a silver lining splits the shine,
on the ebb and flow of tears and joy,
the happiness bell is calling, calling:
It's a buoy. It's a buoy. It's a buoy. 

And safe upon that bank of sand,
draw down the busy world,
writ with stick-lines insistent,
sacrificing time to the erasing tide.

Gaze upon the soft horizon, constant
through the ages of child to man,
and of man back to child again,
in calm and storm and calm.

Then long upon a moon tomb sea,
in a rip upon an ebb tide's race,
weigh the anchor of my soul, and
I will sink in the west with the sun.


From the womb of the sea,
when the waters break,
deliver me safely to the shore,
and I will suckle the cradling sun.

Thursday, 17 August 2017

Midlife meiosis


I am the fulcrum of a seesaw.
See, on the up side, scions ride.
Saw upon the down side,
there my ancestors bide.
Reminded of the tombstones,
that topple in the ebbing tide,
to shorten the downside lever,
and propel my scions rise, and rise.

As my fulcrum slips towards twilight,
the scions shriek delight,
for down they ride, bump bump down,
as their ancestors drop aside.
Then as the penultimate fulcrum,
slips abject from the pole,
so my fulcrum slips into the night,
as he takes on this pivotal role.

Instead of a fulcrum, it seems to me,
I am now a spindle in a wheel,
for spinning all around me,
are my scions gazing in,
as I peel off into the void.
  Slows down, and slows down,
becomes their seesaw again, 
as another fulcrum strong,
smiles upon its life of strain.

Caterpillar-like this seesaw track,
is making, breaking, unchanging length,
the spring of life on the one side,
as dotages drops off from the ride.

Oh what joy to have been a fulcrum,
to have balanced my time of life.
But, actually, it's a binary pivot,
designed for a husband and his wife.

Wednesday, 16 August 2017

Hi Sea


Where's the sea?
Inside of me.
Wear the sea
upon me.
Whatever the sea,
it weathers me,
and breaks in wave
over my grave.
Love forever sea.

Tuesday, 15 August 2017

hospital gate syndrome


read my genome
do a CT scan
positron emission 
stress ECG

or an EEG

X-Ray chest
body scan
do every blood(y) test 
known to man

test my breathing
dab my stools
dip my pee
sample my drools

hold it


  oh I see
  what WHAT
is hammering 

weigh me
mark my height 
photograph my gait
then MRI

open and close
a stitch in time
inject some dye
I'm turning morose
and don't give a dime
for my prognose
blood transfuse
don't refuse
a transplant or two
before you

anaesthetise me
for an ECT
or better still
some CBT
I seem to be
a b_bit shaky
tell me now
would you prefer
an endoscope up 
an endoscope down
anal retentive 
let's really go to town

cough twice
cardiac surgery
a stent for lent
or a cardiac bypass
on the road to ruin 
of my family tree
genetic counselling 
xxx my arse
you'll never know me
cos you see

they're coming to take me away 
ha ha - ha ha
hee hee - hee hee

but you've lots of data
to remember me
when finally
I can


Check out my Early August Diary on SNN

Saturday, 12 August 2017

The swimmer in winter


Lanyard, seaward, tethered to tide,
the swimmer standing tall.
Owns the slanting day down beach,
and the high sea's sky. That's all.

That's all there is. No secret,
in the knots running spate,
that ebb and flow, instilled
of whether to or not. The fate

of a swimmer in winter facing down
the wind that hiss-spits in his face.
Armfuls of horizon, cutlass grey,
snow gulls tumbling down in grace.

The ocean vehement,
shouldered in towering,
banshee in screams, wild
in glaring, growling, glowering,
a predatory wolf in a skein of sky.
Unfaltering waves, icy in solemnity confirm,
when ensnared in snarls, and gritted by both sides,
they steadfastly refuse to squirm,
or slip their lanyard, tethering tides.

Wednesday, 9 August 2017

book ends


my nose in this old book
a seance with every hand 
that held it close
at every fireside lighted
in the dust down gloaming 
  in every nook
  in every strand
  of thought morose
  or drawn delighted 
  booked and roaming
in stares and stares
that rage on the pages 
of where's oh where's
that ache down the ages
entangled in my poem
a very particular duality

Tuesday, 8 August 2017

Rotherslade unmade

Have you seen the mess at Rotherslade?
 Where the Council neglect their duty.
Weeds and weeds, not bucket and spade.
  Oh Gower! Why do we neglect your beauty?

But Council (ours), you just sit back in your city,
  for the locals, once more into the breach
dear friends are cleaning up. Such a plastic pity,
  that visitors regularly see, despoiled upon the beach.

Photo here:

Monday, 7 August 2017

Of Rich


We take no memories to the grave,
   not even a pallid, cold sweat in pain.
So when you laid your memories at our feet,
  by such memories you will remain,

forever voiced deep in that Welsh valley,
  your gravel words to stir our guts,
along the brogue and downward lanes,
  where infamy spits, no ifs or buts,

in eyes that ride upon the voice,
  that stare crazy part the time.
That pierce my soul, my bloody-fool soul,
  as that voice harsh blasts the grime 

of ordinariness, in ordinary people,
   that so inordinately love your words,
cut and polished, inebriate in style,
  in feral ferocity trod the limelight boards,

in theatres harangued by sackcloth-to-glory times,
  in a Richardness unbeknown of many men,
swallowed, as must bring meaning to
 the wife of your life. So that if any then

would sink into your worldly sneer,
  or in the far horizons of your bleary eyes,
wrapped deep in smoke, that, when the hard spirits
  had wrought what lay therein, therein up and dies.

What words of yours shall we read,
   to know exactly who you are?
Until, sanded by your gravel voice,
  we will know then, that you are ...

Richard Burton,
from Pontrhydyfen.

Sunday, 6 August 2017



Stands each wild flower to its spot,
  swaying on the tide of a golden lea.
Strands in a colour hatched waistcoat plot,
  beholden to a pocket-watch timed for tea.

Thursday, 3 August 2017

Nothing. It's OK.


She is looking at what we will see, one day.
Through closed eyes she stares,
with not a flicker. There's the
low, slow, bated breath,
what we
or feel.
A longing
to be at rest.
The last breath
of stillness at the end,
with not a flicker. There's
stares, at tears screwed of my eye's
longing, just to see her, seeing me, one day.

Wednesday, 2 August 2017

Beside her bedside


Note the sunken eyes,
    that see no more. 
The sunken cheeks,
    that smile no more.
Her mouth hanging open
    on a long last breath,
        and then ~ no more.
In a magician's click,
                                  she's gone.
Silent glances.

Oh Mammy,


Sunday, 30 July 2017

Good morning

the breakfast kettle roar 
is climbing up my spine
another storm in a tea cup 
on another geyser day

Saturday, 29 July 2017

Requiem for a village night


Knife cold. Always. In the valley
of my short-trousered village.
Stone chapel over the glowering gates.
By hell, the pub glows raucous in its corner,
smoking on the slag-terraced hillside, frowning
as the trains slice and rape the night.

In all ways, the village is ageing.
The choleric ice inside the bedroom window,
behind its fern fans, as hard as nails.
When the glow of the cinders subsides,
cold clock chimes count down the night.

Damp black, the woollen balaclava night,
tightens on the boy's wandering minded lanes.
Sulphated in culverts, the broken adventures hang,
full blown beneath the village's pumiced veins,
pain striated in the sidings of the night.

The cold sweat of manacled workmen,
absent from the housewives’ gossip shop,
bread and dripping whispers,
mangling the washing lines of thought,
upon a haughty night.

The sepulchre rooms, linoleum cold,
bright on a diadem mantel piece in braid,
with ornamentally insignificant motes,
of the "oh, sigh don't know" toiled of days,
and days, punctuated by the night.

Glued to the fire, and tired
of the stains on the cold heart
of a village prostrate, on the black altar
of industrial grime and greed.
A night for all lost souls indeed.

Yet, see the summer sunburnt boys
in their self-conscious bathers,
coo cooling so very out of place.
Dew mun, never found a jewelled field,
but the stars upon a moonless night.

The shining doorsteps polished
by scarf-women kneeling in worship,
pouring scorn on the stone,
with soap and water guttering,
and spluttering into the drains of night.

Above the catacomb culvert lungs,
petrified in soot and ratted in slime,
the village floats, a bog wort bloom,
held and threaded by the silken people,
moonbeam and lamp lit, lonely of the night.

Cold then, but golden, set the scene
in aspic, chapel doored and psalmed,
firesided in pubs embalmed in smoke.
We folk, are the joke, of course.
Our bravado shattered in the night.

Friday, 28 July 2017

I hereby swear

I asked our cat for an "oath of affirmation".
But she just walked away.
It is taken by the MPs of our nation!
"Yes," she said, "but cats are here to stay".

Thursday, 27 July 2017

Adolescence senescent


The old songs plait the glances,
backward at childhood,
forward to teens in quicksand.
Where no one has gone before,
or so lies the music.

The ghost train's slamming doors.
Belonging, on the back seat of the bus.
Bright tears, drying on lace-wings.
Cooing boys blaze in bravado,
turning the girls chat inward.
Loud the boys don't care ~ hmph!
We are on our way somewhere ~ so there!
Where're we going then, like?

An eye to eye smile is drawn thinner
and thinner, across the coy girl/boy thing,
as their hearts in a crush are smelting,
the flushed infusion resists.

A kiss spins around and walks away.

That rush of slow emotion,
the magic alchemy is turning 
led astray into here to stay,
coupled golden in your arms.
The rest is a blur.

Monday, 24 July 2017

Swansea bid for City of Culture 2021. A request ...

I would like my photography blog:

And my poetry blog (includes audio):

to be involved in the presentation of Swansea as a city of culture.

** If you enjoy my blogs would you please consider contacting Swansea City Council to tell them how much you enjoy them. I believe they have appointed a team to steer the bid, and hopefully they will forward your message.

To give them an indication of the "outreach" of my blogs could you please give them your location (country and city).

Here are the contact addresses

cc to:

Many thanks for your support

Jim Young

time and tide

summer is teetering
on the pinnacle
of sandcastle days
no turning back
or holding back
the crumbling
the tide

Sunday, 23 July 2017

Black HOoo...

Tattoo of a black hole,
just there.
Singularity too small to see.
Don't touch!
Oh no!
Another event horizon
has been crossed.

Thursday, 20 July 2017

forever and a day



the gloaming o'er the bay,
    turning on the tide exhales,
and slowly dries on salted skins,
    of a summer day in Wales.


where such enchantments lay,
    the evening slowly pales,
and the coolness of dusk begins,
    on this summer day in Wales.

dream of heat, let's say,
    mutes the alpha males,
tunes them to the child within,
    on a summer day in Wales.


long in castled spades at play
    has subdued the emotional gales,
and sleep seeps deep there,
    in their summer day in Wales.

Wednesday, 19 July 2017

stampede in springtime


nostrils for newts 
fistfuls of frogspawn 
bog mint mud redolent 
of lamb on the bone
a boy running springwards 
with wings on his heels 
spawn-eyed with jam jar
and glistening in flight
insect a hunting 
down on his knees
caddis fly larvae 
the waters slide
adventures budding 
across the fields 
or over the hill 
let the river decide 
on the ricochet day
this way or that 
with so much urging 
let's go let's go
further and further 
a giant moon cheese
on a dusky horizon
the War of the Worlds
halt lads in mid-breath 
standing star-eyed
dark calling homeward 
where stories glide
together in lore 
and tolled down to bed
in this Eros village
snuggling in thrumming 
and wrapped in the clouds 
to dream of tomorrow 
where shotgun will ride 
to his galloping childhood 
hi oh silver away

so terrier bite 
on this feral age
on this time of your life
and never let go

Monday, 17 July 2017




So young, walking out on summer hand in hand.
Our newness overcome as our fingers entwine,
in a besideness pinked in dress and eyes,
we float beneath the dappled surface.

How you shine.

Floating oblivious we see, in a sky
rising thin and clear, in a sense sublime,
that with each light squeeze around your waist,
we knew that we were merging.

A first kiss turning in stopped time,
and I am yours and you are mine.

Was it really fifty years ago?