This poem is about The Winding House museum in New Tredegar in the Valleys (see above), built on the site of the Elliot colliery. It is due to be shut by Caerffili's Labour Council at the end of March as part of cuts. My choir Merthyr Aloud will sing there along with local choir White Rose Singers on March 22nd, 2024.

Winding Back

by Mike Jenkins

Wind the wheel back
Memories of the dark -
Of a collier lost
In the deep galleries,
Of a canary ceased,
Of a pit-pony toppled,
Of props snapping,
Of floods and dust
Choking many throats
Made for singing.

Yet also, winding back
To butties joking,
To laughter echoing,
To names called
"Bryn-O!" carried to the face,
To comrades out on strike
For a tidy wage,
To the Stutes and their books
Promising better days.

Wind it and watch it
Reeling back in black and white,
Though they can never
Wash away the coal
Engrained in palm-lines
Showing none a fortune.
Spinning a lethal barrel,
Or the thread of tales.

For Gaza

by Mike Jenkins

They dried up the terrain
Like parched riverbeds with only names left

They bombed the shops and warehouses -
Every child's stomach a crater

They cut off the electricity
So darkness was a way of life

They stopped the journalists from entering;
Who queued before danger like relief trucks

They blew up the roads , those 'potholes'
The pocks of many missiles

They ordered a million to move on ,
Who were followed by spying drones

They blockaded air , sea and land,
Huge noose of every element

While the people ran out of bodybags -
Soldiers on the border, inhuman predators.

Image above: by Alisdare Hickson. A Black man carrying a placard "Gaza - Stop the Massacre" at a protest near Downing Street in London. In the background, a placard "#Endthesiege". This was the day after the U.S. moved its embassy in Israel to Jerusalem, and 61 unarmed Palestinians, including several children, a baby, and journalist Yasser Murtada, were killed by the Israeli army during a demonstration near Gaza's border fence.

The Refugee Game

by Mike Jenkins

You start in your own land.
What are you fleeing from?
Pick a card: drought, war, famine,
A callous, oppressive regime.

If you begin in Albania
You won't get far -
Return to Go, start again
(It’s jobs you're after
And there are plenty,
But you're surely a gangster).

Roll the dice, land on Poland,
Hungary or Serbia -
You want to keep moving
But you can only go back.

The Calais camp is like jail
Except there's no formula
To get out, no double.

If you manage, there's a small boat.
This is where it gets tricky!
Pick up your Chance cards -
Overboard, drowned, arrested.

If you progress there are hotels,
Detention centres, paltry hand-outs.
You haven't won,
You're just stuck on a square.

There's that square ahead -
If you land on it
It will be straight to Rwanda,
Do not pass Go,
Do not collect your 45 quid.
You're out.... off the board!

But if you're fortunate
Pick up your Community Chest card -
' If you're from Ukraine,
Go round the board,
You get a visa, a job,
Can even visit home.'

You've lost your house or your family,
Sometimes your whole town.
There's no returning to square one,
Though you roll and hope
Again and again and again.
And the name of the game
Is "Nobody Can Win".

Note: the image above is of Syrian and Iraqi refugees reach the coastal waters of Lesbos in Greece, after having crossed from Turkey.

Picnic in a Car

by Mike Jenkins, with image above by Martin Gollan

It’s winter,
theyer avin a picnic
in theyer car agen,
im an er
up Cyfarthfa Park
overlookin-a lake
shaped like a fish
(local knowledge tha).

Ev’ry day they’re there
with sarnies an flask
watchin ducks, swans, geese -
mus geh dead borin.

Loadsa layers o clothin
an they on’y goh a small car -
a wonder they fit in!

They ewsed t walk
round ’n round the lake -
one day changed direction.

Save on eatin bills,
keep breathin,
doze in the afternoon.

Spottin-a dog-walkers,
famlees with children,
opeful tourists an istorians,
an them anglers sittin
with rods ready,
patient as them.

Igh Sheriff o Merthyr

by Mike Jenkins

Ee wuz off of is trolley,
shoutin in-a middle o Penderyn Square
like ee woz a Town Crier.

Ee ad all the regalia -
chains, fancy at , medals galore,
buh ardly spoke posher.

“Yer ye, yer ye! Good folk o Merthyr!
I’m yewer bran’new Igh Sheriff
appointed arfta givin bagsomoney.

Ower good Queen 've sadly
passed away, wavin from-a sky
on a separate cloud to er ubby.

She ave served us mos graciously,
same time lookin arfta er famlee
(speshly er darlin son Andy).

Now we welcome King Charlie III
oo once spoke sev’ral words o Welsh
an loves talkin t trees.

We say ‘Croeso!’ t Wills ower prince
an look forward t showin im round
b’fore ev’ry business shuts down town.

As Igh Sheriff I yerby decree
Prince Charles becomes King Charles Ospital
An Keir Ardie Ealth Centre’s named arfta Camilla.

As Igh Sheriff I yerby declare
this square will enceforth be named arfta me -
Josiah John Bacon Homfray Crawshay.”

Lock Me Up

by Mike Jenkins

Lock me up , Rishi Sunak!
I have committed a thought -crime,
I am a modern Winston Smith,
I call myself Mihangel Morgannwg.

Rip me up, Sunak!
For I am an extremist
Wanting out of your beloved Union
Where we are an afterthought.

Report me to Prevent, Sunak!
I need to be re-programmed
To worship past wars
And idolise your Queen.

Round me up , Sunak!
I am one of millions:
You’ve already put our nations
Behind poverty’s bars.

Shut me up, Sunak!
Like the poet Ashraf Fayad,
800 lashes then incarcerated;
Yet words and songs will escape.

Finish me off, Sunak!
Like Lewis Lewis on a prison ship,
Or the innocent Dic Penderyn
A noose around his neck.

Ey Mister Lan’Lor’!

by Mike Jenkins, with image by Gus Payne

Tell me, Mister Lan’lor’
wha yew doin t me?
Jest me an my kid
tryin t make ends meet.
I work like a dog
a collie chasin sheep,
I’m on yewer leash.

Carn afford no car,
train fares always goin up,
food prices beyond
‘lectric’s the same –
yew wan’ us t end
up on-a street?

Ey Mister Lan’lor’
I know yew gotta make money,
buh yew goh more ouses
than I goh GCSEs
an I done tidee
even though I work in Tragos.

Yew ever gone without?
Gone to a foodbank?
Secon’ thoughts I’m more like a sheep,
with yew snappin us inta pens.
Wha’s-a fewture, eh?
Some ewman blydi abbatoir?

Wern My Fault

by Mike Jenkins

There wuz this fuckin ard gang
Led by this bloke Vlad
(Arfta some ol rooler).

Ee didn give a toss
'Bout trainers on wires,
Ee wan’ed more terrortree.

We wern gunna take no messin,
Ee knew t keep out -
We’d flash ower weapons.

No way ee’d risk it,
Noh even with is boyz
All tooled up an ready.

Fancied isself ee did,
Ewsed t ride orses bare-back,
Shirt off six pack.

Till one night they invaded
Ower Igh Street askin f trouble,
Shoutin theyer gobs off.

Joey goh stabbed, I cut
One of em ‘cross is face
T stop im attackin.

It wern my fault see,
I woz on’y defendin myself.
P’lice wouldn lissen.

Capitalism is working

by Mike Jenkins

We’re running out of petrol
On the road to oblivion.

Food or heat the choice
For many who are struggling.

The sea and the rivers
Have become our enemies.

Thatcher hacked identities
Many years ago.

Talk about North Korea
As TV fawns over monarchy.

We’re paying for vanity railway
As ours are cancelled, running late.

Homeless people beg on busy streets,
Cups empty as second homes;

Language and culture has no insurance policy,
Like a redundant person, alone.

Women who steal ripped from families
While Prince Andrew still goes free.

Supermarket shelves like the ol’ USSR,
But capitalism’s working, you see.

She Died Alone

by Mike Jenkins

She died there in hospital,
no husband, Sissy, daughter Ingrid
no church kin around her
and at her funeral of regulation 10
her own Lusamba saw the coffin
and could not imagine her within.

She was a mother to everyone
who was blown into Victoria station
lost for food or direction,
took them home like injured creatures
fed them till they were strong
watched them fly, never to return.

The concourse deserted like Christmas Eve
only without the straggling drunkards
or last-minuters wandering homewards,
when a man cursed and spat hatred
announcing that he had Covid
(though he later tested negative).

She'd worked all hours overtime
to send money home to her mother;
they made her work without PPE
sickness made her vulnerable to disease.
She died alone, the banners remember
outside her station chants of – 'Justice for Belly Mujinga!'

Belly Mujinga was a ticket controller who worked at Victoria station, originally from the Democratic Republic of the Congo. She died on April 5th of Covid-19. She was spat on by a man who claimed he had Covid, though later tested negative. She had been working without PPE. ‘Justice for Belly Mujinga’ was a vital part of recent BLM protests.