Gwyn ParryGwyn is from Anglesey, North Wales. He lived in Dublin Ireland for many years and was facilitator of the Dublin Writers' Workshop. His work has appeared in a variety of poetry journals in the UK, Europe and Ireland. His first collection was published by Poetry Wales Press called 'The Hurricane'. Gwyn’s second book, 'Mynydd Parys' was published by Seren Books; his last collection 'Crossings' was published in Ireland by Salmon Publishing.
Gwyn performs his work with music and is also harmonica player and vocalist in Anglesey reggae band, Redstripe.
Gwyn performs his work with music and is also harmonica player and vocalist in Anglesey reggae band, Redstripe.
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October
My father steps from the car, his jacket too big for him, the house step too high. His breath tight for washing-up, sparse for splitting fire-wood. He lost his jobs to his youngest son. I miss the white bristle on your oak-solid neck, the pearl-blue eyes picking quotes from the Bible. October, time turns on its heel, dark early-fire-lighting winter evenings. I want to sit with you by the sea feel the rough palm of your hand. I want to walk late summer sun. I want to sit in car parks the car full of roll-your-own smoke. October, The cold snatches through the coat you gave me. Three months, I cut short the winter with my mother, slowly putting your things In the big wardrobe, except your shoes and dictionary. A plastic bag from the hospital marked PARRI, your glasses, comb, wallet, toothbrush, tobacco tin worn hand-smooth in your pocket. Cold November I scrape frost off your car, check anti-freeze. I saw logs, walk the field for dead wood. Some days, I find you holding the sack for me, and I break the wood with my knee. October again, and we are starlight distance. |
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Barber
Three miles walk for a hair-cut, dad’s tongue, whip-like telling me that I’m not tired, that it’s not much further. Wil Pendre’s hut is held together with not quite knocked-in-nails and old Exide battery signs. I sit on a bum-smooth bench with tobacco-stained old men. My turn, I perch on a plank across the barber’s high chair, eye to eye with Wil. He knows only one style – desert campaign, 1944, Africa. his big hands on my young neck, his face so close I get the alcohol off his breath. I sit like a brush. Wil has no time for children, he prefers the heat, the sand gritting his scissors, his favourite salon a well camouflaged tank. My fringe cut as crooked as possible, my neck shaved like a pine cone, I am walked home, ear lobes slightly bleeding. |
Posted: 7th July 2009
