Martin Daws
Resident in Bethesda since 2003 Martin Daws is a Spoken Word Poet and Creative Educator.
Honoured as Young People’s Laureate for Wales (2013-16). Martin has a wealth of experience gained over 25 years writing, performing and facilitating creative writing workshops. Much of Martin's work has explored History and Place, notably in his acclaimed poem Love Letter to Bethesda / Adre Newydd Fi as featured in 9Bach’s Llechi.
The Author of two collections of poetry, Martin is equally passionate about the written and spoken word, and in his own work aims to make the two work together.
I remember Rhys out there cutting back the shrubs - sweating - in the jungle. Mari bringing him water every hour.
And him asking me how I feel about the trees.
Telling me they keep growing.
How in the old pictures he’s seen the trees weren’t there.
It was the quarry railway.
And the earth was worked.
Bare slate.
The men used to cut the trees for wood.
Now Rhys has gone.
It’s all green.
The slate waste on the track getting pushed aside by relentless grass stems.
The slate in the wall hidden by an ivy beard.
Stray garden green plants.
A living threshold to the wetland trees and all I can see is green leaves.
Green.
And the bare breaking fingers of Ash die back.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Belonging
To hold time
to own it
possess it
take it with me
in my pocket
for a moment
a frozen breath
this is my work
to stand at the end of the path
listening through my feet
scratching the surface
scribbling for bits
pieces out of a life
I feel like I belong
have meaning beyond myself
I will soften my heart
wait until my hands harden
wait until the slate can’t cut me
then I will belong
***
Standing in Felin Fawr talking with Gareth about the Chwarel (Quarry). He told me about the hanes (history) of the place. About the buried village of Bryn Llys under the slate tips. About how the tips are called ‘sbwriel (litter) yn y Gymraeg (in Welsh).
He told me about the railway. It’s history, his plans for the future. The steel toe caps of his big black boots pressing on the the iron tracks he had put into the ground himself.
And I told him how I grew up among brick factories and chimneys, and saw them all get flattened and replaced with steel glass office blocks. How background machine noise is comforting to me. How post-industrial wastelands feel like home. And how beautiful it is that here under the slate tips we can see nature reclaiming her own, the Lychen, Moss, Ferns, Shrubs, Trees slowly greening the bare broken slate with life.
No - He said. Becoming grave. Talking slower. Seeming to struggle to put his heart into English - No. It all needs to come off. These plants are destroying our history. This is our heritage. It needs to be preserved as it is. These Tips are our Pyramids.
