Green Room: Anthony Hontoir Book Launch Friday 21 October

Journalist, film-maker and author Anthony Hontoir returned home after a week’s holiday in Devon during the summer of 2013 with an idea for a whodunit murder mystery, based around the tidal road in Aveton Gifford, which is renamed Watersford for the story. He decided that it should feature a new amateur detective in the form of Erwin Graham, a one-time Fleet Street crime reporter, assisted by his partner Belle, a gipsy. “The Tidal Road Mystery” is the first in a series of mystery tales, and it has been written along traditional whodunit lines, evoking the golden age of murder mysteries in which there are a number of suspects, each with a motive of their own, and they are all brought together at the end for Erwin Graham to explain how he has solved the crime and to reveal the culprit.

Information in our events listings Friday 21 Oct 8pm

PLASTIC PLAGUE

Worldwide, it's calculated that ONE TRILLION plastic bags are used and disposed of annually.

Since October 1 2011, Wales has placed a charge on the distribution of plastic bags. In the campaign running up to the imposition of the charge, Sustainable Wales carried out a huge amount of preparatory work, centred round employee Joe Newberry, who became known as ‘the bagman’.

Plastic bags are an important constituent of global plastic pollution. Countries are taking action to try to tackle this serious issue.

In May 2016, the state of New York in the USA agreed a five cents charge for every plastic bag distributed. Here, writer MARGOT FARRINGTON writes a very personal account of how she viewed just one plastic bag.

Margot Farrington

Margot Farrington

Margot Farrington is a poet, writer, and performer. She is the author of three poetry collections, most recently "Scanning For Tigers" (Free Scholar Press).  Her poetry has appeared in The Cimarron Review, Tiferet, Academy of American Poets (online archive) and elsewhere.

Her essays, reviews, and interviews have been published in The Brooklyn Rail, Delaware County Times, ABR: American Book Review, Art International, and Poetry Wales.


 

Black Plastic Bag

Wind of March 11th brings a plastic bag to spoil the view, to fasten insult to the big cherry at the back of the garden.  Tony makes the discovery and comes to tell me.  We go to the window and stare out.  Grimly, I remark that it’s the durable kind, not that flimsy, ghostly plastic wind pulls to pieces over time.

We see how high it’s snagged, three quarters of the way up.  The cherry’s height exceeds the two story building just behind: no ladder we own can bring us close enough for removal. Perhaps with a pole, I think, with some sort of hook on the end.  In more than three decades here, I can’t recall this happening, because our garden shelters within a long rectangle of neighboring yards, enclosed all round by the buildings of our block. 

Meanwhile, bags appear on the streets everywhere. Just three weeks ago, one plaguing a plane tree had torn to remnants and let go.  We’d watched that bag from our front windows for part of the winter, now the coming of spring was blighted with this black flag.  It waved, piratical and impenitent, frightening the cardinal that frequently perches near the top of the tree. Each spring he chooses the cherry to sing his clear-welling song, announcing to all his intention to mate and to nest and to raise fledglings.

I sulk at the sight of this intruder, I who am bag conscious, taking with me when I shop a canvas bag wherever I go.  Almost fanatic, nursing my hatred of the plastic ones dominating the city.  Stomping upon skittering sidewalk bags to arrest them, stuffing them into the trash. Tearing those within reach from street trees. Plucking them from plantings in the park.  I can’t do this everywhere I go, but mentally I chase, pinion, and correct.  And now, in disgust and at a loss, I turn away from the window.

The next day, I study the bag again, and the slender branch it’s slung over.  March has entered in reverse, that is to say, lamb-like: no buffeting winds and little of the raw chill typical of the month.  Instead, balmy days and the temperature easing up past 60, have brought spring on early.  I can see the blue-green leaves of the pearl bushes pushing out, hungry sparrows beginning to dismantle the pussy willow catkins.

Someone would have to climb part way up the tree, be agile enough with a long pole to dislodge or rip the bag from the branch.  I am not that person, nor is Tony, though once we could’ve done the trick.  I don’t want to see that bag as the cherry leafs out, don’t want to watch the birds shy from the flap-monster come to roost.

The following day the bag has wrapped itself into a black chrysalis, and maintains this form the entire day.  Someone will have to climb the tree.  I try to think of someone.  Or might the wind suddenly undo what it has done?

March 14th.  I try not to obsess, can’t help imagining that ugliness among the blossoms early May will bring on.  This cherry I call The Black Dragon (for a limb suggestive of a dragon climbing skyward) is of the species Prunus serotina. Planted by a bird, preserved by us when we took down the mulberry tree that overshadowed it.  Cherry all the birds enjoy, owing to the vantage point the tree commands, and of course for the fruit itself.  Why must our Black Dragon wear a black plastic bag?

March 15th, I’m sitting down to lunch at our dining room table, and I’ve looked out the window, as I have several times earlier, met each time by the presence of the bag hanging in space.  It has abandoned chrysalis form, regained shopping mode.  The garden lies wetly dark from rain earlier on.  At the end of lunch, I glance idly out, not with intent to check.  Something is missing—I scan the tree, convinced I’ve overlooked it somehow, but no, it’s really gone. 

Tony joins me and we look together, gazing from our third floor window, thinking we’ll spy the wretch caught in some other tree or bush, still asserting itself, still hateful.  But oh, how lovely, no trace.  No trace at all.  How foolish—I should have had more faith in the wind of March.  An errant puff: breath of the lamb at the perfect moment.  A black sail headed off to wherever.  Happiness restored.

Refugees - Texts written at the Ty Newydd Writing Centre, March 2016

Texts written at the Ty Newydd Writing Centre, Llanystumdwy, Cricieth, Gwynedd, 17.3.16.

Authors: Sarah Blake, Emma Ormond, Kaye Lee, Yuko Adams, Camilla Lambert, Jennie Bailey, Barry 

Tutor: Robert Minhinnick

I don’t know where we lost her. She isn’t here. That is all I know. Maybe it happened right at the start. I don’t remember how. I carry on conversations with her in my head. I don’t mean to. Thoughts slip into her. Mud on my boots. Numb hands. I talk to her every day here. I remember her hand holding mine inside her coat pocket on the way to school. I remember sitting at her feet, watching her draw. Her hands have oval nails and there are plump lines in her palms. How soft she was. I remember the face cream trace she left in the air and how she always burned the onions. Never had the patience to let them sweat slowly, turn sweet and yielding in the pan.


My jumper is made of links,

rough and bubbled, sutures

of thin thread that cannot

close the wounds underneath

which are only superficial on the surface on the surface

buried in it my nose unearths

dirt, sweat. Hope, petrol and apples,

the taste of cold stone and vinegar

as I are them,

the wool creaks, stiff from its journey,

shedding grit and dirt,

remnants carried with me from home.

I will never let it be washed.


These trousers would steam

if I ever found somewhere warm.

They still have the salty grit

of two days on a boat

and tonight I’ll keep them on

when we lie down under the sheets

of plastic, our make-do home.

I can’t pray anymore, my head and my heart are sodden, too many uncried tears, saltier than

Aisha’s sea-wet jacket – the jacket

that her granny wrapped round

her shoulders as we climbed into the truck.

I wish I could sleep – a few hours -

to dream we’re back home,

to forget the razor wire

that tears us to shreds

if we try to move on.


I come across a rose

That is standing in a front garden

On my way to nowhere.

I sniff and smell the scent

but it is too meagre

as I cannot step in.

In the next town I arrive

I may find another rose

but I don’t think I can smell it.

It’s somebody else’s rose

growing from somebody else’s soil

I cannot grasp.


Mehemet has woken up crying

like last night and the one before.

His head is hot like a burnt potato.

At home we’d fetch the pink medicine

from the bathroom cupboard, tuck the quilt

my mother made, scraps of red and brown

from her mother’s village, soothe him.

He’d be better in the morning.

Here, no medicine, once we’d used up

the stuff they gave us near the fence,

no quilt, just a pile of all our clothes,

smelling of mud, a musty, cheesy smell.

I am lying on my side again, I feel

In my pocket for the crooked house key:

It fits my fingers like it always did.

It’s getting light, earlier now, invading

through the cracks in the tent,

won’t be kept out, allow one more hour

of not remembering. The others

are moving about, a few curses from

those Aleppo people, different consonants,

same whine in the nostrils.

It’s raining again.


My heart still beats fast. I have just woken up, but remain curled up under my old army greatcoat on what I think is a slate floor. The cold slate causes me to roll over on to my other hip. I cannot feel my left shoulder, but hopefully it will get better circulation now I have moved.

I can hear the clatter of cattle hooves, this could be a farm. I wonder if I should look for a drink of water, or risk seeking out someone to help me.


I have counted

  red ants that slip into my sleeping bag.

I have counted

  stars in a snowglobe sky.

I have counted

  degrees downward to freezing.

 

This evening I saw

  children clustered in feathered clothes around fires.

This evening I saw

  blood sunset over the Jungle.

This evening I saw

  shield beetle man beat women with black batons.

 

In the morning

   perhaps swallow blue ribbons instead of black flags.

In the morning

   perhaps a weak sun will waken wings.

 

 

 

WRITERS’ ROOMS: ROBERT MINHINNICK

Robert Minhinnick is an award-winning poet, essayist, novelist and translator. An environmental campaigner, he co-founded Friends of the Earth (Cymru) and charity Sustainable Wales. He has published seven poetry collections and several volumes of essays. His editorship of Poetry Wales from 1997 until 2008, defined by an edgy, outward-looking philosophy, marks perhaps the most exciting and progressive period of any Welsh periodical. His latest novel, The Limestone Man, is out now from Seren.


The boy and the ape look down at me. Beside them the man in the smock already seems convinced. Or enchanted.

In this attic room a desk. And dust.

The attic room

Paper dust and the dust of human skin, dust from the fossil corals found on Cog y Brain one mile to the east. That summit was once underwater but today is amongst the highest sand dunes in Western Europe. This coral dust and the sulphur-smelling conglomerate limestone I have collected from the same dune litter the desk. A desk dominated by an Apple and its black screen.

Behind that, amongst the shells and the seaglass and the words that might have meant something, is another computer. Derelict yet alive. If I press a switch it will reveal sites like ruined temples. Which gods were worshipped there? What foolishness pursued?

Strange to remember that four people worked in this room, three of them salaried. This used to be the office of Sustainable Wales and some of its documents are still stored here.

On the wall above the screen, further archaeology, passwords and phone numbers in indelible ink. Once these were so familiar I used them without thinking. The worlds they unlocked I took for granted. But those wonders have been supplanted by newer marvels.

Pinned to the rafter above the screen is a postcard of El Greco’s ‘Fabula’. The painting depicts a boy in darkness blowing on a flame between a man and a monkey. I have not thought of this image for years, knowing only that I was arrested years ago by the painting and wanted it close by. ‘Fabula’ remains a puzzling parable for all of us seduced by the modem’s green eyes.

Four feet above the desk is a slate roof. Attached to these slates are thirteen solar panels fitted in late 2015, ‘mono black solarworld’, six at azimuth 270 degrees and seven at 180. German made, these panels sleek as an Audi or the latest Beamer are hard to distinguish. Even if I’m in the gwli behind the house they’re difficult to spot.

The lights are off and there’s daylight from two pivot windows fitted twenty years ago. To the south-west is the deserted fairground, itself a kind of computer screen. On a clear day I might see Exmoor to the south, in the north Stormy Down, where a renewable energy ‘cluster’ is being assembled on what is an old RAF base. Maybe the charity I help administer will film there this winter, on its community energy project, ‘Strike a Light?’

Also on this desk is a leaf from an evergreen oak on Cog y Brain. Rough as a cat’s tongue this leaf, the tree stoical in salt. Books describe it as a typical Mediterranean species, and it was picked this week as a talisman on the shortest day. From that summit the dune slacks lay scattered like silver hubcaps, the emergence at Ffynnon Pwll roaring out of the limestone, its outflow having travelled fifty miles.

In the past I have drank from that water. It allowed the first identifiable people of the area to flourish and I have tried to think about their lives and language, researching them on the black screen’s portal, but also sipping at the spring where it leaves the labyrinth, my knees in the sand where their bones were discovered.

And all the time El Greco’s boy is still blowing on a flame, much to the fascination of the ape and the man who watches.


Originally published by Wales Arts Review February 2016

Photography by Peter Morgan