Archive for May, 2016

Concrete Poem: Childe Roland

The B-Line by Childe Roland

The B-Line is inspired by the shape of the letter B which has not changed since its Egyptian hieroglyph origins. It still depicts the floor plan of a two roomed hut. It was called BETH. It can be found even in Welsh place names like Bethel. Inclined on one side I found that the letter B takes on some of the characteristics of a heart. When constructed into a 3-D object, using for example a strip of card or plastic, it becomes a spring loaded object that may fly apart.


Childe Roland is the pen name of the experimental poet Peter Noel Meilleur. His journeys across the landscape of the blank page, his inspiration, are documented in his collection of prose poems The Six of Clubs. He writes in English, French and Welsh.

Childe Roland has other concrete poems in the latest issue of Poetry Wales – Jones the Poem and The Barcode Kiss which is on the front cover of the issue.


First Thursday, Cardiff, June 2016

Thursday June 2nd, 7.30pm, £2.50
Media Point, Chapter Arts Centre, Cardiff

Poetry Wales returns to Cardiff’s First Thursday literary evening on June 2nd 2016. We’ll be celebrating our new Desire issue with contributors Suze de Lee and Rhys Trimble, Tamara Dellutri and Emily Blewitt. Plus there’s the famous open mic. Visit the First Thursday Facebook group for more information.


Poem: Palatine Hill by Wanda O’Connor

Palatine Hill


Find me not in the Pantheon but with the aviaries of
Palatine Hill

&nbsp‘mark yourself foreign’

Remnants of copper wire pierce the earth, my own flesh
and blood leaves me

I’m inflicted
with Caesar’s sensations of fullness1 __(two solitudes: one a secret fault)

a life I could not live
for lack of mapping at the start and rummaging through the middle, peaking at

&nbspI live in errands, in ends and joints. Shedding,
make that puffing,
as a single sheet hanging
from a wire,

&nbspmore figuring than balancing.

I have a secret river I call Rubicon
&nbspand collect fragments of hoof, nets and stream.

To walk the river is to slip.
To walk the river is to to ache &nbspnostos altos (pain-return).
To walk the river is to whisk surface into the harbor that is body.
To walk the river is to recur.

I hope to find the remnants of a Roman street ____carnelian-cast
an object I can wear around my neck.

Least of all
I want the field
where I stood staring at the voice of my grandmother shouting for a parent as I stroked the workhorse repeatedly.




1 falling sickness


From Spring 2016 V51.3 Poetry Wales