![\"\"](\"http:\/\/www.gfdesign.co.uk\/culture\/wp-content\/uploads\/2022\/03\/4ba80adb85a1e17536e4e0616bc60990.jpg\")
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Harri Webb and Merthyr Tydfil<\/strong><\/p>\n 2020 was the hundredth anniversary of the birth of the poet Harri Webb, born on 7 September 1920 at Sketty, Swansea. He left Swansea at the age of 18 after being awarded a scholarship to Magdalen College, Oxford to study Modern Languages. Harri Webb was a prolific writer of poems, prose and political commentary. His close affinity to Swansea stayed with him until his final days when he resolved to move to a nursing home in his hometown. He died in his sleep in the early hours of New Year’s Eve in 1994, a ‘Swansea Jack’ from birth to death.<\/p>\n Harri Webb was appointed Librarian at the Dowlais Branch Library in Merthyr Tydfil in 1954, which started his close association with this once radical town in Welsh history. As a Welsh republican he became a well-known, colourful character, who took an interest in the local history of the town. He learnt Welsh in his early adulthood and adopted the Dowlais dialect of the language, and was one of the founder members and chairman of the eisteddfod in Merthyr Tydfil. A ‘squat’ in Garth Newydd in the town was his home for 12 years where he was joined by other patriots, including his friend Meic Stephens. The house became a centre for Nationalist activities and the ‘Free Wales’ pirate radio was broadcast from an attic in the house in response to the ban on political broadcasts by Plaid Cymru.\u00a0<\/p>\n He became\u00a0 a close friend of the local M.P. Stephen Owen Davies, who was fondly known as S.O. and was the longest standing member of parliament for Merthyr Tydfil, from 1934 to his death in 1972. S.O. was a sincere and uncompromising socialist in his views and actions and he clashed with his own Labour government and local party on occasions. Conflict with his local constituency party resulted in S.O. being deselected as the Labour candidate in 1970 on the expressed\u00a0 grounds of his age – he was then aged 84 years. Harold Wilson called a snap election in June 1970 and S.O. responded by standing for re-election as an Independent Socialist. He gained overwhelming support from the people of Merthyr Tydfil and he was ably supported by many young people, helping him to defeat the official Labour candidate by the resounding majority of 7,467. He later politely declined the offer of the freedom of the borough by the local council, stating that the confidence of the people of Merthyr Tydfil shown to him at the election was enough.\u00a0<\/p>\n S.O. died on 25th February 1972, at the Merthyr Tydfil General Hospital following a short illness. The funeral was held at Soar-Ynysgau Chapel. A plaque in his memory was unveiled at\u00a0 Penydarren Park in 2013.\u00a0<\/p>\n The General Election of June 1970 was the first time for 18-21 year olds to achieve the vote and there is little doubt that S.O.’s \u00a0re-election owed much to the enthusiastic campaigning of his young supporters. The poet Harri \u00a0Webb and good friend of S.O. recalled the great support the veteran socialist received from youthful Welsh nationalists:<\/p>\n Here \u00a0was an old man, said to be older than he gave out, impeccably garbed in fashion of the thirties at the latest; the striped trousers, the long black overcoat, the immaculate silk scarf, the venerable white hair under the broad-brimmed black silk hat. And here were his most conspicuous campaigners – a harum-scarum bunch, their leather jackets and blue jeans emblazoned with the Eagle of Snowdon, the Dragon’s Tongue and the menacing, sharp-pointed Triban. It was an irresistible combination. The Old Gang did not know what had hit them.\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0<\/em><\/p>\n To the Memory of a Friend<\/strong><\/p>\n by Harri Webb<\/em><\/p>\n The kind old eyes are closed at last\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 To the Memory of a Friend was written by Harri Webb in 1972. The poem is Harri Webb’s tribute to his old friend S.O. Davies, who he met when he lived in Dowlais. <\/em><\/p>\n Merthyr Tydfil, its history and people feature in several of the poems written by Harri Webb. The Old Parish Churchyard was written by Harri Webb in 1965. The poem is set in St Tydfil’s Parish Church. “New Flats” in the poem probably refers to Caedraw Flats. The “White Tip” was a tip of waste material above Merthyr Tydfil from the Dowlais ironworks, known locally as the ‘Whitey’.<\/p>\n The Chapel of St. Tydfil became the Parish Church in the 16th century. The town achieved borough status in 1905\/08. The motto on the Borough Coat of Arms, ‘Nid Cadarn ond Brodyr Dde’ \u2013 Not force, but fellowship,<\/em> adopted from the original\u00a0 motto of Edward Williams –\u00a0 Iolo ap Morganwg, was introduced by his son Taliesin ab Iolo. \u00a0<\/strong>(Merthyr Tydfil).<\/p>\n The Old Parish Churchyard<\/strong><\/p>\n by Harri Webb<\/em><\/p>\n I share this churchyard Sunday silence with The Lamb, a public house in Castle street, built in the 1850s in\u00a0 the once notorious ‘China’ area was \u00a0described by his friend Dr Meic Stephens, editor of the book ‘Collected Poems of Harri Webb’, as having had “a raffish clientele of regular drinkers and pint-pot patriots”. It was a haunt for colourful characters including Harri Webb himself, who immortalised this drinking-haunt for patriots and rugby supporters in his poem ‘The Lamb’, written in 1963. It was also the backdrop for a photograph of the performers of Harri Webb’s great work The Green Desert <\/em>which was performed and recorded in 1971.\u00a0 \u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n \u00a0 The Lamb in 1971 with the Hennessys, Margaret John, Heather Jones and Ray Smith, the performers of The Green Desert and its author Harri Webb and Meredydd Evans.<\/em><\/p>\n The Lamb<\/strong><\/p>\n \u00a0by<\/em>\u00a0Harri Webb<\/em><\/p>\n There’s a town called Merthyr Tydfil The iconic Cyfarthfa Castle stands as a symbol of the pillage of the mineral wealth of Merthyr Tydfil by the four major ironworks of Cyfarthfa, Dowlais, Penydarren and Plymouth. Cyfarthfa which means: Place of the barking <\/em>dogs, the name may derive from a ‘meeting- place for hunters’. The iron works at Cyfarthfa was developed by Richard Crawshay in the 18th century. It was the wealthiest ironworks in the world in 1811 and Admiral Nelson visited Cyfarthfa in 1802. Cyfarthfa Castle was built by William Crawshay junior in 1825 at the cost of \u00a330.000. It was purchased by Merthyr Tydfil Council for \u00a318.000 in 1908 and converted into a grammar school, museum and art gallery by 1913. \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0<\/p>\n The Ironmaster Robert Thompson Crawshay, son of William Crawshay is buried under a heavy stone slab in Vaynor Churchyard with the inscription ‘God forgive me.’ The Church Tafarn stands next to the church and is the subject of the poem ‘Big Night’ written by Harri Webb in 1959. The poem first appeared under the title ‘Disgraceful Conduct’. Meic Stephens, editor of The Collected Poems of Harri Webb, changed the title to ‘Big Night’ with the permission of the poet. The poem describes one of many nights out at the legendary tavern near Merthyr Tydfil.\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0<\/p>\n Vaynor Church<\/em><\/p>\n Big Night<\/strong><\/p>\n by Harri Webb<\/em><\/p>\n We started drinking at seven Dowlais: which means black brook.<\/em> ‘Dow’ is derived from ‘du’ which is Welsh for black and ‘lais’ from ‘glais’ \u00a0which is a common word for a brook in south Wales. The name probably referred to the shaded or dark colour of the river bed.\u00a0 The village developed around the Dowlais ironworks. It was under the management of\u00a0 Josiah John Guest that the ironworks developed to become the largest ironworks in the world with a workforce of 5000 in the 1840s. Josiah John Guest was born in Dowlais in 1785. He was a\u00a0 generous benefactor in his community funding schools, workmen’s libraries and Dowlais Church. He became the first M.P. to represent Merthyr Tydfil in 1832. Lady Charlotte Guest, his wife, was English by birth and learned Welsh well enough to enable her to be the first to translate the Welsh tales of the Mabinogi into English in 1849. The Reverend Thomas Price (Carnhuanwc), the Welsh\u00a0 scholar, patriot\u00a0 and genius of a man, assisted Lady Guest with the translation. The Dowlais Iron Company imported iron ore from Spain and houses were built to accommodate the \u00a0immigrants from Spain and a street in Dowlais, Alphonso Street was named after Alphonso XIII of Spain.<\/p>\n \u00a0 \u00a0Dowlais blast furnace<\/em><\/p>\n Dowlais Stables were built in 1820 by Sir Josiah John Guest to accommodate hundreds of horses used for haulage by the Dowlais Iron Company. Soldiers were based at the building for several years following the Merthyr Riots of 1831. Lady Charlotte Guest established classrooms in the stables building to educate children of the Iron Company workforce until Dowlais schools were built in 1854\/55. In the 1980s, the Stables were transformed into flats for the elderly while still maintaining the original building with the facade, entrance block and flanking pavilions.<\/p>\n Dowlais stables<\/em><\/p>\n Dowlais written by Harri Webb in 1989, was his last poem. The poem celebrates the iron-town of Dowlais, the place where, according to his friend Meic Stephens, Harri Webb “was happiest and which left the most lasting mark on his poetry”. Note: ‘Lusiads’ is an epic poem by Luis de Camoes in the 16th century, which relates to the exploits of Vasco da Gama, who first discovered a sea-route to the East in 1498.\u00a0<\/p>\n Dowlais<\/strong><\/p>\n by Harri Webb<\/em><\/p>\n That life of wonder in the Lusiads Illustrations appear with the permission of the late Dewi Bowen, a local artist and copyright for the poems of Harri Webb was obtained from the late Dr Meic Stephens. Reference has also been made to ‘The Collected Poems of Harri Webb’ by Dr Meic Stephens. The selection of Harri Webb’s poems is from the book ‘Merthyr Tydfil Places make History.’ <\/strong>For more information see: malcolmgartref.wordpress.com. Books available by post by contacting: llyfraubrynach@btinternet.com<\/a><\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" Harri Webb and Merthyr Tydfil 2020 was the hundredth anniversary of the birth of the poet Harri Webb, born on 7 September 1920 at Sketty, Swansea. He…<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":620,"featured_media":14455,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[1660],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-14461","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-poetry-2"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"http:\/\/www.gfdesign.co.uk\/culture\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/14461","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"http:\/\/www.gfdesign.co.uk\/culture\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"http:\/\/www.gfdesign.co.uk\/culture\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/www.gfdesign.co.uk\/culture\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/620"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/www.gfdesign.co.uk\/culture\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=14461"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"http:\/\/www.gfdesign.co.uk\/culture\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/14461\/revisions"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/www.gfdesign.co.uk\/culture\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/14455"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"http:\/\/www.gfdesign.co.uk\/culture\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=14461"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/www.gfdesign.co.uk\/culture\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=14461"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/www.gfdesign.co.uk\/culture\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=14461"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}
That mirrored memories of a past
When all our valleys rose as one
To see a people’s justice done.
He strode those bitter barren years
With pride that banished doubts and fears
And in that voice that challenged wrong
His father’s wit, his mother’s song.
Rang out again from vanished days
To lead our land in Freedom’s ways.
And in the winter of his time
When generous thoughts were held a crime,
He put to flight the sons of shame
Who had usurped proud Labour’s name.
With him age comes to its end,
So much has died with this old friend,
But much lives on, his faith, his strength,
His vision that all men at length
Would walk in Freedom on this earth
And a new world would be brought to birth.
Old warrior, rest, after long strife,
Yours was no vain or waste life,
Although the struggle’s not yet done,
We promise you, it shall be won.<\/p>\n![\"Picture2\"](\"http:\/\/www.gfdesign.co.uk\/culture\/wp-content\/uploads\/2021\/03\/Picture2.jpg\")
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A nibbling sheep, another stray presence
Whose mind inherits a pattern laid down
Before Tydfil’s bones. Now we both browse
About her abandoned alter. The crisp cropping
Is louder than the traffic that buzzes
Around the roundabout just beyond the railings
Massive with rust. A few yards of grass
And straggling nameless bushes insulate
The churchyard, the Sunday, the afternoon
From a world in which there are no more
Churchyards, Sundays or afternoons.
Here they all lie, the people of This Village,
Of This Parish, under flaking local stone
Lettered in simple elegance in the
Ceremonial English of the Welsh-speaking dead:
The farmers, the lieutenants of industry
(The captains, of course, are interred elsewhere),
Some who did good, remembered by the student,
But mostly forgotten, and even these names
Only the literate generations floodlit
Between the green committals and the crematoria
Of all the dead of Wales, a land where only
The dead are secure in their inheritance.
Caved-in table-tombs, expressive once
Of aspirations in a social order, up-end
Their rotten limestone in untidy chaos.
Frost and neglect have eroded the epitaphs
Composed with such care, and now nobody bothers
Even to desecrate. The kindly, tired grass
Is doing its best to hide total abandonment.
Outside the churchyard wall the new flats
Rear their functional hutches, the smooth roads
sweep over the old slums. Along the river bank
The rubble of the past is pounded to foundations
For a better world. Up on the White Tip,
Ridges of late snow gleam in weak sunshine
Like tattered banners in an old battle.
A sly wind snipes from the river Taff;
There are withdrawals, advances, but, in this land,
No victory, no defeat. At my approach
The sheep lifts her head, her twin lambs
Start up from the tombstones and scamper in their spring.\u00a0<\/p>\n![\"Picture3\"](\"http:\/\/www.gfdesign.co.uk\/culture\/wp-content\/uploads\/2021\/03\/Picture3.jpg\")
<\/strong><\/p>\n
Where no one gives a damn
There are seven hundred pubs there
But the best one is The Lamb.
It stands upon the corner
Of Glebeland and Castle Street,
And there from noon to midnight
All honest drinkers meet.
The landlord is a character
Of universal fame,
Though I’m sorry for the moment
I can’t recall his name.
But whatever you think about him
His beer is of the best,
And discriminating drinkers
Will quaff his ale with zest.
The high and lofty ceilings
Are with colour all aglow,
‘Tis said that they were painted
By Michelangelo.
The walls are decked with tapestry,
The floors with carpets rich,
And when you’ve had a skinful
You can’t tell which is which.
As everyone gets plastered
The repartee is prime,
And the landlord’s called a bastard
If he won’t serve after time.
The glory of this tavern
Is its famous rugby team,
‘Tis said by all and sundry
Their playing’s like a dream.
So let us all raise our glasses
And down many a pint and dram,
And all join in the chorus
Of Worthy is The Lamb!\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0<\/p>\n![\"Picture10](\"http:\/\/www.gfdesign.co.uk\/culture\/wp-content\/uploads\/2022\/03\/Picture10_resized.jpg\")
<\/p>\n![\"Picture5](\"http:\/\/www.gfdesign.co.uk\/culture\/wp-content\/uploads\/2022\/03\/Picture5_resized.jpg\")
<\/p>\n
And went out for a breather at ten,
And all the stars in heaven
Said: Go back and drink again.
Orion was furiously winking
As he gave us the green light
So we went back in to our drinking
Through the breakneck Brecknock night.
We were singers, strongmen and sages,
We were witty and wise and brave,
And all the ghosts of the ages
Applauded from Crawshay’s grave.
The tipsy Taff was bawling
A non-traditional tune
And the owls of Pontsarn were calling
Rude names at the frosty moon.
And homeward we were swaggering
As the Pandy clock struck three
And the stars of the Plough went swaggering
From Vaynor to Pengarnddu.\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0<\/p>\n![\"Picture6\"](\"http:\/\/www.gfdesign.co.uk\/culture\/wp-content\/uploads\/2022\/03\/Picture6.jpg\")
<\/strong><\/p>\n![\"Picture7\"](\"http:\/\/www.gfdesign.co.uk\/culture\/wp-content\/uploads\/2022\/03\/Picture7.jpg\")
<\/p>\n
When all the marvels of the eastern sea
Sparkled and shone in endless mystery
To daze the hungry eyes of Vasco’s lads
With scenes undreamt of, isles of luxury,
Promise of pleasure, loot and mastery,
Empire unheard of opulent dowry,
Indies on Indies dazzling myriads,
Was mine when on an iron January day
I first saw Dowlais on its iron hill
And all was iron, like its history,
The stone, the scowling church, the air
All gave me welcome and all said
At last, after long wandering, you’re there.\u00a0\u00a0<\/p>\n