With regard to the internal cultural identity of Wales, the canon of Welsh poetry in English, or Anglo-Welsh poetry as it is often termed, has emerged during the twentieth century. Such earlier poets as Henry Vaughan, George Herbert and John Dyer have strong claims to being Welsh, but their works belong primarily in the English poetic tradition. Welsh remained the pre-eminent language of poetry within Wales until the end of the nineteenth century. The establishment of Welsh poetry in English as an internal literature of Wales followed the fading of the social and cultural order initiated in the mid-eighteenth century by the Methodist Awakening. Industrialism and the demographic shifts it effected displaced Welsh as the language of the majority in the more densely populated regions. The chapel-dominated and politically Liberal consensus was supplanted by the socialist ethos in the south and elsewhere.
This background to the corpus of twentieth-century Welsh poetry in English is discussed in detail by Anthony Conran in his Frontiers in Anglo-Welsh Poetry, one of two studies by that author forming the best available critical account of the subject. Conran notes that 'English in the families of. . . Dylan Thomas and Idris Davies was no more than a generation or two old. Before that, people no doubt spoke it, but it was a foreign speech to them' (Conran, 1997, p. 51). The poetic impulse, while still imaginatively nourished by the Welsh language's rich legacy, had to be accommodated in English and adapt itself to the social and psychological contexts of modernity. For Conran, the defining characteristic of Anglo-Welsh poetry is a complex awareness of the cultural situation it occupies. It stands apart from but is conditioned by Welsh-language traditions that, following the upsurge of linguistic nationalism in the 1960s, are energetically maintained in the politics as well as in the poetry of the Principality.
Dannie Abse's edition of Twentieth Century Anglo-Welsh Poetry (1997) forms a useful text for the present discussion. In addition to the six major figures considered below, some sixty other poets are represented, some of whom, like Edward Thomas and Wilfred Owen, have rather peripheral claims to Welshness. Abse also provides a useful anthology of critical observations on the nature of Anglo-Welsh poetry. Local particularity, emotional intensity, rhetorical energy, and historical and political contexts are among its suggested attributes. Abse himself believes accessibility is a characteristic feature, writing that 'the Welsh poet with his sense of community, while recognizing that the language of poetry differs from the language of logic, acknowledges his or her duty to communicate person to person' (Abse, 1997, p. 15). The accessibility of Anglo-Welsh poetry is akin to the generously communicative manner evident in the work of Seamus Heaney, Derek Walcott and Les Murray, which runs counter to the narcissistic privacies of much soi disant postmodernism.
Anglo-Welsh poetry has emotional and stylistic qualities relating to its sense of cultural displacement and the need to negotiate between past and present that Conran describes. Modernity gives rise to its own particular strain of hiraeth. This definitively Welsh state of longing is perhaps nearer the German Sehnsucht than the English nostalgia, but seems deeper in affective intensity and more spiritually elevated than either. Present in the passionately elegiac quality of much Welsh verse in English from earlier decades of the twentieth century, it fades to more muted registrations of an absent community of values in later Anglo-Welsh writing. As such, the Anglo-Welsh descendant of hiraeth is linked with the widespread acknowledgement of a missing moral term that is part of the modern yearning for a more knowable past and a less alienating present.
Stylistically, Welshness is manifest in the rhetorical and musical character of Welsh poetry in English. The sound and authority of yr iaith hen ('the old language') survive, as Roland Mathias notes, in the work of Dylan Thomas and his contemporaries:
The uninhibited eloquence of older Welsh speakers - what is too often loosely called the hwyl — had its echo in the extraordinary richness and profusion of language which was common in this first twentieth-century generation of Anglo-Welsh writers. (In Abse, 1997, p. 17)
In terms of its syllabic textures, Dylan Thomas's verse, like that of Hopkins before him and of various notable Anglo-Welsh poets since, displays a heightened musical-ity. Much Welsh verse in English is rich in assonance, alliteration and forms of internal rhyme which loosely simulate cynghanedd, the structural system of corresponding sounds in much Welsh poetry. The Welsh tradition's close concern with rhythm and metre is also reflected in the work of many Anglo-Welsh poets.
For the purposes of this essay, Anglo-Welsh poetry suffers an embarrassment of riches. Space must be reserved for Dylan Thomas, R. S. Thomas, Vernon Watkins and Alun Lewis, each indubitably Anglo-Welsh and generally accorded some importance in discussing twentieth-century poetry in English. David Jones's ambitiously modernist project does not fit neatly into an introductory treatment, though Welsh materials are central to his work. The shrewd and naive lyric poetry of W. H. Davies is also problematic. While there is very little explicit Welshness about his verse, it originates in the linguistic dispossession and social displacement experienced in South
Wales with the fading of the old cultural order. With regard to contemporary writing, the number of noteworthy poets who have formed reputations from the 1980s onward is too great to allow adequate commentary. The contribution of women poets like Jean Earle, Gillian Clarke, Ruth Bidgood and Sheenagh Pugh to more recent Anglo-Welsh writing compensates for the slender representation of women in earlier decades. While Lynette Roberts and Brenda Chamberlain, the best-known Anglo-Welsh women poets of the 1940s and 1950s, both produced outstanding poems, the comparative slenderness of their overall achievements excludes them from a general survey such as this.
What follows is therefore limited to introductory accounts of the works of Idris Davies (1905-53), Dylan Thomas (1914-53), Vernon Watkins (1906-67), Alun Lewis (1915-44), R. S. Thomas (1913-2000) and Dannie Abse (1923-), the six poets whom consensus already acknowledges as the principal contributors to twentieth-century Welsh poetry in English. Readers are referred to Abse's anthology for a broader view, taking in much fine poetry that is necessarily neglected here.
Idris Davies's work exhibits clearly most of the attributes of Welsh poetry in English identified above. At best, his writing is richly musical, accessible and rooted very specifically in the South Wales valleys. For Conran, Davies's poetry in English (he also wrote in Welsh) marks the final collapse of the unified culture whose eighteenth-century beginnings had their bardd in the great revivalist William Williams (Pantycelyn). The last vestiges of that era's visionary pieties underwent industrial burn-out during the long struggle of the General Strike of 1926 and the hardship of its aftermath. Davies quit the mine where he had worked since the age of fourteen in the year of the strike, and, after achieving that exile from origins conferred by education, spent much of the 1930s as a teacher in London.
At the centre of his poetry stand the title-sequences of Gwalia Deserta (1938) and The Angry Summer (1943). Both works amount to vivid montages of the mining valleys up to the onset of the depression of the 1930s. They offer vignettes of social and domestic situations, sharply satirical commentaries on religious and political pretensions, and memorable treatments of conditions among the miners, whether unemployed or at the coal-face:
There are countless tons of rock above his head, And gases wait in secret corners for a spark; And his lamp shows dimly in the dust. His leather belt is warm and moist with sweat, And he crouches against the hanging coal, And the pick swings to and fro . . . (Davies, 1972, p. 29)
Running intermittently through the poetry is an elegiac invocation of personal and communal senses of innocence and prosperity recalled from before the catastrophe of the First World War and the hardships of the 1920s and 1930s.
Like his collected poems as a whole, his major sequences alternate between traditional forms of versification, chiefly Housmanesque ballad stanzas, and rhythmically enhanced free verse. Davies's free verse has considerable originality in combining conversational directness with rhythmical fluency. His characteristic tendency to parataxis increases the effect of smooth continuity and sets up biblical resonances that function ironically in many of the poems:
The Commissioners depart with all their papers
And the pit-heads grin in the evening rain;
The white deacons dream of Gilead in the Methodist vestry
And the unemployed stare at the winter trees.
The lines open Gwalia Deserta, configuring oppressive capitalism, impotent chapel and hapless proletariat in the relative positions they emblematically occupy throughout Davies's poetry. While this sequence has an open historical focus covering the period from the late nineteenth-century heyday of King Coal in South Wales to the onset of the depression, the fifty poems making up The Angry Summer deal exclusively with events of 1926. Davies's free verse takes on a heightened colloquial vigour in poetic reportage of the social and commercial demarcations set up by the strike. His use of distinctively Anglo-Welsh speech idioms in The Angry Summer is poised incisively between affection and the satiric mood of many poems:
Mrs. Evans fach, you want butter again. How will you pay for it now, little woman With your husband out on strike, and full Of the fiery language? (Ibid., p. 88)
Throughout both these sequences a tension is maintained between the relaxed fluency of his free-verse and the rhetorical heightening of his rhymed forms, which can be fiercely impressive in the heraldic simplicity of their imagery:
From wandering in Worcester, In Merthyr, and in Bow,
This is the truth I gather, As naked as the snow;
The cur shall be in clover, The poet in the sleet,
Till Christ comes into Dover With fire at his feet.
Davies's achievement lies in the formal originality with which he manipulates his contrasting modes to maintain a tone of humane detachment from the social, moral and political urgency of his concerns. His verse engages his native place with a thoroughness and sensitivity equalling that of John Clare's poetry of Helpstone. The long poem 'I was Born in Rhymney', an experimental autobiography in ballad form, is notable for its luminous economy of narrative. In other work, like 'September 1940' and 'Air Raid', his London experiences give rise to graphic civilian poems of the Second World War. Of the major contributors to Welsh poetry in English of the twentieth century, he remains at present the least well known beyond his Welsh home ground.
There is something of a disparity between the enduring popularity with an international readership Dylan Thomas continues to enjoy and the comparative neglect of his work by the critical mainstream. For the orthodoxy established by the Movement in the 1950s, Thomas's poetry exemplified the neo-romanticism such rationally sceptical poets as Philip Larkin and Donald Davie sought to supersede. There is no doubt that Thomas's imaginative audacity and sonorously vatic tone were intoxicating influences for poets associated with the New Apocalypse in the 1940s. Such work, however, lacks the impact and cohesion conferred on Thomas's poetry by his outstanding technical abilities.
The intelligibility of his verse with regard to its delivery of paraphrasable meanings varies widely. He often writes with the elevated straightforwardness of 'Do not go gentle into that good night', his celebrated elegy for his father. On the other hand, in many poems cataracts of imagery offer up their own imaginative modes of continuity, with taut musical regulation through metre and effects of rhyme, assonance and alliteration supplying structural integrity:
Dawn breaks behind the eyes;
From poles of skull and toe the windy blood
Slides like a sea;
Nor fenced, nor staked, the gushers of the sky
Spout to the rod
Divining in a smile the oil of tears.
('Light breaks where no sun shines')
The stanza is an example of the affirmation of unities between nature and human experience made in many of his earlier poems. Much of Thomas's imagery at this stage in his career is strongly charged with sexual and generative connotations in poems that draw on his conceptions of 'symbolism derived . . . from the cosmic significance of the human anatomy' (Thomas, 1985, p. 98).
His most successful work finds its level of meaning somewhere between his plainly comprehensible manner and the opacities of his more reckless raids on the emotionally and psychologically inarticulate. 'The force that through the green fuse drives the flower' is an early poem in which the visionary thrust of the afflatus is held in working tension with a prevailing logic of exposition. Poems like the popular 'Fern Hill' are easily assimilated in terms of their narrative and descriptive development once the reader adjusts to the long casts of Thomas's parataxis, a hallmark of the Anglicized approximations to hwyl remarked on by Roland Mathias above. The poem also instances the rich textures of sound Thomas carries over from the Welsh traditions. Cynghanedd effects are heard throughout in such internally distributed sound correspondences as 'swallow/shadow', 'rising/riding', 'fly/high' and 'easy/means/green/ chains':
Nothing I cared, in the lamb white days, that time would take me Up to the swallow thronged loft by the shadow of my hand, In the moon that is always rising,
Nor that riding to sleep I should hear him fly with the high fields And wake to the farm forever fled from the childless land. Oh as I was young and easy in the mercy of his means, Time held me green and dying Though I sang in my chains like the sea.
'Fern Hill' is one of a number of Thomas's later poems in which direct sensory experience of landscape and locality supports an emotionally energized lyricism. Broadly speaking, there is a development discernible from the cryptic intensities of the early verse towards the more accessible and accommodating tone of Deaths and Entrances (1946) and later writing.
Regardless of his stock's fluctuation among postwar critics, he is clearly located on the large-scale map of English verse through his strong representation in Helen Gardner's New Oxford Book of English Verse (1972) and Philip Larkin's Oxford Book of Twentieth-Century English Verse (1973). His spectacular verbal dexterity in poetry, in various prose forms, and in the idiosyncratic triumph of his 'play for voices' Under Milk Wood (1954) is inseparable from the generous humanity and imaginative vitality that continue to ensure his work an active readership.
Vernon Watkins was a life-long friend of Dylan Thomas's. Watkins's admiration for the younger poet, whom he recurrently addressed in his work, was equalled only by his passionate regard for Yeats, whom he met and made the subject of numerous poems. Both represented to him the revelatory ideals of poethood his own writing strongly reflects. For Watkins, they stand alongside the ancient Welsh poet Taliesin, a figure in whom myth and history are confused, as exponents of the hieratic and magical conception of poetry. Several times Watkins assumes the persona of Taliesin to press poetry's transcendent claims:
Before men walked
I was in these places.
I was here
When the mountains were laid.
I am as light
To eyes long blind,
I, the stone Upon every grave. ('Taliesin and the Mockers')
Classical mythology, biblical material and neoplatonism fuse with Welsh legend and lore in the metaphysically ambitious project of Watkins's verse. Throughout his long and prolific career, he continued drawing on the natural world, history and myth to affirm by image and exposition an order in which time and transience are denied ultimate significance.
He is a poet of consequence and originality through the opulence of his lyric intuitions, his keen technical skill, and the restlessly intelligent imagination evident in much of his writing. The close of 'Egyptian Burial: Resurrection in Wales', the second of his 'Pledges to Darkness', illustrates his eclectic historical and imaginative manner, the suppleness of his verse, and the affirmative power with which he concludes many poems:
Dear love, could my true soul believe The wide heavens merciless, I still would not forsake The man-tilled earth to which bones cleave While horses race across
The neighbouring field, and their hooves shine
Scattering a starlike wake.
Magnanimous morning, if we change no line,
Shall pierce stone, leaf and moss,
And the true creature at light's bidding wake.
Watkins frequently produces such elevated effects, contriving the sounds and images of his poetry with innate virtuosity.
His high style is complemented by masterful use of ballad forms for many poems. The best known of these, and arguably his most impressive single achievement, is the long poem 'The Ballad of the Mari Lwyd', based on childhood memories of a Welsh folk tradition in which a mare's skull is carried from house to house on a pole. The poem's imaginative power, borne on its insistent rhythm and refrain, draws the reader into a liminal dimension where the sinister dead plead with the living for a share in life:
'Hell curse this house for a badger's holt
If we find no man devout.
God singe this doorway, hinge and bolt,
If you keep our evil out.
Long-limbed we hung in the taunting trees
And cried in our great thirst:
Give us a drink, light breaks our knees.
Give, or the house is cursed.'
The persistence of Watkins's visionary concerns tends to preclude thematic development in his work. His verse, however, is distinguished by a clarity and precision of imagery that work in conjunction with its acutely judged musicality. He is a refreshingly readable poet, whose Welshness is self-evidently at home in the English language.
The Welshness of Alun Lewis is also readily apparent through the invocations of Welsh myth and history that recur in his earlier verse and through the local specificity of such documentary poems as 'The Mountain Over Aberdare':
The drab streets strung across the cwm, Derelict workings, tips of slag The gospellers and gamblers use And children scrutting for the coal That winter dole cannot purvey.
The majority of his collected poems were written after the outbreak of the Second World War in 1939 and much of his finest work is deeply preoccupied with the themes of love and war. Raider's Dawn (1942), the only collection published in his lifetime, recurrently reflects the brutalizing diminution of individuality effected by military training and anticipates action with imaginative inventiveness:
We are the little men grown huge with death. Stolid in squads or grumbling on fatigues, We held the honour of the regiment And stifled our antipathies.
Stiff-backed and parrot-wise with pamphlet learning, We officiated at the slaughter of the riverine peoples In butcheries beyond the scope of our pamphlets.
The sequences 'Threnody for a Starry Night' and 'War Wedding' engage the abnegation wrought on social, cultural and personal levels by the experience of war, reaching for shards of humane values amid the destruction:
We were the daylight but we could not see.
Yet now at last, in shelter, tube and street,
Communal anguish banishes
Now in the crowded deadly places
Indifferent profiles have become
Beautiful tormented faces.
('Threnody for a Starry Night', VIII)
Ha! Ha! Among the Trumpets (1945) has a narrative inevitability running through its three sections, 'England', 'The Voyage' and 'India', which progress towards the heart of darkness confronted in the poems Lewis composed before his death in Burma. 'Goodbye', which closes the first section, is arguably the finest love poem of the Second World War, playing off bleak realism against limpid romanticism in a manner characteristic of Lewis's poetry:
I put a final shilling in the gas, And watch you slip your dress below your knees And lie so still I hear your rustling comb Modulate the autumn in the trees.
'Karanje Village' states 'I am seeking less and less of the world' (Lewis, 1994, p. 130), indicating the fatalistic withdrawal registered in the substantial body of poetry Lewis produced after arriving in India. 'The Jungle', the longest of these poems, meditates on the moral and existential impasse of war in traumatically alienating surroundings and extends its apologia for the loss of humanity undergone:
Oh you who want us for ourselves,
Whose love can start the snow-rush in the woods
And melt the glacier in the dark coulisse,
Forgive this strange inconstancy of soul,
The face distorted in a jungle pool
'The Maharatta Ghats', 'Indian Day' and the two parts of 'In Hospital: Poona' are further striking examples of Lewis's Indian poetry. In such work brilliantly focused detail gives structure and substance to blank realizations of the distance war has brought him and his fellow soldiers from their former moral and psychological environments.
There is much else in Lewis's work, including the unsettlingly dead-pan treatment of the terror and banality of warfare in 'The Run-In', to underwrite the distinction he shares with Keith Douglas of producing the finest British poetry of the Second World War.
R. S. Thomas, the pre-eminent Anglo-Welsh poet of the postwar era, configures in much of his earlier work a remote Welsh landscape of spiritual and material privation, whose benighted representatives command recognition as types of the modern everyman:
I am the farmer, stripped of love
And thought and grace by the land's hardness;
But what I am saying over the fields'
Desolate acres, rough with dew,
Is, Listen, listen, I am a man like you.
('The Hill Farmer Speaks')
For over forty years Thomas was vicar of a succession of rural Welsh parishes. Many of his poems focus with disquieting intensity on domestic and social instancings of life and death in which the theological problem of evil and the terrible challenge of faith are implicit. 'Death of a Peasant' is one of several poems which can offer no consolation in the face of the brute facts of poverty and ignorance:
. . . neighbours crossing the uneasy boards To peer at Davies with gruff words Of meaningless comfort, before they turned Heartless away from the stale smell Of death in league with those dank walls.
The sure metrical tread and rugged syllabic music typical of Thomas's verse are in those lines, his plain diction habitually resonant with the conviction of considered utterance. His early work's bare landscapes have their analogue in the pared-down and scrupulous style that has always distinguished his verse. One effect of such economy is to concentrate images in poems that combine qualities of fable and realist particularity, as in 'Meet the Family', where a life-denying meanness of spirit is presented with chilling starkness:
John All and his lean wife, Whose forced complicity gave life To each loathed foetus, stare from the wall, Dead not absent. The night falls.
'Here' exemplifies his ability to shape poetry from a simplicity of statement that disconcerts through the very blankness of its factuality:
Pass your hand over my brow,
A harshly unsentimental Welsh nationalism is intermittently present throughout Thomas's work in such poems as 'The Old Language', 'Welsh History' and 'Reservoirs'. For Thomas, the enemy is not only 'the English / Scavenging among the remains / Of our culture' (Thomas, 1993, p. 194), but equally the parvanimity of his own people. The dry humour his laconically precise tone can support so well is frequently aimed at the Welsh. In 'Welcome to Wales' the tourist is urged to 'Come to Wales / To be buried; the undertaker / Will arrange it for you', while 'Walter Llywarch' opens with a tautological twist mocking a circumspect retreat into terminal social stagnation:
I am, as you know, Walter Llywarch, Born in Wales of approved parents, Well goitred, round in the bum, Sure prey of the slow virus Bred in quarries of grey rain.
The affirmatives in Thomas's poetry are hard-won from the bleakness of vision often encountered in his work. He is, however, capable of putting his uncompromising talent to memorably epiphanic use:
There were no prayers said. But stillness Of the heart's passions - that was praise Enough; and the mind's cession Of its kingdom. I walked on, Simple and poor, while the air crumbled And broke on me generously as bread.
The lines are from 'The Moor', one of the poems of the early 1960s in which religious and theological elements begin to assume ascendancy in Thomas's work. Faith and doubt, logic and intuition, joy and terror are brought urgently into play in his poetry's search to know the God with whom it struggles, acknowledging that 'we die / with the knowledge that your resistance / is endless at the frontier of the great poem' (Thomas, 1993, p. 291). Some of his later work steps through the deep space of the great abstractions on an idiosyncratic exactitude of metre and diction that conveys the tension of the engagement:
God, it is not your reflections we seek, wonderful as they are in the live fibre; it is the possibility of your presence at the cone's point towards which we soar in hope to arrive at the still centre, where love operates on all those frequencies that are set up by the spinning of two minds, the one on the other. ('Cones')
Throughout his work's profound and extensive involvement over more than fifty years with social, cultural, theological and personal themes, the same clear and rigorous voice is heard. He is as capable of provoking with quirky humour as he is of fixing attention to the dark and brutal places of the psyche, or of striking new chords of rarefied praise from his solitary broodings on God. The two greatest Welsh poets in English of the twentieth century will be found in the reference books under 'T' for 'Thomas'.
The careers of R. S. Thomas and Dannie Abse have a parallel chronology, Thomas's first collection having appeared in 1946, Abse's in 1948. While they are equally concerned to make poetic sense of the human condition, Abse's hospitably communicative manner is very different from the craggy singularity with which Thomas pursues his major themes. Abse, whose Welshness is reflected clearly in his work, unites the Anglo-Welsh idiom with the dominant metropolitan modes of postwar British poetry as shaped by the Movement and succeeding developments. From 1943 onward he lived in London, where he studied medicine and subsequently practised as a doctor. In Abse the peculiarity of being 'London Welsh' coexists with his distinctness of cultural identity as a Jew, which is acutely registered at many points in his work:
The eyes open:
the German earth is made of helmets;
the wind seeps through a deep frost hole that is somewhere else carrying the far Jew-sounds of railway trucks.
While such notes of historical and moral gravity are periodically heard, Abse more characteristically displays a relaxed urbanity of tone and an attractive mobility across a wide range of themes and occasions: family, medicine, sport, love, art, religion, landscape and suburbia are recurrent sources of poetry. He can be the poet of social situations whose abject ordinariness becomes something almost loved through the gentle strength of his cadences and subtle heightenings of imagery:
Who, in the public library, one evening after rain, amongst the polished tables and linoleum, stands bored under blank light to glance at these pages? Whose absent mood, like neon glowing in the night, is conversant with wet pavements, nothing to do? ('Public Library')
Abse's capacity for intense lyricism is one of his clearest Anglo-Welsh traits. 'Epi-thalamion', the best known of his early poems, is a ritualized effusion celebrating marriage that reflects stylistically his admiration for Dylan Thomas. In the much later 'Letter from Ogmore' the Anglo-Welsh lyrical surge breaks through the poem's grim survey of modern history. The lines quoted have a characteristic technical adroitness in combining tautness of form and heightened musicality with an informal openness of tone:
But here, this mellow evening, on these high cliffs I look down to read the unrolling holy scrolls of the sea. They are blank. The enigma is alive and, for the Present, I boast, thumbs in lapels, I survive.
'In the Theatre', 'The Smile Was' and 'Case History' are among the poems in which Abse draws on his professional experience of medicine and surgery to produce compelling and occasionally harrowing poetry. The sureness of touch and humane tact he brings to such work is frequently encountered elsewhere in his writing, which is much concerned with mortality and death:
For that night his wife brought him a peach, his favourite fruit, while the sick light glowed, and his slack, dry mouth sucked, sucked, sucked, with dying eyes closed — perhaps for her sake — till bright as blood the peachstone showed. ('The Peachstone')
The satisfactions of his work range from such moving achievements to the sophisticated ribaldry of 'The Ballad of Oedipus Sex' — 'some like girls contemporary / but I like them antique' — and other memorably amusing poems. Abse's example suggested a stimulating variety of new stylistic and formal possibilities for younger poets contributing to Welsh writing in English. While he continues his own mature development, his facilitating influence is discernible in the work of Tony Curtis, Robert Minhinnick and others of their generation. With such talents as Gwyneth Lewis, Duncan Bush, Paul Henry, Christine Evans, Stephen Knight and Catherine Fisher working alongside them, contemporary Welsh poetry in English seems in capable hands.
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Stephens, Meic (ed.) (1991). The Bright Field: An Anthology of Contemporary Poetry From Wales. Manchester: Carcanet.
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