Earth Day / Welsh Wetlands

When you think of all the life that Earth has sustained – is sustaining – will sustain, across the whole of time; when you think of the near infinity of flora and fauna blooming and being upon, above, and within the Earth right at this moment; when your mind reaches up to the thin wing bones of a bird, let’s say the albatross, which are of a span so wide as to allow it to glide thousands of kilometres without pause; and then think down to the deepest dwelling creatures of the sea, as deep as we can ourselves fathom, to the monster-ish fang tooth fish and snails that resemble small ghosts; and then across into the dark innards of the Earth, its rich, black soil, to the myriad flatworms, roundworms, and ringed worms, drawing dirt into their bellies and transmuting them into their own existence: you know that even these creatures are a miracle, and more valuable than gold; that the Earth itself is everything, everything, it is Everything, and as such is precious beyond any words.

We often talk about the rainforest being destroyed, but did you know that Wales in fact possesses its own ‘rainforest’, a wonderfully rich, wildlife-sustaining series of habitats known as the wetlands? Right now some of the Welsh wetlands – specifically, the Gwent Levels – are under threat because ‘they’ want to build a relief road for the M4 through it. This area is home to the endangered water vole, the common crane (which has only recently returned to the area after 400 years away), the rare king diving beetle, and the scarce rootless duckweed. Grass snakes lie like lords in the long, feather grasses; birds of many description gather here to nest and feed. In order to save 10 minutes of commuting time, it is proposed that 125 hectares of this specially protected wildlife zone be destroyed or damaged, and the rest polluted by toxic vehicle fumes. Its water ways would be disrupted, also, which for the WET-lands means that a major element of its ongoing sustainability could be dangerously unbalanced.

In a small way I’m hoping to engage people with the #WelshWetlands via the #LiteratureMatters award I’ve just been granted by the Royal Society of Literature to create a number of podcasts (if you’d like to feature on one of these / collaborate, please get in touch!). I live directly opposite Cardiff Wetlands, which are incredibly beautiful and inspiring. But, more than this, they are often considered to be the lungs or lymphatic system of the Earth, and of cities in particular, as they tend to exist in close proximity to urban areas. So, on this Earth Day, I wanted to alert you to the fact that this particular set of lungs, the Gwent Levels, are in dire need of your help, RIGHT NOW. Please consider signing and sharing this petition, therefore:

Welsh Government can still be swayed and directed by us to make the right choice. Which, I strongly believe, would be a decision to put the Earth, which sustains all life, including our own, first.

The beauty of the wetlands is one thing… But, we should not forget that every bird out there right now possesses a tiny beating heart. Every single strand of grass is drinking water from the soil, thirsty as a child. Every leaf is proof of magic in action, an unconscious alchemy in which sunlight is transformed, moment after moment, into life.

The song of the coots is, as I type, swimming through my living room windows… It says to me, that they would like to live. Just as I, too, would like to live. And, as we would all like all of our children to live! And we need the Earth to live in order for us to make this our future.

Please choose the Earth on this Easter Monday!

“In nature, nothing exists alone” – Rachel Carson

#WelshWetlands #NoNewM4 #SaveTheGwentLevels


The Christmas Eves

“Well,” said Dee, hanging another bauble from the already festooned tree, “that’s all very well and good, but who d’ya think’s gonna get the blame?”

Di, from her chair, laughed. The chair was made of the finest bone, an assortment gathered and grouped together from all the animals of the world, and it shone brightly, almost gaudily, clicking a sort of rhythmic beat as its occupant wheezed and cackled. In Di’s equally bony, skin-wrinkled fingers was a tiny glass no bigger than a thimble, and in this was a bright jot of liquid.

“If we give up – really, if we quit – then it’ll be me that humans will pin it on. Y’know – the siiiiren.” At this, she sighed, as yet another bauble magically appeared in the never-empty box.

On the floor was the baby, Dora. She looked to be about two years old, and was playing with a cardboard box, the exquisite glass ornament which it had contained pushed away to one side. Around her were a tide of presents, and amongst these were twelve stockings that seemed to have a life of their own, each one hopping here and there, back and forth, around and around. They stomped noisily, stopping sometimes to suck up a particular gift, before they continued their weird, wobbly stamp-dance.

At this, however, Dora stopped sucking at the box and gave Dee a look. Even some of the whomping stockings trembled.

“Who says they would?” she scoffed, an adult’s knowing tone emanating from her chubby toddler cheeks. She frowned then, pouting, her face puffing up like a pair of the tree baubles. “Some people always blame the baby.”

“And some the old woman,” added Di. She sipped at her drink, dropping the jot down her throat like she was packing it away rather than enjoying it; but, when she brought the glass back up again, it was refilled. Dee looked at her, shaking her beautiful head. Di raised the glass, grinning. “Want a sip?”

Sighing again, Dee signalled a sad no. “You know I can’t,” she said, and turned to string yet another bauble from a branch. This was the World Tree, and at the moment it resembled a stunning fir, thick with plush, juicy pine needles, and such a rich green that it looked good enough to eat (in fact, the baby had already tried this – as she did every year – but, like most infants, she preferred the beige, papery fayre she was currently consuming to anything that might offer even the remote possibility of nutrition).

“Well, I don’t think it’s fair,” said Dee at last. “To hell with it!” and she spun away from the tree and flung herself onto the sofa. This was as red as blood. Dee’s dress, too, was red-red velvet, and slinked around her voluptuous form like a swirl of something living, something foxy, vibrant, and sensual.

The baby stopped sucking. “Hell, you say…” The old woman took another swig of drink, and smiled. She knew what her sister would say next. This little interchange was so familiar. “Your daddy would love that!”

Di cackled again, leaning back in her ivory chair. Bone-throne. A fibula creaked as she creased herself, and her dark, amulet-eyes glistened blackly.

Dee put an arm behind her head, and rolled lazily around to look at Dora. “Hades has the space for it,” she said. “Hell is infinite. I don’t see why-”

“-because we do. We just do,” said Dora. “You know that.”

They went through this every year. It was part of Dee’s persona, they all knew, the part she was supposed to play: driven by her body, its hormones, its urge to procreate, she was petulant, with a tendency towards drama.

“But,” said Dee, kicking her shapely legs up in the air, “wouldn’t it be nice to have a change? Do something different?”

Di giggled, and took another guzzle. The liquid she was imbibing was the color of amber, but with a bit of sparkle, a hint of dazzle, so that it looked almost lava-like in the light. Fire-drink. GULP. She giggled again.

“You question,” said Dora, looking at Dee, “you consider,” she nodded her head at Di, “and I counsel. Was it not ever the way, sisters?” The baby gave a little impromptu burp after these wise words, then turned to open another Christmas present, pulling at the paper clumsily with her tiny hands. “Oh, damn this.” She blinked, and the present unwrapped itself, paper peeling away like the skin from an orange. Inside was what looked like a music box – a very, very, very old one.

“Vintage,” muttered Dora.

“What?” Dee was still lolling on the sofa, as if it were a pair of lips and she was a wagging tongue.

“Vintage is in this year.”

Dee looked at the box and groaned. “Oh, do we have to?”

“Yes,” said Dora.

Dee sat up suddenly, swinging her legs seductively. “Wait for me to finish the tree, though!”

But of course the tree would never be finished. It was spouting needles, twigs, and branches as they spoke; fruit, huge and incongruous, was bursting from it: figs; satsumas; small, Rudolph’s nose-style apples. Here and there, too, were nuts, of all varieties, plus chocolates, sugar almonds, canes, and other candies. All the sweet, delicious things of Christmas. And, as the Three watched, these swelled to ripeness, and began to tremble, for they were nearly ready to fall.

The room was set. It was a perfect and idyllic Christmas scene. The daughters of the Great Mother and of, in turn – from supposed littlest to seemingly eldest – Pan, Hades, and Dionysus, were ready.

The bone chair stopped its clicking and the twelve completed stockings – one for each day of the festive season – flew to the fireplace and hung themselves from the mantel.

Simultaneously, a blood red fire burst into being inside the grate, and the woman in the blood red dress bit into a blood red apple. Ruby juice dripped down her chin; her eyes clouded, then closed, in ecstasy.

The elder sister drank and drank, the little glass filling and refilling as she gulped.

And the baby – the youngest, the oldest, the wisest of the sisters – opened her music box and let Chaos burst forth. Welcome, wonderful, cleansing Chaos! It flew from the trinket, smashing every perfectly-placed bauble, every carefully-set item within the space;  it tore the stockings down, unravelling them to nothing; it opened, ate, obliterated every gift in sight, as ribbons and wrappers and pine needles and fruit, too, were infected with the Chaos and began ripping and crushing and shredding themselves out of existence.

Within seconds, the order of the perfect room was destroyed. Di’s throne ticked its last and all its bones buried themselves back into earth. The Three Sisters sighed, and whispered away to the Next Place. Their work, for this year, was done. As the last bauble blew, its fragments returning to absence, the midnight bell chimed: proof that, once again, this spell; this ritual; the ancient Sisters’ balancing of order and chaos, gift and receipt, abstinence and abundance, had been accomplished.

And, it had. Because, now,  the Christmas Eves were gone, and it was Christmas Day.


The World’s Longest Love Poem

This year, as part of International Dylan Thomas Day, 14 May, I was able to realise a recent dream of mine – to create the world’s longest love poem. Not by my own hand, but by the combined pens of people around the world, as part of Love The Words, the literary competition element of Dylan Day.


Thanks to writers from all around the world, we managed to beat the current record and create that poem, which you can view now on Discover Dylan, the website of Dylan’s grand-daughter, Hannah Ellis.

Entitled The Love Club (after a phrase from the poem), Hannah and myself collated the poem from all of the many entries.

If you entered but don’t see your entry included, please email Hannah at to get this remedied.

Enjoy the poem! Here is is: 

Cardiff Uni courses – let 2018 be the year of the writer!

I teach the following 10 week courses at Cardiff University. They are currently open for enrolment, beginning Thursday 18th January. Each course is worth 10 credits at Level 4 (undergraduate level).

Life Writing

Draw on your own history and experience to tell the story of your life.

Whether you want to engage readers, share your history with family and friends, or simply write for yourself, this module will give you the methods and means of composing compelling life writing, autobiography and memoir.


Reading and Writing Poetry

This course adheres to the sound advice that if you want to write poetry you should read it.

It is open to anyone who wants to have a close but open-minded look at how poetry, in all its shapes and styles, succeeds in capturing the reader’s imagination. If you would enjoy this, and the inspiration to write your own poems, come and be part of a friendly, supportive class that welcomes all abilities.


Many thanks to poet Angela Topping for a wonderful review of my latest book, and thanks also to Sabotage Reviews for giving space to it. So pleased, and so grateful, and so nice that a brilliant poet such as Angela has written these things!

To quote from the review:

“Mab Jones is a poet of detail, of concrete objects pulling their weight. Occasionally surreal, she has originality of thought and imagination. Technically, she is skilful. Indigo Dreams have created a quality slim volume with a striking, fitting cover, and the poems within do not disappoint. I look forward to reading more of Mab Jones’ work in future; this was my first taste of her lush imagery and deft forms.”

You can read the review in full here:

And the book is available to read sample poems from and to buy here: 

Molly Parkin Preview (& Dylan Day)

This lucky ducky (rhyming already, cos She Is Poet) was in London over the weekend, and as part of her schedule of pleasures popped to the impeccable, plush, and positively gorgeous Vout-o-Reenee’s for a swift drink. In fact the drink was tea, for the proprietors of the property, Sophie Parkin and her delightful partner, who’s name I did not ask the spelling of, were being very busy and bee-like prepping the pictures for mum Molly Parkin’s 85th birthday and art exhibition this week.


The exhibition is a retrospective of the past sixty years of Molly’s painting. The icon still paints today, and this collection of mixed pieces surely has something for everyone. My particular favourites were some of the small self-portraits, like these, although the larger, vibrantly-coloured canvasses were also very striking, and there were several small, very delicate works that looked like they belonged in the museum.


If you’d like to attend this once in her lifetime (and yours too) event, please do get in touch with the venue to book in. The popularity of Molly Parkin and her wonderful work requires it, though you will have a couple of chances to attend a private view. If the date this Friday 10th February is full then another night may be possible. And you get to meet Molly, too!


I was also at the fantastic venue because of an International Dylan Thomas Day event that will be happening there… But, watch this space for details of that! And in the meantime, get to the venue and look at what’s adorning that space asap.


Private View- Friday 10 February 2017 6-11
Please RSVP – if we are full we will invite you on another night – 07753702910-
The Show is on until March. Opening times- Tues-Sat 5-11pm and by appointment.
Vout-O-Reenees and The Stash Gallery – The Crypt, 30 Prescot St. London. E1 8BB.(TowerHill/Aldgate)

Hygge Feature #18 Objects of Happiness

Many thanks to Angela Topping for including one of my poems in her beautiful, interesting, hygge-inspired series of blog posts.

Angela Topping

Most people have some small possessions of little monetary value, but great joy is attached to them, either because they please the senses or because they are associated with a happy memory or a loved person. Using and touching these things enables the owner to enjoy a sense of living in the moment, which is a key aspect of hygge.


I, who’ve inherited nothing, except
this nose more arched than a harp,
these hips made to cradle a life,
find in these old things enough
to still my quivering beak, which
pricks in every direction of a map;
enough to soothe the soup of my belly,
which craves to feed to lips of a babe.

Be still. These delicate, finely-wrought
treasures live in a cupboard that’s cradle-
sized. My eyes sip at them daily,
when making tea, or slipping the coats
from potatoes. Two cruets, as white as

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Voices on the Bridge – Looking Forward!


What a lineup! Not to be missed!

Mab Jones is a “unique talent” (The Times), who has read her poems all over the UK, in the US, Ireland, France, and Japan. She is the author of Poor Queen (Burning Eye Books, 2014) and take your experience and peel it (Indigo Dreams, 2016), which won the Geoff Stevens Memorial Poetry Prize. She has also won the John Tripp Spoken Poetry Audience Award, the Word Factory Neil Gaiman Short Story comp, and the Rabbit Heart Poetry Film Festival Grand Jury Prize, amongst others. In 2015 she was the recipient of a Creative Wales Award. Currently, she teaches a creative writing class at Cardiff University, coordinates International Dylan Thomas Day, and is a freelance contributor to the New York Times. She recently presented a poetry programme on BBC Radio 4.

Josh Evans is a 23 year old, Rhondda based Singer/Songwriter. His music…

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Writer spotlight: meet Mab Jones

Mab Jones arrived at the writing party relatively late, at the age of 29, but has really made the most of it since.

The 39-year-old poet, writer, journalist, event organiser and teacher aspired to be a writer and artist from a young age, and finally started putting her goals into practice just before turning 30. One reason, she said, for not starting sooner was: “I felt very lacking in confidence, and I didn’t know how to get into writing.”

Everything changed for Mab, however, when she discovered Literature Wales’s bursaries for new writers. The Cardiff native decided to put some words together and submit them for consideration, and actually went on to be awarded a grant of £3,000 to keep writing.

“I quit my crappy job,” the writer says now. “I had to get another crappy job afterwards, mind, but I had three months free to write. I wrote a…

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