Poet of the Month

January: Rebecca Lowe (Wales).
February: Jim Gronvold (USA). 
March: Carolyn Mary Kleefeld (USA).
April: Tozan Alkan (Turkey).
May: Byron Beynon (Wales).
June: Michelle Chung (USA). 
July: Jim Gwyn (USA).
August: Jonathan Taylor (England).
September: Beata Poźniak (USA).
October: Maria Taylor (England).
November: Stanley H. Barkan (USA).
December: John Dotson (USA).

January: Maria Mastrioti (Greece).

February: Gayl Teller (USA).
March: Mike Jenkins (Wales).
April: Cassian Maria Spiridon (Romania).
May: Simon Fletcher (England)
June: Sultan Catto (USA)
July: Vojislav Deric (Australia)
August: K. S. Moore (Ireland)
September: Kristine Doll (USA)
October: Tammy Nuzzo-Morgan (USA)
November: Christopher Norris (Wales)
December: Maria Mazziotti Gillan (USA)

2023: Poets featured as Poet of the Month 

January: Samuel Ezra (Wales)
February: Tôpher Mills (Wales)
March: Rob Cullen (Wales)
April: Mandira Ghosh (India)
May: John Greening (England)
June: Rosy Wood-Bevan (Wales)
July: David Hughes (Wales)

2025: Poets featured as Poet of the Month 
January: Annest Gwilym (Wales)
February: Sam Smith (Wales)
March: Dave Lewis (Wales)
April: Scott Elder (France)
May: Angela Kosta (Italy)
June: Abeer Ameer (Wales)
July: Jenny Mitchell (England)
August: Sydney Lea (USA)
September: Richard Collins (USA)
October: Mark Lewis (Wales)
November: Robert Nisbet (Wales)
Clare E. Potter (Wales)

 

 JANUARY POET OF THE MONTH: 
RHODA THOMAS (WALES)

                                                                                                                          
                                         Rhoda Thomas (c) 2026 Rhoda Thomas

Rhoda Thomas has lived in Wales since 1981.  She took up writing poetry in 2016 encouraged by the late poet, artist and left-wing activist Tim Evans, who became her partner.

Together, they established the radical Live Poets Society in Swansea, where young people in particular could develop their voices and explore political ideas through poetry – this proved very popular with attendances at open mics sometimes beyond 60 or 70.  They also developed the Llanelli 1911 Railway Strike Commemoration events, involving trade unions, politicians and activists, historians and Côr Cochion/Red Choir.

For some years, Rhoda has been a member of the socialist poetry group Red Poets, based in Merthyr Tydfil, and has regularly contributed to their annual poetry magazine as well as reading at the Merthyr Rising festivals.

Rhoda has read poems at many rallies, festivals, vigils and open mics, and met poets across Britain and the world at zoom events, especially during the pandemic.  In recent times, her work has featured at events to commemorate the coup d’état in Chile, and at fundraisers for the people of Gaza.

Her poetry not only addresses social and political issues but also draws on her background in the field of psychology, sociology and psychotherapy, having taught social workers, counsellors and medical students for most of her career.  Her key interests are in relationships, sexuality and life changes.

Her recent work has been described as:

‘balm for the soul’
 ‘humanity-affirming, defiant and intimate’
 ‘unapologetic, visceral’
‘emotive, confronting, full of integrity’
‘disquieting, at times tender, at times scathing’.

Rhoda’s 6^th individual collection Choosing Sides has just been published.

Her previous publications include Imago (2021), I turned around you were gone (2019), then comes the birdsong (2019), death calls us all (2017) and do you still see the same sky as me? (2017) (Sketty Books), and individual poems and articles in anthologies including as Ymlaen!/Onward! radical poetry from contemporary Wales, Gwrthryfel/ Uprising and Land of Change (Culture Matters), Coronaverse (Roundhead), Socialist Review, Ley Lines by Poets on the Hill, Sinew – 10 years of Poetry in the Brew (April Gloaming Publishing, Nashville), in Red Poets' annual collections and the forthcoming anthology Ni Nid Fi/We Not Me (edited by Mike Jenkins).

Welsh water

Wales is a country where it always seems to rain
like in Snowdonia National Park where it freezes on the mountains
or splashes down the Swallow Falls, white and powerful
and then there are the reservoirs, like that of Llyn Celyn
houses, chapel, post office, school all drowned
to provide water for Liverpool in England
and the same in the Elan Valley for the people of Birmingham
holidaymakers drive around the lakes now
silent sullen landscape of water ghosts
and still there is graffiti Cofiwch Dryweryn we will not forget

From Bardsey Sound to Hell’s Mouth on the Llyn peninsula
the wind comes up strong your hair blows all over the place
and you can hear the call of oystercatchers, plovers, yellow-hammers
and sometimes see the great wingspans of buzzards
at Aberdaron, mothers and wives and children
mourn the deaths of fishermen perished at sea
smugglers wrecked in storms, wild water that kills,
booty on the rocks,
pilgrims seeking solace inside the stone walls of the church
R S Thomas the poet and vicar buried his wife here
the notices are in Welsh and English,
stones bear the words of prayer
a fish and chip lunch in the pub before setting sail for the island

Wales has a rough, rocky coastline, dotted with islands and towns
Llandudno where goats walked right into town in the pandemic,
a town where people come by train from English towns
to partake of the spa waters walk on the promenade
picnic on the beach
Aberystwyth where storms blow seawater
into hotel front stoops and over cars,
then there are the rivers Teifi and the Towy farther south
where they fish salmon and trout from nets spread across the water
between coracles small boats handmade from willow now fibreglass
men sculling with a single oar, gliding by low-hung trees,
lit by the stars

In the south, where the white river and the black river Cleddau meet
one of the biggest ports in Britain oil and liquid gas refineries
Esso, Texaco, Amoco, community aspirations and hopes laid waste
as labour requirements wax and wane jobs in the interests of capital
a far cry from the leisure riverboats on the Tawe in Coppertown
its cargo summer tourists or the Taff stretching up to Black Weir
through Llandaff Fields where once there were the happy splashes
of outdoor swimmers screams of laughter bouncing balls
in the long-gone open-air swimming-pool they closed

In the east, the Severn Bore one of the biggest surge waves in the world
people listen for it and wonder and wait until they see the surfers
riding on its crest round the bend, as the waters arrive
and it’s quite frightening really and magnificent too
The Severn Crossing links England with Wales
80,000 vehicles every day
built over tides crosswinds wetlands saltmarshes mudflats
John, Eric, Robin, Kevin died in its making
the bridge now named after the Prince of Wales
the unwelcome imposition of rule from England

At the very centre of Wales, a dragon sculpture on a lake
spouts water right across the surface of the pool
and the leaping carp
the café serves toasted teacakes, butter and tea on the balcony
the hotel two restaurants, health club and 150 car parking spaces
women clean, serve food, starch the laundry, book in the guests
a town that hosts conferences mutually inconvenient for all
the chalybeate springs, rich with life-giving iron
gave birth to this town
and by now you can see how important water is in Wales
and can appreciate the symbolism of the Welsh dragon
a serpent indomitable and ferocious

Today I walk in the Swansea marina in the far south
boat masts gently tinkling in the breeze cormorants on the buoys
absent boat owners accumulate from their investments
the lock opens for a craft to pass through
students hurry by the retired sip coffee
businessmen talk loudly over beer and laptops
the homeless man sits on the bridge
flowers left for the one who died
the light catches the rippling water in the bay
water eddies and sparkles in the sunlight
water the lifeblood of this country.

(c) 2026 Rhoda Thomas

I thought you were a pillow

I thought you were a pillow
And I could call your name
I thought you were a pillow
Be myself and have no shame

I thought you were a pillow
I could claw and cry out loud
You curved beneath me as a willow
The cotton rustled as a shroud

I thought you were a pillow
And I could bring you back to life
But you were buried far below
And I no longer your wife

I thought you were a pillow
That anything was allowed
I bit and scratched and made you billow
Fanning out across the bed, a cloud

I thought you were a pillow
And I a comfort woman, cowed
By your command, wearing stiletto
While all looked on, a crowd

I thought you were a pillow
And I a Russian bride
I had no words to say hello
My tears locked up inside

I thought you were a pillow
I thought I was in charge
I beat you, my undefeated foe
And sailed off on a barge

I thought you were a pillow
I hammered on your door
And then I heard from deep a bellow
Lost in a labyrinth, you the minotaur

I thought you were a pillow
The feathers burst out everywhere
A sea of white and me an armadillo
Fingers tangled in my hair

I thought you were a pillow
Then your arms held me tight
I thought you were a pillow
Until at last I gave up the fight

I thought you were a pillow
A person I couldn’t know
But in the sweetness of something mellow
I surrendered, went with the flow

I thought you were a pillow
But then I heard your tender voice
Felt your hand with rough familiar whitlow
You were real, I could rejoice

I thought you were a pillow
That you could be the one I knew
I looked up, all a-glow
You smiled – at last I knew that it was you

I thought you were a pillow
But you were there at last
I felt your face and saw its furrow
And in your gaze, I basked.

(c) 2026 Rhoda Thomas

Escape

We may have escaped
but you did not
and in truth, sometimes I feel
we have not.  Not really.

I catch myself wondering
what happened to you.

You must have worried about us
where we were, did we make it?

The wound of separation
of never seeing you again
is deeper than any they inflicted.
We couldn’t say goodbye, we just went.

You couldn’t have stayed on in that house
they would have come for you
and you would have lost it anyway
they got rid of hundreds of teachers
and costs went up, so many lost their homes
you would have had to pawn your books,
sell your things, maybe work as a servant
to that awful family in Las Condes.

I remember how inspiring you were, how brave
You spoke at so many meetings at the Villa
how dare they turn our wonderful place into a centre of horror!

I always think of you when I make carbonada
you always said I had to sprinkle it with herbs
so I don’t make it if I don’t have any.

Yesterday, I visited the railway workers’ picket lines here
I so wished you were beside me again, talking to the strikers
boosting morale for the fight, handing round panettone
back home then, if you had dared show your face on the streets
you would have been arrested, tortured, and shot

I never heard another word
I know you are not on the Wall of Names with the “disappeared”,
I keep hoping that they let you out, that you are somewhere safe
cooking empanadas, maybe selling them on a market stall
speaking words of resistance and solidarity
as you take the pesos from a comrade’s hand.

written for the 50^th commemoration of the military coup in Chile

Self-portrait dedicated to Leon Trotsky (1937)
for Frida Kahlo 

This is for you, ex-lover
my revolutionary hero
my favourite ‘old man’
I dedicate this painting to you
20 years since that October
when hopes were so high
before so many died
Oh, so many!

I stand before you
my curtains opened for you
a birthday gift
an anniversary present

Is my beauty not enough
to woo you back?
I can be wife too, you know,
demure even,
after all the losses
a companion in arms

I know you say it is too late
you are too old for this
I know they are coming for you
they are coming for you
and I cannot keep you safe.

Say then that I was nothing to you,
tell Sedova it was nothing
nothing, nothing at all!
but this portrait our memory
I was yours
I was yours
I was yours

 

This is about the portrait painted for Leon Trotsky, for his birthday, by Frida Kahlo, after their love affair had ended. It was also the 20^th anniversary of the 1917 Russian revolution. Trotsky was assassinated in 1940.

(c) 2026 Rhoda Thomas

Diminuendo

how easy it is to break a thread,
a filament
sparkling with dewdrops
strung across the distance
between wing mirror and door

wing nuts – they were easy
I could always dismantle the table by myself
turning them by hand
placing the top and apron by the wall
unscrewing the feet

dismantled, unpicked – or just frayed?
my nerves, our love, the framework

ah yes, the framework!
the doorsteps you carried me across
on our wedding day
the threshold I helped you cross
when we came home from the hospital

putting the kettle on,
the little red flickering light
herbal for me, builders’ tea for you

the nets in the garden
for badminton
to keep out insects
to put up at the windows
for catching tadpoles from the pond

our fingers tore through them
ripped them down from the washing-line
swatted them too heavily
|the table fell apart
the wingnuts got lost
spiders stopped trying to refashion their webs

we laughed and made up funny medical terms
episodic emphysemic echolalia!
septic bacterial streptococcus!
necrotizing hepatic eclampsia!
each one more ridiculous,
more ghastly than the one before

your fearsome bass voice
shrieking obscenities from the steps
did not in the end stop the demons

diminuendo, diminishing, declining

where were you?
walking among the sheep
you gave them sugar lumps
then tested their blood
counting them till you fell asleep

and I went on playing Debussy’s Arabesque no.2
working on the birdsong trills
invoking sky-dancers with a thighbone trumpet

light the candles
are we celebrating when we met
or when you died?
swigging beer and gabapentin
as liquid seeped across the bed
oozed across the floor

the last, most fragile filament between us
could not be caught in the garden nets
we’d already destroyed them

it came to this
you fell, diminuendo
you fell, pianissimo

you left us
we left you

(c) 2026 Rhoda Thomas

Intimate inhumanities

Her screams reached all the way from the room where they did it
All the way down the motorway and through the months of worry
Until I sit in the waiting-room, waiting for my turn.

Perhaps she hurt the first time she ever opened her legs to someone
Not quite like the magazines had said
Maybe, even then, she cried and sunk her nails in
and begged him to stop.

But I have insulated myself in paperwork
Considered the patient testimonies, some good some bad,
read the health board evaluations, the savings in time and money
The ‘gold standard’ for safety much preferred to knocking us out cold
I know on balance this is the best way to do it.

Maybe she didn’t have her first sex
in a student flat, Dark Side of the Moon
Chenille cushions, flickering candlelight
Maybe it was a relative when she was too young
or a young boy too clumsy and eager to stop
or maybe she learned to thrust and writhe and kick
whenever something was bad.

Maybe she didn’t learn to silence herself,
to please, appease, tease

Maybe the more she screamed,
the more she hoped something would change.

The waiting room is stark, bleached,
laminated instructions on the walls
Seats cordoned off because of the virus
No one else here, just the echoes of women before me
Some who cried, some who wouldn’t let themselves.

Women who’ve never heard of the Villa Grimaldi
Women who’ve never allowed the knowledge of torture
to penetrate their consciousness
Women who don’t know that sisters everywhere
Are suffering intimate inhumanities
at the hands of guards, police, fellow prisoners, on camera
for just being ...
a Buddhist
a resident in a poor community
a doctor treating a wounded protestor
the wife of a Muslim man
someone who posted something critical on facebook
someone who thinks differently.

What do we mean by solidarity?
What do we mean by solidarity?

I’ve insulated myself in paperwork
the academic studies, the statistics
believing the science
believing the politics.

Today, there will be no electric shocks.
No brooms or sticks or bottles or canes.

Today I will think of you and the beautiful sex we had
when the opening of self was something I gave to you
when it was the route to building what we share
when I stopped disconnecting from sorrow
and tears of happiness pricked at the edge of my eyes.

The clock ticks in the waiting-room
They call me,
but it’s just to take my blood pressure,
to weigh me,
to check my date of birth.
Really, it’s OK
The flex will be very thin.
They will use anaesthetic.
They are kind.

(c) 2026 Rhoda Thomas