“The offer of performing at afon presented me with a precious opportunity to distil and articulate years of river thoughts and river feelings (accumulated in the course of researching a prose book centred around Afon Teifi) into a flowing, multi-layered piece of poetry. Having written my eponymous piece (afon) over a series of weeks especially for the festival, on the day itself I chose to type it on the banks of the river on my old typewriter. One of the purposes of this was to mirror Teifi’s own gentle summer pace: in an age of fast, cheap and ephemeral words, to manually and patiently type out the poem, adding an audible rhythm to the water’s own music, seemed a respectful way to honour the small ale-brown gods of the river world. Writing as meditation; copying out words in blue ink as a prayer. The sun beat down and, thudded letter by thudded letter, the poem began to emerge:
I have been many times
to the sources
in the hills
close to the centre
of Wales where grooves in the peat
channel and merge
and form the first flows
that join and grow and gather
to pool together
into Llyn Teifi.
I have seen the skylarks and the ravens there,
the kites circling above vast plateaus of moor grass
I have followed the way of the river
down from the hills, through sleepy farmland, to the sea.
As the afternoon drew on and I came towards the end of copying out the poem, a gust of wind snatched the original notes from my desk and spun them aloft out over the water to merge silently with the wet membrane of Teifi’s silken surface. Off they drifted, downstream. My typed poem was left incomplete. The river, it seemed, would have the last say: “What’s with all the writing? To know me, slip in.” – Jack Smylie Wilde