Huw Parsons has just produced an illustrated book of poems called 'Woman.' It will be available in Brecon at 'The Hours Bookshop' and 'Object Havoc,' and in Hay at 'Booths Books.' For more information you can email Huw at


“I can't believe that this book is mine! The photographs yes, but the poems, where have they come from? All I can say is that over the past two years I've felt compelled to write, and with a lot of help from Pam Morgan and the encouragement of David Ward and Christine Williams, have churned out fifty or so poems, a few of which I'm pretty pleased with. This whole writing thing has taken me by surprise, as I was a duffer at English in school, am not particularly well read and am often quite inarticulate. However, I love songs with clever and moving lyrics, and that's where my interest in rhyme comes from.

As for the photographs, well I've been taking these on and off since 1975 and have almost by default developed my own approach and interests.
I'm particularly indebted to Karin Mear, who has kindly allowed me to use two of her terrific paintings to illustrate some poems.

I hope that this book inspires you to have a go at producing something similar. If I can do this then so can you. Be bold – start now – just do it!”

Confused the Hours

It’s seldom that I see her,
Except there in the mirror.
It’s then I glimpse the mysterious face,
Of that woman who’s taking over my place.

She stole money from my purse and more deceives,
Pulled the rug from my feet and lost the keys.
Such pure pandemonium and to make me a mockery,
Piles high the sink with my best broken crockery.

She eats my food, so I hide it in the shed
And leaves out in the rain almost every book I've read.
Much mayhem, mischief and misunderstanding,
In all of which this witch has had a hand in.

Every night as I sleep she's standing by the bed,
So such vivid dreams they flicker through my head -
Whilst downstairs an army of furniture removers,
Shifts the heavy sofa through some tight manoeuvres.

She’s touched the clocks, confused the hours
And tampered with the fairest flowers.
So my roses ‘Peace’ and ‘Ena Harkness,’
Now in the garden bloom in darkness.

And like a full moon she can curdle fresh milk
And is even stranger than the shore of Acker Bilk.
To her ailments she’s a martyr, quite the little Joan of Arc,
So I search the drawers for tinder and some means to make a spark!

Huw's Mother

"Cakes" - Karin Mear

Huw's poems celebrate woman, not in some flowery idealised way, but with her guts and foibles acknowledged and accepted. I LOVE IT!  I realise that when he writes, the words often spill out of him, though sometimes they have to be persuaded to come. He is often not absolutely sure of their quality, but they feel right. They are right! Huw is an instinctive poet. His poems spring from a well of insight, artistry, felt experience and emotional response. There is no other way. Discipline and the savouring of words and phrases towards excellence are invaluable; but the instinctive heart has to be there first, the impulse, the spasm of insight must leap.

All I need to say is: WRITE HUW PLEASE! Your poems thrill and evoke.......

Christine Williams (Poet & Painter) 

The photographs in this book are some of Huw's best. He loves photographing women and, as is self-evident, they like being photographed by him. Huw has a great understanding of the medium, based on a sound training and many years’ experience. He knows that photography has little to do with cameras, lenses, flash units etc, and all to do with lighting, composition and being in the right place at the right time. He's relentless in his pursuit of good images, but knows too when to put the camera away and try again another day. Like all good photographers he can think quickly on his feet and has a brilliant 'eye' as is shown in these fabulous photographs.

Ric Davies (Photographer)