Diary of A. Mad Poet

Some places in Wales, they say, whoever spends a night there will be found thereafter: dead, mad, or a poet. I spent a night on the grave of Taliesin. You can work out which one I am.

Mad Poet Portrait

A. MadPoet is a traditional storyteller in the old style: no script, no notes, tales of Ireland and Wales carried in the memory and told aloud, the way the bards meant it. The name is no affectation; it is the ending of a story that began in 1990, when he hitchhiked the Welsh coast and slept a restless night atop Bedd Taliesin, the resting place of the Shining Brow himself. Read the full tale.

By trade he is an internet technologist of the old school: DNS specialist, keeper of authoritative zones for the largest ISP in the United States, one-time operator of one of the thirteen root nameservers. The network taught him patience. The hills of Wales taught him story. Both feed the same fire.

He is also a craft brewer of traditional ales, mead and cider, because as the Irish saying goes, is túisce deoch ná scél: a story requires a drink. He would just rather brew it than pour it.

Find the Poet:

New to the diary? Start with the story that named him: The Story of A. MadPoet.

Is túisce deoch ná scél
(A drink before a tale)