2014 edition

In case you missed it in physical format, here’s the digital edition of Tŷ Celf:





Coming Soon: A Magazine for 2014

The finishing touches are being made to this year’s Ty Celf magazine.  It’s all very exciting.

The magazine will be hitting the stands very soon: 5000 copies will be distributed, all across Cardiff University.

Until then, why not whet your appetite by familiarising (or re-familiarising) yourself with last years edition?

Click here to look at last year’s Tŷ Celf

Poem: Rebecca Roy



Touch has become

a rare commodity

for me

these days,

too easy

to recollect. Each accident-

al intimacy with strangers in the street

the warm


of our hands

I count, guiltily,

perverse pleasure in every

fumbling negotiation of shoulders

and chins, in farewells and greetings

of fingers

that tumble my way

reminding me

of the carriage

of skin

I’m moving in.


Denied access to a partner

I don’t know my own body

always told

it was not mine

for exploring,

delicate machinery

to be handled carefully

by someone




education for girls is an exercise

in ellipsis

practised silence in classrooms,

sitcoms devoid of scenes

of mothers walking in on daughters with

one hand under the covers,

the canned audience laughter

not born of

discomfort but the dis-

interested flick of a button.

Girls should be taught

their own folds

raised as scholars of themselves;

taught to teach those who

touch them,

to love them



I feel clothed

all the time

even in shorts which barely meet

my thighs and of late

I caught myself

feeling thankful, for a pressed grope of fingers

in a nightclub,

groped to find the edge

of my anger

found it dulled.

Instead –

I would like to stand before someone


and watch myself in the pupils

of their eyes

as they widen.


Rebecca Roy is studying an MA in Creative Writing at Cardiff University.

Microfiction: Sara Bellanato


Through sloth the roof sinks in, and through indolence the house leaks. – Ecclesiastes 10:18

I see everything, you know. I sit on rooftops, peek through windows, walk through stinking gutters. I watch drunkards stagger out of pubs, heaving vomit onto concrete, and listen to the shriek of sirens when the ambulances come. Outside restaurants I’ve seen couples make up, break up, shut up, sit down, flatter, laugh, kiss. Once I watched a man choke to death on a chicken bone. The waiters flounced about him as his face turned blue, then darkened to black. I peeked at them through the glass, soundless, a figure washed yellow from the light of the sunset. It was a Thursday, I think.

A couple of days ago I was sitting at a bar when a party of people walked inside. Ugly, the lot of them. I saw them, but they didn’t notice me. Nobody ever does. The bar was slick with whiskey in no time, smoke clogging air and lungs. I drank wine. A lot of wine. A sharp pop filled the room with confetti. It rained down like shards of glass; a plastic snowstorm.

That ugly party of people killed a man that night. I saw that too. I bet you’re wondering why I didn’t do anything about it. About any of it. Aren’t you? It’s not that I can’t – don’t be ridiculous. It’s just that I’m just like you. I simply cannot be bothered.


Sara Bellanato is a student at Cardiff University, studying an MA in Creative Writing.  Follow her on Twitter: https://twitter.com/SBellanato