ISSUE 292 Date: 28th June 2013

Finding your “voice” What does your writing say about you? Are you spreading a beacon of light in the darkness? Or, sending out a cry for help in choppy seas? Can RBW help you find your “voice”? Free workshops every Monday at 1.30.

LIFE OBSERVATIONS Fascinated by a huge crane working in the school playground on Saturday in the pouring rain. It was an enormous metal structure in yellow and grey outlined hard against a dark sky with its drooping chains swinging over roof tops. Couldn‟t take my eyes off it. Sitting on a bus, on the way home, I overheard the following conversation:- Old gent. “My friend‟s wife writes historical romance novels. It‟s not my sort of reading ma-terial. I‟m reading „To Kill A Mocking Bird‟ at the moment. It‟s a good book.” Old woman.”Hm. I‟ve heard of that!” So much for classic literature! It‟s really annoying when you‟ve spent several hours on a PC only to find the work doesn‟t save ... Sigh! It‟s useful to read the comments of other customers when buying goods online ... I‟d been all set to buy a new light fitting ... only to rapidly change my mind having read the experi-ences of several purchasers of said fitting ...

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Pademelon noun small marsupial of the genus Thylogale, usually found in forests. Pademelons are one of the smallest of the macropods. The name is a corruption of badimaliyan, from the Dharuk Aboriginal lan-

guage of Port Jackson (Sydney region). Pademelons, wallabies, and kangaroos are very alike. Besides their smaller size, pademelons can be distinguished from wallabies by shorter, thicker, and sparsely haired tails.

Pademelon meat was eaten by settlers and aborigines, their meat is very low in fat and cholesterol (like that

of all kangaroos). Aside from being killed for meat and soft fur, their numbers are reduced by feral cats, dogs, foxes and road-kill. The rabbit explosion also caused problems, as rabbits graze on the same grasses. Clearing of land for development has pushed wallabies and kangaroos into areas in which pademelons had

been thriving. Tasmanian pademelons were important to the Thylacine's diet, and are prey for wedge-tailed eagles. Hunting is permitted outside safe park reserves. (http://www.parks.tas.gov.au/?base=4863 for further reading) Genus Thylogale Tasmanian Pademelon, Thylogale billardierii Brown's Pademelon, Thylogale browni

Dusky Pademelon, Thylogale brunii Calaby's Pademelon, Thylogale calabyi

Mountain Pademelon, Thylogale lanatus Red-legged Pademelon, Thylogale stigmatica Red-necked Pademelon, Thylogale thetis

Red-necked pademelons can be found in the coastal regions of

Queensland and New South Wales. In some places their range has been drastically reduced. Red-legged pademelons can also be found in south-central New Guinea. The red-bellied or Tasma-

nian pademelon is abundant in Tasmania, although it was once found throughout the south eastern parts of mainland Australia.

The dusky pademelon lives in New Guinea. It was previously called the Aru Islands wallaby. Before that, the philander (―friend

of man‖), as in Cornelis de Bruijn's Travels, published in 1711; It is also called the Rufous Wallaby. Males can reach up to 12 kilo-grammes while the norm for females is 3.9kilos.

The natural habitat of the pademelon is thick scrubland or dense forested undergrowth. They also make tunnels through long

grasses and bushes in swampy country. They hide in daylight and feed at dusk. (Image wikipedia)

Thank you to MB for this introduction to the Pademelon which he recently encountered on his travels in Tasmania. He found the road-kill numbers distressing and noticed that

local chickens had developed a strategy to deal with any Pademelon which encroached their back yard to steal their food, they would gang up on the intruder and shoo it away.

CLIVE’s three FREE e-books

NOW PUBLISHED on RBW and issuu

http://www.risingbrookwriters.org.uk/DynamicPage.aspx?

PageID=52

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Steph’s two FREE poetry e-chapbooks now published on www.issuu.com/

risingbrookwriters

and on RBW main site

http://www.risingbrookwriters.org.uk/DynamicPage.aspx?PageID=52

2012: RBW FREE e-books NOW

PUBLISHED on RBW and issuu.com

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DynamicPage.aspx?PageID=52

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Random Words : picket, gypsy, never, gracefully, wet-through, thrush, dormouse, titter, gorge, march, sacrificial Assignment: summer or crane

1) Janet arrived back home and moodily made herself a cup of coffee. How she could hope to remove every single dandelion from her cliff-top allot-ment, with that haar coming in so quickly from the sea? With a sigh she put on a CD of soothing Madrigals and studied the CD case as she sipped her coffee. The cover picture depicted a flamboyant conquistador dressed in a blue velveteen outfit and gazing into the distance. Life is sometimes so com-plicated, she mused. 2) In dark mood Sir Randolph Mapleworth descended the dozen or so steps to the oubliette, thankful that the door had been removed and there was now no way to bar the entrance. It was agonisingly quiet. Sir Randolph felt no delusion about the suffering of his erstwhile ancestor, who had met his untimely end there; mute, unable to shout for help after having his tongue cut out. He felt an infusion of anger begin to boil at the infamy of the said ancestor‘s brother-in-law, relieved only by the certain knowledge that the perpetrator had danced to the hangman‘s tune. Sir Randolph smiled wryly. Now this ancient enemy‘s descendant was about to marry his sister. How was he to bear it? (EL)

YE SLIGHTY OBLONG TABLE OF TRENTBY

YE CAST OF CHARACTERS NB: Historical accuracy is NOT encouraged

Nobles and similar

Harffa Ye Kyng. Not ye sharpest knyfe in ye drawer. Queen Agatha (the tight fisted) Don Key O‘Tee Spanish ambassador to Court of Kyng Harffa .. Wants saint‘s big toe back Baron Leonard Bluddschott (Stoneybroke) Gwenever Goodenough Wyfe of ye Baron Della Bluddschott Ugly Daughter of Baron Bluddschott. Galla of Hadnt Hall A Prince but Charmless Daniel Smithers Constable of Bluddschott Castle and maybe the Corowner of the County Old Maids Vera, Gloria and Bertha husband hunting sisters of Baron Bluddschott Evil Sherriff and Baron Morbidd up to no good (and son) Morgan le Fey king‘s evil sister - Merlin the king‘s magician Ye Knights [they‘re better during the day] Lancealittle, Dwayne, Cottavere, Percivere Mailish (Narrator) Page to Baron Bluddschott (Probably Son by wife‘s sister) NEW CHARACTERS: Sir Richard Coeur de Poulet — returning Crusader Sir d‘Just Holdthis and Sir Halle of Hadon who‘s is dead, his page is Nigel Religiouse Lionel, Bishop of Trentby keeper of the Mappa Tuessdi Abbot Costello of Nottalot, a Nasturtium Abbey desperate for pilgrim pennies Vladimir A monk from far off somewhere, a Calligrapher Wyllfa the Druid Sorcerer Others Big Jock A Welsh poacher and short wide-boy. Robbin‘ Hoodie another poacher and wide-boy. Peeping Barry member of Hoodie‘s gang of miscreants Clarence the cook and a Wandering Troubadour None living The Two Swords of King Harffa ... The real one and Axcaliber The Mappa Tuessdii ... Velum map of the known world bought in a bazaar in Constantinople for a few pennies by Vladimir oft times copied The toe bone of St. Hilarious. The gallstone of St. Gastric (PLOT CHANGE) Crocodile and a Unicorn and a Dragon carved in stone plus various fairies and wood spirits

Good luck, we ’ l l need it ...

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Under that concrete smile Bishop Lionel wasn‘t quite as confident as he made out, he‘d had a scribe scribble out a crib sheet to help him remember all the titles of the betroved and who was marrying whom, but he hadn‘t had time to commit the names to memory.

He usually made up a little rhyme to help him with difficult problems, he

was advancing in years and his old grey matter was starting to give him trou-ble at times of great stress ... and today was such a time. He consulted his notes as the sackbuts began their ear-splitting wails and the swinging orb of the central aisle incense burner narrowly grazed the ear of Abbot Costello who failed to duck in time. That would teach him to poke his nose where it wasn‘t wanted.

With shaking hands the Bishop read, the Prince is marrying the Fairy Prin-cess who used to be a horse-cum-unicorn ... yes, of course he is. Morgan le Fey, at which point he shuddered, is giving the boy away, yes of course she is ... at which point he gulped. That a follower of Queen Mab was going to be watching his every move with a critical eye was off putting. Not to mention she had whispered in his ear that fairy folk might put in an appearance ... how

could he explain that away to the Bishop of Rome should he catch wind of it? They excommunicated priests for even a hint of indulgence towards the old ways and here was the Spanish Ambassador, the Pope‘s nephew watching everything over the top of a scented kerchief held to his nose: mind you it was ripe in here today with all the unwashed townsfolk of Trentby filling the nave.

Then Lady Della Bluddschott is marrying Baron Morbidd. No that must be wrong. Or is it? Bishop Lionel squinted his eyes as the incense burner wafted over his head again and almost knocked senseless a novice monk who was getting carried away with the infuriating chanting. Abbot Costello had to mus-cle in on everything damn his beetle black eyes. Ahh yes, she‘s marrying the new Baron Morbidd fresh back from the Crusades. Hello what‘s this it‘s an ad-dendum. A scrap of velum had been sewn on to the side of the scroll. Baron

Morbidd senior was to marry Anne the Songstress. The old cheapskate, thought the Bishop angrily. Thinking he‘ll get a free

wedding feast out of the Bluddschott‘s nuptials. So typical of the aristocracy do anything for a free lunch. At that moment his sleeve was tugged by Mailish the Baron‘s Page: ‗Sorry to butt in Bishop, but there‘s a bloke here from da Vinci, name of Leonardo, says he‘s been commissioned to paint the wedding portraits, he‘s from ‗Bonjourno‘ magazine or some such.‘

‗All I need a record of the event painted in oils to last for a thousand years. Oh I don‘t know, Mailish, stick him up there on the mason‘s scaffolding, he‘ll get a birds‘ eye view and tell him to give me a quote for painting the ceiling while he‘s up there. Something tasteful with lightning and pointy fingers from heaven, always a crowd puller.‘ Mailish grinned, the Bishop always had a bent

towards business no matter how busy he was. The great doors swung back on rusty hinges and the King entered with

Queen Agatha on his arm, closely followed by Morgan le Fey, Merlin and the Bluddschotts. Lady Gwenny in safe dark blue careful not to out shine the Queen‘s cloth of gold mantle with red feathers and a hooli-hooli skirt atop a shift of royal purple.

The row was deafening, the cheers of the crowd drowning out the wails of

the trombones, the chanting of Costello‘s monks and the booming cathedral‘s choir not wishing to be outdone.

The scroll was shaking so much he could hardly make out the hasty scribble, ahh yes the three Bluddschott maids, Bertha, Vera and Gloria, who were they marrying? Poor souls, was this dark magic?

Not Sir Dwayne, surely? At which point the bishop happened to notice the Spanish Am-bassador deep in animated conversation with the knight in question half hidden behind an arras tapestry made in Bayeux depicting a sea-battle. Thank heaven for small mercies, thought the Bishop, such a nice boy and so good to his mother.

At which point the assembled brides and grooms were entering: another wave of noise assailed the Bishop‘s senses and that blooming swinging incense burner nearly decapitated a lute singer, now on contract at the Pink and Green Duck, who was juggling for pennies by the altar. What kind of medication was he on?

Perciever, Lancelittle and Cottavere, poor souls, were being cut-and- carried to the Bluddschott trio of maidenly ugliness, and there was nothing he could do to prevent it, even if he did smell a very large rat. At which as if by magic Wyllfa appeared, in all his stinking glory with

his belt festooned with charms and his beard freshly oiled with some-thing that glowed in the gloom and his hands wode stained with tat-toos, which could only be construed as a two fingered salute to the new religion from a practitioner of the old ways.

And lastly there were the Byzantine contingent ... Della and Lady Bluddschott‘s maids who turned out to be ladies of quality from foreign lands and inexplicably being hand-fasted to returning Crusaders ... was that right?

Perhaps if he made them all to stand next to their betrothed and to hold hands which he could tie together with ribbon, and made each one repeat their full names to each other as they said the binding oaths, it might work out without him having to know exactly who was marrying whom. Pity the nave wasn‘t very wide. Perhaps they‘d have to form a circle ...

no ... that might be wrongly construed. Circles were what the other team were big on. How many were getting hitched? Prince plus one, Della plus one, Morbidd plus one, the old maids plus three ... how many‘s that? Twelve ... Morbidd senior plus one, and the two full of eastern promise plus two, makes eighteen.

Could be worse it could have been thirteen and that doesn‘t bear thinking about. Look down on us today, St Hilarious, he thought, and smiling his most cheerful smile the

shaking Bishop turned towards the gathered throng ... two thousand expectant Trentbyites and one old fraud from Camelot what could possibly go wrong?

In our tale of yore much has been said of Queen Mab ... What did the Bard of Avon have to say on the queen of dark magic? Mer. O, then I see Queen Mab hath been with you. She is the fairies' midwife, and she comes In shape no bigger than an agate stone On the forefinger of an alderman, Drawn with a team of little atomies Athwart men's noses as they lie asleep; Her wagon spokes made of long spinners' legs, The cover, of the wings of grasshoppers; Her traces, of the smallest spider's web; Her collars, of the moonshine's wat'ry beams; Her whip, of cricket's bone; the lash, of film; Her wagoner, a small grey-coated gnat, Not half so big as a round little worm Prick'd from the lazy finger of a maid; Her chariot is an empty hazelnut, Made by the joiner squirrel or old grub, Time out o' mind the fairies' coachmakers. And in this state she 'gallops night by night Through lovers' brains, and then they dream of love; O'er courtiers' knees, that dream on cursies straight; O'er lawyers' fingers, who straight dream on fees; O'er ladies' lips, who straight on kisses dream, Which oft the angry Mab with blisters plagues, Because their breaths with sweetmeats tainted are. Sometime she gallops o'er a courtier's nose, And then dreams he of smelling out a suit; And sometime comes she with a tithe-pig's tail Tickling a parson's nose as 'a lies asleep, Then dreams he of another benefice. Sometimes she driveth o'er a soldier's neck, And then dreams he of cutting foreign throats, Of breaches, ambuscadoes, Spanish blades, Of healths five fadom deep; and then anon Drums in his ear, at which he starts and wakes, And being thus frighted, swears a prayer or two And sleeps again. This is that very Mab That plats the manes of horses in the night And bakes the elflocks in foul sluttish, hairs, Which once untangled much misfortune bodes This is the hag, when maids lie on their backs, That presses them and learns them first to bear, Making them women of good carriage. This is she-

Why I’m not a Crim writes Barbara Barron

I remember walking back to the Home through the country lanes. Not so much aware of the fields, on either side of the road, with the horses leaning over the hedgerow, idle and curious, nor of the lane

stretching into the distance going on for miles, but of the rushing granite chips embedded in the tar-mac on the road, approaching my striding feet ever faster, then disappearing behind me. It‘s all gone now, the little patch of countryside I called Home territory, with its woods, streams and meadows. It‘s

all houses. Life often just goes on from day to day, and we see little change. But there are times when we

make a significant decisions, perhaps not many, but each one can be a life changing enormous ham-mer thud of a thought, which is not accompanied by plangent brass fanfares, massive storms and that

sort of thing, but for me it was the quiet of a summer‘s day, and a repetitive, boring walk from school. I decided I wasn‘t going to be a criminal. Leonard had already bopped an old lady over the head and nicked her handbag, and he was gone

from the Home so quickly, it was amazing. He was a likeable and I thought inoffensive chap, with fair straw like hair, and thick framed 1960‘s glasses. At thirteen he was obviously embarking on some sort

of career, or perhaps not, perhaps he saw what he thought was easy money, and acted on the spur of the moment, anyway, he disappeared the day he got caught. If I was going to be a crim I certainly wasn‘t going to be that stupid.

We also had our share of pervies. The girls‘ bathroom was on the boys landing, conveniently next door to their toilets. Often whilst sitting in the bath we were aware of a little eye peeping at us, when

the window was open, but the voyeur was too quick when we ran after him, and we never caught him. I did find out who it was, by dint of a process of elimination and had the satisfaction of giving

him a good punch in the nose, making sure it was the day before I left the Home for good, so I could-n‘t get in trouble. So pervies invoked anger, and were in danger, not just from the law, but also irate victims of their smutty activities.

I saw quite a few of my peers do the shoplifting thing, and I must say they were very good at it, but I knew my luck, and guilty face, and was confident I wouldn‘t get away with it. I had visions of

running hard up the street being chased by store detectives, entertaining the bored shoppers, and ricking my ankle to boot. No no!, Far too energetic for me, and the thought of sitting in the cells to

recover was not my idea of a rest. If I were to be a criminal I would have to be a lot cleverer than all these folk, and plan something meticulously. And this is where the problem came. At some point in the game, I would have to tell

LIES. Not just the little white one, ―did you do that?‖ ―No‖ when I was as guilty as hell, but a full blown, purple mendacious hard-faced whopper.

Now I knew also that one lie needed another to back it up, and so on, and to the person who could swear black was white, with a smile and convince others of their duplicitous statements, this must be like an adventure into an exciting country, with different scenery, no ennui, never boring or

hum-drum. And if by dint of this deceptive congress, they could relieve the unsuspecting listening soul of their cash, well, so much the better, two birds with one stone as it were.

Could I be that good at lying? I‘m sure I could plan a heist through, lead a gang of resourceful thieves to the realisation of the acquisition of substantial wealth, and live, (easily) with the improved

lifestyle. What could go wrong? Two body organs sprung to life, and reminded me that they didn‘t always work as well as they should. The stomach said ―If you tell lies, and put yourself under stress, I‘ll play up, I‘ll pump excess

acid out, give you indigestion and then the wind, do you doubt me?‖ At the tender age of sixteen, I knew my stomach was not lying. The thought of replying with a load of porkies, whilst being severely

questioned by a hardened but fit police detective, whilst, at the same time, trying desperately hard not to fart, was too much for my ego, and I thought it may be time to go straight, even though at the

time I was not bent. The brain said, ―apart from influencing your stomach, a good job, I have to say, I can‘t do much

else efficiently, I don‘t know which year

we are in, much less day or month, I don‘t know what I did a few minutes ago, yes-

terday is another country, a week previ-ous another planet. If I can‘t cope too well

with the truth, how the hell am I going to cope with lies, which, if done effectively takes a much higher IQ? No Barbara, live

with your inadequacies and inefficiencies, forego the exciting life of the professional

charlatan and rogue, aristocratic thief and temptress, be a MUSICIAN.‖ I‘m sixty-two now, and lived as a mu-

sic teacher, composer, and jazz pianist, sometime dance school, and pub pianist.

Busker and orchestral player, it‘s been a great life. My brain has coped well with

the musical stresses put upon it. I‘ve met the most charming colourful people I ever could have. I‘ve not had to bother about

what‘s truth and what‘s not, because with music everything is true, it can be trusted

implicitly. So am I pleased I made that decision all those years ago?

YOU BET.

Im

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RBW Trustee Meeting 24th June

The Trustees are pleased to announce that RBW will be producing a poetry anthology in 2014

suggestions for a title will be appreciated. Reminder: if you haven‟t sent in your My First Job memory

can you do so straight away. Thank you. It is hoped the celebration for National Poetry Day in October might be a bit special... more details later.

Fighting Back Maybe it's because we're Staffordians that we love our county town. I'm sure that it's because we're Staffordians we are sick of it - still being put down. We get an irksome feeling inside of us, when we're relentlessly attacked. Tell them - don't mention our hospital, the staff, or any of the inhabi-tants, unless it is proven to be - fact. Audrey Jackson http://www.facebook.com/groups/supportstaffordhospital/

£3.00 donation appreciated available in the Guildhall campaign shop

RANDOM WORDS PMW Merlin wandered round the forest glade behind Bluddschott Castle gathering a dozen or so herbs and wild flowers. When he got back to the quiet and privacy of his room in the turret, he added water and let them boil for a day and a half, until they pro-

duced a foul-smelling infusion. Down in the Castle‘s oubliette was a prisoner from whom Merlin wanted some in-formation. He sought to discover the way to the lost kingdom of Atlantis, but the man was remaining stubbornly mute. The particular recipe Merlin had used would produce delusions and make the subject pliant. ―This potion will loosen his tongue!‖ the wizard thought with satisfaction.

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WAKE UP!! Listen up British people everywhere Here's some facts about your healthcare. You‘re going to lose it if you don't complain No use next year groaning about your pain, Unless you have private insurance or cash to pay Your recovery will be subject to a long delay. The good people of Stafford and the Surrounds Keep shouting the warnings, they're doing the rounds But you‘re not listening because you do not believe That anyone in authority can lie and deceive. We've seen it coming for quite a long time

The government believes your ignorance is sublime With help from media they feed a frenzy of scandal They give us the bad news they think we can't handle They've been aided greatly to bluff us all But the so called "Marsh People" are on the ball. We've seen through the fog of lies and subterfuge We urge you to pen your thoughts to deluge The MPs and Peers, the alleged greatest in the land With letters and emails in which you must demand Your right to the healthcare you have paid for from your taxes Do it soon… the demolition men are coming with axes

Jan Kelly

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RISING BROOK SHAME: Ancient water course now a dumping ground for rub-bish with neglected banks overgrown with nettles ... (19.06.13)

Oliver Owen Bernard, 1925–2013 poet

http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/obituaries/10121359/Oliver-Bernard.html

Oliver Bernard, elder brother of Jeffrey Bernard — the late Spectator colum-nist, has died at his home in Norfolk, at the age of 87.

Still performing in his later years Oliver gave a powerful reading at the Aldeburgh Poetry Festival in 2002. His ‗Twenty Miles‘ was one of the top most popular on the festival‘s ‗Greatest Hits‘ CD re-

leased in 2003.

His obituary in The Telegraph reveals: ―He was, variously, a Communist book-packer, an RAF pilot, a gasworks fireman, a tramlines repairer, a kitchen porter, a male prostitute, a rider of freight cars

in Canada, a prize-winning advertising copywriter, a drama teacher, a CND campaigner, a prisoner, a patient on the analyst‘s couch and a convert to Roman Catholicism.‖ Oliver‘s long-term publisher, Peter Jay, editor at Anvil Press, is quoted: ―He was delightful, witty,

intelligent company and a superb raconteur. As publisher of his poems he was the easiest of au-thors to work with – completely undemanding, lacking all pretention, always concerned to get

things right, though without a trace of pedantry.‖

The three Bernard brothers were the sons of architect Oliver Bernard and his wife Dora Hodges, better known as opera singer Fedora Rosell, and distant cousins of the My Fair Lady actor Stanley Holloway.

Oliver Bernard, born December 6 1925, died June 1 2013

http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/browse/86/2?_escaped_fragment_=/20585679

Poems ... Pavane and For what is foreign http://www.oliverbernard.com/Oliver_Bernard_oct_12/oliver_bernard_poetry.html (above image)

The Rising Brook

Springing up at Hyde Lea, by sacred hill fort ring, Rushing headlong down bank, while grazing cattle sing,

Whistles under M6 gully; sending winging bats all a scurry, Trickles under nettled slopes, where water voles are in a hurry.

Forced under graffiti footbridge, to skirt the fence by Highfields Club, Sings along side the football pitch; wide-eyed vixen hides her cub. Darkly under West Way, squeezed by pipe and drain,

Bubbles into sunlight, lets the allotments ease their strain, Plays seek under school lane, dapples to glimpse the daylight. Plunges under the four-four-nine, murky black as any night.

Whipping downhill, picks up speed, tumbles through Brook Glen, Railway embankment looming large, culverted by ancient men, Emerges gushing fierce, races into Silkmore Lane,

Bank bursting torrent, laughs and chortles o‘er the man-made plain. Spills pell-mell to water meadow, gushing with a new found glee, At the Radfords begins in earnest its journey to the far off sea.

SM Spiers 2008

The RBW logo shows the same stretch of brook in 2008 ...

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Aldeburgh Poetry Festival 2013 Ian McMillan combines words with art ...

This year is the festival‘s ‗Silver Anniversary‘ – 25 years of

bringing poets from home and abroad to leafy Suffolk After last year‘s expansion, the Festival returns to its usual

venue at Snape Maltings and Aldeburgh Baptist Chapel.

Alongside many rising voices in British poetry, highlights will include the poets Craig Raine and Robin Robertson, plus outstanding international writers Canada‘s Karen Solie, America‘s Katha Pollitt and Vera Pavlova, Russia.

The first Aldeburgh Poetry Commission will be ‗unveiled‘: a collaboration between the

poet and broadcaster Ian McMillan (patron of RBW) and Suffolk-based artist Fran Crowe who spent a couple of days exploring the local terrain and how together they

might combine words, images and objects to create stimulating ‗encounters‘ for Festival audiences. Pilotage is the project title for collaboration: they plan to share undiscovered aspects in

poetry and art in a collection inspired by their travels. The results will be installed at Dovecote Studio, Snape and the South Lookout Tower in Aldeburgh during the Festival

weekend in November.

Three Judges Chosen For ‘The First Collection Prize’

Robert Seatter will Chair the panel of three judges for the 2013 Fenton Aldeburgh First Collection Prize. Seatter is an established poet – his third collection Writing King Kong (Seren) was published in 2011 and a board member of The Poetry Trust and part of the Aldeburgh Poetry Festival team.

Joining him will be Maura Dooley who has published four collections, Life Under Water (Bloodaxe 2008) was shortlisted for the TS Eliot Prize. Editor of several anthologies, she

founded the Literature programme at the South Bank Centre and is a lecturer in Creative Writing at Goldsmiths‘ College.

The third judge is writer Peter Blegvad, Warwick University creative writing tutor, broad-

caster, musician and singer-songwriter whose most recent album Gonwards was released in 2012. Peter is a regular contributor to the Aldeburgh Poetry Festival – as an illustrator, performer, panellist and interviewer.

The Fenton Aldeburgh Prize carries financial benefits and development opportunities

for the winning poet. In addition to a cash award (£2,000), there‘s a fee-paying invitation to appear at the following year‘s Festival, plus a week‘s paid writing time on the inspira-

tional Suffolk coast. Entries close on Friday 26th July. More information and how to enter.

NB: RBW

does not

endorse

any

competi-

tion,

or third

party

event, or

workshop

I remember the old kitchen floor: it sloped

The kitchen floors were always of blue brick, and had a slope/fall,

they were laid to enable them to be washed down with a bucket of water, the water then run through a hole in the wall and into an out-

side grid. In the 1940s I remember a kitchen on a smallholding, (not our kitchen, I might add) which adjoined their cowshed. Open the door

on one side of the kitchen, and there were the cows all tied by the neck by a chain to their stalls, all ten of them.

The only snag was that the cowshed was top side of the kitchen and the drain from the shed ran through the kitchen under the table and out the other side in an open gully. Every time a cow passed

water it would run swiftly almost under your feet when sitting at the table: to anyone outside cow keeping would be horrified, but the

smell of cow urine is a normal part of a cowman's everyday smells and has a tendency, I am told, to help to clear your sinuses.

The dung was wheeled out of the door that led to the fields, the way the cows came in and out, but the liquids took the shortest route and followed the slope of the cowshed and kitchen floor. It would not be allowed to happen these days, on health and safety grounds, but it did back then,

and clean milk was sold. The kitchen was clean and the gully kept rinsed and clean. Those cows were often seen back then, being grazed up the wide road side verges tended by the

elderly owner who stayed with them. That house and small cowshed have long since been the victims of barn conversion, modernization, what ever you want to call it, but I will always remember it as the

house where the cowshed and house were all as one. Our kitchen at home when we were kids, had blue brick floor and a slope of four inches from top end to the lower corner, the drain hole had been stopped up to prevent rats and mice coming in, and

it was mopped rather than sloshed down every day. I remember when mother had her first electric cooker, it had to have a patch of floor levelled up especially for it, other wise the pots and pans on the

cooker would have had too much of a tilt east to west. At the table, which also sloped, for every meal time three times a day, seven days a week (except when we started having school dinners) were four of us lads, mother, father

and Uncle Jack as well.

I remember The Kitchen Floor it sloped. I remember when we were kids, kitchen floor it sloped, Sat down at meal times, mother to top end coped, Kitchen table vinyl cloth, also it did tilt, Father down one side, safe from anything that spilt. Always there is one, who's clumsy as a kid, Put him at the lower end, own mess he is amid, Tip the water over, or a cup of tea, It runs down the table, straight into his own knee. Four of us took it in turns, not to be so clumsy, Other three would laugh, sat as dry as we could be,

A damn good lesson that it was, with instant results, Chair at the lower end, reserved for bumble foots. We live every day of our lives on one slippery slope or another. Taken from a quote by the Anonymous Preacher

Strangers‘ Cries I cower down and close my eyes Can hear strangers‘ moans from the shore I‘m silenced by those strangers‘ cries

It‘s hard to see who outside lies I can hear them outside my door I cower down and close my eyes The darkness deepens across the skies The moans now louder than before I‘m silenced by those strangers‘ cries Something past my window flies As I‘m kneeling now on the floor I cower down and close my eyes

Sudden screeching in almighty highs Ripped wallpaper the strangers tore I‘m silenced by those strangers‘ cries I‘m pinned down as if in ties Sweat dripping from every pore I cower down and close my eyes I‘m silenced by those strangers‘ cries

Poetic form: A villanelle is a nineteen-line poetic form consisting of five tercets followed by a quatrain. There are two refrains and two repeating rhymes, with the

first and third line of the first tercet repeated alternately until the last stanza, which includes both repeated lines. The villanelle is an example of a fixed verse form. The

word derives from Latin, then Italian. Construction: The villanelle consists of five stanzas of three lines (tercets) followed

by a single stanza of four lines (a quatrain) for a total of nineteen lines. It is struc-tured by two repeating rhymes and two refrains: the first line of the first stanza

serves as the last line of the second and fourth stanzas, and the third line of the first stanza serves as the last line of the third and fifth stanzas.

The rhyme-and-refrain pattern of the villanelle can be thought of as A1bA2 abA1 abA2 abA1 abA2 abA1A2 where letters ("a" and "b") indicate the two rhyme sounds, upper

case indicates a refrain ("A"), and superscript numerals (1 and 2) indicate Refrain 1 and Refrain 2. (Refrain poetic definition: Refrain is a verse or phrase that is re-

peated at intervals throughout a song or poem, usually after the chorus or stanza.) A villanelle can be used for dramatic effect as the repeated lines hammer home the

message. (Research: Source material various web outlets)

Issue 292

Page 16

Sundays With Gran I always loved the Sundays Of staying at my grans Had our routine

That would forever stand I would stay the night On the Saturday every week Just to give mummy a break But to me this was a treat I had my own bedroom With belongings of my own Littered all around Making this room my very own You could see the teddies Sitting high up on the shelf Keeping lookout for spiders lurking

And keeping the shadow monsters out My toys are in the corner Messily thrown into a box All a tidy pile of clutter The same as my drawer of socks On Sunday i'm awaken early By the noise of gran downstairs I join her to prepare the dinner Of vegetables, meat and pears I chop them up as best as I can She helps when I get stuck Then she puts it in the oven

And then another dish to cook My favourite, and a ritual Out come the biscuits plain Rhubarb I pick out of the garden We begin the prep again Wash the fruit and crumble the biscuits Gran takes over the rest I go outside to play Careful not to get into a mess The smell of the rhubarb brings me in I know that lunch is done You cannot beat mine and gran‘s Sundays

It tastes so very good This I will do all my life For my children when the time comes I just hope gran lets me have her recipes Especially of the rhubarb crumble

Wikipedia image

Issue 292

Page 18

Gerard Manley Hopkins (28 July 1844 – 8 June 1889) an English poet, Roman Catholic convert, and

Jesuit priest, whose posthumous fame estab-lished him among the leading Victorian poets. His experiments in prosody (especially sprung rhythm) and his use of imagery established him as an innovator in a period when largely tradi-tional verse was being produced.

Patience, hard thing! the hard thing but to pray, But bid for, Patience is! Patience who asks Wants war, wants wounds; weary his times, his tasks; To do without, take tosses, and obey. Rare patience roots in these, and, these away, Nowhere. Natural heart's ivy, Patience masks Our ruins of wrecked past purpose. There she basks Purple eyes and seas of liquid leaves all day. We hear our hearts grate on themselves: it kills To bruise them dearer. Yet the rebellious wills Of us we do bid God bend to him even so. And where is he who more and more distils Delicious kindness? He is patient. Patience fills His crisp combs, and that comes those ways we know. Gerard Manley Hopkins

Further research: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gerard_Manley_Hopkins

http://www.poetryfoundation.org/bio/gerard-manley-hopkins

Images wikipedia

As Kingfishers Catch Fire By Gerard Manley Hopkins As kingfishers catch fire, dragonflies draw flame; As tumbled over rim in roundy wells Stones ring; like each tucked string tells, each hung bell's Bow swung finds tongue to fling out broad its name; Each mortal thing does one thing and the same: Deals out that being indoors each one dwells; Selves — goes itself; myself it speaks and spells, Crying Whát I dó is me: for that I came. I say móre: the just man justices; Keeps grace: thát keeps all his goings graces; Acts in God's eye what in God's eye he is — Chríst — for Christ plays in ten thousand places, Lovely in limbs, and lovely in eyes not his To the Father through the features of men's faces.

At the Wedding March By Gerard Manley Hopkins God with honour hang your head, Groom, and grace you, bride, your bed With lissome scions, sweet scions, Out of hallowed bodies bred. Each be other‘s comfort kind: Déep, déeper than divined, Divine charity, dear charity, Fast you ever, fast bind. Then let the March tread our ears: I to him turn with tears Who to wedlock, his wonder wedlock, Déals tríumph and immortal years.

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