RBW Online

ISSUE 285 Date: 10th May 2013

LIFE OBSERVATIONS Latin is so useful for putting over a sentiment in a quiet but forceful way, it’s also a harmless source of amusement. Pigeons in one’s garden are a nuisance ... enough said. When dog walkers are carrying swinging plastic bags of poo they are sud-denly on everyone else’s radar. Pollen has arrived in vengeance. Blossom is three weeks behind and trying desperately to catch up. A starving bee crawled out of the shed where it had been trapped, dusty and forlorn. Five dandelion heads later it had enough strength to test its wings and then flew away. The kindness of strangers is always a pleasant surprise ... there are still some nice people out there.

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Existentialism n philosophical movement of the 19th century centred on individual existence that denies the universe has any inbuilt meaning or pur-pose— i.e. people must take responsibility for their own actions, there is no divine pre-ordained plan.

Existent adj real, actual, not imagined, not an invention, current Extant adj existing, in existence, present Moot adj arguable, open to dispute or argument, not relevant Basophobia n a hysterical fear of falling so overwhelming that it prevents the sufferer from being able to stand or walk

Avicularium n a prehensile organ—a bit like a beak—found in some aquatic creatures

Axilla n the armpit (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Axilla) Asteism n a cleverly contrived, polite insult, genteel irony Acroama n rhetorical exclamation, a dramatic exchange from the Greek for something heard

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

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Random Words : Agatha, once, stress, rain, existence, life, vicarage, moot Assignment May Day

He called her Countess. Not because to him, she was royalty, but because according to him, she

always wanted her own way, be the boss and make all the decisions. She wished she were free of

him. It wasn’t a happy union. Then he got ill. “Don’t worry. I’ll get my own back. You’ll never be free of me. I’ll haunt you”, he threatened. Six months later, sitting in the hearse, Doris mused about this, as the driver crashed the gears. “Sounds like the synchromesh has gone”, he said. “Just had it serviced too!” “It’s him!” Doris thought. “And him not even in his grave yet! Making his presence felt.” She had a strong interest in the fey and mysterious, and had no doubt it was his doing. Next day, looking out of the window, where a song thrush was singing with gusto, she thought some-

thing about it didn’t seem quite right. When it was still singing outside her bedroom at midnight, she

knew he was up to his tricks. Her brother was a gamekeeper. Doris borrowed his shotgun. “Take this, you ignoramus!” she yelled, as she reduced the bird to a pile of feathers. She told her brother she’d longed to do that for years. “The salient point is that Fred is already dead, so I can’t have murdered him!” she grinned. (PMW)

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 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 CHARACTER: Richard Coeur de Poulet — returning Crusader 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 Ghostly Sword of Bluddschott Castle The Mappa Tuessdi ... Velum maps of the known world bought in a bazaar in

Constantinople for a few pennies by Vladimir oft times copied The toe bone of St. Gastric. Gallstone of St. Hilarious Crocodile and a Unicorn and a Dragon carved in stone

Good luck, we ’ l l need it ...

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DOG LATIN MOTTO : A Wise Man Doesn’t Pee Against The Wind ... or ... better to go with the flow ...

Anyone else fancy drawing a shield? The funnier the better ...

We all loved the bat in this one ...

Celia sat listlessly bored in the Lady Della’s bedchamber, getting increasingly worried as

time passed and Della had not returned. The maids had withdrawn to put on their best bib

and tucker to follow the bride and tend to her needs until the chapel doors, adding to the

throng’s spreading of rose petals before the bride in all her finery.

Celia heard the secret door go and turned to find her mum, who recounted the true iden-

tity of herself as Byzantine Prince Styx d’Dryhill and to Celia of her true name Atheena

d’Guise, and concluded by crying out her wonderful news.

‘You, my girl, are to marry the great Crusader, Earl Let d’Just Holdthis!’

Celia sat stunned. Her whole life turned upside down. Then a thought crept upon her.

Where is the Lady Della, if her closest companions know not where she be? And now she

is lost, as the Prince is to marry into the household of the High Queen of Woodbine of the

Fairy Kingdom, and they cannot be slighted by Lady Della insisting on her marriage to

Prince Galla of Hadnt!

‘The Prince is marrying someone else,’ wailed the Lady Della from behind the firescreen

and came out to Celia.

‘Where have you been Your Highness,’ and was cut short by Della continuing,

‘And you’re Byzantine Princesses, with you due to marry a Crusader and live in his great

castle and your mum marrying a Tsar and live in the splendors of a Constantinople palace,

in the bargain. Great, what’s their left for little old me, then!’

Just then an old mate of Della’s barged through the door, ‘Oh up to your old tricks again

Della my girl. Where have you been, you’ve missed all the fun?’

‘Fun, fun, there’s nowt funny about me ill fortune, me old china.’

Her mate rushed out the news, ‘Baron Morbidd has been beaten in combat by his own

elder son returned from the Crusades and claimed the title for himself, retiring his own

dad! They were having a bit of a go out amongst the villagers’ wedding feast, at the old

tourney grounds, they were.’

‘They had a trial by combat without any witnesses?’ grumbled the Lady Della.

‘No, no, the family were there, cheering both on to be on the safe side of all.’

And breathlessly continued, ‘The elder son, now the Baron Morbidd, rides to claim his

bride, you me old mate. And there is a fair amount of gold in his armour from all the pillage

he got from far lands. And the horse, well a mighty steed indeed. If you don’t want him, I’ll

have him!’

‘You won’t!’

And with this the Lady Della rang her bell with every vigour and maids rushed in.

‘Get me dressed up, now, quick. The wedding is soon upon us! Hurry up girl, get me other

veil out the trunk. Come on, come on!!’

The new Baron Morbidd, in full Crusader regalia, rode through the castle gates with his

entourage and came upon the group of the Crusaders Earl Let D’Just Holdthis and Tsar

Ivan Bal d’Boc, who stood smiling broadly at an over-joyed Baron Bluddschott, and the sol-

diers in the courtyard roared in salute to another hero come back to them.

Dismounting from his great steed, his armour shone in the morning’s sun from all the

gold ornamentation upon it.

‘My respects Baron Bludshott, I come to claim my bride, your daughter, the Lady Della,

this day.’

A confidante of the Lady Gwenever whispered into her ear and, in turn, the Lady Gwen-

ever informed the Baron of the status now of the Elder Son by victory in combat.

The Baron’s cup did indeed runneth over in unbridled joy. His head began to spin a little

from such a turn of events.

He gave an aside to his Lady Gwenever, ‘I’m well in with all these high Crusaders from

now on, my beauty.’

The Lady Gwenever smiled and nodded.

‘My dear Baron Morbidd, you do me the greatest honour by accepting my beloved only

daughter’s hand in marriage, this day.’

Richard d’Coeur de Poulet grasped forearms with the new Baron, ‘Congratulations in claim-

ing your birthright and new bride. Where are you retiring your old pater to, my lad?’

‘Burgundy, to look after me vineyards to keep me wine cellar well-stocked.’

Richard d’Coeur de Poulet gave the observation, ‘Ah I must visit me old cousins that way,

and pay my respects to your pater on my way.’

Editor‘s note: I hope everyone is keeping up as there might be questions later ... If anyone is confused ... you should come to group: you‘d fit right in ...

Anne the Songstress, had finished her evening stint in the Pygge and Rabitt Pie and

was in her room having her bedtime drink when there was a knock on the door.

She armed herself, with the remainder of her lunchtime loaf, because she hadn't

heard the sound of feet on the stair. As she'd said, to herself, at the time the bread was

so heavy it'd do anybody eating it some serious harm; so it should, firmly applied to the

top of a head, do quite well as a sleeping pill.

‘Come in, it's not locked,’ she called.

The door - which had started out life as the door to a haunted room and never really

forgotten it, it was that kind of a door - creaked and groaned open. Nothing entered: and

then creaked shut again.

‘Hello Nimue. Got any news for me?’ Anne asked.

‘Nimue! I'm not Nimue, I'm the swords Genie,’ said a voice with a foreign accent.

‘Sorry Jeannie.’ Anne replied. ‘ But I didn't get that bit about a sword. It's not that kind

of a duel anyway. All I need is good set of instruments, musical instruments that is, and I

can beat Jocelyn, that so called troubadour, into a cocked hat. Errrm... do you think you

could put a body on, please? I hate talking to empty air.’

‘Not a chance, dear girl. It was hard enough for me to ooze in without getting zapped as

it was. Now! About these instruments that got broken.’

‘The one's that that Jocelyn sabotaged you mean Jeannie. I'm hoping to get them glued

together in time, but it seems hopeless, and the damp got to those in the cellar, so they

aren't up to much.’

The Genie was firm. ‘My instructions are to do things so that you will win. Also I've got

ten Marks, three Groats and fifteen Obols riding on you winning at odds of 5 to 2. Or was

that quarter past three?

I never did understand these new fangled numbers.

Anyway, mending your instruments I can do. Bring them down to the gatehouse and I'll

do some fast repair spells on them. They'll be better than new I promise you. There's

nothing like some amplification magic to decide the winner. You're going to blast the

socks off them!’

*****

Baron Morebidd had woken up feeling, not to put too fine a point on it, morbid. His lat-

est 'lady love' had given him the elbow in favour of a younger, fitter, man.

‘Face it old chap,’ he'd said to himself in a mirror. ‘You're better off out of the match to

the old trout. Although that may be a bit unfair to any old trout who happens to be swim-

ming around in the moat.

No. All in all it's going to be a good day. Well it could be when judging this singers duel is

finished that is. Being a bit deaf in one ear, and not hearing too well in the other, is a prob-

lem, still, just agree with the others and it'll be okay.’

But now the time had come to sit and listen to them caterwaul. He did wish they'd sing a

bit louder so that he could actually hear what they were on about!

With the tension in the arena now racketing up towards bordering on the 'quite possibly

vaguely interesting', a coin was tossed and Jocelyn decided to go into bat first. Morebidd

decided that this was a tactical error and marked him down by three points on his score

sheet and gave his opponent two runs as leg byes.

‘My Lords, Ladies and Gentlemen,’ Jocelyn began. ‘My first song of the mandatory set of

five will be that ever popular number Greene Growe the Rushes Oh.’

Morebidd marked him down two more for using an 'E' on the word endings.

Picking up a lute Jocelyn sang the first two verses and chorus's. The onlookers ap-

plauded which seemed to say it was reasonable; even if Morebidd could only hear part of

the chorus. That got him a score of five.

The next three songs all scored five as well. The last was a bagpipe song and Morebidd

hated bagpipes - his pet cat had ended up as part of a set - but at least he could hear them

so that got a single mark.

A smiling Anne the Songstress took the stage and curtseyed to them. Morebidd looked

upon that as an immediate improvement and sat up and took notice.

‘Nice looking young woman,’ he said to himself. ‘Walks well, seems confident but not

brash and hold herself upright. Much better at this than that fellow that's just done his turn.

I'll give her five before she starts.’

‘My Lords, Ladies and Gentlemen,’ she began. ‘Following the lead of the bankrupt biga-

mist Jocelyn, my first song of the mandatory set of five will also be that ever popular num-

ber Green Grow the Rushes Oh. However, I must warn you that you will not have heard it

quite this way before.

Turning to her music stand she took up a hurdy-gurdy and started to play. Morebidd was

astounded.

It was magical !!!!

He could hear every note and word!

Nine out of ten for that! Eight or nine out of ten for every other song as well.

At the end of the set piece the audience went wild, shouting and cheering and whistling.

Morebidd found himself clapping, shouting and whistling as well, which earned him a dirty

look from Lady B, which didn't bother him in the least, and added two or three percent to

the volume.

‘Do you see any point in going on with this?’ Lady B said when the row had died down.

‘That Jocelyn fellow is seriously outclassed. He doesn't stand a chance and he could slink

off and save his blushes if we declared Anne the Songstress the winner now.’

‘Will the rules allow it though Gwen? Apart from everything I want to see a lot more, errm,

I mean hear some more, of that young woman. If we had an Arthurians Having Talent Com-

petition she'd be the outright winner and walk off with a purse full of Groats and a contract

to sing in the Royal Arthurian Hall - if we ever get around to building one.’

Gwen, in her 'I'm ALWAYS right' mode, thought that the rules required at least two rounds

and consulted Richard Coeur de Poulet, the other judge, who had, over his feeble protests,

been shanghaied in at the last minute.

He agreed and said, ‘In my experience as a music lover(?) and don't quote me on this,

bad things always come in threes and you don't get much worse than this. But, having said

all that, the girl isn't too hard on the ear, but it seems to be wrong that she can sing so

loudly.’

Morbidd had wondered about that as well, but didn't say anything.

So the pair were asked to sing again.

Writers’ Block?

Here‘s an exercise to get you thinking, a talking point that we tried in workshop a few weeks ago ...

We were talking about memory ...

As we all know even dogs have memories ... They dream, they remember where they‘ve left things ...

So humans are not alone in having a recall mechanism, but being able to tell others about our memories that‘s a different thing ...

What is your first memory?

How old were you? Do smells remind you of this memory?

Can you recall sounds, people, places, things?

Example: One of my first memories is of blackcurrant bushes. The feel and smell of squashing blackcurrants in my fingers, and being shaded from bright sunlight by a canopy of leaves, as, humming to herself, my mother picked berries for making jam. Another is lying in a cot, cosy in the darkness listening to steam trains calling out in

the night, their wheels talking to each other as they drummed doodle-a-do on the rails beneath my window.

Strangely, the horrific injury I gained by grabbing the hot end of a poker lying in the grate I can‘t recall at all, nor when I fell off a high-chair and broke my thumb. I can‘t remember that either. Perhaps memory really is selective even at so young an age.

Next time you‘re stuck for an idea ... try digging in the memory banks ...

How far back can you go?

Send in your first memories to the bulletin: the ones recalled by folks in workshop were fascinating, a snapshot of babyhood half a century ago, or more.

I thought I was as green as the next person but is it just me being squeamish, or is it a bit grim, when metallic hips from dead people are being melted down to make road signs?

It came as a bit of a surprise to learn that metal body parts from the dead are being recycled into road signs, lamp posts, car parts and aircraft engines as part of a scheme involving councils across the country. To be honest the first thing I

did was to check the date to see if it was an April Fool gag. But No ... According to many and varied newspaper reports ... and being reported in newspapers

it must be true ... (sorry, I suffer from inbred cynicism) ... steel hips, plates and screws from plated legs/bones and skulls are collected after cremation and sent off for recycling.

Thank goodness they explained; I had horrific visions of dissection on a mortuary slab, par-ing away flesh from bone like some demented abattoir vision from hell. Apparently, councils of all political hues agree to this seemingly macabre practice and

locally Dudley, Wolverhampton, Sandwell and Stafford all go in for this ultimate version of metal recycling, which also sees tiny fragments from fillings and false teeth sieved out the

ashes and recycled. Your car could contain residue of Great Uncle Fred‘s implants ... because high value

metals which survive cremation are sold on for use in motor and aeronautical industries. The specially valued metals include cobalt and titanium, which are found in some implants, with cobalt being in demand for aircraft engines. Less valuable metals are melted down and

sold for road signs, motorway barriers and lamp posts: it is facts like these which make one think long and hard about one‘s green credentials.

One chap commenting on this article took a pragmatic view and quite rightly said they were welcome to his metal hips as he wouldn‘t have any further use for them. Another chap said he‘d rather the metal in his body was reused than wasted in landfill ... not how

I‘d ever thought of scattering ashes myself but that‘s a personal opinion. No mention of gold or silver I notice, diamonds*, being carbon, burn away but not gold or silver I seem to

recall. (*I stand to be corrected on this as I can‘t remember the info source.) Nice little earner ... in 2009 it was reported that within two years, six workers at a

crematorium in Nuremberg, Germany earned more than £100,000 by selling recovered gold from teeth to a jeweller. Apparently, it turned out under German law, they could not be charged because the recovered gold was not held to belong to anybody after the process of

cremation. For some folks the article could have raised painful associations. The raw product (ash covered metal slag one supposes) salvaged from the 1000

degree cremation process is collected by contractors who take it to specialist plants for recycling. A good thing, few could argue, is that money made is donated to charity and a

million pounds or so has been raised for good causes since the project began here in 2004. Relatives are asked if they want to keep metal parts of loved ones before cremations by the centres taking part. I bet that‘s a tick box question no-one expected: type of flowers/type

of urn/donate or retain titanium hip? The Dutch company which is behind this imaginative recycling scheme says around

half Britain‘s 260 crematoriums have already been signed up which is generating 75 tons of scrap metal a year i.e. pre-owned internally-used scrap metal.

Just another thought if you‘re making a will, along with donating your organs you might want to think about where your bionic spare parts are to go ... One the bright side, at least we can be thankful spare parts are being melted down

and not cleaned up and re-used on someone else as pre-owned, one owner, low mileage ... or is that next year‘s story ...

(SMS)

Performance poet Martin Daws announced as new Young People's Laureate for Wales.

PUBLICITY RELEASE

Literature Wales is delighted to announce the appointment of

award-winning live performer and poet Martin Daws as the new

Young People's Laureate for Wales, 2013-2015.

The Young People's Laureate Initiative gives youth communities

across Wales an important platform from which to develop their

own creative voices and discuss issues relevant to young people.

Martin will use a wide range of disciplines, from sonnets to sound-

scapes, and beat-boxing to broadcasting, to engage the next genera-

tion with literature like never before. Forthcoming projects include

working with young people to create their own poetic manifestos, a summer day school for writers and youth leaders on delivering

accessible literature activities, and a pop-up poetry tour of Wales' rural communities. The two year appointment recognises Martin's

many years of experience in delivering issue-based education through creative techniques. To date over 17,000 people have partici-

pated in his workshops in all kinds of environments including classrooms, theatres, woodlands, festivals, universities, museums and

even bus stops.

'I am absolutely thrilled at Martin's appointment as Young People's Laureate' said Lleucu Siencyn, Chief Executive of Literature Wales.

'His energy both as a performer and workshop facilitator will make literature a vibrant, appealing and relevant artform for young people

in Wales today. Creative writing is a vital expressive tool - and through Martin's encouragement, many more young people will gain the

confidence to make themselves heard.'

Tracey Thompson, Youth Worker at Gwersyllt Night Project in Wrexham said: 'Working with Martin on the Eat My Words project

was a positive experience for both the staff and the young people from the Gwersyllt Project group. It introduced the group to new

things, took them out of their comfort zone, gave them new skills and increased their confidence ... this project has altered their percep-

tion of poetry and inspired them to write more.'

Martin will be tweeting daily via the Young People's Laureate Twitter account, @YPLWales, giving young people and adults alike the

opportunity to converse with him and take part in an interactive twitter-poem which will grow in multiple directions each day. He will

be offering a number of workshops in May, both in person and online, as part of the Young People's Manifesto project. Martin, in his

role as Young People's Laureate, joins the new Bardd Plant Cymru who will be announced at the Urdd Eisteddfod on 28 May. The

Bardd Plant Cymru (Welsh-language Children's Poet Laureate) works closely with children all over Wales to inspire and promote a

love of literature in the Welsh language.

www.youngpeopleslaureate.org

MESSAGE FROM MARTIN DAWS — April 2013:

‗We have one of the world‘s greatest poetic traditions in Wales, so to be named Young People‘s Laureate for Wales is one of the greatest honours a poet can receive. I am very pleased to be given the role, and relish the opportunity to cele-brate our poetic traditions in the best way I know how – by nurturing the next generation of young Welsh poets.

‗It‘s my belief that there is a poem for everyone, and a poem in everyone, and as Young People‘s Laureate for Wales I‘m excited to offer every young person in Wales an opportunity to find those poems. I want to create a dynamic poetic cul-

ture that fosters both excellence in a young person with talent, and engagement in a young person who thinks poetry is boring; a socially relevant culture that understands how the work of both those young people is of equal worth; I want to see a vibrant poetic culture that views the written and spoken word as inseparable reflections of the same source and

seeks to make them one; a living poetic culture that can both celebrate tradition and engage with linguistic innovation to safeguard the passage of poetry into the future.

‗As babies we begin the process of understanding our world through the stories we tell ourselves in the present, as we

get older much of our story becomes phrased in the past. Young people stand between those tenses and hold a vi-tal potential to contribute coherence to the narrative of the nation as a whole. My role is to first help them believe in the story they have to tell, and then to help them find the words they need to tell it.‘

Martin

Daw

s : imag

e Em

yr Y

ou

ng

The Floating Brothel This is the title of a splendid book by Sian Rees, exploring the seamy underside of life in Britain at the end of the 18th century. (REVIEWED BY PETER SHILSTON) There were at the time over 100 offences which carried the death penalty, mostly involving theft. We would think that those accused stood little chance, since people who could not af-ford the services of a lawyer had to conduct their own defence: not a good prospect for the great majority, who were poorly educated or totally illiterate, with many being no more than teenagers. In fact, however, judges and juries were often reluctant to condemn first-time of-fenders to be hanged for petty pilfering. But what to do instead? There were insufficient pris-ons, and these were generally grossly overcrowded, filthy holes, swept by epidemics of ty-phus from the omnipresent lice. (Prisoners who wanted better conditions would have to pay the gaoler). Furthermore, holding convicts in prison was an expensive business. Happily, from Elizabethan times onwards, a solution was found: a convict might instead be sen-tenced to “Transportation to parts beyond the seas”, there to work as a slave labourer, perhaps for seven years, perhaps for life. Until the late 18th century, the obvious place for transportation was America, and over the years around 60,000 convicts were shipped there. But then this possibility vanished, for in 1783 Britain was forced to recognise the independence of the American colonies. What now? Various alternative destinations were tried: Canada, the West Indies, even west Af-rica; but none proved satisfactory. Then, just in time, a new solution suggested itself. Cap-tain Cook had made his first voyage to New Zealand and Australia, where the great scientist Sir Joseph Banks was so excited with the new and unknown plants he found there that he named the place “Botany Bay”. In 1786 the government decided that Botany Bay was just the place for a convict colony. This new option came none too soon. The end of the America war had brought economic dislocation and unemployment, as munitions industries were scaled back and thousands of soldiers demobilised; and this inevitably led to increased lev-els of crime. The first convict fleet from England landed in Australia in January 1788. Botany Bay was found not to be a suitable site for starting a colony, and instead a settlement was built further down the coast, and named after the Secretary of State who had authorised the ex-pedition: Lord Sydney. Over a thousand people landed; convicts, soldiers and officials, al-most all men, under a governor: Arthur Phillip. They struggled to survive: on the long voyage out, many of the animals had died and the seed had spoilt, the soil proved to be infertile, and few of the convicts had any farming experience. Governor Phillip appealed to London for aid; especially for more women, whom he thought would help to settle things down. In fact, when the government made the decision to send out further shipments, it was not even known whether anyone of Phillip’s expedition was still alive: nothing had been heard from them since they docked at Cape Town in November 1787! In July 1789 (coinciding neatly with the outbreak of the French Revolution) the “Lady Julian” set sail for Australia. On board were over 200 women convicts; the youngest being 11, the oldest 68. Five brought infants with them. Sian Rees has been able to give personal details of many of them. A few were clearly hardened professional criminals, but most were pathetic cases of poverty. London had a huge floating population of young women, living in squalid lodgings or sleeping rough, hoping for temporary employment as shop assistants or maids. Times were hard, and their prospects were not helped by William Pitt’s 1785 tax on maidservants. Many of these unfortunates had turned to petty crime or prostitution in a des-perate effort to survive, but their amateurish efforts had quickly led to arrest and conviction. Some of the stories Rees tells are truly tragic. Mary Rose, a Lincolnshire girl, aged just 16, had run away from home to live with a young army officer. He was unfortunately soon posted overseas. He left her some money, but her landlady, who was the real villain of the piece, swore that Mary had stolen the money from her! Mary was found guilty and confined in an appalling underground cell in Lincoln gaol. As it happened, Sir Joseph Banks, who was himself a wealthy Lincolnshire man, got to hear of her plight, and advised her to accept the alternative of transportation to Australia. After eighteen months in her squalid dungeon, Mary would have thought it a risk well worth taking. (As we shall see later, it is likely that Banks came to take a more active role in Mary’s case) Aboard the “Lady Julian”, each officer, sailor and government agent, of whom there

Issue 285

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were about 35, could select a mistress from amongst the women convicts and take her to share his ham-mock. Several babies had been born by the end of the voyage. Those women not fortunate enough to be so selected slept below on the orlop deck. Even there, they would have found the experience better than remaining in prison: the overcrowding, the rats and fleas and the food would be no worse, and they were given far more freedom than would have been permitted to male convicts. As long as the weather was good they were able to wash their clothes up on deck in the fresh air, and they would also help the crew with everyday tasks like cleaning the ship, stitching clothes and sails, preparing meals and looking after the animals on board. It was a well-run ship, and the officers made a genuine effort to look after their pas-sengers. Only five lives were lost in the voyage, none being the result of neglect or ill-treatment. One of the men on board, John Nichol, already an experienced traveller, described the voyage in his memoirs many years later. It was impossible to sail to Australia non-stop. The ship docked to take on supplies at Tenerife, then crossed the Atlantic to Rio de Janeiro, surviving an outbreak of scurvy when they were becalmed in the windless Doldrums on the equator. Then it was across to Cape Town for much-needed repairs before embarking on the final leg to Australia. At all these ports the women were allowed to go ashore, or re-ceive visitors on board, and could earn useful money by begging, prostitution, or any other tricks they knew. John Nichol’s son was born at Rio, the mother being Sarah Whitelam, aged 17, another Lincoln-shire girl, falsely accused of stealing a cloak and sentenced to seven years’ transportation. Various delays meant that on the last stage of the voyage they had to endure the mountainous seas of autumn in the southern ocean. Another ship bound for Australia at this time, the “Centurion”, was lost in the southern ocean, and very few of her crew lived to tell the tale. The “Lady Julian” did survive, but she was half flooded, and everyone on board soaked and exhausted, when they reached Sydney in early June 1790. The welcome they received could hardly have been less encouraging. The colony was in a truly miserable state, the soldiers almost as ragged as the convicts, living in squalid huts, on the verge of starvation, with disease rife, and the last thing anyone wanted was more mouths to feed. It was only the arrival three weeks later of a store-ship, the “Justinian”, with plentiful supplies of food, which saved the whole enterprise from absolute catastrophe. From this point on, Sydney was able to prosper. There was now every encouragement for the women to marry and settle down. Convicts who had served out their sentences were granted thirty acres of land to farm: more if they married and had children. For some, there were happy endings. Mary Rose had refused to get involved in the sexual shenani-gans on the voyage, and now Governor Phillip received a letter from no less a personage than Sir Joseph Banks, telling him that Mary’s landlady had been convicted of perjury and Mary herself was pardoned. He asked Phillip to look after her. The Governor replied that she was already taken care of: it had been arranged that she would marry John Trace, a Devonshire man soon to have served out his sentence; 20 years older than Mary, but described as “one of the best men in the colony”. John Nichol’s story, by con-trast, was romantic but unhappy. He would have loved to settle down with Sarah Whitelam and their baby, but this was not allowed: she must serve her sentence, whilst he was contracted to continue on board the “Lady Julian” as she sailed to Canton in China to pick up a cargo of tea for England. Nichol was back in London by 1791. For years afterwards he tried to find a ship to take him back to Sydney and to Sarah, but without success. He would never see Sarah again. Eventually he learned that she had married someone else soon after he had departed; the family had prospered, and when she had served her sen-tence they had left Australia. He became caught up in the maelstrom of the Napoleonic Wars, and was living in poverty when he dictated his memoirs to an Edinburgh printer in 1822. But, “Old as I am”, he said, “My heart is still unchanged”. He had never forgotten the convict girl he had had to leave behind in Sydney. Notes: 1. Before I read this book I wasn’t aware that the penalty for a woman convicted of Treason (which in-cluded coining money and murdering her husband) was still to be burnt at the stake. This had become quite rare, though one unfortunate woman was burnt alive at Newgate gaol, before a crowd of spectators, in 1788. But public opinion was changing; the “Times” led the way in denouncing the proceedings as dis-gusting and unworthy of a civilized country; and when soon afterwards another woman was sentenced to be burnt, the Sheriff of London exerted himself in obtaining a reprieve. 2. It was a few years before this, in 1773, that John Howard (1726-90) was appointed sheriff of Bedford-shire. This meant that he was in charge of the county’s prisons, and what he discovered there so appalled him that he spent the rest of his life campaigning for improvements. The Howard League for Penal Reform is named after him. Elizabeth Fry’s work with women prisoners came a generation later.

THE COUNTESS and the philosopher (PP)

They called her the Countess in Walsall. So called because she still used a cigarette holder to smoke her B & H. She qualified as a potential countess because she still smoked and we know only the poor and the aristocracy still smoke. She came complete with fake fur coat, red high heels and black synchromesh stockings. The knickers were not mandatory. Although mature in years but always adventurous in nature she pa-raded with the salient spirit of youth. Her hair styled yet stiff in the bouffant style of the sixties – a fine example of the Walsall Tint (black roots showing tastefully through the peroxide blonde). Many thought her appearance fey and frivolous but she was no ignoramus. She would quote Sartre for a half of bitter. You did not argue with her about the meaning of existentialism. She understood the absurdity of life but lived it any way. You did not question her definitions of ‗Being‘ or ‗Nothingness‘ or the feathers would fly. The Countess was the Midlands own exotic bird – a cross between song thrush, vulture and dove of peace. As the hearse passed Bloxwich factories and streets, men‘s heads lowered some by guilt and some by loss. Women‘s heads also bowed some out of affection others out of envy. 26.04.2013

―All agreed it was a moot point whether life at the vicarage was simply too much for Aunt Agatha once the stress of the funeral was over,‖ said Elisa stroking the cat absentmindedly. ―It did rain stair rods after all, on that last procession,‖ remembered her sister with a shudder.

―Poor Uncle George. I hate rain at funerals.‖ Jemma nodded, no point in adding no sooner had the last spark of his exis-tence departed than their widowed aunt was off to the Bahamas with Miss Albemarle from the choir, she of the thick stockings and hair dyed magenta. The aghast look on dear mama‘s face had been a picture, but then scandal had always courted this family. Mama had said dismissively, Aunt Agatha al-ways had something of the bohemian about her. Jemma grinned to herself: wonderful things genes. (SMS)

Bedtime Tonight the air is cold

And the darkness has fallen down

All the other babies are tucked up warm

It’s your turn now, let’s lie down

Wrap up in a blanket tight I will cover you

You need it more than me, baby

Stay quiet now, I love you

I know you are afraid of the dark

Mummy isn’t going to leave you

I will be right here, darling

Yes, I hear you . . . I love you too

Look, little baby, look up to the sky

Did you see that shooting star?

That there is a piece of magic

That is drifting out so far

Let me tell you, if you see

A star like this, make a wish

Anything you could ever want

It will come true, I have my wish

I wish up to the angels above

To take good care of you

I wish, my baby, I could hold you tight I wish, my sweetheart, this will come true

I won’t leave you, I’ll stay right here

I know it’s frightening to be alone

One day my baby, things will change

One day, little angel boy, you will come home

I will wait for you (MD)

My relationship with Stafford Hospital Services I was born in a Stafford Hospital on the Foregate in the SGI, It still smelled of gravy and cabbage when at age five, I lost my tonsils: first time away from mum and I didn‘t half have a cry. My old mum died in this Hospital, there was nothing more to be done, And it was hard to come to terms with ‗cos I was only twenty one. My dad was a loveable rogue, he had a great time for a decade or so, Footloose and fancy free, But cancer, it caught up with him, and he too had to go, In the 1970s my hubby was rushed in one night with stones of various hue, Could have timed it better as a few days later I was rushed in too Burton House this time: my first born in a panic to arrive. A long time passed before I had to bother them again I knew my son was trouble before he even drew breath They lie when they say 40 is the new 20, when you‘re in labour, is it heck! They pushed and pulled while I grunted and survived a really rough ta do They stitched me up and warned: ‗enough‘s enough for you!‘ Within a twelve month I was back in again Sliced open on the table, disembowelled, glued, stapled well and then Another few years of quiet before tonsillectomy two was done On our junior this time – I didn‘t feel a thing – is that rotten of me? I kipped on a fold up bed in the kiddies‘ ward, gossiped and drank lots of tea. They didn‘t have chance to save my eldest ‗cause she died miles away, But in 2010 they did save my partner on that awful day. The night doctor called out said it was wind and take a paracetamol ... What b******ks! The paramedic wasn‘t of the same opinion Whipped him into A&E on blues an‘ twos In the nick of time ... he almost died twice on Tixall Cross Roads up by the Crem They ran with him into A&E and stuck him on a drip They drained his liver, and stabilized him in Acute Three weeks later he was walking, thinking, many a slip ... Between the living and the dead, ain‘t there me old fruit? I‘ve got a lot to thank them for, ‗Cos we‘ve used all that they have got, So I‘ll march and shout and email, And I‘ll make a right old fuss ‗cos next time if I‘m the one that needs ‗em I‘m not going 17 miles up Stoke on an effing bus. SMS Proud to have been in Market Square on 20th April

IN SUPPORT OF STAFFORD &

CANNOCK HOSPITALS

A NIGHT OF LIGHT AND FAMILY FUN

SATURDAY MAY 18TH

7PM UNTIL DUSK

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Latest Competitions: Culpepper's Remedy Poetry Competition 2013 | Closing Date: 17-May-13 http://www.poetrylibrary.org.uk/competitions/?id=1350 Ludlow Fringe Poetry Competition | Closing Date: 31-May-13 http://www.poetrylibrary.org.uk/competitions/?id=1349 Flash 500 Humour Verse Competition | Closing Date: 30-Jun-13 http://www.poetrylibrary.org.uk/competitions/?id=1351 The Third Annual Bradford on Avon Fringe Festival Open Poetry Competition | Closing Date: 12-Jul-13 http://www.poetrylibrary.org.uk/competitions/?id=1346 Fakenham Poetry Circle: Open Competition 2013 | Closing Date: 12-Jul-13 http://www.poetrylibrary.org.uk/competitions/?id=1347

New Magazines: Poems In Which http://www.poetrylibrary.org.uk/magazines/emagazines/?id=691

Latest News: Problem with Library Emails | 29-Apr-13 http://www.poetrylibrary.org.uk/news/library/?id=1052

Poetry Magazines received in March 2013 | 22-Apr-13 http://www.poetrylibrary.org.uk/news/library/?id=1051

Azfa Ali wins the Christopher Tower Poetry Prize | 21-Apr-13 http://www.poetrylibrary.org.uk/news/poetryscene/?id=1049

Martin Daws - Young People's Laureate for Wales. | 16-Apr-13 http://www.poetrylibrary.org.uk/news/poetryscene/?id=1045

NB RBW does not endorse any competition, or workshop, or event organised by third parties.

Stafford Art Group

Annual Awards Exhibition

ANCIENT HIGH HOUSE

started

MAY 8th 2013

http://www.thepoetrytrust.org/stuff

Aldeburgh Poetry Festival Update

For the weekend of 8-10 November 2013 Suffolk, the 25th International Aldeburgh Poetry Festival. Silver anniversary event After last year‘s expansion, the Festival returns to the Snape Maltings campus.

Festival organisers will be unveiling the first Aldeburgh Poetry Commission: an intriguing collaboration between poet and broadcaster Ian McMillan and Suffolk-based eco-artist Fran

Crowe, the results of which will be shared between Snape and Aldeburgh.

Fourteenth V.S. Pritchett Memorial Prize:

The Royal Society of Literature is delighted to inform you that the fourteenth V.S. Pritchett Memorial Prize for best unpub-lished short story of the year is now open to submissions. The winning author will be awarded a prize of £1,000, and the short story will be published in Prospect online and in our annual magazine, the RSL Review. In addition to this, there will be an opportunity to appear at an RSL event with estab-lished short story writers in autumn 2013 (the 2012 winner read at an event with short-story writer, novelist, and poet Jackie Kay, the recording of which can be found here). This year's judges are award-winning short story writers Adam Foulds, Jackie Kay and Helen Simpson. The entry form is available on our website. The closing date for entries is 13 June 2013, and all submissions should be posted with the £5 administrative fee to: V.S. Pritchett Memorial Prize, Royal Society of Literature, Somerset House, Strand, London WC2R 1LA

Issue 285

Page 20

The Villanelle : Taking a look at a difficult to master poetic form

Villanelle is a poetic form that possibly came to England from France in the 1500s. It is difficult and confusing for beginners, but when mastered can be forcefully expres-

sive because of the repetition which hammers home the message. The refrain is one of the most important parts of a villanelle, and should carry a

strong message. The basic form of is five stanzas of three lines each, tercets, and one of four, a quatrain, at the end. Altogether, nineteen lines, and the rhyme pattern

is very clearly defined.

The rhyme scheme is ‗aba aba aba aba aba abaa‘. However, some lines are repeated forming a pattern. The first and third lines of the first verse become refrains. The first line is repeated at the end of the second verse and the end of the fourth verse. The

third line is repeated at the end of the third verse, and the end of the fifth verse. The poem ends with a rhyming couplet of the first and third line.

The pattern is below set against "Do not go gentle into that good night" by Dylan

Thomas:

The villanelle has no established meter, although most 19th-century villanelles have used trimeter or tetrameter and most 20th-century villanelles use pentameter. Slight alteration of the refrain line is permissible and experienced poets often use enjambment* to play with the

format and bend it to their will.

* continuation into the next line without pause or break

Do not go gentle into that good night, Old age should burn and rave at close of day;

Rage, rage against the dying of the light. Though wise men at their end know dark is right, Because their words had forked no lightning they

Do not go gentle into that good night. Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,

Rage, rage against the dying of the light. Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,

And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way, Do not go gentle into that good night. Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight

Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light. And you, my father, there on the sad height,

Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray. Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Refrain 1 (A1) Line 2 (b)

Refrain 2 (A2) Line 4 (a) Line 5 (b)

Refrain 1 (A1) Line 7 (a) Line 8 (b)

Refrain 2 (A2) Line 10 (a)

Line 11 (b) Refrain 1 (A1) Line 13 (a)

Line 14 (b) Refrain 2 (A2) Line 16 (a)

Line 17 (b) Refrain 1 (A1) Refrain 2 (A2)

Flirtation (or The Invitation To The Dance

Villanelle) Edith Holland She saw him coming with an outstretched hand, A roguish twinkle in his eye, She knew that look and what was planned. Across the room the rhythm of the band Urged her to meet him eye to eye, She saw him coming with an outstretched hand. Jealous looks, whispers underhand Spur passions like a flame flies high. She knew that look and what was planned. She turned with gesture Lady Grand, He saw the ploy, side-stepped her with a sigh, She saw him coming with an outstretched hand. To rival charms, so near, unplanned, His glances like sparks upward fly. She knew that look and what was planned. A tempting smile, could he withstand? But love is waiting, not passed by She saw him coming with an outstretched hand. She knew that look and what they'd planned. SUN THERAPY Edith Holland

Slide back the curtains to the smiling sun, come from behind that sad and lonely face. Life is for living the new day has begun. Recall once happy rhythms, spun into streams of shimmering lace. Slide back the curtains to a smiling sun. Leave the ungainly burden of sorrow, move on to a welcoming happier place. Life is for living the new day has begun. The slippery slope down to misery has won too many times and filled your space. Slide back the curtains to a smiling sun. The battle with bereavement and bravado has run its course, move on from that dreary place. Life is for living the new day has begun. Sighing is over, regrets are gone toss your troubles to the bright shining air, watch them melt in the warming sun. Slide back the curtains to the smiling sun. Life is for living the new day has begun. ECLECTIC MIX 2009

TV DINNERS . . . (Villanelle SMS) Who will you wait for at the end of the day? That friendly face to say goodnight. to share TV dinners with you on a tray. Not with a petulant child who wants their own way, no little prince whose curls are a fright. Who will you wait for at the end of the day? Rather a lover, or sweetheart, who’s ever so gay? Come on! Fess up you’re waiting for MR RIGHT! to share TV dinners with you on a tray. Have all your chickens come home to lay? Don’t worry about it ’til dawn’s early light, who will you wait for at the end of the day? Why? Did your mother keep all suitors at bay? Or did every one of them up and take flight? To share TV dinners with you on a tray. Worry not, for this advice there’s nothing to pay just you keep on hoping for an ending that’s bright. Who will you wait for at the end of the day to share TV dinners with you on a tray?

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