ISSUE 291 Date: 21st June 2013

Don‘t let your precious writing rot away like this tree stump, dust off those manuscripts and bring them to workshop: breathe new life into those tea-stained pages, come and find your old friends, or make some new ones. Library workshops: Mondays at 1.30. All welcome

LIFE OBSERVATIONS

Counted over nine species of wild flowers, in flower, on Hyde Lea Bank. It’s very annoying when supermarkets think it is acceptable to wrongly price items and then refuse to sell goods at the price at which they are labelled!

An MP was heard to remark on Radio 4 ―very finally…‖ Huh? What‘s all that about?

Last week, on Cannock Chase, I heard a cuckoo, and was immediately transported back

to my childhood, when such sounds were far more commonplace than today. A Twitcher‘s delight: last week on the bridge by the abandoned supermarket by the River

Sow was spotted a Rufous Cuckoo which are as rare as hen‘s teeth … WOW …

My bumblebees have a white flash on their tale end … I‘ve become very protective of this little family which only arrived a fortnight ago and will die by winter. I‘ll be very sad.

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Bombus terrestris n The largest British bumble-bee and the first to emerge

Amass v gather large quantity of things together over time

Assiduous adj very careful, demonstrating persistent effort in doing something

Quadrangle n four-sided shape e.g. Square; open rectangular yard sur-rounded by buildings

Quirk n odd event, a strange turn of events; odd mannerism, weird habit or aspect of character; curved shape or flourish in handwriting; in architecture a continuous groove along a moulding

Magnitude n greatness of size or volume or extent; importance; status; measure of the size of an earthquake

Landau n four wheel horse drawn carriage Resplendent adj dazzling, impressive appearance Viscous adj thick and sticky, liquid difficult to flow or stir Appease v pacify, make less angry or aggressive by giving in to demands; satisfy a need

Wikipedia image

CLIVE’s three FREE e-books

NOW PUBLISHED on RBW and issuu

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

PageID=52

http://issuu.com/risingbrookwriters

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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

http://www.risingbrookwriters.org.uk/

DynamicPage.aspx?PageID=52

http://issuu.com/risingbrookwriters

Random Words : tongue, boil, delusion, oubliette, infusion, mute, quiet, dozen (150 words) Assignment: Whales or Wales

‗Don‘t start him off, will you dear,‘ said Mrs Rourke carrying a tray of decora-

tive porcelain coffee cups with an air of flamboyance unnecessary in a profes-

sional Carer, thought Madge. Why Uncle Ernie put up with the woman was a

concern but every time she brought up their relationship all he would say

was, ‗it‘s complicated,‘ and close the subject. It was his life and his own

home, what could she do living such a distance away? Besides, he had his

allotment to escape to: he was happy enough pottering about weeding the

dandelions and watering his tomatoes. As a child she‘d spent such happy

times on that patch of soil behind the gas-works with her constant compan-

ion Don Carlos, Conquistador that pedigree, one-eyed, Spanish deer-hound of

Aunt Pettigrew, digging up moles with their pink noses and velveteen

breeches, and catching butterflies dancing to un-heard madrigals first thing

of a morning as the haar cleared.

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 & his ex-wife 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

Book is now being set in stone ... but still needs a few more puzzle pieces

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Nigel, a page, goes fishing and falls in love

Nigel slipped out of the castle. He had left his master snoring in his bed fol-

lowing a night of heavy drinking and singing rugby songs. Sir Halle of Hadon had

done too much carousing and not enough swordplay and jousting practice. Nigel

thought sadly, he loved his master and would do anything to protect and

value his reputation as a knight at arms. Nigel made his way towards the lake

with his fishing cane over his shoulder. Poaching was illegal and carried the

death penalty. Nigel felt safe because preparations for the wedding were under-

way and all available hands were dashing around in the castle sewing confusion

and chaos. He sat down by a little inlet that looked fishy: it had crystal clear wa-

ter and green weeds streaming in the current, dappled sunlight fell in little silver

pools on the water and specks of light danced like silver jewels on the rippling

water. Nigel laid his baited nightline and turned his head as he heard the pretty

fluting singing of a little wenchlet. She sang an old Welsh song as she ap-

proached;

'Come little pony and carry me over

The mountain and into the clover.'

Nigel hid behind an oak tree and watched as she set down a pile of linen and

began rising and slapping the shirts on a rock, ringing, rinsing and singing little

ditties;

'All the day I say and say love

Pigs in the oven, pigs in the oven.'

She was small and graceful with small hands and feet. A twig cracked and

crackled under Nigel's foot. She turned to look and her little pie dish shaped

face reminded Nigel of a sweetly pretty brown flower. Her two eyes resembled

blue amethysts and her rose lipped mouth revealed little white teeth. She

turned back to her washing and Nigel had fallen in love. He took the chance

while she was plunging a very large pair of cami-knickers into the water to slip

back the way he had come.

He had forgotten his night lines and hummed as he went. 'Piggies in the oven.'

As he headed back to his master's service Nigel was perturbed his legs and

arms had turned royal blue. It would not rub off with spit and a dock leaf. Ah

well! He wrapped his rough woollen cloak around him, later he would jump into a

really big puddle and have a good splash.

Meanwhile back at the inlet the little wenchlet of destiny was washing and

singing her sweet songs. When she noticed what looked like an amber and

black jet amulet sparkled in the sunlight and a dull yellow cross gleamed beside

the amulet. She thought the aristocrats must have been skinny dipping and

partying again. Oh! The dear carefree things. She would retrieve it, she thought

and put it in the lost locker for crown jewels and stuff. It probably had dropped

from a lord's liberty bodice. She reached forward, no sooner had her tiny fingers

touched the water than a great burst of foam and a grotty gobful of horrid yellow

teeth erupted violently from the bottom. A fountain of foamy white water and

spray revealed a huge crocodile, the jaws snapped shut imprisoning the

wenchlet’s arm or rather, one side held her arm and the other side dangled the

handle of a great big golden sword. It was yellow metal encrusted with red garnets. What the

wenchlet of destiny, heretofore known as the WLD had taken to for an amulet was the eye of

a crocodile. The LWD did not struggle, in fact she was surprisingly calm, considering she was

about to become a mid morning snack for a crocodile. The crocodile spoke, or more accu-

rately it warbled through its nostrils, it could not use its mouth to speak because its mouth

was full of LWD arm and big sword.

'Do not be afraid little wenchlet of destiny. I am not going to eat you. You have been cho-

sen to be a messenger of the lake gods. You were chosen before you were born.'

'I was... erm... I am chosen,' she said.

'Yes' warbled the crocodile in a high young Wagnerite soprano but nasal voice.

The vibration of speech in his nostrils caused great drops of snot to fall o0n her little

arm. She was careful not to wrinkle up her nose, never trifle with a crocodile, especially

when he has your arm in his mouth.

'You are the chosen one, go back to the castle and tell them that you have seen the TRUE

sword in a croc's mouth. The fools will rush over here to grab it. I willo feast on them, chew

every last morsel I will not waste a bit... Har, har har!.'

He slipped back into the crystal depths and vanished without a trace, except for some

green and viscous gobbets of slimy snot.

'Har har' gurgled the crocodile; 'I Will wait for foolish knights to come and try to grab the

sword and I will eat them. I do love a raw knight in the morning. I especially love the

crunchy bits, their noses and their toeses.'

NB: You have not been deceived gentle reader. You know that the 'true' true sword is

with Mailish. Be patient all will be revealed shortly.

As quickly as he had appeared the crocodile slid back into the clear diamond dappled

waters of the inlet. Leaving only a few rings of slimy crocodile snot to show that he had

been there at all.

The LWD gathered up her dripping washing and ran, nearly flew back to the cas-

tle. Breathless she told her story to the door-ward, the castle doorman, who deserted his

post and ran to the top of a topless tower and yelled; 'Official, read all about it!'

The door-ward had been a keen reader of ‘The News of the World' until he got the job.

Suddenly the courtyard was full of Knights and their pages and wretches who had snatched

the nosebags from feeding chargers and were now saddling up the horses. The pages

struggled to fit their corpulent knights into body armour. This was difficult because all the

armour had been thrown into the middle in a big untidy heap.

Mailish strode out and jumped on top of an upturned beer barrel. All fell silent before

this bloodthirsty wannabe lord. 'My lords and knights we will not fight each other, there will

be a tournament contest. We will use the time honoured battle practice. whoever slices the

most heads off running calves wins.'

At this point The Abbot jumped up and stood on top of Mailish. Making it hard for the

latter to maintain a dignified stance, he did his best.

The assembled warriors cheered. They knew that even if they didn't win there would be

lots of veal and ham pies to eat later.

'Hooray !' They shouted as one, 'A tournament!'

The fat abbot spoke, first wiping his fat hands on his greasy beard, he had been eating

buttered cow patties;

'No, No, No. There will be no animal killings. Remember the trouble we had with the ani-

mal rights people last year?

We must appease the animal rights people in the interest of peace. Remember the trou-

ble we had with them last year?' We will have a vegetarian contest called 'Slice the Jammy

Dodger' using either a broadsword or a seeaxe, ride at full pelt leaning forward at the bis-

cuit post to slice the biscuit in half; it must land jammy side up. The victor will try to re-

trieve the sword of destiny from the mouth of the crocodile.'

'Hoorah!' shouted one or two knights who were devilishly accurate with the seeaxe. They

knew that this was not an even contest, only one or two had a chance to succeed.

The wretches cheered and yelled because they could dash between the thundering

horses' hooves and snatch the broken and fallen biscuits. Some wretches licked their lips

and salivated, they remembered the taste of the forbidden biscuits. All rules of engagement

were agreed and the contest began. Nigel went to look for his master and found him still

snoring in bed surrounded by empty flagons of beer from the world famous Burton by on

Trentby brewery. Nigel dragged his still snoring master out of bed and mindful of the code

of a knight at arms, 'cleanliness and valour', washed his face with a flannel and began to

dress him in his full body armour. Seeing his master’s pasty and sleepy face he slammed

the visor shut, he slung the master over his shoulder and carried him to the stables where

his favourite Welsh cob was waiting.

The horse in question was called Boris, a 15 hands cob, who was as wide as he was tall,

when eventually Boris shuffles of his mortal coil he will need a square coffin or horse

box. He was a pleasant and generous animal, always ready to allow for the stupidity of his

ruffian knight riders. His muscular haunches were as wide as a crusader’s ego. Nigel always

led horses and never drove them, he decided to confide in Boris, he considered giving the

big black animal a pep talk in Latin, Boris had read classics at Ambridge but no... Nigel de-

cided to speak to Boris in Welsh, the language of love and horsemanship.

'The master's been out on the batter again. He will be tied on a dead weight and I will

stand on your back legs and wield the sword.'

'Boris smiled a lazy but confident smile with his large blubbery upper lip and winked one

placid eye to show that he fully understood what was required of him.

Being Welsh, Nigel came over all musical before going into battle and a song rose from

his mighty diaphragm, he stole the tune from Carmen, but made up his own words as he led

Boris to the start of the runway;

'Stand up and fight until you hear the bell,

stand up and fight and fight like hell.'

He whispered in the horse’s ear, 'Oh and just before the post lower your mighty hairy head

so that I get a clear swing at the biscuit.'

The bell rang and Boris, who had Nigel perched on his back legs clutching his tail with his

left hand and wielding his master's sword with the right hand, charged with all his strength,

nostrils flaring, his great hooves churning up sand and pebbles. Meanwhile at the rear end

of the horse, Nigel was not having an easy time of it. He had one eye on Boris's muscularly

moving buttocks and was painfully aware of the slipstream which whistled through the

horses' ears and threatened to blow Nigel off his perch. Speaking of blowing off, plenty of

windy gusts emanated from Boris's bum. Despite the windy drafts from the horses derriere

Nigel leaned to the right like a cowboy in a rodeo. He reached forward to support Sir Halla's

limp wrist. As they reached the post holding the jammy dodger the knight slumped and hit

his forhead on the post holding the prized jammy dodger. Nigel could do little but drawing

his own seeaxe slice the dodger expertly in two.

He flipped it in the air and it landed on the post jammy side up.

The sides men raised their flags to indicate a winner and a great shout of joy and excite-

ment went up from the crowd. The heralds raised their horns and sounded a triumphal fan-

fare.

'Root Toot Rooty Toot;

Sir Halles a winner,

The great big fruit.'

Nigel carried his still knight back to the little beach hut that served for a changing room.

Removing his master’s clothing, Nigel found Sir Halle to be stone dead, blue and cold. He

removed his master's garments and tossed him outside where he was quickly trampled by

passing heavy horses and turned into mincemeat. Once revealed as flesh and blood he was

mistaken for a dead wretch, no-one batted an eyelid, the once noble knight became a man

of no importance. As Nigel undressed he was puzzled by his new and unwanted under-

clothes. He wore a blue onesie, which would not come off. It had an egg shaped lozenge on

his chest, inscribed with SuperNigel in big red letters. The most troublesome garment was a

red cloak attached to his shoulders which would not come off. (IJ)

‘Ahh Your Lordship, you’re looking very pensive this fine morning,’ said Abbot Costello with

a wave of bejewelled fingers to the assembled gathering. The Bishop of Trentby’s smile

hardened into its usual skeletal grin, resembling a cut in wet liver. His embroidered

sleeves enfolded over embroidered calf skin gloves gave him the appearance of an orien-

tal mandarin thought the Spanish Ambassador who had had dealings in the far east. A

place where he felt much safer than here.

‘Pensive, my dear Abbot, surely not on such a joyous occasion,’ replied the Bishop his

reptilian eyes flickering over the relic sales stand so judiciously placed by the entrance to

the Cathedral, which was doing a roaring trade: it did cross his mind that, perhaps, if they

opened up the old bell tower closet which had an exit door on to the market square they

could also sell souvenirs and gifts on the way out, if they chalked up a way-in and way-out

notice or two. Beaming inwardly, he would give ‘exit by ye old gifte shoppe’ more thought.

‘Not too overwhelmed by the grandeur of the occasion?’ smiled the Abbot beaming with

bonhomie, ‘There’s such a lot at stake, isn’t there?’

‘I shall not worry for the good shepherd has provided you at my side, with your long, long

years of experience as a support what need have I of foolish anxieties. Besides I am no

novice at hand-fasting. Sure was it not I who wed his Highness to our dear Queen in my

previous position as Bishop of Camelot, I seem to remember you assisting me as an altar

boy. Such a long time ago, plenty of water flowed over the Trentby ford since then, eh

what?’

Abbot Costello’s nostril quivered in indignation at being reminded of the Bishop’s former

glories.

Feeling like the filling in one of those cultural delicacies, a Cornish pasty, squashed be-

tween the two foe, the Spanish Ambassador gulped down his mead, hoping those wide

sleeves didn’t conceal honed blades.

At that moment the air was rent asunder by the sound of long-horned sackbut trom-

bones announcing the arrival of the King and his entourage. The assembled commoners

drew silent and bowed low. It wasn’t every day Trentby Cathedral hosted a royal wedding.

Mersenne Harmonie universelle (1636).

Wikipedia image

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sackbut

Dave took out his field glasses. In the far distance, on a hilltop was a magnificent stag, flamboyant, like a Spanish conquistador, surveying his hinds and several youngsters, with their short, velveteen antler stumps, grazing amongst the dandelions.

Life at home was complicated. Dave concluded that he didn‘t understand women. His wife was un-doubtedly decorative, and Dave knew his friends envied him, married to such a beauty. But they hadn‘t got much in common, really. He never seemed able to please her.

As he watched the stag and his wives, a haar began to roll in, obscuring them from view. Dave wandered off. He‘d spend the morning in his allot-ment, brew some coffee on the small primus, listen to that madrigal selection on his CD player, and prick out those vegetable seedlings. Hopefully, by the time he got home, she would have cooled down.

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mage

http://www.applesandsnakes.org.uk/page/108/Events Apples and Snakes puts on performance poetry events throughout the UK and internationally, in a wide range of venues, from bars to major theatres.

http://www.guardian.co.uk/childrens-books-site/2013/jun/19/carnegie-medal-

winner-sally-gardner-attacks-gove

Carnegie medal winner Sally Gardner

attacks Gove Sally Gardner wins the most prestigious children's books prize with dystopic novel

Maggot Moon and uses the prize-giving ceremony to slam Gove's 'outdated' new

curriculum

Try Maggot Moon by Sally Gardner Read the start of this year's Costa children's award-winner, Maggot Moon by Sally Gardner

http://www.guardian.co.uk/childrens-books-site/interactive/2013/jan/02/maggot-moon-sally-

gardner-extract

http://www.sallygardner.net/about-sally/about-sallys-books/ (image Sally’s website)

Issue 291

Page 2

Assignment: Rhubarb Fruit, they say, is good for you. But I must say I’m not keen. And although it may be true, I’d prefer a carrot or a runner bean. Can’t stand the pith on tangerines. Don’t even like their smell. Don’t eat pears or gooseberries, Though parsnips I like well. Tomatoes have got chemicals. Do wonders for your skin. And if you need to lose some weight They’ll help to keep you slim. Grapefruit are too bitter And make me have the runs. Lemons and limes are likewise And blackberries I shuns. Apricots are ghastly Can’t bear the way they feel. Strawberries go mushy, And apples, well, I hate the peel. Raspberry seeds get stuck Underneath your plate.

Melons are all water And blueberries I hate. Avocados have no taste No flavour whatsoever. So will I eat them? No I won’t. No never, never, never! Bananas are OK But tell me why they’re bent. There really is no reason, And I won’t allow dissent1

‘Rhubarb, rhubarb’ is all waffle And ‘oranges’ won’t rhyme So I believe that eating fruit Should constitute a crime!

stockfr

eeim

ages

Landmark in Experimental Archaeology : Piddington June 2013 .... writes Clive Hewitt ―This is the first time for over a century that anything like this number of Ballista have been gathered together,‖ said Gaius Moderatus, better known to his wife as Alan, to the assembled throng of about three dozen members of the Roman Mili-tary Research Society and the Nene Valley Archaeological Society, plus a few local residents, who had arrived to witness the event.

He went on to explain that the last time was in 1912 in Germany when Kaiser Wilhelm was paying for the outing, and nearly ended up with him being the first casualty of one in mod-ern times. Although it was unstated it was the first time in the UK, although it won't make the Guinness book of records or a TV programme. A windy and rain-swept field just a few metres from the Piddington Roman Villa site, in the middle of rural Northamptonshire was the most unlikely site for such a happening.

Twelve reproduction Ballista ranging from the Xanten-Ward, the smallest size, through the Scorpion or Trispithimus and Cheroballista, both shooting 27 Uncia [Roman inch] bolts to 'Belua', the stone throwing 'One Mina' (about 850 gram) size balls; 'Bestia',the really big one, wasn't available. Although you wouldn't have guessed it from the laughter and jokes flying around, this wasn't just a 'Jolly for the lads', it had a serious purpose. We were

testing the penetrative power of such weapons; experimental archaeology, or re-search, with a difference. Unfortunately accuracy was not something that could be guaranteed under the meteorological conditions faced. The Romans - or more properly the Greeks who invented the machine in the 5th century BC - didn't bother too much about that, as long as you could do some damage to the opposition with the machine that was good enough! Throwing a sharply pointed, iron headed, hun-dred odd gramme dart, or bolt, off the end of the slider (think gun barrel) in the general direction of the enemy at a couple of hundred kph was, almost, guaranteed to make somebody on the receiving

end think about the advisability of being some-where else. Particularly as you could be three or four hundred metres away and safe from his hand-drawn bow. There was no such thing as a level playing field in those days, if you'd got an edge you used it and the ballista was the equivalent of a WMD.

Spraying the target back-stop of 20mm marine ply with the bolts was the way we had to go if we were to prove anything. Crewing five of the larger machines with folks in armour [Health & Safety concerns on everything] we did prove a number of things.

It was proven that: 1] That 20mm of plywood was not thick enough to stop the bolts because they came through at the rear by about 70mm. 2] That a single sheet of 1mm thick mild steel was sufficient to stop complete penetration but not tearing of the metal. 3] That a second sheet of 1mm thick metal immediately behind the first was heavily punched but not penetrated.

4] That the stressed steel of a 1mm thick spun steel helmet bowl reduced the amount of tearing. 5] That chain mail resisted penetration but did not prevent it. The corollary of these findings seem to say: From 2] That a Roman soldier in a Lorica Segmentata was relatively safe from these bolts. He would have been thrown off his feet by the impact, but with some underlying padding he would have survived, shocked and shaken but uninjured. From 4] That, depending upon a number of wildly variable factors, being hit on the helmet was not necessarily fatal. From 5] That being hit would cause injury that was not necessarily fatal.

Issue 291

Page 14

The Home Guard Contraband (1945 ish) The railway ―lengths men‖ were a gang of about six men who maintained the railway

tracks and fences on their length between half way to Stafford and half way to Norton Bridge based at Great Bridgeford, the tracks run right though our fields. Father got to

know them well as they were also in the home guard. When father was cutting large field of corn (Wheat) they would hop over the fence for

half an hour and help stook the corn, with a gang like that it soon got done. It was the same again when it came to loading the shoffs of corn from the stooks. Father always took down plenty of pitch forks in anticipation, and they knew when to be working close by. No

money changed hands but he gave them plenty of taters and eggs and in the case of the engine driver he got half a pig.

Home Guard Contraband

The railway line it ran through, some of father‘s land,

He got to know the railway men, quite a happy band, They were in the home guard and all the farm men too,

They often jumped over the fence, to load a wagon or two.

For this he gave them taters, or anything they hadn‘t got,

Often at the home guard meetings, the sergeant got forgot, For this is where it all changed hands, just behind his back,

If they ever got found out, they‘d be on the rack.

An engine driver was among them, he‘d got what we want, He slowed his train by the field, tender full of coal he flaunt,

Every morning at nine thirty, rolled off big lumps of coal,

Father loaded it on his cart, this man he did extol.

A coal house full of best steam coal, mother to do the cookin, Big bright fire that roared round flue, she was so pleased herein,

Only cost a half a pig, it‘s contraband you see, Delivered by dad and Eric in a coffin, the law could not foresee.

Countryman (Owd Fred)

There is another story about the wheelwright who made the coffins, who lent a coffin out from time to time to move a half a pig right past the law, the local policeman from one vil-

lage to the next. It's contraband you see, (or not see) Eric's car had a carrier on the back and would

deliver an empty coffin covered with a black sheet, something he often did for the wheel-wright.

-o0o-

To us, the moment 8:17 AM means something- something very important, if it happens to be starting time of our daily train. To our ancestors, such an odd and eccentric instant was without significance – did not even exist. In inventing the locomotive, Watt and Stevenson were part inventors of time. Aldous Huxley (1894 – 1963)

National Poetry Day 2013

National Poetry Day 2013 - theme: water, water, everywhere Thursday 3rd October 2013 A nationwide celebration of all things poetical

On 3rd October people of all ages will take part in the 19th annual National Poetry Day, inspired by the theme 'water, water, everywhere'.

National Poetry Day this year challenges participants to smuggle poetry into the most unlikely places: not just in libraries and classrooms, but on fishing boats and ferries, via postcards, mobile

phones and announcements on station platforms. The devisers of the best wheezes for bringing po-etry off the bookshelves will be honoured with specially commissioned odes, clerihews and rhyming couplets.

Prizes, poetic installations, performances and online happenings featuring world-famous poets and poetry lovers will send ripples throughout the nation. In London, inspiration will follow the river

Thames to Southbank Centre, which will host National Poetry Day Live with the Poetry Society, a ju-bilant afternoon of performances, readings, films, and the announcement of the Foyle Young Poets

of the Year. Commuters at St Pancras station will be entertained by readings from this year's John Betjeman Poetry Competition for Young People. In Birmingham, which unveils the identity of the city's latest

poet laureate on National Poetry Day, the national poet laureate, Carol Ann Duffy, will read with Im-tiaz Dharker in an event hosted by Writing West Midlands. And in Wales, four poets will be shut in

rooms with keyboards and pencils until they have produced one hundred new poems - in Welsh. The Royal Shakespeare Company and Tate will be among many organisations highlighting poetry in the run up to the day and on National Poetry Day itself.

In Scotland, more than 300,000 poetry postcards will be given away by the Scottish Poetry Li-brary, in partnership with Scottish Water. Short films of the poems featured will bring apt, funny and

moving words to the screens of phones and laptops. Events will spill over the days preceding and following National Poetry Day itself, including per-

formances by Simon Armitage inspired by his seven-week walk from Minehead to Lands End along the South West Coast Path - in which he will be paying for board and lodging with poetry - and a celebration of canal poetry, Waterlines Live, at Birmingham Literature Festival on October 6th/13th.

The month of National Poetry Day will begin on October 1st with the eagerly-awaited announcement of the winners of the Forward Prizes for Poetry, and the launch of the annual Forward Book of Poetry

at Southbank Centre William Sieghart, Chairman of the Forward Arts Foundation and founder of National Poetry Day,

says: "National Poetry Day is a chance to abandon the prosaic for 24 hours, to use rhythm, rhyme, free verse, irregular beats and raps to make words more vivid. It's a day with a difference, when lan-guage floats free from regular rules. Find a poem you love and share it, online and face-to-face, or

make up some poetry of your own. This year's water theme, lifted from Samuel Taylor Coleridge's Ancient Mariner, is just a starting point: without water we die, without poetry we cannot fully live."

Founded by the Forward Arts Foundation 19 years ago, National Poetry Day is now a major national event: last year it reached more than 50 million people. To find out how to get involved or to promote your National Poetry Day event, visit

www.nationalpoetryday.co.uk See our Facebook page or find us on Twitter @poetrydayuk / #NPDLive

Issue 291

Page 16

Latest Competitions: Second Light Open Poetry Compettition for Long and Short Poems by Women | Closing Date: 25-Jun-13 http://www.poetrylibrary.org.uk/competitions/?id=1377 Penfro Open Poetry Competition 2013 | Closing Date: 19-Jul-13 http://www.poetrylibrary.org.uk/competitions/?id=1372 The Salopian Poetry Society's Open Poetry Competition Closing Date: 31-Aug-13 http://www.poetrylibrary.org.uk/competitions/?id=1371 Poetry Kit Summer Poetry Competition | Closing Date: 30-Sep-13 http://www.poetrylibrary.org.uk/competitions/?id=1375

New Magazines: Poetry&Paint http://www.poetrylibrary.org.uk/magazines/magazines/?id=701 Caterpillar, The http://www.poetrylibrary.org.uk/magazines/magazines/?id=700 Elbow Room http://www.poetrylibrary.org.uk/magazines/magazines/?id=697 SNOW <i>lit rev</i>http://www.poetrylibrary.org.uk/magazines/magazines/?id=696

Latest News: Aneirin Karadog is the new Bardd Plant Cymru | 11-Jun-13 http://www.poetrylibrary.org.uk/news/poetryscene/?id=1063 Young Poet Laureate for London | 05-Jun-13 http://www.poetrylibrary.org.uk/news/poetryscene/?id=1062

READER FEEDBACK: I was interested in Trevor Fisher's article on the Overbury murder the other week. It wasn't a subject I knew much about, so I looked up details. The Earl of Essex involved was the son of Elizabeth's favourite, born in 1591; so he was only 10 when his father was exe-cuted. He was restored to favour by James I, but was still only 15 when his marriage was arranged for him in 1606. His bride, who was no older, disliked him from the start. The divorce came in 1613: so the whole affair was actually about two teenagers being thrown together when they were quite un-suited to each other. Essex was a Puritan, and commanded the Parliamentary army at the battle of Edge Hill in 1643, at the start of the civil war.

He died in 1646, aged only 55: not a long life, but an eventful one! (PS)

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Robert_Devereux,_3rd_Earl_of_Essex

Wikipedia image

http://www.poetryfoundation.org/media/landays.html Fascinating research into the LANDAY poetic form - living poetry as

scraps of song sung by Afghan women, often reflecting their lives and hardships. Web page well worth visiting.

―I call. You‘re stone

One day you‘ll look and find I‘m gone.‖

In May 2012 Ann Scantlebury started to write her first book for children ‗Mrs Perambulator‘. Ann explained that she wanted to produce something special with little girls in mind, although boys have taken ‗Mrs Perambulator‘ to their hearts! "I thought that there are already a good number of books for boys such as Bob the Builder and Thomas the Tank Engine, each with a named character."

Why the title, ‗Mrs Perambulator‘? : "It's an old-fashioned word but was just right for the story I wanted to tell. "This is a book for sharing, a book for reading out loud, and mums and dads, grannies and granddads will be able to find echoes of their own childhood among its pages," said Ann.

Mrs Perambulator has adventures out in the countryside. She finds sadness and happ iness but the picture is one of comfort and security. Local artist and illustrator, Sam Ratcliffe, worked closely with Ann. The result is a delightful combination of story and watercolours that leave the listener/reader wanting more. Ann is a member of Eccleshall Poetry

Group, and has made contributions to a number of their anthologies. Ann is a mother of three grown-up children and grandmother of young George. She is also a member of Eccleshall Players, where she has produced plays such as Under Milk Wood and The Match Girls. The book, in full colour, is available at Little Monsters in Eccleshall, priced £6.00 ISBN 978-0-9574800-0-1

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The Sun Withdraws Her Favours The sun withdraws her favours once again. A dismal day and rain drizzles steadily down on the parched ground, gently dampening, soaking in, life-giving, nurturing, far more effective than I am with my feeble watering-can. Elizabeth Leaper (11/06/13)

Midsummer (SMS) Daily are bestowed and freely given, these sublime gifts of rich largess straight from paradise; from the patio ... enjoyment lifts. The springing moss carpet sighs ‗stay-a-while‘, lush greens sway in a lazy breeze, thud: a wind-blown fruit falls, branches yearn to be swung from on listening trees. Beauty in a closing flower. Sun setting through the cherry leaves, languid, the golden tinge of midsummer; mandarin glows at sunset on the eves. Hanging over the hedgerows, lavender-tainted wood smoke spreading over crushed thyme; a mystery of tamed nature, limed oak. Behold voices of the trees! A ripple glides through whispering apple boughs. Earth-song. Listening with heartfelt intuition the willows lowly bow. Koi play seek beneath water lilies. Squabbling starlings alight on unripe cherries, now on the pads; only their eyes keeping watch, toads and frogs silently await. Mousing, the stalking cat‘s ears prick at the creaking of the gate, Midsummer‘s Eve has arrived not a moment too late.

Hyde Lea is a small village on the outskirts of Stafford, Staffordshire, England.

Adjacent to Coppenhall and situated on high ground, Hyde Lea borders the southern boundary of Castle Church parish. It is made up of a detached strip of land between Thorneyfields Lane and Burton Manor estate.

The village became part of Castle Church parish in 1881. It boasts, several farms, exclusive properties and The Crown pub, which regularly hosts folk music and poetry sessions. It is also the source of the water course the Rising Brook and has the remnants of an ancient Briton ‗ring‘ earth work.

'The Hyde' was mentioned as far back as the Domesday Book. By 1788 Hyde Lea common was ringed by small encroachments and by about 1840 there were only a few cottages, several dating from the late 18th cen-tury. Hyde Lea boasted a school from 1863, it closed in 1980, children only staying there between the ages of 5

and 7 by this time. The village hall site is now owned by community trustees. In the 1980s the Diocese allowed the community to use the school as a village hall until the trustees purchased it in the early 1990s. Nestling the

M6 motorway is Stafford Grammar School (fee paying) situated on Hyde Lea Bank its administration block incor-porated into the Burton Manor building, which was for many decades used as the Burton Manor Sports and So-cial Club, adjacent to which is the Manor Nursing Home.

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