Issue 355 26th Sept 2014

Rising Brook/

Holmcroft/

Baswich/Gnosall

Libraries are

under threat. http://www.forwardartsfoundation.org/wp-content/uploads/NPD-Ambassadors-Ebook.pdf

2

My dog loves blackberries. I like them in a crumble, with apples. I picked some, but wondered why. Though I seemed to have been picking for ages, there still weren‘t many in my plastic bag.

Then I noticed a hole in the bottom, and my dog eagerly snaffling them as they dropped out!

I took my car to be washed last week. It was a glorious sunny day, and as the water jet played over the bonnet, a beautiful rainbow appeared before my eyes. Magical!

Random words : Same as last week Assignment : Same as last week

Sylvia Plath Quotes

How frail the human heart must be —

a mirrored pool of thought.

There must be quite a few things a hot bath won't cure, but I don't know many of them.

Ch. 2 The Ball Jar

There is something demoralizing about watching two people get more and more crazy about each other, espe-

cially when you are the only extra person in the room.

If you expect nothing from somebody you are never disappointed.

What a man is is an arrow into the future and what a woman is is the place the arrow shoots off from.

STAFFORD REMEMBERED

Stafford Greengate Street pictured here in the 1930s.

Dale's ironmongers shop was a casualty of post-war 'improvements' to Stafford's town centre.

Built in about 1500 on Greengate, the shop front had been added in 1826. To the right can be seen St. Chad's

Church.

Image : Stafford Historical and Civic Society.

www.issuu.com/risingbrookwriters

NEW: 2015 poetry collection

“Defying Gravity” Submissions now open

INVITATION MONDAY 29th Sept 1.30pm

Rising Brook Writers Library Workshop will celebrate

NATIONAL POETRY DAY

The theme will be REMEMBERING.

Come and celebrate poetry with us by bringing in

Poems that you remember and that have a carved a special place

into your heart to share with the group.

Your own poems on the theme of remembrance are also welcomed.

All Welcome. No charge.

Missing Missing you is being bullied in Miss Ashworth‘s class, Missing you is bare feet crunching on broken glass, Missing you is the world switching over to ‗Mute‘, Missing you is hurting over a friend‘s dispute, Missing you is buying chips without salt, Missing you is everything‘s always my fault, Missing you is the horror of Concorde crashing, Missing you is lorry tyres puddle splashing, Missing you is as sore as an open wound, Missing you is reaching out for a silent sound, Missing you is eyes wide staring at a game-show, Missing you is chilblains throbbing in winter snow, Missing you is two weeks in Benidorm, Missing you is being a caterpillar that can‘t transform, Missing you is Mozart through ear defenders, Missing you is sales day at Marks and Spencer‘s, Missing you is cardboard instead of cornflakes, Missing you is my life drifting by in out takes, Missing you is a ticking clock without a chime, Missing you is so much worse at Christmas time. SMS 2007 (first published) Remembering 1998

6

The Gardening Tips series was produced by well known local gardening expert Mrs. FM Hartley as monthly gardening items which featured on an audio news-tape produced locally for partially sighted people. (Link To Stafford & Stone Talking Newspaper. Link To R.N.I.B.)

As such the articles are meant to be read individu-ally and not as chapters of a book. The articles were written over a period of some 7 years. RBW is absolutely delighted that Mrs Hartley has agreed to some of her words of gardening wisdom gathered over nine decades being reproduced for our benefit by her son, Alan.

Gardening Tips Week Ending 4th October 2013.

Hello Folks

The year is simply flying by and all the garden centres are already clearing spaces

inside for their Christmas displays and also outside so they don‟t have to carry stock

through the Winter. The centre near me has been clearing off shrubs that needed ti-

dying up and potting on, for only £1 each - they are all properly labelled and worth

looking at. They would make nice Christmas presents for a keen gardener!

Today we saw some packs of small Chrysanthemums 10 for £8. They were

only little, but were in flower and obviously meant for instant colour, however if

they were grown on in a cold greenhouse and over wintered they would make good

plants for next year. Unfortunately they were all the same colour in one pack, but

they would be a nice price if you shared a couple of packs of different colours with

someone else and then they would work out very cheaply. We bought some last year

and this year they are tall, majestic plants with lots of beautiful flowers. I have about

5 vases full of Chrysanthemums round the house and they last such a long time as

cut flowers.

There are packs of Winter vegetables out now that are ready for planting. I

think the only vegetables we shall need to buy this winter are Carrots as the rest will

come off the allotments. We haven‟t done badly for home grown this Summer either.

Today for pudding we had a fruit crumble made with some windfall apples that

had had the bad bits all cut out of them, some frozen Strawberries that had been har-

vested from the allotment earlier and some wild Damsons picked yesterday. I had

done my best to stone the Damsons and that meant that they had all been mashed

about a bit, but that didn‟t matter as you didn‟t know when they were cooked. For

our main course we had some little sausages from a part pack that was left, a part

pack of left over bacon, a part tin of Sweet Corn, some split tomatoes from the-

greenhouse, half a large onion and a thick slice of squash, chopped up, that had

come from the allotment, a little tomato puree and a few left over baked beans. They

all went into a dish in the oven to make a lovely, tasty casserole. Some of the pieces

of Squash cooked down to thicken the sauce and the Tomatoes floated on the top to

make it look fancy. Nothing is ever wasted here. I also did some runner Beans and potatoes

that also came from the allotments. How about that for a cheap and tasty meal?

Incidentally, split Tomatoes are caused by irregular watering and can be avoided with a

little more care and attention to the plants. When they split they soon go rotten and are not nice

to eat, but before they get too bad simply use a very sharp knife to cut out the bad and put the

rest in cooking for Stews, making sauces and the like, rather than waste them altogether.

Another dull, dark, few days, but there are still plenty of flowers in the garden. I have a

big shrub called Viburnum Tynus growing in front of part of the greenhouse and it is in full

flower now. There are several different Viburnums, but most are Summer flowering and de-

ciduous such as Opulus, whereas Tynus is classed as late, or Winter flowering and it is also ev-

ergreen, so when I look through the window I can see the splashes of white amongst its dark

green leaves which is quite cheery. The flowers are slightly scented and there is also an Abelia

nearby that has pretty little pink flowers that I like for pressing as well, but they are so small I

can only see them when I go out to feed the birds.

Our tubs of, Geraniums at the back of the house, and Begonias and trailing Petunias at the

front, are all still good and bright. We have 4, or 5 vases, around the house, full of beautiful

Chrysanthemum flowers with some cut from our allotment and some from our garden, which

are welcoming. Chrysanthemums are really worthwhile growing as all they need is some good,

firm soil and a cane for a little support, and the flowers will last for weeks in water if the stems

are gently split before arranging them. If you don‟t want, or can‟t dig up the old “Stools,” or

roots, so that you can pot them and keep them over Winter inside in an unheated greenhouse,

then instead try covering the roots outside with some bark chippings, straw, or old compost for

extra protection. Remember though, that Chrysanthemums are not good over-wintering outside

in wet soil, as they will rot! Don‟t dig Dahlias up until frost has turned the flowers and stems

black.

If like me you have grown the large flowered begonias this year, it is a good idea when

the basket or tubs are emptied, to try and save the corms as they are expensive. Dry them off,

keep them in a cool place and next Spring, about April, place them on some damp compost,

then lightly spray them about every other day and they should start into growth before flower-

ing again. There is a large range of bulbs for sale now, but if you want bulbs in flower for

Christmas in the house, or as presents, they should go in pots now. I like to use a deep pot and

put in a layer of compost at the bottom, then place a few bulbs onto it leaving a small space

between them. Next I add another layer of compost and some more bulbs trying to remember

where the noses of the previous ones were, but it is not vital as they will all flower, but the bot-

tom ones may be a little slower coming up giving a longer display of flowers.

With the colder weather coming the Runner Beans are more or less finished, so cut the

plants down to ground level, but don‟t dig the roots out as the nodules on the roots contain Ni-

trogen which will do the soil good as they gradually decompose.

Well that‟s all for now. Cheerio, Frances Hartley.

8

Random Words: spine, park, Queen, crepuscular, academic, maneuver, probability A chill shot up her spine. She felt like a small animal, creeping around in the crepuscular shadows, maneuvering in and out of all the obstacles in the park and trying to avoid the probability of a bruised shin or stubbed toe. Still, it

would be worth it. After all, he was clever; an academic and well-respected, and he treated her like a queen. It was a pity he was married of course, and thus insisted they had their trysts in semi-darkness.

Assignment: House of Bones My mother was a beautiful Rottweiler, with a sleek coat. She gave birth to four strong, healthy pups; my three sisters and me, the only dog. She was a good mother, and we pups grew rapidly and had lots of fun, tumbling and scrapping and yapping. One day, a man came to see us. He was from a security company and he examined

us closely. ―This is the one‖, he said, holding me up in his rough hand. ―A dog is best for what we want. Bitches are too docile‖. And with that, he took me away with him, and that was

the last time I saw my mum and sisters. I often dreamt doggy dreams of them all. From that day onwards, I lived outside in a kennel, chained up all day. It was in a

large compound, surrounded with high, wire fencing. I wasn‘t given much food, ―To keep him keen and mean‖, the man said. I was always hungry. At night, I lay there on my

chain and dreamed of food. Once, I dreamt my kennel was made out of bones, abit like the house of gingerbread in the fairy story about Hansel and Gretel. The man kept trying to get me to bark and growl. He shouted and waved at me,

and I felt scared. I didn‘t want to be aggressive, I wanted to play. After several months, I heard the man telling another that I was no good to him,

and he thought he would have to get rid of me. ‖He‘ll never make a guard dog. He‘s use-less! He‘s just costing me money, what with food, vet‘s bills and so on.‖ he complained. I felt very anxious. My future was so uncertain. One day, he came and grabbed me,

undid the chain and bundled me into the back of his van. I shook with terror. As we drove away, I saw my replacement, a fierce looking German Shepherd, being tethered to

the kennel chain, snarling and leaping. I stayed in the dog pound for about three weeks. They were kind

enough, but I felt lonely and unloved. I wondered what had happened to my sisters, and hoped they had had happier experiences than me. At night, I slept curled up in the corner of my pen, well away from the door,

and shivered, not with cold, but with fear. The only release was when I escaped to my world of dreams, of warm, comfy kennels and plentiful

bones. Then, it happened. One wonderful day, my new family arrived to

take me home. I was so excited that my paws wouldn‘t take me out of there quickly enough! ―He‘s just what we are looking for,‖ they told the staff at the rescue

centre. ―So quiet and gentle. Such a lovely temperament‖. And from that day on, I never once had that dream about the dog house made of

bones.

The House of Bones Dick Venables

I live in a house of bones. It's called a skeleton. My other house cannot be moved. It's built of brick and wood and roofed with tiles and stays put where it is. Not so my house of bones it goes with me. It takes me where I want to go. Atop this house of bones there stands a bony skull and in this skull are eyes that see, a nose that smells, a mouth that talks and eats, two ears that hear, but what's behind those eyes between those ears I cannot say. It's rumoured there's a brain but I can't vouch for that. And just below that skull I've got a neck. That's handy 'cause it swivels left and right and up and down so I can look around. Sometimes it gets a crick and gives me pain but then it loosens up and does its job again. And next I've got two shoulders, one each side and on them hang my arms, and half way up my elbows, and at the end my fingers and my thumbs. My elbows - useful in a crowd; my fingers feed my mouth and do a thousand other jobs besides. My hands can reach to soothe a fevered brow, or plant a bomb, make love not war, reach out for yours and shake to seal the warmth of friendship, or they can grasp the knife to stab you in the back. "I will praise thee;" so sang the Hebrew poet three millennia ago, "for I am fearfully and wonderfully made: marvellous are thy works; and that my soul knoweth right well." Marvellous the opportunities, fearful the responsibilities these hands of mine present me with. My shoulders sit upon my chest that helps me breathe and shields my ever beating heart inside a cage of ribs fast anchored to the spine, and lower down the hips that bear the spine and stands upon the thighs and then the knees. The knees are great for kneeling - I don't do enough of that - to scrub the floor or pull some weeds or else to cleanse the soul. The weeds of careless pride are rampant there. Then come the ankles standing on the feet and on the toes. How can they balance me and keep me standing tall. How do they make me walk or run or ride my bike or kick a ball, and balance me and keep me safe from falling. It's just a miracle, but then you know, my house of bones is made of miracles. So that's my house of bones - the head on top the feet so strong so supple down below. I wonder where those feet will take me next.

RBW FICTION PROJECT FOR 2014/15 NOTES: ( CHANGES )

Story so far. There isn't one! Not yet, just a few plot strands ...

We have a place, a few names, some with a few character traits. What we need is more input into the plot lines, a few sub-plots would help as well.

This is a listing of what we have so far as a thinking aid. Place: Sometime in the 1890s The Grand Cosmopolitan Shipping Line Chain: The Nasturtium Hotel (GNH) in Trentby-on-Sea

a place that has a similarity to Southampton, this fair city is twinned with Murmansk and has a decided international flavour about it. Despite recent squabbles with Russia, France and certain other countries all rich spending foreigners are welcomed – particularly those with £££$$$ and other currency in their purses/pockets/reticules/wallets.

Time Span: Between the arrival and departure of the clipper ship The Star of Coldwynd Bay. About 3 weeks.

Hotel: The GNH is owned by The Cosmopolitan Shipping Line and is the usual Victorian Hotel. It has three classes of accommoda-

tion, that are roughly: Suites [1st floor] for those with money and the POSH nobs. Rooms [2nd and 3rd floors] for the not so well off. Accommodation [tiny attic rooms, top floor back] for anyone else

Staff: Basil Bluddschott (70's) – Manager Mrs. Cynthia Bluddschott (20's) - 2nd (trophy) wife of Basil

Daniel Bluddschott (40) – Son of Basil by 1st wife Miss Marian Bluddschott (35) – Daughter of Basil by 1st wife

Mrs. Natasha Bluddschott (34) – wife of Daniel Roberto Manchini - Italian chef; has the hots for Natasha who returns the compliment. Mrs. Bertha Buckett – Laundress Peter, the porter

There will also be a gaggle of sundry maids, porters etc. Guests:

Lady Vera Accrington and Lady Gloria Stanley – a couple of old biddies with a chequered past who are enjoying themselves their Ward Dorothy ... much admired by the Maharajah Major Martin – May be the ADC to the Prince of ??

The Russian Prince of ?? Referred to as Mr. Smith; even tho' everybody know who he is. Daphne Du Worrier - Writer Capt. Fowlnett – Recently appointed skipper of the clipper ship The Star of Coldwynd Bay. He may be a little short on experi-

ence as his last job was skipper of the IOW ferry. [Hey! How difficult can it be to find India or China?] St. John Smythe – Tea planter with holdings in Assam. The Maharajah of Loovinda and valet George

The Sheik of the province of Kebab. Walter Wales – Travel writer for Thos. Cooke.

Murray Durrisdane — Jade Buddha seeker Music Hall turns playing at 'The Winter Gardens',

Also staying the GNH some in suites some in the Accommodation class. Miranda Barkley – maybe mistress of the Prince of ?? Dario Stanza – singer

Vesta Currie – hot stuff on the stage Cystic Peg – Medium / Seances Dan Fatso – Charlie Chaplin type

ALSO listed: Opium – not then illegal Ivory + Diamond dealer Boniface Monkface

Jade - A rare Jade Buddha with spiritual & heritage significance is specifically noted by its absence.. NOTES:

CHECK THE DATE! Q. Victoria is Empress. Osborne House IoW is her fav. des. res. 1. Gas lighting or oil lamps – no public electricity supply about for another couple of decades; unless the hotel has its own generator, electrical lighting is out.

2. Horses and carriages in the streets, steam trains for long distances and on the dockside. Trams may be available in some areas.

3. Limited number of phones, usually locally between ministries or business offices. Messengers or Royal Mail normally used. Telegrams are available.

Thoughts ...

It‘s a Cosmopolitan Hotel at the time of Empire.

We need to get diverse folks from absolutely everywhere into the storyline.

We need to reflect the times ... not our times ... their times.

RBW Library Workshop group are working on a script for the next book. The ideas so far include a hotel in

the 1890s with as diverse a mix of travellers about to de-part for the far east as it is possible to squeeze into the

plot. Obviously the action will take place in Trentby-on-Sea, twinned with Murmansk, and

the establishment will be man-aged by Basil Bluddschott and his new wife Cynthia. If you‘ve ever watched a Carry On film you will have had all the training you‘d need to join in.

The annual joint project ...

The joint comedy is good practice in group co-operation, character building, plotting, dialogue, storyline arc etc and

besides it‘s hilarious to write.

What is more people actually read our free e-books ... Some brave souls even give us LIKES on Facebook

How unexpected was that ...

Once you‘ve written in one of our comedies you should be able to write anything equally as challenging on your own.

Murray Durrisdane was a long-shanks, lean to the bone. White of hair and grey of eye his long hooked nose led the way from Bonny Scotland and he followed dutifully where it led him all around the globe, from Montreal to Shanghai, from Santa Fé to Hindustan. This evening it had led him into the street outside the Nasturtium Hotel. His quarry had taken the front steps as calm as a cucumber, doffed his hat to the doorman while re-moving his gloves.

Murray didn‘t possess a pair of gloves, he barely possessed the ragged coat on his back nor any soles to his boot leather either, it would have to be the trades-men‘s‘ entrance if he wanted to enter such a fine establishment. And enter it he must. Murray Durrisdane, one time heir to the estate of his estranged father, was on a mission. It wasn‘t a mission from God, not of any god known to Victorian Eng-land. But it certainly was a sacred quest.

There might be a green-eyed golden idol to the East of Kathmandu, but it was no mythical treasure that Murray sought. The Jade Buddha was very real. He‘d seen it with his own two eyes, he‘d held it in the palm of his hand. He‘d felt the strange sensation overwhelm his very soul. He knew some existential spirit dwelt within that jade. Murray was a Scot, dour, taciturn, brooding even, a sensible Scot through and through. Not given to wild romance nonsense and flights of fancy, but that jade Buddha had him by the throat, the heart, the mind, the soul, the all engulfing pull of it was beyond all comprehension. It left him red-eyed, sleepless, trembling with want and desire and when he was as close to it as this, reckless to his own safety: possession of the jade statue drove men to their demise so the legend said. He hadn‘t believed the warning of Jamie Burke, of course.

Shivering and feverish, a knurled hand pushed open the door to the kitchen. For a second he wondered what might have happened to Jamie after Calcutta, but then: ‗No tramps,‘ snapped a woman‘s voice. The voice was followed by the appear-ance of the ruddy face of a large woman in a starched cap-bonnet who was clearly the cook-in-charge. ‗Come back in the morning,‘ she added more softly seeing the emaciated state of the intruder for the first time. Murray didn‘t hear, the adventurer had slithered down the wall and passed out cold at Bertha‘s button-booted feet.

Image © SMS 2014

HOME

When asked ‘what is home, what’s it mean to you?’

How do you reply, when you’ve had a few?

To be quite exact, I’ve lived in eleven,

And in each one found a bit of heaven.

***

Two were quite small, you could say bijou,

My very first home had an outside loo,

And a tin bath on a nail outside on the wall,

Very few mod-cons, but it didn’t matter at all.

***

The next, more upmarket, three beds and a plot,

Where we learned to grow flowers and veggies, the lot!

And so we progressed in our search for the best,

But, what I’ve described is a property quest.

***

For bricks and mortar make a house, not a home,

Home’s the place I return to wherever I‘ve roamed.

It’s the place where I‘m cherished, by people who care,

All’s well with the world, once I am there.

***

Home is my safe place; its warmth makes me glow,

It’s where memories are made with all folks that I know,

Whether child, or teenager, or when fully grown

There’s no place can compare, with my ‘Home Sweet Home’.

***

What has happened to the place of my birth? Where the towering black buildings, the traffic choked streets, the crumbling ware-houses? City of Culture status, that‟s what. Killed the character completely. They‟ve pedestrianized vast tracts, and assisted by the Duke of Westminster who‟s remodelled the derelict area at the bot-tom of Lord Street into „Liverpool 1‟, have made it into what is known as a first class tourist destination. But if I look beyond the sanitising I can still find my way around and at the moment am en-joying the bit up the hill developed a few hundred years ago by slave traders writes Anne Picken. As I sit on this golden patio with some excellent coffee I hardly recognise the ma-jestic and tree caressed sandstone buildings that rise around me. Is this really the sooty Picton Library where I once wrestled with Locke, Hobbes and Rousseau? Well no, it‘s the new Central Library with plate glass and escalators everywhere, within which the Picton has become a mere reading room. The Walker Art Gallery next door is less changed since the days of William Roscoe, a major founder. He was a great art collector, also

poet, lawyer, banker, botanist and reformer. The maverick in the growing city, the Unitar-ian who helped abolish slavery. Then there‘s the Museum, and over the road St George‘s Hall, described by Pevsner as one of the finest neo-Grecian buildings in the world. If you think you‘ve seen the best of Minton tiling, - well, when they‘ve got the boarding up in the main hall you‘ll realise you haven‘t! Oh yes, Liverpool was very fine and cultured in the days when money from slaves was sloshing around, and many of the traders, after they‘d built their mansions, had enough left over to do Good Works. Anyone who was anyone in 17th and 18th century Liverpool was somehow involved in slavery. (Gladstone‘s dad owned a couple of thou-sand slaves on his plantations.) They formed, among other things, the Liverpool Royal Institution, The Lyceum (a subscription library), and the Bluecoat Hospital which was a school for paupers and is now one of the most prestigious in the country. They also in-

vested in canals and docks and the Welsh slate industry. Most of them became Lord Mayor or MP and were honoured by having streets named after them, e.g. Bold Street, Rodney Street. The latter was very posh in its day and bears more blue plaques than any street I‘ve experienced. If you take a trip on the city explorer bus (£6 conc for an hour‘s tour and hop on hop off access all day) you‘ll hear quite a bit of interesting stuff. Liverpool has, of course, a fabulous music tradition. Not just the Cavern, of Beatles etc fame, but also the Philharmonic Hall where Simon Rattle, a native lad, was once resident conductor. And over the road is the Philharmonic Dining Rooms, a real experience to spice up your morning coffee. It was built for a local brewer and has grade 1 listed gents‘ loos into which ladies traditionally peep, having sent a scout before them of course. Along the road in either direction is a cathedral – northwards the Catholic version

which exalts the spirit with its airy stained glass, and southwards the Anglican one, hugely magnificent, rising from the cemetery of St James to preside over the city. Near it is a nice little bistro in the basement of Blackburne House, once home of John Black-burne, Lord Mayor and, of course, slaver. Edwina Curry went to school there. Or you could get your lunch in the Adelphi Hotel. Rebuilt by the Midland Railway com-pany in 1914, it was known as the most luxurious hotel outside London. The sort of

place where a Downton Abbey type family might have crashed before boarding the Queen Mary. In my youth I‘d never have dreamed of being fit to enter its auspicious doors and neither would anyone I knew. But yesterday on this flying visit, I thought what the hell, and trotted up to reception. I was directed to a 3 course buffet costing £6, and, whilst not masterchef, was better than home cooking at our house and you

can have as much as you like. All the marble pillars and general opulence are thrown in of course, as they are for coffee or afternoon tea in the Grand Lounge. The accents of the diners were pure scouse, which indicates some sort of take over along the lines of the French Revolution so dear to the heart of the aforementioned William Roscoe and is all very satisfying. The stroll down to the Pier Head takes about half an hour – either through Liver-pool 1 or Dale Street where Thomas Rigby‘s black and white pub bears the date 1726 and Nelson, it is said, often dropped in for a swift half. Good beer here and average pub food. The town hall has more reminiscences of slavery, with its African frieze, but the Three Graces on the waterfront which as children we had to learn to chant in order are much newer. The ferry runs as a serious form of transport until around 10 am and then becomes

a 50 minute tour. You can have a nice meal over the water upstairs in the old Woodside booking office whose first floor affords panoramic views of the river or get off at Sea-

combe so the children can play behind nets while you have a cup of tea and then you can all go to the Space Experience next door. Don‘t forget to see a play – Liverpool has at least 6 theatres – and don‘t miss the 100 Gormley statues stretching between Blundellsands and Waterloo. The 53 bus takes about 20 minutes from the bus station in Queen Square. Oops, I nearly forget Chinatown, the oldest and largest Chinese colony in Europe which is entered via the magnificent arch and where of course, you can eat to your heart‘s content. And also buy a bit of jade…

When all that‟s left are memories of old,

A kind of fog drifts round an empty head.

The countless times each story you‟ve retold,

To listen now, those youngsters face with dread!

„Oh! Here we go!‟ they wail and start to squirm,

As you tell them, once more, of younger days

Eyes fill with tears, your voice no longer firm,

The sense of loss seems more than just a phase.

Remember then! Relive your life in full.

Recall and walk the long and winding road.

Retrace each step, your time was never dull

And side by side you shared your heavy load.

When all that‟s left are memories of old,

Your special times become a hand to hold.

National Poetry Day, remember? (Publicity release)

Remember! Thursday 2 October 2014

National Poetry Day is a nationwide celebration of poetry that shakes poetry from its dust-jacket into

the nations‘ classrooms, streets, offices, shops, playgrounds, train stations and airwaves, through live events, happenings, classroom activities and spontaneous uncontrollable outbursts of poetry. Join in, download some cool posters and tell us what fun you are having via Twitter #nationalpoetryday

Here are some favourite poems on this year‘s theme of Remember. Use the Remember tag on the poetry page for more.

I remember, I remember by Thomas Hood Do you remember an inn, Miranda? by Hilaire Belloc

Remember me when I am gone away by Christina Rossetti Remember, remember the fifth of November Anon

Eight new poems for primary school children written especially by our

National Poetry Day Ambassadors

To keep in touch by Liz Brownlee

Remembering by Liz Brownlee

Poets are Photographers by Paul Cookson Remembering is our duty by Paul Cookson

The Family Book by Brian Moses

In an old dog‘s memory by Brian Moses

Whole body memory by Jan Dean Dear Mug by Roger Stevens

News of the programme and the special events planned by the NPD partners will be announced, but in the meantime there are lots of opportunities to join in – find events of all shapes and sizes in the

what‘s on section.

See Submit an Event for information on how to host and promote your own event.

National Poetry Day, remember? Remember! Thursday 2 October 2014

http://www.forwardartsfoundation.org/national-poetry-day/

Staffordshire Poet Laureate and Young Staffs Laureate should be announced on Oct 2nd. RBW is holding a Remembering poetry session in workshop on Monday 29th Sept.

RBW are planning a second

Short Story e-collection

perhaps with a guest editor!

Watch this space for

more details.

Suggestions for a

‘Theme’ welcomed.

Wasn’t there a ghost story

about a train and a tunnel?

Just an idea ...

RBW 2015 poetry collection

“Defying Gravity” Submissions now open.

DO NOT DELAY Once we‟re full, we‟re full.

If you are a subscribing email recipient to leave RBW Online is easy just email and say ‘unsubscribe’ and you will be immediately removed from the list. If you have any suggestions for improvement to this service please let us know. You don't have to take an active part to receive this workshop bulletin you can just sit back and enjoy the ride, but if you could send feedback, it is greatly appreciated. RBW Privacy Promise: A few simple contact details are all that are required and they will only be used for this bulletin service. RBW promise to:

Only send you details via the newsletter.

To never pass on your details to anyone else.

To always allow recipients to opt-out and unsubscribe at any time.

www.risingbrookwriters.org.uk

To contact RBW please use the website contact box.

PATRON Ian McMillan www.ian-mcmillan.co.uk

Present and Previous Memberships and Funders.

Rising Brook Writers strives to be compliant with the requirements of the Data Protection Act. RBW strives for accu-

racy and fairness, however, can take no responsibility for any error, misinterpretation or inaccuracy in any message

sent by this mode of publishing. The opinions expressed are not necessarily in accordance with the policy of the char-

ity. E-mails and attachments sent out by RBW are believed to be free from viruses which might affect computer sys-

tems into which they are received or opened but it is the responsibility of the recipient to ensure that they are virus

free. Rising Brook Writers accepts no responsibility for any loss or damage arising in any way from their receipt, open-

ing or use. Environment/ Recycling: Please consider carefully if you need to print out any part or all of this message.

To the best of our knowledge and belief all the material included in this publication is free to use in the public domain,

or has been reproduced with permission, and/or source acknowledgement. RBW have researched rights where possible,

if anyone’s copyright is accidentally breached please inform us and we will remove the item with apologies. RBW is a

community organisation, whose aims are purely educational, and is entirely non-profit making. If using material from

this collection for educational purposes please be so kind as to acknowledge RBW as the source. Contributors retain the

copyright to their own work. Fiction: names, characters, places and incidents are imaginary or are being used in a ficti-

tious way. Any resemblance to actual people living or dead is entirely coincidental.

This bulletin is produced by volunteers. The editor’s decisions are final and not open to discussion.

© Rising Brook Writers 2014 — RCN 1117227 A voluntary charitable trust.