ISSUE 309 Date: 25th October 2013

OPPORTUNITY: Have you ever wanted to join in with one of RBW e-book projects? Ever fancied trying something entirely outside your comfort zone? Been put off by the terrifying prospect of having to be ‗funny‘? Perhaps now is the time to have a go ...

Tambourine ... is a historical mystery story with a modern twist, so it is not a farce! It might be something you‘d be good at ...

How will you find out if you don‘t try? Old hands! Come on guys get off your padded seats and cosy excuses and start writing scenes. 400 words each piece: you can

knock out that little in your sleep, can‘t you? ―Forsooth, fair scribes, I‘ll be expecting your pages anon!‖

LIFE OBSERVATIONS It is so easy for those who do nothing to unintentionally over burden those who are work-ing their socks off. There are many sides to most issues: there is rarely an absolute right or absolute wrong. Truth is subjective depending upon the viewpoint of the observer.

“They turned round and said if I didn‟t lose weight, I‟d die”. Why do people always have to „turn round‟? Why can‟t they just „say‟ something? “A watershed has now been crossed”. Funny, I never knew it was possible! Finding a new water lily bloom on my garden pond was an unexpected and delightful sur-prise this week. Brambles. Hard work cutting them down. They can tip root as well as grow from seed. When students leave home: an empty nest might be sparkly clean but it‟s very quiet. When life gets you down it‟s not a good idea to lash out at your friends and expect them to carry your pain. They probably have enough of their own.

Issue 309

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Inherent adj basic — part of the very nature of something

Tacitly adj implied but not expressed, understood without being openly

stated

Affable adj easy-going, good natured, friendly

Pentecost noun Christian festival

Career noun long term job, professional progress, general progression, rapid

forward lurching motion

Soirée noun evening party in someone‘s house

Imperious adj arrogant, haughty, domineering

Barbarous adj extremely cruel, uncivilised, not sophisticated

Clarion noun organ stop, medieval trumpet

Facetious adj supposed to be amusing, intended to be humorous but often

inappropriate

Attenuate verb make or become weaker, reduce in strength

Cogitate verb ponder on something, think deeply about something

Thwarted verb frustrate something, place across something

2013: RBW FREE e-books PUBLISHED on RBW and issuu.com

http://www.risingbrookwriters.org.uk/DynamicPage.aspx?PageID=78

http://issuu.com/risingbrookwriters

Steph’s & Clive’s FREE e- books 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

PUBLISHED on RBW and issuu.com

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

DynamicPage.aspx?PageID=52

http://issuu.com/risingbrookwriters

Random Words: watchman, steering, pinky, perquisite, rare, Annapurna, merchant, basket, skulduggery Assignment: Fireworks

http://www.risingbrookwriters.org.uk/DynamicPage.aspx?PageID=79

It was the evening of the annual Policemen‘s‘ Ball, and Inspector Edge was recounting

some of his more interesting cases with his sergeant. One was a murder at the local manor. The Duke of Trentby, who lived alone, had been found in the grounds, following a

garden party, hanged, from a large cantilever garden umbrella. ―You could rattle around in a big place like that, and it might have been some time before

he was discovered, but for the fact that the blacksmith turned up to shoe his Lordship‘s hunter. At first, I had a bit of a brain-fog, and even suspected him of the crime. But it turned out he had a plausible alibi. In the end, the culprit turned out to be the disgruntled

servant. We got the right man in the end,‖ he grinned. (PMW)

―What did you have last period?‖ Carly asked Melanie. ―Double maths with Mrs Gough. Yuk!‖ she replied. ―How about you?‖ ―English with Miss Evans‖.

―Mrs Gough and Miss Evans; the Witches of Walton Street High!‖ they groaned. ―Mrs Gough‘s got a face like she‘s suffering from indigestion!‖

―And my dad says Miss Evans is ‗bombastic‘, whatever that is. He had a row with her at the last parents‘ evening‖.

―Guess what though?‖ Melanie added. ―‘Today we are discussing the palindrome‘, says Miss.‖Daniel Peake. Give me a palindrome meaning ‗junk.‘‖ ―Tat, Miss‖.

―Well done! Melanie Jones. Give me an example of a palindromic river‖. ―Well, I can tell you, I nearly died! But Charlie Tomkins held up his pad with a big ‗X‘ on

it.‖ ―Please Miss, X,‖ says I. Don‘t know what I‘d said, but she began to cough and splutter.

Thought she was going to expire! What a laugh!‖ (PMW)

Issue 282

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Issue 309

Page 4

Submissions for the RBW 2014 Short Story Collection

Roads Less Travelled are now invited.

All contributors must be registered with RBW Library Workshop or be weekly

email pdf recipients

Submit in the usual way. Closing date for submissions

30th Nov 2013

RBW team are delighted to announce the RBW

2013 comedy, King Harffa and the Slightly Ob-

long Table of Trentby, which has a knavish

chuckle at the expense of our Arthurian heritage,

has now been published as a free e-book on

Facebook,

www.issuu.com/risingbrookwriters and the

main RBW website:

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

DynamicPage.aspx?PageID=78

RBW team are delighted to announce the

RBW 2013 memories collection, has

been published this week as a free e-

book on Facebook, www.issuu.com/

risingbrookwriters and

the main RBW website:

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

DynamicPage.aspx?PageID=79

http://www.thepoetrytrust.org/stuff

The 25th International Aldeburgh Poetry Festival 8-10 November 2013

(Extract ...) FREE VERSE 2013: The Poetry Book Fair

The largest event of its kind in the UK, Free Verse 2013: The Poetry Book Fair celebrates the quality, range and excitement of contemporary poetry by presenting the work of more than 50 publishers – from throughout the UK (and beyond) – direct to the general public.

Saturday 7 September – 10 am to 5pm Conway Hall, Red Lion Square, London WC1R 4RL. More details here

TS Eliot Prize 20th Anniversary Tour

The Poetry Book Society has organised a ten-venue national tour to mark the 20th anniversary year of its TS Eliot Prize. Between 17th September and 15th October, from Portsmouth to Halifax and Winchester to

Glasgow, the ten readings will feature major poets previously shortlisted for the prize, together with local poets. Our East of England date is Thursday 3rd October: Moniza Alvi, Sean Borodale, Helen Ivory and George Szirtes will read at the Milennium Library in Norwich (book your tickets by telephone

01603 774774). Full tour details are here

The National Poetry Competition The Poetry Society‘s National Poetry Competition is open for entries until 31st October 2013

(midnight) – First Prize: £5000 Second Prize: £2000 Third Prize: £1000. The top-three winning poems will be published in Poetry Review. The winner is also invited to read at the Ledbury Poetry Festival in July 2014. This year‘s judges are Julia Copus, Matthew Sweeney and Jane Yeh. Entry details are here

Bedroom tax brings out the beast in the poet laureate All nature is in uproar in Carol Ann Duffy's new poem about the pile-up of political controversies, 22 Reasons for the Bedroom Tax http://www.theguardian.com/books/2013/oct/11/bedroom-tax-poet-laureate-carol-ann-duffy

Schizophrenia Awareness Week, November 11-17 2013

http://www.rethink.org/get-involved/stand-up-for-schizophrenia

Issue 309

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More Interest In Vegetables?

My mother regularly posts her gardening articles to a friend of

hers who has a son close to my age. A few days ago he phoned

up to say thanks for the latest articles and told me that one of

the large local supermarkets, in the nearby town of Stone, had re

-arranged their store and put in a new fancy vegetable display.

It’s like something out of “Star Trek,” were his words. Perhaps a

bit of an exaggeration, but when we looked we were impressed.

The new display system employs a fine misting system deliv-

ered through large, bright and shiny stainless steel pipes that drops the mist over the

vegetables like dry ice pours mist over the stage at the theatre. This system means that

they can keep the vegetables fresher for much longer than on a normal display without

chilling, which in turn means that they can offer for sale strange and exotic vegetables

that would otherwise be difficult to keep saleable. The range of vegetables included

quite a few that I had never heard of before, but also included many that I have written

about such as Mooli, Kohl Rabi, Globe Artichoke, Chicory, yellow Tomatoes, Purple

Asparagus as well as a few of the more ordinary types of vegetables to bulk out the

display. Admittedly, I would never have valued my Kohl Rabi at the price they were

charging, but theirs were much bigger than the ones that came off my allotment and a

lot more crisp rather than solid. Undoubtedly they had been grown in perfect condi-

tions with lots of moisture to stop them from getting tough. The same was probably

true of the other vegetables, again giving some justification for the prices, but I still

think I will continue growing as much of my own as I can on my allotment. If the shop

keeps the display it will mean though that we can try out all the strange vegetables be-

fore we actually grow them and see what they should taste like if I grow them properly!

On the subject of my strange vegetables not growing so well as theirs, half of my

early planting of Kohl Rabi are going to seed as are my Chicory that I replanted after

the Winter. Maybe it is due to the dry spell that we had, or maybe I was just too early

planting them. I can only console myself with the fact that other plot holders seem to

have plants going to seed that really shouldn’t be.

People keep saying that it’s a shame my Asparagus are going to seed, but I am

letting the tops grow now to put energy back into the roots after a very short season of

harvesting from the first few planted early last season. I do have one plant that doesn’t

seem to be shooting though, so I bought a replacement packet that had been reduced to

£1 with 2 roots in and actually potted 5 plants after a little careful dividing! Two out of

8 of my tiny grape vines didn’t come through the winter either, so they had to be re-

placed as well with a couple of spares that I had and at the same time I put in some

posts ready to support them, but with no wires strung between them as yet.

My recently planted Oca, or New Zealand Yams are doing well, although every-

one keeps pointing out the large “Clover” plants that are growing in my plot. I try to

explain what they are, but nobody seems to believe me when I tell them that they are a

type of Yam and not overgrown weeds! Another strange vegetable that I really must try

and only came across a few days, ago is the Cinamen Vine, or Dioscorea Batatas. It is

supposed to be an invasive weed with a 3 foot edible tuber that grows straight down

and takes 2 or 3 years to reach maturity. Apparently the top growth also produces

small bulbils on the stems which will drop off and grow hence it being invasive and

difficult to eradicate, but it still sounds fun to me, especially when the supplier points

out that you may need your own JCB to dig them up!

Seeds and Propagation.

Although it is getting late for a lot of seed sowing I am still putting the odd things in to germi-

nate, and when I say odd I do mean odd! After the interesting crop of Scorzonera that I grew

last season I have re-sown some of the seed that was left over, directly in the soil instead of in

trays this time, in the hopes that the roots won’t fork. After the eternal trouble with rabbits on

the other site, mom was determined to get some Monarda which are supposed to be rabbit re-

sistant. Eventually we found some seeds that germinated in the warm house only a few days

after sowing. They are supposed to produce a good crop of flowers for cutting, but now every-

thing is going in on my Hixon allotment the fact that they are rabbit resistant isn’t really

needed.

My brother recently went to the Gardeners World Live show at the NEC and came back with a

packet of Pomegranate seed for me, but I am not convinced there was really anything in it.

There was supposed to be 100 seeds, but when I opened it I couldn’t see anything. I knew

some seeds are so tiny that they look like little more than dust, so I carefully opened the packet

folding it completely flat and brushed the “Empty” packet over the compost as instructed, but I

have 1-4 months before the supposed germination to see if there really was anything there!

On the subject of growing plants from seeds, Sweet potatoes are a member of the Convolvulus

family and on the instructions that came with them it said that you can’t save the tubers from

one season to the next as you might ordinary potatoes. So, my thoughts were why can’t you

save and sow the seeds? It said they flower easily before dying in the autumn and flowers

mean seeds. Even potatoes produce flowers and seed although you grow them from tubers, but

seed must be used commercially to produce different varieties of potatoes as new varieties

have to be produced genetically and not vegetatively. Sweet Potatoes slips are horrendously

expensive to buy and I realise that if you could save your own seed, the resulting plants may

not be true to type, but if they are basically free I am all for giving it a try.

The “Free,” seeds from various fruit bought in supermarkets have produced some great little

Asian Pear and Kumquat seedlings, and my Feijoas seedlings (from a bought packet of seeds)

are doing well and are all standing outside to toughen them up before winter. I did put in a new

batch of “free” London Plane tree seeds after the first batch damped off and they are doing bet-

ter this time. They will not go on the allotment as I am growing them just for fun, but when

they are much bigger and have been potted on they will probably be donated to the Staffor-

shire Wildlife, or Alrewas Memorial Arboretum as it is “Plant A Tree For Jubilee.”

Not only I am busy with seed sowing, but I am trying a few cuttings. My two Honey-berry

plants have put on a lot of growth this year and are producing their

first real crop of berries, although no-one is very impressed with

their taste! So, I gave them a good trim to shape them up and put

some cuttings in to try and root, after all they are only another type

of Honeysuckle plant which are easy to grow. I did keep the cuttings

from the two different plants separate as the instructions that came

with them said that you needed two different plants to give good pol-

lination and that means two genetically different plants, not two

plants produced from the same plant. The Goji Berry cuttings that

went in earlier have rooted well and as with many other fruit plants

don’t need such cross pollination to fruit though.

WATER I Slip in, the water slicks, Film, liquid laps, Locks in a solid Silver oubliette. Now airborne an Arm sunders, sudden, The atoms glutinous gel Slide of surface splinters To rainbow shower In arcing spray. This smug space, Subnatal safety, Observes shore-line Pantomime, land-locked Harlequin hues, Snatched back Toes, the screams; Scurries at eddies, And those who too far out to Scream, draw gasps that ‗O‘ their mouths And take them further, Deeper in. Now embody arrogant

Glissandos; meld within this Solitary element; The senses stumbling, Falter; hearing swaddled, Vision smudging, And smell sated to salt; Touch sundering with Aqueous envelopment. The land lies beyond belief. Atlantis nudges The furthest reaches of the

Mind - horizon of Home and pain. Now this Genesis Accomplishes Another engendering.

WATER II On opposite banks of the water, We take off our clothes. Nude, air cups and caresses Without touching. We do not look. We are on opposite sides. The water, a damp ruined mirror Would break if we dive, Would stun and shatter. We stand in separate silences Then stroll in opposite directions, Trailing clothes, disparate.

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Issue 309

Page 8

NEW LOCAL POETS LAUREATE

On 3rd October I attended the appointment of the new Staffordshire poets laureate,

which was a very enjoyable evening. Mel Dewhirst handed over as the adult Poet Laure-ate to Tom Wyre after his year as the first Poet Laureate for the County, while Natalie

Cotterill from Lichfield was appointed as the first Joint Young Poet Laureate for both Staf-fordshire and Stoke on Trent. The event, at Baswich Branch Library, was attended by about a score of people.

The choice of Baswich Library was a good one and there was an intimate atmosphere

which was just right for poetry. However it was disconcerting to be told that the Shire Hall library in the town centre was avoided as few people go into the centre at night. Clearly the event attracted its core audience, but it is sad that the centre of the County

Town is so dead once the shops have closed.

The event was nonetheless successful and probably inevitably was dominated by Mel and his account of his year in office. Natalie impressively read some of her own own poetry

and is clearly a talented and engaging young woman. It is to be hoped she can reach all parts of the area, the second biggest county in England geographically. It is a big ask for a school student, but there is no doubt anyone who can hear her will be impressed.

Mel's account was not a formal reckonining and it was difficult to follow all that he had

done, a tribute to his enthusiastic and energetic approach to the post. Three things stood out, however. Firstly, he had contributed to a local community drama celebrating the

three sailors who had captured the German Enigma code machine in World War Two from a sinking German submarine, allowing the code breakers to crack the code. One of the three was a sailor from Tamworth, and he had only been married for two days when

he went to sea, never to return.

Less tragically, Mel reported on a poem written for Stafford from the contributions of ordinary citizens, and a poetry trail he had writ-ten for Michael Drayton – a contemporary and near neighbour of

Shakespeare – at Polesworth. This is a very interesting and endur-ing project, probably the initiative most likely to endure. It is possi-

ble a trip to view the trail could be organised, and Mel has indicated he would be prepared to act as host, so get in touch if you would

like to take part if a trip can be organised. Tom Wyre understandably had less to say but he will be a good

successor to Mel and as Mel exceeded the initial brief in a very active year, Tom has much to do to match up to Mel's year in office. I am sure Rising Brook Workshop will give

him all the support it can afford.

The poets are clearly making a significant contribution, and this is a good initiative with the co-operation between Stoke and Staffordshire very welcome. The quality of the cho-sen people is very high, but it was a little difficult to see what the actual brief is - ―to en-

courage a wider engagement and enjoyment of poetry across Staffordshire and Stoke‖ is admirable. But how are the Laureates supposed to do this? What support do they get

from the Councils? These are talented people, but can't do it all by themselves. And at a practical level, since no financial report was presented, it would be helpful to know what resources, if any, are being provided to help the poets do their work. At the most basic

level, as a council tax payer, it would be good to know how my money is being spent. But the poetry banner in this county is certainly in safe hands from what I heard at

Baswich, and the Laureates deserve our support. Trevor Fisher 16 10 13 Issue 309

Page 9

There are moments in a woman‘s life Designed to cause extremes of strife:

What do you do In a public loo

Wearing trousers?

There‘s ‗stuff‘ on the floor, No bolt on the door,

So you lean at an angle Shirt tails a-dangle,

Clenching your knees – Makes it harder to pee

But your turn-ups are safe!

Amidst this confusion Avoiding intrusion Poses a choice:

To let go of the door – Relying on voice

To ward off invasion – Or,

Hang onto the door,

Trousers fall to the floor As your knees unclench,

Which of course will occasion Discomfort – And worse!

What a dilemma!

With no time to ponder You hear over yonder

A door slam – And wonder

Why dogs fare much better:

They pooh in the gutter So why shouldn‘t you?

What madness is this? All you want is a pee! It‘s turning your brain,

What you need is a drain! But then you remember

You don‘t have the member For such an endeavour –

Or even a long skirt!

So what will you do Now you know there‘s a queue?

And the answer to that, Who knows?

Only you!

-o0o-

‗Change your image‘, he said, ‗Go ethnic instead‘ So, aiming to please, I buy Nepalese And the colours all run The first time they‘re spun – What a shame he doesn‘t like pink y-fronts!

Issue 309

Page 10

Four poems relating to a Woman’s Life

I'm not much of a cook But a pretty good – well, you know – So he used to say In the good old days, Both young and sprightly, Did it thrice nightly. But priorities alter, And that‘s when we falter. Our confident skills Don‘t quite fit the bill. So what does one do, Learn to make stew Or soufflés or, better still, A Hecate style brew? Ah! The recipe‘s here - No, it wasn‘t King Lear. Just goes to show We forget all we know Trying to fit The conventional slot. Sod that! Forget making stew Or even the brew,

Take care of your looks, Go back to the books. He‘ll have to accept That you‘re not a good cook – And may realise His exceptional luck!

Two men in my life, To neither a wife; To neither a lover

So why do I bother?

One is unable, The other unstable, The latter is willing, The first unfulfilling

My partner too long

Trilling his song Of undying devotion,

Unaware of the notion

That some like it hot – And that‘s not what I‘ve got!

I‘m bored by his pace, Doesn‘t make my heart race.

Friendship‘s all very well

But truth is to tell A roll in the hay

Is a far better way

Of providing excitement-

Along with contentment; Not one or the other,

The whole lot together!

So I‘ll have to rethink; Should my loyalties shrink

Would it all be in vain And end up in pain?

Hopping over the fence

Without a defence, Should I desist?

Oh! To hell with the risk!

Issue 309

Page 12

Year 1564 : The Cast : The Queen‘s Men : a group of strolling players thrown out of Lon-don where the theatres have been closed due to an outbreak of plague Kit Marlowe (wordsmith/detective), Harry Swann (twho stole the silver chalice), Samuel Burball (Owner), Peter Pecksniff, Daniel Alleynes, young Hal who plays the girl‘s roles very badly, Vesta Swann The Boar‘s Head Tavern, Trentby: Bertha Bucket landlady, Molly Golightly, Martha Goodnight wenches The Trentby Abbey of St Jude : Ab-bot Ranulf knows something about the missing Roman hoard of silver plate/chalice etc The Manor of Bluddschott : sodden Squire Darnley Bluddschott, wife Mistress Anne, daughter Penelope about to be sold off into matrimony, Mistress Hood seamstress The Sheriff‘s Castle : Magistrate Squire Humphrey Pettigrew, Black

Knight, the Sherriff Lord Haywood, man-at-arms Richard of Hyde Leigh, a constable and a scribe Modern Day: Rick Fallon and Tommy Tip-Tip McGee** Private eyes in Trentby on case for Sir Kipling Aloysius Bluddschott & sister Christabel to locate silver chalice and Roman hoard of Trentby Abbey + corpse Jago Swann DI Pete Ferret To give the tale a twist we want to attempt to take what seems like an historical fiction novel and write it as if it‘s a hard-boiled 1930‘s pulp fiction romp. It might not work but we‘ll give at a go and see what happens... ** Characters from Where There‘s A Will There‘s A Weigh RBW fiction project

It was a big door. Fallon looked for a bell. There wasn‘t one, only a iron contraption which said ‗PULL‘ in white letters which some ancient hand had daubed on the stonework in runny gloss.

Rubbing the toe of his shoe against the back of his trouser leg, Fallon did as in-structed and pulled. Somewhere deep in the bowels of Bluddschott Manor a brass bell tinkled. A playful wind was whistling round the rushes of the ornamental lake and making a beeline for the back of his neck. He was shivering as the ancient oak studwork juddered open with a sound like fingernails on a blackboard.

‗You rang?‘ said a querulous voice. ‗Do you have an appointment?‘ ‗I‘m expected,‘ said Fallon pushing his way inside. ‗Kipling ... Kipling...‘ the elderly woman shouted into the silence of the great pile

of the Bluddschott dynasty. There was no reply save for the echoes bouncing off the marble pillars and Carrara floor of the immense entrance hall. It was as cold as a tomb. He could see his breath as a cloud of steam.

Fallon reappraised his opinion of the elderly doorkeeper. Still holding on to the handle for support, the woman was in her eighties at a guess, although she could have been older. The multi-coloured crochet shawl she had wrapped around her shoulders looked like something from the back of a sofa in an old folks home, her long white hair was coiled in tight plaits around her forehead and a pair of misty grey eyes never left his face. The scrutiny was unnerving, and Fallon was no stranger to the weirdness of his cliental. One thing he was certain of, this old girl was no doddering retainer they couldn‘t afford to pension off, this was Lady Christa-bel Bluddschott. The last of the Wifford sisters. The woman, in the 1930s, who so very nearly brought down the house of Windsor, but for the timely intervention of a buccaneering divorcée from over the pond.

He was looking into the face of living history.

‗Yes, he says, ―the show must go on‖, Samuel Burball is by nature an optimistic soul,‘ said Vesta Swann, she had dried her eyes and was sitting in the tap room of the Boar‘s Head bemoaning the loss of her husband. More the loss of his meagre earn-ings if truth were told. ‗Always saying, ―punters will come, it‘ll be alright on the night‖, he‘s usually right. Usually.‘

Bertha Bucket blew the froth off a tankard of best ale, her first that morning, and nodded. She was not too old as to be devoid of aspirations of the romantic kind and from where she stood Samuel Burball was a man of distinction, a real good spender. Slashed velvet breeches, cross-gartered hose and the silver buckles on those shoes don‘t come cheap. He had the chinks and the brain to double them: after all he was keeping this rag-taggle bunch of ne‘er-do-wells in beer and pease pudding, wasn‘t he?

‗Seems a good sort,‘ she ventured in reply. ‗Oh he is, he is,‘ said Vesta sipping a ha‘ppeth bowl of good sack and sugar. ‗A fine

fellow of a man. Upright and tall. Tall as any knight I‘d say, wouldn‘t you?‘ Bertha prickled, the widow was casting her net pretty damn quick. This required

more thought. A way which had seemed clear for cap throwing obviously was not.

‗Have you been with the players long?‘ she asked by way of changing the subject. ‗Since before the Master of the Revels closed the theatres,‘ sniffed the dishevelled

Vesta wiping her nose on the sleeve of a grubby shift. Bertha shuddered, ‗Is the plague very bad in London?‘ Vesta nodded crossing her scrawny chest in the time-honoured gesture, ‗We was lucky

to get out afore any of the company was struck. The Globe was not so lucky and they were dropping like flies at The Swan.‘

At that moment Samuel Burball came into view at the window, he was striding across the yard carrying a small barrel, accompanied by one of the company.

‗Who‘s that fine gentleman?‘ asked Bertha, who had an eye for a well cut leg and a refined disposition, and this young rogue was in finer fettle than the much older Burball: who for all his good points and prospects was as tonsured as a monk, a fact he tried to ameliorate with a pointy beard and clipped moustache in the style much affected by the royal court.

Vesta almost forgot her grief and smiled, ‗Ahh Master Marlowe, our Kit. He‘s the play-wright. He writes the pages.‘

Bertha was impressed. So young, so clever, so handsome and so unmarried?

‗Never married?‘ she asked with a raise of the eyebrows, ‗Permanent bachelor?‘ Vesta laughed out loud, ‗By Odd‘s Bodkins, no he‘s a common man alright, has the

wenches well busy when he‘s in the chinks.‘ Bertha drew on the draught and belched, ‗Does he now?‘ she said. Suddenly, several

possibilities were opening up for a business woman with some cunning and perspicacity.

Latest Competitions: The Charles Causley Poetry Competition 2013 | Closing Date: 18-Nov-13 http://www.poetrylibrary.org.uk/competitions/?id=1440 Flash 500 Humour Verse Competition | Closing Date: 31-Dec-13 http://www.poetrylibrary.org.uk/competitions/?id=1442 The Christopher Tower Poetry Competition 2014 | Closing Date: 28-Feb-14 http://www.poetrylibrary.org.uk/competitions/?id=1439 Torriano Poetry Competition 2014 | Closing Date: 28-Feb-14 http://www.poetrylibrary.org.uk/competitions/?id=1441

Latest News: Forward Prize winners announced | 05-Oct-13 http://www.poetrylibrary.org.uk/news/poetryscene/?id=1101

Reader Competition for the Poetry Library 60th Birthday | 05-Oct-13 http://www.poetrylibrary.org.uk/news/library/?id=1100

Random words CMH ‗A Palindrome meaning confession. Anybody got a clue?‘ There was a shaking of heads all round

the table.

‗There's no need to be bombastic about it is there Will. Anyway, what's one of them! I mean what're you coughing up too that needs an animal?‘

‗Animal! What animal?‘ ‗One of them Palindromes. Related to the Dromedary I think.‘ ‗You've got it wrong again Terry. It's that junk them witches down the office've got you on! Enough

to give you indigestion just thinking about it. No, a palindrome is a word or phrase that reads the same from both ends.‘

‗No Camels then? Pity! If you'd got one we could have ridden it back to the Retirement Home; now we've got to walk. Come on then, we've got to get past Matron's dog, and I've still got the bite marks

from last time!

Things heard around The Nevercombe Upwards Ladies All-in Wrestling,

Boxing, Cricket, Fencing, Croquet, Morris and Highland Dancing, Competition Knitting and Embroidery Club. [Karioke and Wine appreciation section]

Wot was wrote down by: Aym Lez Rambylings

‗I see it's half term time again, then,‘ Pipe remarked as he put down the trademark Half of Shandy and a G&T on the table beside his own Old and Mild before lighting up his smudge-pot with the herbal

mixture. ‗It's only like yesterday that I was looking forwards to the half-term hols,‘ G&T remarked. ‗WE

used to do all sorts of things in the half-term hols.‘ ‗Like what,‘ prompted Shandy. ‗Oh; like lying in the grass and playing cricket. That was always my favourite. Unless it was win-

ter of course. Then it was sitting in the clubhouse and stoking the fire. What did you do Pipe?‘ ‗Can't really remember,‘ admitted Pipe. ‗Of course I went to the County School for the Over Ex-

cited. We didn't do sports all that much, more quiet things,‘ he sat back with a look of recollection on his face. ‗Yes, quiet things was what we did. Chess, Noughts and Crosses, and Draughts were all the go. Never was any good at them, even if I did come top in the Noughts and Crosses league one year.‘

‗The County! You went to the County!‘ Shandy burst out laughing. ‗We used to beat them lot at Tidily Winks every year. They could never remember the rules.‘

‗Never knew there were any rules to Tidily Winks,‘ Pipe put in. ‗Of course we blamed it on the sports mistress.‘

‗You mean sports master, don't you Pipe?‘ G&T, having been left out, felt he should have some say in the thing.

‗No definitely not a sports master. Although I must confess it was probably not a sports master.

She had confusion down to a fine art.‘ ‗Not him,‘ Shandy said, ‗he was an ancient Chinese sage.‘

‗Who was? The sports mistress?‘ ‗No. Confusion. He was the ancient Chinese sage. Mind you I don't think he was much of one.‘

Shandy confessed. ‗More like a Parsley and Thyme if you asks me. Short on the Bread crumbs though.‘

‗Hmm.‘ Pipe was good at the hmm'ing, it must have been the out-of-hours training he had.

‗Hmm,‘ he said again, getting dangerously near repeating himself. ‗I must confess that we...‘ ‗Got it,‘ Shandy was on a roll, the cheese and onions had just been delivered. ‗You've been talk-

ing to the Vicar again. He says that confession is good for the soul.‘ Pipe nodded. ‗He also says that it'll all end up in tear. Just like the Shaws.‘ Shandy also nodded. ‗You must think I'm the village idiot, but I'm not, I only came second in last

year‘s contest. Confess it; you're expecting me to say, What Shaws.‘ Pipe nodded as he said, ‗Very good of you Shandy but we're okay for the moment!‘

The Beasts' Confession By Jonathan Swift

To the Priest, on Observing how most

Men mistake their own Talents

When beasts could speak (the learned say,

They still can do so ev'ry day),

It seems, they had religion then,

As much as now we find in men.

It happen'd, when a plague broke out

(Which therefore made them more devout),

The king of brutes (to make it plain,

Of quadrupeds I only mean)

By proclamation gave command,

That ev'ry subject in the land

Should to the priest confess their sins;

And thus the pious wolf begins:

"Good father, I must own with shame,

That often I have been to blame:

I must confess, on Friday last,

Wretch that I was! I broke my fast:

But I defy the basest tongue

To prove I did my neighbour wrong;

Or ever went to seek my food

By rapine, theft, or thirst of blood."

The ass, approaching next, confess'd

That in his heart he lov'd a jest:

A wag he was, he needs must own,

And could not let a dunce alone:

Sometimes his friend he would not spare,

And might perhaps be too severe:

But yet, the worst that could be said,

He was a wit both born and bred;

And, if it be a sin or shame,

Nature alone must bear the blame:

One fault he hath, is sorry for't,

His ears are half a foot too short;

Which could he to the standard bring,

He'd show his face before the King:

Then for his voice, there's none disputes

That he's the nightingale of brutes.

The swine with contrite heart allow'd,

His shape and beauty made him proud:

In diet was perhaps too nice,

But gluttony was ne'er his vice:

In ev'ry turn of life content,

And meekly took what fortune sent:

Inquire through all the parish round,

A better neighbour ne'er was found:

His vigilance might some displease;

'Tis true he hated sloth like peas.

The mimic ape began his chatter,

How evil tongues his life bespatter:

Much of the cens'ring world complain'd,

Who said, his gravity was feign'd:

Indeed, the strictness of his morals

Engag'd him in a hundred quarrels:

He saw, and he was griev'd to see't,

His zeal was sometimes indiscreet:

He found his virtues too severe

For our corrupted times to bear:

Yet, such a lewd licentious age

Might well excuse a Stoic's rage.

The goat advanc'd with decent pace;

And first excus'd his youthful face;

Forgiveness begg'd that he appear'd

('Twas nature's fault) without a beard.

'Tis true, he was not much inclin'd

To fondness for the female kind;

Not, as his enemies object,

From chance, or natural defect;

Not by his frigid constitution,

But through a pious resolution;

For he had made a holy vow

Of chastity as monks do now;

Which he resolv'd to keep for ever hence,

As strictly too, as doth his Reverence.

Apply the tale, and you shall find,

How just it suits with human kind.

Some faults we own: but, can you guess?

Why?—virtues carried to excess,

Wherewith our vanity endows us,

Though neither foe nor friend allows us.

The lawyer swears, you may rely on't,

He never squeez'd a needy client;

And this he makes his constant rule,

For which his brethren call him fool:

His conscience always was so nice,

He freely gave the poor advice;

By which he lost, he may affirm,

A hundred fees last Easter term.

While others of the learned robe

Would break the patience of a Job;

No pleader at the bar could match

His diligence and quick dispatch;

Ne'er kept a cause, he well may boast,

Above a term or two at most.

The cringing knave, who seeks a place

Without success, thus tells his case:

Why should he longer mince the matter?

He fail'd because he could not flatter;

He had not learn'd to turn his coat,

Nor for a party give his vote:

His crime he quickly understood;

Too zealous for the nation's good:

He found the ministers resent it,

Yet could not for his heart repent it.

The chaplain vows he cannot fawn,

Though it would raise him to the lawn:

He pass'd his hours among his books;

You find it in his meagre looks:

He might, if he were worldly wise,

Preferment get and spare his eyes:

But own'd he had a stubborn spirit,

That made him trust alone in merit:

Would rise by merit to promotion;

Alas! a mere chimeric notion.

The doctor, if you will believe him,

Confess'd a sin; and God forgive him!

Call'd up at midnight, ran to save

A blind old beggar from the grave:

But see how Satan spreads his snares;

He quite forgot to say his prayers.

He cannot help it for his heart

Sometimes to act the parson's part:

Quotes from the Bible many a sentence,

That moves his patients to repentance:

And, when his med'cines do no good,

Supports their minds with heav'nly

food,

At which, however well intended,

He hears the clergy are offended;

And grown so bold behind his back,

To call him hypocrite and quack.

In his own church he keeps a seat;

Says grace before and after meat;

And calls, without affecting airs,

His household twice a day to prayers.

He shuns apothecaries' shops;

And hates to cram the sick with slops:

He scorns to make his art a trade;

Nor bribes my lady's fav'rite maid.

Old nurse-keepers would never hire

To recommend him to the squire;

Which others, whom he will not name,

Have often practis'd to their shame.

The statesman tells you with a

sneer,

His fault is to be too sincere;

And, having no sinister ends,

Is apt to disoblige his friends.

The nation's good, his master's glory,

Without regard to Whig or Tory,

Were all the schemes he had in view;

Yet he was seconded by few:

Though some had spread a hundred lies,

'Twas he defeated the Excise.

'Twas known, though he had borne as-

persion,

That standing troops were his aversion:

His practice was, in ev'ry station,

To serve the King, and please the nation.

Though hard to find in ev'ry case

The fittest man to fill a place:

His promises he ne'er forgot,

But took memorials on the spot:

His enemies, for want of charity,

Said he affected popularity:

'Tis true, the people understood,

That all he did was for their good;

Their kind affections he has tried;

No love is lost on either side.

He came to Court with fortune clear,

Which now he runs out ev'ry year:

Must, at the rate that he goes on,

Inevitably be undone:

Oh! if his Majesty would please

To give him but a writ of ease,

Would grant him licence to retire,

As it hath long been his desire,

By fair accounts it would be found,

He's poorer by ten thousand pound.

He owns, and hopes it is no sin,

He ne'er was partial to his kin;

He thought it base for men in stations

To crowd the Court with their relations;

His country was his dearest mother,

And ev'ry virtuous man his brother;

Through modesty or awkward shame

(For which he owns himself to blame),

He found the wisest man he could,

Without respect to friends or blood;

Nor ever acts on private views,

When he hath liberty to choose.

The sharper swore he hated play,

Except to pass an hour away:

And well he might; for, to his cost,

By want of skill he always lost;

He heard there was a club of cheats,

Who had contriv'd a thousand feats;

Could change the stock, or cog a die,

And thus deceive the sharpest eye:

Nor wonder how his fortune sunk,

His brothers fleece him when he's

drunk.

I own the moral not exact;

Besides, the tale is false in fact;

And so absurd, that could I raise up

From fields Elysian fabling Aesop;

I would accuse him to his face

For libelling the four-foot race.

Creatures of ev'ry kind but ours

Well comprehend their natural pow'rs;

While we, whom reason ought to sway,

Mistake our talents ev'ry day.

The ass was never known so stupid

To act the part of Tray or Cupid;

Nor leaps upon his master's lap,

There to be strok'd, and fed with pap,

As Aesop would the world persuade;

He better understands his trade:

Nor comes, whene'er his lady whistles;

But carries loads, and feeds on thistles.

Our author's meaning, I presume, is

A creature bipes et implumis;

Wherein the moralist design'd

A compliment on human kind:

For here he owns, that now and then

Beasts may degenerate into men.

Jonathan Swift (1667-1745) was born to English

parents in Dublin. Swift became one of the first great prose satirists. His master-piece, of course, is Gulliver‘s Travels.

HOLLY BANK

Sank in 1890, closed in fifty

two,

Earthborn hell, hewn where no

light shone.

Dust hated pit, air thick ‘n

blue.

Do widows grieve Holly Bank

is gone?

Far beneath fair Staff’s

clay, red face.

Lurk yawning shafts which

drop to gloom.

High above, the bracken cov-

ered Chase

Of the King’s gorse ‘n saf-

fron broom.

The Chase’s timid Fallow

frolic ‘n play

seek, on heath and ringed

birch forest.

Concealing seams without

God’s day.

unmerciful takers of our

dearest.

Littleton, New Essington ‘n

Holly Bank,

reapers of mere boys ‘n solid

men.

Collieries, sweat hot, black

and dank,

Echo our dead boys, every

soul worth ten.

© SMS 1994

Arm in arm, we grieved today.

I’m glad my brothers are

gone,

Never seeing such destruc-

tion.

Our shaft winding wheels are

none,

Our brave men folk all de-

parted

No dirty faces blinking at

the sun.

I’m glad my granddad is dead.

I’m glad he never lived to

see this day.

The whole of his life’s work

gutted.

They’ve taken his soul away.

The Littleton Pit has gone,

Flattened back to clay.

© 1997 Steph Spiers

SILVERDALE

My mam cried. I heard her say,

‘Silverdale’s been saved to-

day.’

Da looked at me with a grin,

‘Chuck tha’ chip butty in the

bin.

Happy days are coming soon.

Your Da’s pocket’ll ring an-

other tune.

The Silver’s coin is on the

way.

I’ll be going back down any

day.’

Mam rubbed her eyes on the

cloth,

Smiled at Da, and watched him

cough.

‘New shoes for Johnny and a

car,’

spluttered an’ wheezed my poor

Da.

‘One o’ them motors tha’ costs

a packet.’

But, red foam flecked down his

jacket.

Mam wiped a slow tear off her

face,

and kneeling down fastened up

his lace.

(Silverdale

Colliery,

Newcastle,

sank in 1830

finally was closed

in 1998)

© Steph Spiers

1992

Trentham Colliery Epitaph

Hem Heath’s gone heard them

say

Closed and shuttered yes-

terday,

No more coal shines glossy

black,

Potters’ sons stopped shov-

elling slack.

No more mates, no more

noise,

The very last shift for our

boys.

No more winch cage clanking

down

Wise-cracking blokes over-

alled in brown,

Echoing laughter from the

rich seam,

A glint of light from a

hard hat beam.

Local protesters held the

sway,

No surprise the miners had

t’ pay.

© 1997 SMS

Images Staffs Past Track

Issue 309

Page 20

My lost Poet for this week is Sir John Beaumont

(1583 -1627)

My interest in Sir John Beaumont the first baronet is many

fold, he was not only a contemporary of Michael Drayton but also a good friend. He was born at Grace Dieu Manor close to the Priory from which the Grace Dieu writers mentioned above

take their name. It was his son also Sir John who published the elders poem of The Battle of Bosworth, which is also of in-terest to me due to my Yorkshire ancestry.

Sir John was born in 1583 and at Grace Dieu Manor in Leices-tershire, He was the second son of Sir Francis Beaumont and

Anne Pierrepoint, He was educated at Oxford University, which saw him admitted to the Inner Temple at around 1600. Following the death of his father and then his elder brother

he found himself the head of a creative family, his younger brother was the dramatist Francis Beaumont who was also

acquainted with Drayton and was a student of Ben Jonson. Grace Dieu is not that far from Polesworth in Warwickshire

and it makes me wonder if the Beaumont‘s were ever guests of the Goodere‘s and the Polesworth

Circle. Sir John lived for many years as bachelor eventually marrying a Catholic, Elizabeth Fortesque;

their sympathies towards the Catholic faith saw them fined for recusancy for refusing to attend An-glican services. He began writing poetry in around 1602 – in his poem Metamorphosis of Tabacco, a mock heroic poem in smooth couplets which he published anonymously, which he dedicates to both

his brother and to Michael Drayton as his loving friend. His poem on Bosworth with its heroic couplets whilst a fine piece of Elizabethan verse, pales a little in the comparison of that of Shake-speare‘s treatment of the subject in Richard III. It is the focus on this single event in the Wars of

the Roses that makes it interesting. The content has differing detail to Shakespeare and while not contradicting – it adds more colour to the picture of this battle. It is also worth considering the

sources of Beaumont‘s version, presumably some of it from Shakespeare, who in turn used Holinshed‘s chronicles, which Beaumont may also have referred too. But let‘s not forget Grace Dieu is only a few miles from Bosworth, that Beaumont will have had access to some of the family histories, the

stories passed down through the Digby‘s of Coleshill for example. These may not have been avail-able to the commoner Shakespeare and so therefore Beaumont is able to add further detail, be it

second or third hand, but never-the-less some elements of truth surrounding the events of the 22nd August 1485. Sir John died at Grace Dieu in 1827, he was succeeded by his son also Sir John, he was killed

at the Siege of Gloucester in 1643 and was succeeded by the third and final Baronet of Grace Dieu Sir Thomas, on whose death in 1686 the Beaumont Baronetcy of Grace Dieu was extinct. But this is not the end of the link with poetry and Grace Dieu – for a new creation of the Beaumont Baronetcy

saw the Beaumont‘s of Staughton Grange, who made their home at nearby Coleorton Hall, The 7th Baronet Sir George Beaumont was keen artist who befriended the Lakeland Poets. It was on a visit

to Coleorton Hall that William Wordsworth wrote these lines on Grace Dieu Priory.

―Beneath yon eastern ridge, the craggy bound, Rugged and high, of Charnwood‘s forest ground,

Stand yet, but, Stranger, hidden from thy view The ivied ruins of forlorn Grace Dieu,

Erst a religious House, which day and night With hymns resounded and the chanted rite.‖

An online copy of the poems of Sir John Beaumont: http://books.google.co.uk/books?id=tTJDAAAAIAAJ&printsec=frontcover&dq=inauthor:%22Sir+John+Beaumont%

22&hl=en&ei=3WClTrKPOoy98gPjgPHVBQ&sa=X&oi=book_result&ct=result&resnum=1&ved=0CC8Q6AEwAA#v=onepage&q&f=false

My second lost Poet is John Rawlet (1642–1686)

John Rawlet, poet and preacher, he was not by any means a major poet, a single volume of his poetry was published a year after his death. His main

contribution to history is as a preacher, in Wigan, Kirkby Stephen and Newcastle upon Tyne. He is remembered through the name of a School in his home town of Tamworth, now in wholly in Staffordshire but at Rawlet‘s time, Tamworth

was split between Stafford and Warwick, a time of the English civil war that saw the town divided between Parliamentarians on the Stafford side of town and the King on the Warwick side.

Rawlet was born into an agricultural family with its origins near Grendon in War-wickshire; his father was a wool trader and settled in Tamworth as a major cen-

tre of commerce. The Rawlett family name was spelt with two ‗T‘s – it was John who styled the name with one and adopted this throughout his life. Rawlet was educated at the towns Grammar School and came under the tutelage of Samuel

Shaw a Cambridge graduate who nurtured his calling into the church. The church at these times was a turbulent place as there were divisions between the conformists who were restored to their livings following the restoration

of Charles II and had signed their allegiance to the crown and the non-conformists who had used the churches for their services under the Commonwealth of Cromwell and would not sign up to the King.

Rawlet entered Cambridge to study theology, and it is understood that he became well read; although he did not

receive his degree at the time he was expected too, there is a period in his life between 1660 and 1665 where there is scant knowledge of his whereabouts. It is during his period at Cambridge that he writes his first verses

many he dedicates to his mother. He reappears in 1666 in London, It is the time of the great plague and he fears he may succumb to it, he writes a letter to his mother saying goodbye and how he feels saddened that he has not achieved his ambitions. The letter is never sent, but remains with his processions until some 30 years later. His

thought presumably that on his death it would be found and sent to Tamworth. He is a tutor with a family at this time and is saved from the plague by the family moving to a country residence in Croydon – this also takes him away from The Great Fire of London which destroys the city later in the year. Taking with it many great libraries.

Through the talk of books and lost collections, Rawlet sees that men who have been published have greater opportunities and so publishes a small book with the help of Richard Baxter, A Sacramental Covenanting with

Christ under the initials MM. Baxter‘s ‗Letter to the Reader‘ aimed at providing religious instruction to the common poorly educated people. He his mocked by Baxter who describes him as ―the Captain of the ignorant‖. Despite this his book proves very popular with the rich who purchase copies to distribute to the poor as charitable gifts.

It is not long before he is offered a living in Wigan, which accepts and holds for a couple of years before he is offered a position in Kirkby Stephen in Westmorland. His patron is Phillip Wharton (4th Baron Wharton). Westmor-

land (now Cumbria) is also Clifford country and Rawlet is delighted with his meeting with the dowager countess Lady Anne Clifford, who her self has purchased his book and distributed it to the poor of the north. Following his time in Westmorland he is offered a position at St Nicholas‘ Church in Newcastle upon Time, then a parish church and

now the cities Cathedral. It is here that he finally succumbs to illness, marrying his long time friend Ann Butler some three days before his death in 1686. His friends gathered together his poems and published them the following year as Poetick Miscellanies of John Rawlet, B.D. and Late Lecturer Opoetic Miscellanies of John Rawlet,

B.D. and Late Lecturer of S. Nicholas Church in the Town of Newcastle upon Tyne. His legacy created the Rawlet Trust, which still exists today and annually pays out sums to those who meet the conditions of Rawlet‘s original

intentions. The school in Tamworth, now Rawlet Community College, was built on Rawlet Field a piece of land that was once owned by the trust. The school and trust both adopting the original spelling of the family name. The school and the trust continue to perpetuate his name, his poetry however is mostly forgotten, the light verses

on pastoral and religious themes show a poet whose craft was well developed, he chose not to pursue his life as poet but that of a preacher, this should not diminish his skill as a poet which can be seen in the on-line scanned

copies of his verse published by his friends.

I am indebted to Margret Manuell for the information on John Rawlet‘s life and work, which I have very much summarized here. You can read a more detailed biography of John Rawlet by Margaret at:

http://freepages.rootsweb.ancestry.com/~enzedders/rawlet.htm

Online copy of Rawlet‘s poetry at Virginia University. http://xtf.lib.virginia.edu/xtf/view?docId=chadwyck_ep/uvaGenText/tei/chep_2.0212.xml;brand=default;

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