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ISSUE 214 Date: 18th November 2011

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Issue 214

Page 2

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Thoughts & Quotes ...

Wiki

Quotes

And

Image

Marcus Manilius Marcus Manilius (1st century AD) was a Roman poet and astrologer, held to be

the author of a poem in five books called Astronomica. The poem implies that the

writer lived under Augustus or Tiberius, and that he was a citizen of, and resident

in, Rome. He is thought to have been either an Asiatic Greek or an African. His

work is one of great learning; he had studied many subjects, and is said to repre-

sent the most advanced views of the Romans on astronomy and astrology.

Astronomica

It is easy to spread the sails to propitious winds, and to cultivate in different

ways a rich soil, and to give lustre to gold and ivory, when the very raw material

itself shines.

Experience is always sowing the seed of one thing after another.

All things obey fixed laws.

Everything that is created is changed by the laws of man; the earth does not

know itself in the revolution of years; even the races of man assume various

forms in the course of ages.

No barriers, no masses of matter, however enormous, can withstand the pow-

ers of the mind the remotest corners yield to them; all things succumb, the

very heaven itself is laid open.

The hours fly around in a circle.

Who can know heaven except by its gifts? and who can find out God, unless

the man who is himself an emanation from God?

Time stands with impartial law.

Labour is itself a pleasure.

Every one is in a small way the image of God.

We are always beginning to live, but are never living.

Bust of the Emperor Tiberius

Reign: 18 September 14 AD – 16 March 37 AD

(22 years, 179 days)

Issue 214

Page 3

scapegoat n 1. Someone punished for the error or errors of someone else.

2. (originally) In the Mosaic Day of Atonement ritual, a goat symbolically imbued with the sins

of the people, and sent out alive into the wilderness while another was sacrificed.

derisive adj 1. Expressing or characterized by derision; mocking; ridiculing.

2. Deserving or provoking derision or ridicule.

palpable adj 1. Capable of being touched, felt or handled; touchable, tangible.

2. Obvious or easily perceived; noticeable.

conflate v

To bring things together and fuse them into a single entity.

madeleine n 1. A small gateau or sponge cake, often shaped

like an elongated scallop shell.

2. Something which brings back a memory; a

source of nostalgia or evocative memories.

bovine adj 1. Of, or pertaining to, cattle.

2. Sluggish, stupid.

prosody n

1. ( linguistics) The study of poetic meter; the pat-

terns of sounds and rhythms in verse or speech.

LIFE OBSERVATIONS ... The ground is like concrete. The recent rain not enough to penetrate more than a inch or so. Shoes have the ability to cause an emotional response. Not everyone likes neighbours’ cats using their vegetable patch as a latrine. Cat owners need to be more aware of this fact. Dog walkers hanging bags of excrement on trees and bushes or popping them inside recycling bins, one hopes, will eventually be sent to that special place in hell usually reserved for people who talk in the theatre! A top tip for making quick compost is to add urine to the heap as it helps to break down plant fibres. In the days of ‘gussunders’ the ‘nightsoil’ would be added to the compost heap routinely.

Wiki

Image

Recording

Memories

Tuesday

15th

November

2011

Kitchener

Centre

STONE

Issue 214

Page 6

‘You’ve got to listen to a guy like that,’ I thought as I reached

for another slice of toast and thick-cut. With breakfast television in the background, my thoughts went back

almost 25 years — as they often do these days — to when I’d heard

someone say the same thing.

I was working on a team building programme with Brian, a training

manager at ICI and — I kid you not — occasional pianist in the Rover’s

Return on Coronation Street. Brian told the story of a training course run

by Dr Meredith Belbin, the guru of management team theory. Apparently

Belbin met everyone at the start of the weekend before explaining that

the following morning they would all take part in a problem-solving ex-

ercise. He put everyone into teams before holding up an envelope in

which was his prediction of the results of the exercise. In stage-magician fash-

ion, someone was asked to write their name across the flap of the envelope to show sub-

sequently if it had been tampered with.

Next day with the exercise over, Belbin announced the results, opening the enve-

lope to reveal a perfectly correct prediction. ‘You’ve got to listen to a guy like that,’

cooed Brian. Belbin was no Derren Brown, though. He had planned the exercise using

the information from his initial interviews to ensure the teams contained people who

naturally filled some — or in the case of the winning team, all — of the roles that his the-

ory maintained were essential for success.

Twenty-five years or so later best-selling author John Grisham was on my televi-

sion. His twenty-fifth book — or is it the twenty-sixth, he wasn’t quite sure — is The

Litigators, a legal thriller about Finley & Figg, a Chicago law firm attempting to strike it

rich through litigation with a pharmaceutical company.

John Grisham was a lawyer for ten years and all but three of books are about the

law. ‘I didn’t like being a lawyer,’ he admits ‘but I understand the law.’ So now he

watches lawyers, reads about lawyers and follows the news on the look out for good sto-

ries about legal cases.

He carefully plans everything for his books, disciplining himself to see the entire

story before he starts writing. ‘I know the last scene before I write the first scene,’ he

says, revealing that on a couple of occasions he’d got lost because he ‘cheated on the

outline’. Being in a hurry to get started he didn’t think enough about the ending. ‘It’s a

disaster, making changes after you’ve written 300 pages.’

Modestly, Grisham agrees he’s sold ‘somewhere close to’ 275,000,000 books.

You’ve got to listen to a guy like that.

http://workinprogressmag.com/blog/

Novels and fictions set in Stoke-on-Trent

Staffordshire University's Première Literary Magazine

Leonard Cruickshank was a fastidious man, rotund, with a neat moustache. Forty

years ago he married Peg, a Northern lass, a very different personality, yet their un-

ion was a source of happiness and constancy to both, producing two children and

seven grandchildren.

Though in everyday life Mr Cruickshank was a boring bank clerk, at week-

ends he was, thanks to his local Amateur Dramatic Society transformed into numer-

ous colourful characters and was delighted to discover he had a real talent for act-

ing. Recent productions included ‘The Casebook of Sherlock Holmes’, a compli-

cated story of blackmail and dark deeds, in which he played Dr Watson.

This Christmas, he played Widow Twanky, with great relish.

‘Aladdin, pass me the Ajax’ he said, ‘I feel a clean-up coming on’.

‘It’s behind you!’The audience replied as one, falling about laughing.

‘Pantomime is triumph’, said the newspaper headline, adding that ‘Leonard

Cruickshank stole the show.’ (PMW)

Assignment: - Talking to Strangers, - a true story. (PMW)

Over fifty years ago, when my brother-in-law, Laurie first wed, he and his wife,

Sheila spent the early years of their marriage living in rented rooms in Stafford,

near the town boundary. In those days, the police would come along and move the

tramps and vagrants out of town and off their

‘patch’, beyond the parish boundary.

The landlady and owner of Laurie’s property

was a somewhat formidable woman, but by

contrast, her next-door neighbour was a kindly

old gent, who would invariably give tramps

and beggars an old topcoat or crust of bread.

She most certainly would not.

Such ‘gentlemen of the road’ had secret signs,

known only to them, with which they marked

the gateposts of houses where might be ex-

pected a warm reception and a bite to eat. One

day, one such character turned up at Laurie’s

neighbour’s, and as usual, was treated with

kindness and generosity, and not turned away empty-handed.

A few weeks later, my brother-in-law was exchanging a word with this pleas-

ant chap, who excitedly informed him that he had something to show him, and pro-

duced a letter. It was written on good quality paper and bore an illuminated crest. It

was signed in a confident, educated hand, and the signature was that of a peer of the

realm. Also included width the note was a cheque, for the equivalent of around

£100 in today’s money.

Apparently, His Lordship was abit of an eccentric, and was in the habit of

travelling around the county in disguise, dressed as a tramp and calling on folk out-

of-the-blue, to test their reactions. He enjoyed being in a position to be able to re-

pay them and reward kindness when he came across it.

Laurie and Colin, my husband, always said that we ought to treat people

well, whatever their appearance or social standing, because for all we know, they

could be angels in disguise. And so they did.

Issue 214

Page 8

Shoes Assignment AB

‘Few of us can tell the whole truth. It’s too hurtful,’ said the woman staring at the card

being held out to her by the court usher. ‘Few of us understand the subtle variations of

truth – universal or common place.’

‘Take the card. Read what it says on the card,’ repeated the Usher a bewildered ex-

pression on his face which seemed to imply, we’ve got a right one here.

‘I don’t think I can do that in all honesty,’ said the woman in the witness box. The

Usher sniffed; no smell of alcohol on her breath. She wasn’t exhibiting any outward

signs of insanity. The expression was calm and engaged. She wasn’t drugged up to the

eyeballs either by the look of it. Probably just a sandwich short of a picnic like most

folks who end up before the bench.

The Magistrate, Doctor Martin, sighed, it was ten minutes to eleven, he had a full

list and this was the first witness in his considerable experience to refuse to read from

the card as a matter of principle. He’d had many who preferred to affirm rather than to

swear by a God they didn’t believe in which was fair enough. He’s had scores of those

who swore by the Quran, or the Torah, but here was a new variation; a woman who

seemingly objected to the very concept of truth. Where had the CPS found this little

beauty?

‘A matter of conscience?’ said the Chair of the Bench. ‘A nod to the grand design

of social behaviour perhaps?’

‘Social behaviour in a developed society,’ replied the voice.

He had her measure now. A blue-stocking. An educated woman with high moral

values and a keen sense of exactitude and precision.

‘Well then, what can you promise to do?’ asked the Judge pinching the bridge of

his nose and looking at his watch.

‘I can promise to do my best to remember and to recount that day’s events as accu-

rately as I am able without prejudice or favour.’

‘That’s an Affirmation I suppose,’ sighed Doctor Martin. ‘Let’s get on with the

questioning, Mr. Johnson. There is a full list today.’

A tall man with a beak-shaped nose and a billowing cloak which made him ap-

pear like a hooded crow rose glowering to face the woman in the wit-

ness box.

‘Now Sister Agnes cast your mind back to last April, about this

pair of red stilettos and the three tins of salmon found concealed under

your companion’s habit by security in the supermarket.’

‘We all have our weaknesses,’ she smiled, tapping the panels of

the witness box with her steel toecaps.

-o0o-

“Mr. Cruickshank was a fastidious man. His life was complicated by daily rituals.

Before using a sink he had to scour it with Ajax. His wife had long since left him to

his daily „pantomime‟, roaring away on the back of a Triumph Bonneville laughing

like a drain. Once the demands started to arrive, he had not taken long to discover

where in the vast northern hinterland she had settled. Here is a simple story of the

failure of constancy, the ease of blackmail and its dire consequences,‟ said the

prosecutor facing the jury. While in the dock Mr. Cruickshank was quietly polishing

the rail with a handkerchief. (SMS)

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NOW PUBLISHED on RBW and issuu

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Cabin crew and Pilots CMH ‘It all goes to show, my friend. It all goes to show.’

‘Sorry, Will, what all goes to show? You come out with some of the most profound state-ments you know. At least I think they’re profound, or at least I think that you think that they are. I think?’ ‘That lot up at the sharp end. They never seem to know what’s which or the whichness of why.’ ‘Not their job is it! They are paid for running this assortment of oddments with ideas above its station, between point A and point B. As long as they get to do that safely, I’m not bothered about things, mostly. Pass me that packet of cups would you.’ ‘That’s not it, is it? Do they run their little legs off up and down the microscopic alley-way between these seats, with a grin plastered all over their mush? No way do they! No, if their lordships deem it necessary to show their faces in this superannuated cigar tube what do they do!? They condescend to the cattle in first class, ignore those at the rear, pat us the back and generally act like little tin gods. Stuff it; anybody can drive one of these things.’ ‘Got to get the ticket first though, they don’t let you drive one until you’ve done that.’ ‘I know! Unfair on us poor wage slaves. Right, you take the left hand side and let’s get on with dishing out this low cuisine.’

Assignment Topic: shoes CMH

“Sandals”, said my Uncle George, “are the ruin of feet.”

“Are they?” I said in my unthinking innocent manner. He was busy navigating the car

around a bend in the road, one it didn‟t seem to want to go around.

“Yes”, Uncle George answered sitting back in his seat, “wearing sandals in the summer

spoils your feet for shoes in the winter. It‟s no wonder there are so many corns and bad feet in

the winter.”

“Why‟s that Uncle George?” I queried. You may notice certain, not so much, unthinking as

uninformed naivety in the query. There I was a member of a family who lived and died leather

and shoes and I, stupid boy, was asking ridiculous questions.

“Sandals don‟t control your feet, they allow them to spread,” he explained, “then, when

you put a pair of shoes on, they don‟t fit.”

“Could that be because the shoes are the wrong size,” I asked. “It seems sensible to me

does that.” I didn‟t know, much less use, words like logical and erroneous. I could have got

away with using words like „common sense‟, but „logical‟ and certainly „erroneous‟ was asking

for a clip round the ear for showing off.

“Shoes have got to last. Last a long time as well, ” I was informed by the Master Cobbler

who was my Uncle George. “If you go around saying things like that to folks they‟ll think you‟re

daft. It loses you business does daft. No! Sandals are bad for feet, and don‟t you forget it.

Well, not unless you‟re selling a pair of sandals of course; if you are they‟re the best things

invented, and don‟t you forget that either.”

“Yes Uncle George, but I still need that new pair of sandals you‟ve got on your bench.

They‟re for the holidays you see.”

“Well, don‟t say I didn‟t tell you. They‟ll be finished by tonight, pick them up in the

morning and tell your Mum she owes me half a crown for them.”

Mr. Cruikshank had been rescued from an arson attempt on a disused Northern theatre. He

was discovered, injured, in a kind of pantomime setting, hiding behind the curtains in the props

room.

As Ajax the strong man had once said, „His story shows an unremitting constancy,‟ at

least that‟s what they thought he‟d said, but with Ajax‟s teeth, lost presumed stolen, missing, it

was difficult to tell what he was saying.

Dressed in an old-fashioned but fastidious manner, he exuded the kind of triumph of

sheer bloody-mindedness over adversity that went down well with the punters who used to

come to his end of the pier shows, and would again, once he was out of hospital.

“Nasty word is blackmail,” said Fred undoing the last of the bandages holding the leg splints

in place. “Still, you can‟t say anything can you Mr Cruikshank. Not with you being a ventrilo-

quists dummy and all.” CMH

Some thought on the SPEED of communications

[with digressions]

As with many folk of my generation I marvel, and curse, the

sheer speed of modern communications; Mobile phones,

the Internet and various [possibly fruit flavoured?] telecom-

munications devices amongst them.

When did it all start I wondered? Certainly WW2, with

its wide spread use of HF radio and mechanical encryption/

decryption techniques, had an influence. Likewise, WW1,

with its requirement for the delivery of previously unthinka-

bly vast amounts of materiel and material over relatively

long distances, requiring the use of dedicated lorry fleets

and railway rolling stock, had its own communications problems. Many of these were circum-

vented by the existing, fledgling, low speed, telegraph network or heliography links.

The Boer War and Zulu War - the last of the Victorian British Empire conflicts - assuredly

had its peculiar communications problems, that conflict was probably the last to be fought us-

ing what were, in many cases, medieval communications techniques. Give a man on a horse a

message and off it goes. A speed of about 12 mph over short distances and 6 mph over longer

was to be expected.

Not, by any means, quick against our 21st century expectations of slightly less than

300,000 miles per second; which means it takes much longer to write

a message than to send it.

So! I asked, when did this speed revolution kick off? Was it

about 1900 or was it earlier? If it was earlier, how much earlier? Did

Messrs Volta, Marconi, Ampere et al have a lot to do with it or were

they mere [albeit important] tail-enders?

Was Electricity or Radio, which is the same thing under a differ-

ent name, even the right place to start?

A brief look at Radio showed that that wasn't! Electrical com-

munications, in the form of Morse, or other codes, used over landlines, had long preceded it.

Railway signalling, using dedicated lines and successors to Messer Volta's 'pile', had been used

before Morse so, maybe, railways was a place to begin.

Railway means Wheels! Wheels must have a lot to do with communications; after all,

you could post letters right back to the time of King Henry 8th and that was a long time before

railways. Pass your letter to the jolly, smiling, local postmaster, who was all too often the local

publican and much more interested in selling ale than handling mail, who put it aboard the

Bristol Mail or whatever.

Yeh, cracked it!?

No! Got it wrong again.

Stagecoaches? Plump coachmen blowing post-horns from the top of thundering mail

coaches pulled by a team of galloping horses? Highwaymen, waving a brace of flintlock pistols

and shouting 'Stamp on your Liver'? Forget it! Well, except for the highwaymen maybe. Mostly Issue 214

Page 10

Victorian day dreams – Bah. Humbug!

That type of daydream had to wait for the 18th century Turnpikes. Before Turnpikes,

the roads were often so bad as to make a three or four mile coach journey all but impossible.

For most folks a journey of just TEN MILES was considered to be a long one and doing it in

ONE DAY good going. Yes there were exceptions, mainly for the use of the rich and well con-

nected, for the rest of us peasants it was down to just putting one foot in front of the other at

about two mph.

Back to railways again? No way Jose! A ton of coal

maybe; but a letter, no way. All the early lines, which were

'waggonways' not railways, ran from a mine head to a river,

point to point, and didn't usually have any connection with an-

other set of tracks.

So how about by water? We do live on an island, dis-

counting the Chunnel of course, and there are lots of wet bits around. Reasonable I sup-

posed. Give the skipper of a boat a letter and pay him to take it to another port. Could be!

Could very well be.

Nice but no coconut, how do you KNOW it's been delivered and not thrown away, used

as a fire lighter or for some sanitary purpose and how quick is it?

Okay if it's a 'Bill of Lading' as the cash it's worth will see that it gets there, eventually.

Bill of Lading, well, this could be where the speed thing really gets into its stride.

On the surface a 'Bill of Lading' is a nice little receipt for some stuff put on-board a

boat to go somewhere else, but, it's a lot more than merely that. It says what the stuff is, and

it says where it's going to and who sent it but it's also a promise to pay the ship-owner when

it gets to the other end. No pay – no goods, end of subject. It's what's called 'A Document of

Title', and it entitles the person who has honestly come by the Bill to the goods to get them

when the carriage is paid.

This brings us onto MONEY! Quite good stuff this money; or so they tell me.

Now it's well known that money sitting and kicking its heels in an account somewhere

is doing no good at all, it has to be out there working for a living, and, if it's at the far end of

the world, that's the difficult bit, so could THAT be were speed comes into it?

I suspect that that's, probably, an almost definite maybe.

Of course way back in ancient times the King or Queen, or what-ever they were

called, needed to send orders out but, as the land speed record remained unchanged at

about 50 miles per day for many centuries, the ancients didn't expect things to happen

quickly. King Ancient the Umpteenth may well have said, “A week or so doesn't make much

difference. The war will still be going on when we get there.”

If only King Harold had taken note of that, he wouldn't have headed that arrow at

Senlac Hill and William of Normandy would have had his backside kicked into the sea at

Hastings.

Overall I suspect that speed is only relative to the times not something that lends it-

self to easy codification. Of course, I may well be wrong. (CMH)

UPDATE FROM THE POETRY LIBRARY: New Magazines: Matter http://www.poetrylibrary.org.uk/magazines/magazines/?id=626 Cake http://www.poetrylibrary.org.uk/magazines/magazines/?id=625 Warwick Review, The http://www.poetrylibrary.org.uk/magazines/magazines/?id=624 Hanging Johnny http://www.poetrylibrary.org.uk/magazines/magazines/?id=623 Latest News: Poetry Magazines received in October 2011 | 04-Nov-11 http://www.poetrylibrary.org.uk/news/library/?id=862

Items added to the Poetry Library in October 2011 | 04-Nov-11 http://www.poetrylibrary.org.uk/news/library/?id=861

Issue 214

Page 12

What do you think about this bulletin?

Should the default text size be 14pt?

Could you write a weekly column?

What topics would you like to write about?

Are there any RBW collectors, artists, gardening, cooking, travel or sports

writers itching to contribute a regular column?

Please let us know. Many thanks.

Work still in progress .... SMS

Without our knowledge, every death defines:

are we no more than the sum of all our grief?

Each departure, each thrown off mortality, another frown line,

a lower stoop, another night of tears. Sleep‟s thief.

That wrench from our arms as the ebb of others fades,

moulds personality in inconceivable ways.

Life is struggle: life is not easy. Light and shades.

The price of familial love is sorrow‟s burning blaze.

The old lie, “being brave”. Ritualistic, the funeral rite

aimed to soften the blow, unrealistic in mourning‟s haze.

Grief‟s yoke drags at every passing of the light

lorry tyres on heavy chains for the span of all our days.

http://unbound.co.uk/ BRINGING AUTHORS AND READERS TOGETHER

Quote: “We think authors and readers should decide which books get published. On the Unbound site,

authors pitch their ideas directly to you. If you like what you read, you can pledge your support to help

make the book happen. Everyone who supports an author before they reach 100% of the funding target

gets their name printed in every edition of that book. All levels include a digital version and immediate

access to the author's shed while they write the book, and supporters of projects that don't reach their

target receive a full refund.”

Assignment Topic: CANAL Random Words Exercise : pass/large/symbolism/

vacuum/piercing/scarecrow/correspondence/drainpipe/

Mrs Sanders

REVIEW by PMW

Stafford Players‟ latest production at The Gate-

house, The Road Hill House Murder, is based on

a real life crime which took place in Wiltshire in 1860, and

had resonances with the Lindberg baby kidnapping in the

1930s.

There is always a special frisson about amateur dra-

matics, for the lack of slickness and more limited techno-

logical and visual effects are made up for in spades by the

sheer enthusiasm and commitment of folk who give up

their spare time to entertain others.

This particular play was a tough call, with the main

players having many lines of dialogue to remember, which

they all did, admirably. The characters captured the social

attitudes prevalent in the 1860s,and provided telling com-

ments on them, whereby the wealthy were thought incapa-

ble of committing heinous crimes, and were immediately

ruled out as suspects by the bumbling, local police, who

were completely out of their depth. The total disregard of possible forensic clues

such as footprints, and the preserving of the crime scene seems astonishing to a

21st century audience used to numerous popular TV detective shows. Finger-

printing techniques weren‟t used until some thirty years later, to help bring crimi-

nals to book.

The principal set for the action was the parlour of the house and sur-

rounds, but this was quickly transformed, with the minimum of disruption into

the courtroom, for the trial scene. A particularly nice touch was the use of Broad-

side ballads, popular and commonplace in Britain in the 19th century, and along

the lines of troubadours, who, like town criers, provided commentary on signifi-

cant events such as high-profile murders. It was a subtle and clever artistic de-

vice; - used to convey information to the audience in a creative way, and worked

well. In this instance, John Mills, playing Holcombe, the gardener, did the hon-

ours, and in so doing, gave a lovely, evocative flavour of the times.

All in all, an intriguing story and a great effort.

Fiction Project: ARE WE THERE YET?

Editor’s notes. A message from the manuscript

editor:

Character list: Charlie Witters and his brother, Brendan They own the coach company

Angelo Driver FC Tours Coach No: 666 – Anglo-Italian – diamond smuggler

Samantha Goodright Courier FC Tours – niece of the Witter brothers

Ted Fetler Relief driver FC Tours

Vera Pensioner - bladder weakness (Coldwynd Sands and Fare Deal)

Gloria Pensioner - tubby companion to Vera

Dan Forthright Inept, pompous PI – former rank DCI (Coldwynd Sands and WTAWTAW)

Pete Ferret Sidekick to Forthright PI— insurance agents for stolen jewels

Tudor and Dewi Davies Welsh sheep farmers won a ticket in a raffle

Cyril & Muriel Pinkney Pompous Headmaster and long-suffering wife - hots for Henri

Henri, Comte de Monte Donne - French aristo (?)

Henri’s unnamed brother – a black sheep

Mrs Richardson (Fare Deal) carrying Dickie’s mortal remains in a carrier bag

Bobby Owen (Fare Deal) accompanying Mrs Richardson

Jason Ratisson (JR) and Jacqueline Gardien (Jacqui). Lovers having a preliminary honeymoon.

Martin Man of Mystery — go-between for jewel thieves and buyers

Mick and Meg Dale Mick has wandering affection

Mrs Grace Ferret

Pete’s wife and partner in the PI business. Doesn’t see eye-to-eye with Mavis.

Mrs Mavis Forthright

Dan’s wife and partner in the PI business. Doesn’t see eye-to-eye with Grace.

Lady Antonia Garibaldi Italian grand dame – diamond smuggler in cahoots with driver

Miss Wainright Mousy companion to Lady Garibaldi (might be a man, as yet undecided)

Barry and Beryl Smith Pools Winners. Parents to Harry and Cilla

Sandy Rathe, and his friend, Julian, Grapes of Rathe Guesthouse

Sister Margarette and Sister Bernadette – the fake nuns on the run from One Legged Eddie

Sister Ignatius and Sister Teresa - the real nuns

Issue 213

Page 14

More funny pieces needed

for Rome and Sorrento please, asap.

Ta!

So what will our merry band of

misfits get up to in the eternal city?

Where will the Welsh sheep farm-

ers find themselves?

Will the missing wandering hubby

turn up?

What has Sam the courier been up

to?

Where is the ‘Lady’ and her com-

panion?

Has one-legged Eddie been tailing the

two runaways from the Moulin Rose?

Have the two real nuns been enjoying

themselves sightseeing?

Has anyone else met a sad end?

What is Muriel up to? What are she and

Count Henri doing? (Need we ask)

Mrs Richardson’s handbag is a bit

lighter now Dicky’s ashes have been

scattered: what are she and Bobby do-

ing? Rome: tourism images/wiki

Will Vera need a paddle?

Where’s Martin the Mystery Man?

Will Miss Wainwright need a

knight in shiny armour?

Issue 214

Page 16

ADVANCE NOTICE:

POETRY AT THE FILM THEATRE College Road, Stoke, ST4 2EF

Wednesday, 4th April, 2012, 7pm - 10pm

with

John Lindley**

Jo Bell**

Peter Branson and guests

Roger Elkin

Terry Fox

Gill McEvoy

Andrew Rudd

Phil Williams

John Williams

Joy Winkler

plus ‘open mic.’

Drinks available from 7pm – 7. 30pm and during the interval.

Tickets priced: £4.00

For ticket info, contact: p_branson@sky.com or 01270 883410

or just send a cheque, (pay ‘Poetry at the Film Theatre’), to:

‘Poetry at the Film Theatre’, c/o Peter Branson,

‘Ash House’, 226 Sandbach Rd,

Rode Heath, Nr Alsager, Stoke-on-Trent, ST7 3SB

(Tickets will be reserved for you, for collection at the box office

from 7pm on the night.)

http://thewritelines.co.uk/

National Short Story Week podcasts and articles with

Sue Cook The Write Lines is an information and resource site for aspiring writers. With content provided by

published writers, agents, publishers, editors etc..

http://vaincourt.homestead.com/common_soldier.html

Just a common soldier (A soldier died today) by Canadian poet A. L. Vaincourt

this poem appears on the web in various forms but

as it is still in copyright we cannot reproduce it here without permission.

Firstly, a message from our CEO:

Dear Friends, on behalf of us all at Brit Writers, I would like to sincerely thank you for your continued encouragement, heartfelt

messages of support and offers of help that we have received during the last few weeks. Read more…

Brit Writers – The Awards Ceremony 2011: The full length film of the Brit Writers’ Awards 2011 ceremony at Madame Tussauds will be available to view on our website on

Thursday 17 November 2011 at 7pm, so get the popcorn and hot chocolate ready and enjoy the show with your family! In the mean-

time, here is a little taster.

Referrals to Agents:

We had an incredible response to this pilot initiative and we are still going through the initial assessments, so please bear with

us. Only a few have been referred, but most are being returned with feedback and recommendations on how to improve the submis-

sion. As part of our feedback, if you have been recommended to have your work edited or appraised, then please visit our wonder-

ful editing partners – www.theoxfordeditors.co.uk quoting ref: BW-12.

We highly recommend these fantastic workshops from two of our partners:

How to market, promote and sell your book effectively: Sunday 20 November 2011, London.

Legend Press Writer Workshop – Getting Published: Saturday 26 November 2011, Manchester.

Become a Brit Writers Area Coordinator

Why become an Area Coordinator?

Because you believe in giving everyone the opportunity to improve their reading and writing skills.

You believe in the importance of creative writing in the development of children.

You would like to help writers in your local area. And you would like to do all of the above and get paid for it.

As a Brit Writers Area Coordinator what would your role be?

A committed representative of Brit Writers that will operate a local extension of Brit Writers in their area.

Each Brit Writers Area Coordinator will have exclusive territorial responsibilities for our activities in their area as an independent

affiliate of Brit Writers.

Why do we need Area Coordinators?

Because you know your local area better than we do, we need your help to raise the profile of creative writing and deliver our ser-

vices in your area.

Brit Writers is built through partnerships by bringing on board people and expertise who are passionate and have the ability to share

and promote our vision.

SEE YOURSELF IN THIS ROLE. CLICK HERE And finally...

If you would like us to promote your local book signings or literary events, get in touch.

Please email enquiries@britwriters.co.uk.

If you would like to become a sponsor for the 2012 awards, please email zareen@britwriters.co.uk.

Submissions are open for the 2012 awards. So enter now and remember, if you are a parent, teacher or a child from a member

school, enter your work for free. www.britwriters.co.uk

Brit Writers

Tel: 0871 237 4442

www.britwriters.co.uk

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Issue 214

Page 19

THE POETRY SLOT

This item is from The First World War Poetry Digital Archive, University of Oxford www.oucs.ox.ac.uk/

Licensed for n-f-p educational use. (Article is reproduced slightly abridged.)

Biography Edmund Blunden (1896–1974)

Edmund Blunden was born in London on 1st November 1896, the eldest of nine children. When Edmund

was four the family moved to Yalding, Kent, where he discovered the love of rural life and natural history

that were to be a major influence on his writing. He won a scholarship to Christ's Hospital, Horsham,

Sussex in 1909, a public school to which Blunden remained devoted throughout his life. In October 1914

his first two volumes of poetry were published, but the First World War overshadowed his final year at

Christ’s Hospital. Although he had gained a place at Queen’s College, Oxford to read Classics, Blunden

volunteered to join the army, and in August 1915, aged 19, he was commissioned as a second lieutenant.

During his training he wrote many pastoral poems and in spring 1916 he published privately three vol-

umes of poetry.

In May 1916 he was sent to the Western Front and served with the 11th Royal Sussex regiment. He saw action in the

trenches at Festubert, Cuinchy, and Richebourg. Later in 1916 Blunden was awarded the Military Cross for his 'conspicuous

gallantry in action' during the Battle of the Somme. He served in the Ypres salient, and on 31st July 1917 he took part in the

Third Battle of Ypres, the beginning of the Passchendaele offensive. Blunden survived for two years in the front lines. How-

ever he was greatly affected by the loss of several of his friends. He was gassed in July and in October 1917. In February

1918 his battalion moved to trenches south of Gouzeaucourt and later that year he was posted to training duty at a camp in

Suffolk. Whilst there, Blunden met Mary Daines, whom he married in June 1918. Despite several attempts to rejoin his bat-

talion, due to health problems Blunden did not return to the trenches. He went back to France in November 1918 to help

with the clearing-up operation after the Armistice.

Blunden wrote a number of poems during the War. However many poems were written afterwards, contemplating

events in retrospect and a deep understanding of the experiences of the soldiers and the brutal destruction of the countryside

can be seen in some of his poetry. In Concert Party: Busseboom (written ten years after the war) Blunden vividly recounts

one evening's entertainment enjoyed by the soldiers behind the lines - and then goes on to describe an artillery bombardment

the men witness on leaving and alludes shockingly to the battle underground, (the Germans having got into a British tunnel

and the trapped defenders having no weapons to fight with). In 1918 Blunden wrote a prose account of his experiences, 'De

Bello Germanico: a fragment of trench history'. However, he only published it privately in 1930.

He left the army in February 1919 and launched himself on a literary career. He met Siegfried Sassoon, then literary

editor of 'The Daily Herald' to whom he had sent some early poems. Their deep friendship and vast correspondence lasted

over forty years – they shared the experience of the war and a passion for cricket. The Blundens' first child, Joy, died when

only a few weeks old in 1919. His daughter's death, experience of war and the loss of his fellow soldiers haunted Blunden

for the rest of his life.

In October 1919 Blunden took up his deferred place at Oxford. Although he made friends among the aspiring writers

in the university, many of them ex-servicemen like himself, he found it hard to settle and to support his family. In 1920 he

left Oxford to take up a part-time editorial post at the journal 'The Athenaeum', (later 'The Nation' then into the 'New States-

man'). Blunden published collections of his poems: The Waggoner (1920); and The Shepherd and Other Poems of Peace

and War (April 1922) which was awarded the Hawthornden Prize. Whilst teaching English Literature in Japan (1924-1927)

Blunden made another attempt to write about his war experiences. He was assisted by his secretary (and then lover) Aki

Hayashi. The result was the autobiographical Undertones of War which has been hailed as Blunden's greatest contribution

to the literature of war. It was published in November 1928, and follows the service of a young officer. At the end of Under-

tones Blunden appends some of his contemporary and later poems.

He enjoyed a productive career as an editor, journalist, critic, and biographer. Blunden was instrumental in bringing

the works of the war poets Wilfred Owen and Ivor Gurney to publication. Blunden taught English literature in Tokyo, at

Merton College, Oxford (where his students included the poet Keith Douglas, who was killed in action in 1944), and at the

University of Hong Kong. Mary and their two children (Clare and John) did not join him in Japan and eventually the mar-

riage ended. In 1933 he married the writer Sylva Norman. After his second marriage was dissolved he married Claire

Poynting in May 1945. Their marriage lasted till Blunden's death and they had four daughters (Margaret, Lucy, Frances and

Catherine).

After his retirement in 1964 the Blunden family settled in Long Melford, Suffolk. His achievements had been pub-

licly recognized: he became a CBE for his work in Japan after the Second World War with the UK liaison mission, received

the Queen's gold medal for poetry in 1956, and in 1962 was made a companion of the Royal Society of Literature. In 1966

he was elected as the Oxford professor of poetry, as successor to his friend Robert Graves. Blunden always regarded himself

as essentially a poet, (and a poet in the Romantic tradition). He was not influenced by the modernist literary revolution, but

his poetry was admired by its adherents such as T.S. Eliot, and often showed evidence of the memories of war. His final

poem 'Ancre Sunshine' was written in 1966 on the 50th anniversary of the attack on Beaumont Hamel, and illustrates how

the Great War haunted him to the end of his life. Edmund Blunden died at his home on 20th January 1974 aged 77; he was

buried at Holy Trinity Church, Long Melford. Private Beeney, his runner at Ypres and Passchendaele attended his funeral,

placing a wreath of Flanders poppies in his grave.

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