ISSUE 311 Date: 8th November 2013

Don’t be a mushroom, kept in the dark and fed on bull .... Come to group and join in with the discussions and debate ... Break free of your lonely laptop ... Be like these tree mushrooms and seek some daylight ... Become a published writer ... Monday library group starts at 1.30pm Articles on fungi welcomed ...

LIFE OBSERVATIONS There is a petition online (38degrees) to re-nationalise the gas and electricity companies. Two weeks ago it was gaining 10,000 signatures every three days. One wonders what each political party’s position would be on these strident calls for re-nationalisation ... Cyclists with no lights and no luminous clothing are asking for trouble and are totally unaware of the risks they face, especially in bad weather. A lot of modern parents are risk-averse, and tend to wrap their youngsters in cotton wool. We are bad at football in this country because parents behave badly when watching their children play and set bad examples, rather than teaching them to respect the referee. After the shower a breeze sets the shrubs a-shimmer in a display of sunlit jewels. Why can’t, like, young folk say, like, one single, like, sentence without, like, having to pepper it with a four letter word, like? I heard on the radio, that the word ‘brainstorming’ has been banned, because it is considered de-meaning to epileptics, although they say it isn’t offensive! The term ‘thought shower’ is now the preferred expression. If you ask me, whoever the folk are who decided that, are a shower!

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Athwart preposition across, positioned crosswise over something, opposing

to be obstructive

Attenuate verb to become weaker, to lessen in density or strength

Whit noun the smallest amount imaginable

Wit noun ingenious humour, apt and clever person

Tryst noun arrangement for a private secret meeting

Pallor noun paleness, unhealthy pale complexion

Malignity noun desire to do evil, intense hatred, intentionally harmful

Inexorable adj unstoppable, adamant and pitiless, unmoved by persuasion

Weltering noun confused mass, jumble, confused condition, surging motion

of water, chaotic situation

Hierophant noun explainer of mysteries, interpreter of doctrine

Gradation noun series of degrees, steps or

stages in gradual progression, discrete arrange-

ment according to size rank or quality

Quail noun game bird, (Quail verb to tremble

feeling of fear or apprehension)

Febrile adj relating to fever, unusually high body

temperature due to viral or bacterial infection

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: collected, Dylan, consumer, nail, blue, sky, epergne, cosmos, chorus, narcolepsy Assignment: Remembering

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 came round to the house to shoe his Lordship‟s hunter. At first, I had a bit of a brain-fog, and even suspected him of the crime. But as it happened, he had a plausible alibi. Anyways, the culprit turned out to

be the disgruntled servant. We got the right man in the end,” he grinned. (PMW)

-o0o-

In the little-known sequel to ‟Brighton Rock‟, the remaining members of Pinkie Brown‟s

gang flee to Nepal. A new leader, Merchant, emerges, and like Pinkie, he is a basket-case and sociopath, keeping a low profile, but steering his gang members from his hideaway. He

appoints a watchman to alert him in the event of too much interest from the outside world. The gang engages in all sorts of skulduggery. Rare earth metal deposits have been discov-

ered in the Annapurna Mountains and the perquisite of being leader for Merchant is the lion share of all the spoils of their criminal activities. Needless to say, some of the other mem-bers of his group have other ideas, and a violent power struggle ensues. (PMW)

-o0o-

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Submissions for the RBW 2014

Short Story Collection Roads Less Travelled

are now urgently required All contributors must be registered with

RBW Library Workshop or be weekly email pdf recipients

Closing date for submissions 30th Nov 2013

SEND YOURS IN NOW!

RBW team are delighted to announce the RBW

2013 comedy, King Harffa and the Slightly

Oblong Table of Trentby, which has a knavish

chuckle at the expense of our Arthurian heritage,

has been published as a free e-book on Face-

book, 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

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

Assignment: Digging up the past I read a book one day, when I was young. It really was quite gripping.

The author‟s name was Josephine Tey And the story it was ripping. “The Daughter of Time” was the title. The subject was Richard the Third, Who was thought to have murdered two princes;- A villain, or so we have heard. But in the story, Inspector Grant, Whilst looking for something to do When forced to spend some time in bed Decides to see if it‟s true.

He prides himself on his judgement, And so re-examines the case, Being sure that Richard was innocent Because of his kindly face. A good whodunit would be my choice. And I prefer true life to fiction. To solve the case, I note the clues, Then make my own prediction. And the result of his deliberations?

It was a fiendish Tudor plan To discredit the ruling monarch, A good and honourable man. And then in the news I read it, King‟s Richard‟s body was found Beneath a Leicester car park In roughly-hewn ground! I like to think they‟ll take him To a nicer resting place. More fitting to an English king,

Not one who died in disgrace.

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Fun With Strawberries.

Strawberry plants need to be replaced every few years as the old

plants become “Tired,” or too old and woody to be productive,

so it is always a good idea to be growing on a few “Runners,”

each year for when they are needed as replacements. Having

just planted a nice Strawberry bed last year with “Runners,”

taken from plants at home the previous year, I decided I ought

to create a few more plants. I filled with soil, and carefully

placed, a couple of dozen 3 inch pots under some of the larger

Strawberry runners on my allotment plot. The un-rooted “Runners,” were held onto

the pot by some large stones so that they were in contact with the soil to encourage the

roots. After just a couple of weeks they were rooted well enough into the pots to cut

them free from their parent plants. Leaving them attached like this means that they

keep growing while rooting instead of separating them before they have rooted and

starving them of moisture when the weather could turn hot and fry them.

Although the parent plants produced a lot of “Runners,” they were disappointing,

as there was virtually no fruit to pick and what little there was, had been just pulled

from the plants and left on the ground. Maybe birds or mice were the culprits or

maybe the thieves were a different type of local animal life altogether! In fact I har-

vested more Strawberries from the original half dozen plants in the drainpipe “tower

planters,” at home than the 24 plants on my Allotment! Maybe the plants needed an-

other year before becoming fully productive, or it maybe that the “Bark Chippings,”

that I spread around them instead of Straw, robbed the soil of too much Nitrogen.

While on our travels the other week we saw a new type of Strawberry called a

“Pine Berry.” I was not really that impressed with them on first inspection as they

looked just like anaemic, Strawberries to me. They were supposed to taste of Pineap-

ple, but I think that was just poetic license. However, when my Mother pointed out

that, as white Strawberries, they are unlikely to be stolen because they won’t know

when they are ripe!

Another type of Strawberry that has been disappointing has been the Strawberry

Tree, or Arbutus Unedo that has not produced a single berry again this year. I lost one

bush a couple of Winters back, since then the remaining Arbutus is growing well, but

not “Berrying Up,” at all. I was hoping to get some self rooted cuttings from my plant,

but cuttings are difficult to root, so I was thinking of trying to grow one from seed.

However, Arbutus are slow to grow and need to be quite mature before the bright red,

slow developing berries, are produced, so I think I will have to buy an expensive, ma-

ture companion plant for the garden to get some fruit sooner.

Another weird, freak of a plant that I couldn’t resist buying when I heard about it,

is the “Pink Blueberry.” A contradiction in terms I think the pink fruit will still look

good in a fruit salad.

Finally, I managed to buy a Japanese WineBerry, to use its common name, which

is a member of the Rubus, or Bramble family like Blackberries and Raspberries. This

plant is really more decorative than for fruit as the long canes are covered in bright red

bristles and the berries are small and full of seeds. However, although the berries are

also fairly tasteless, they are sweet, so they are full of sugar and good for their juice in

making homemade wines etc. Hence, the berry’s common name of Wine Berry.

Making and Repairing Cloches.

Having finally bought a metre of “Velcro,” to replace the broken zip on my giant cloche the

plastic cover is clean and dry and still waiting to be dealt with. However, the cloche is being

used exactly as it was intended and giving the Sweet Potatoes much more favourable growing

conditions, but instead of using the plastic cover, I have carefully wrapped a pack of

“Horticultural Fleece,” over the metal framework. One of the pre-wrapped packs that are sold

everywhere was the perfect size and secured with a number of cheap plastic clothes pegs, does

the job admirably. Bricks hold down the bottom edges and the pegs readily clip it to the metal

frame, but also give easy access to weed and water inside. The fleece doesn’t really allow rain

to enter used like this, so it does need a couple of cans pouring in regularly, but the plants have

put on tremendous growth since being covered. Having said that, the Sweet Potatoes are still

way behind the plants that I put into a potato bag, at home, in the unheated greenhouse. Then

again the greenhouse plants are being troubled with “Fly,” whereas those under the fleece are

clear of it, so it will be interesting to compare the plants at the end of the season.

Several other people on the allotments have replaced their original, assorted, plastic cloche

covers with fleece and it occurred to me that it should be possible to make a larger home made

cloche than last Autumn’s effort that I made to protect my Chicory which was made using wire

coat-hangers and fleece. At home I have talked many times with my mother about different old

-fashioned crafts and basket weaving was one of them that had been mentioned because we

have a mature Hazel tree in the front garden and I am also a bit of a fan of Willows.

We decided that it should be possible to cut suitable lengths of Hazel to bend over into a half

hoop, or a bow shape, to make Cloche supports. I know commercially Hazel is steamed to sof-

ten it and then dried under heat to “Fix,” it into shape when they use it to make things, but cut-

ting it “Green,” it is very flexible and will hopefully dry naturally into a set shape. To do this

the lengths were all cut into similar 6 or 7 foot pieces and bound together with their tops and

bottoms alternated in the bundle. Then they were bent into a bow shape and held tight with a

length of stout nylon twine. Tying them with the alternate tops and bottoms together, the bun-

dle curved more evenly when bent and hopefully, in a few months when they are untied, they

will retain their hoop shape to make cloche supports. For spacing and to make a framework

that will better support the fleece, I am going to use the old Buddleia canes that I saved from

last year because they have gone a little too brittle, as predicted, to use as normal canes now

and they will cut to fit more easily than bamboo.

The Hazel lengths that I cut from the tree were probably 2 seasons old, so I am hoping that I

have left enough mature wood to let the tree fruit next year. As it is common practice to re-

move old wood every 3 years I have undoubtedly removed some that I shouldn’t! In fact it

won’t be long before I start picking my own nuts again this year! Peo-

ple normally think of picking Hazel nuts in the Autumn when they

have turned brown and are ripe, but there are two problems with that;

Firstly, as the outer cases start to dry the nuts quickly fall to the

ground and are lost in the undergrowth and secondly, ripe Hazel nuts

are irresistible to squirrels!

Digging up the Past Unwanted History Water under the bridge. Let sleeping dogs lie Best Forgotten Digging up the Past is it looking for trouble? Was it not buried for a reason? Why rake up the past? Why revisit past hurt? But hurt does not disappear just because it has been buried for a few unspoken years. Truth remains Truth even when covered by dust and ashes. Abuse and injustice does not go away just because it is concealed in an unmarked grave. Take the spade and dig Let Truth see the daylight So we can Know and Move On. October 2013

-o0o-

THE SECRET PLACES

Every morning she pushed the bicycle up the hill, past the path leading to the cottage.

Sometimes she stopped, leaning the bicycle against the fence while she dropped a handful of letters into the mail-box just inside the gate.

Every morning he watched her from the window below the gable, teased by his writer‟s curiosity, by unbidden, half forgotten memories.

A few times he‟d seen her in the village, a familiar stranger, tall in close, well cut jeans, corn-blonde hair bouncing and glinting in the late summer sunshine - and memory stirred beneath the years that lay like leaves, close packed.

For several mornings now he‟d watched with increasing impatience, glanc-ing every few minutes at the clock on his desk. It must arrive soon, and he‟d have to sign for it. Then what? „Lovely day isn‟t it? Would you care for some coffee?‟ Not very original, but then, he was out of practice, although he‟d had enough in the old days. Notoriety attracted an avalanche of young hopefuls - and some not so young - all anxious to learn new tricks from an old dog. If only they knew.

Anyway, his style had changed in recent years. Everyone was writing porn these days. He‟d turned to other topics, just at the right time, as always.

Time. He looked up from the near finished manuscript. Eight - fifteen and not a

lovely morning. „Isn‟t it a wet morning?‟ She was late. Blunt fingers drummed the antique leather of his desk. Not writers hands.

He stopped drumming and thought of past alternatives. None would have provided all this. Had it been worth the sacrifice? The girl with corn - blonde

hair bouncing and glinting in the sunshine - all this - nothing? The click of the gate sent the distant memories back into the mist, and

rain on the window pane blotted out the old sunshine. He opened the door without enthusiasm, signed for the parcel and handed

back the slip of paper. She turned to go, hesitated, and then he noticed, „You‟re wet through - look -why not come inside - dry your things and-? „Thank you‟. He made coffee. She watched him, puzzled, a towel around the damp, corn-blonde hair,

„Haven‟t we met before?‟ „We‟ve passed in the village‟.

„No - before - a long time ago -‟ her expression changed - unbidden memories stirring amongst the leaves. She laughed, „Of course, it must have been in the village‟.

The rain stopped. For several days after, the villagers received their early morning mail later

than usual, until afternoon walks and candlelit dinners restored the accept-

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able order of things. It all happened so easily, so naturally, and yet - „When did you stop smoking?‟ „What an odd question. I‟ve never smoked in my life‟. The light was dim, her face shrouded in shadow, „I don‟t know what made me say

that -‟ He‟d always smoked in bed, balancing an ashtray on his knees, reading a book, turning away from her -

She felt a hand on her shoulder. Warmth. Desire.

Summer mellowed imperceptibly into bronze-gold autumn. Every day she pushed the bicycle up the hill, past the gate, and still he worried the

same unasked questions. She‟d read his books - well, one of them, she said and dis-missed the admission.

„You‟ve never worn red before, it suits you‟. „My favourite colour‟. Surprise in the voice and the wide grey eyes - no, not grey -

eyes don‟t change. Trick of the candlelight. But red! It had always been blue. Blue like her eyes, those wide serious eyes - hurt,

not understanding - „How could you! That awful woman!‟ That awful woman published my first book - sold a million, and more - Had it been

worth it? The grey eyes watched him steadily, drawing him into the pool of golden light. Warm.

Intimate. He searched her gaze for the old reproach. „It really wasn‟t a very good book, you know‟, laughing now as if it didn‟t matter. Oh, but it did - and not because it sold a million. So why was she here after all that?

It was all that that hadn‟t mattered - to him at least.

The candle guttered, casting her shadow onto the backdrop of panelled wall, gilding the corn-blonde aura to a golden filigree.

Shadow and substance fused, separated. Wide blue eyes, bright in the pool of light - „How could you!‟

„It‟s over! Finished! Can‟t you understand? It was only an incident, nothing more!‟ His face close to hers in the gloom, desperation in his voice - pleading - why couldn‟t

she understand? „Yes, it‟s over‟. The blue eyes steady as she turned away, out of his life. The echo whispered around the room, haunting the secret places. His eyes glittered darkly out of the silhouette against the moonlit window, „Yes, over - can‟t you understand? I‟m sick of your marvellous self-sacrifice, your tire-

less efficiency - for God‟s sake let me breathe!‟ „How can you say that? It was all for you - for us -‟ Grey eyes colourless in the

moonlight, incredulous - A curl of acrid smoke rose from the spent candle like ectoplasm, blue-grey in the

moonlight - „You must be tired, it‟s late‟. Too late - no matter.

But still he watched her push the bicycle up the hill and worried the same unasked questions, as autumn matured to its final brilliance, drifting the path to the cottage with a bronze - gold mosaic.

Her corn-blonde hair, whipped to a glinting gauze by the late autumn winds, ripened to a tawny hue. But the eyes don‟t change - windows to the secret places - unchanging secrets.

„It‟s finished‟. Grey eyes slanted to the manuscript, neat on the antique leather of the desk.

„Finished?‟ Questioning as if she knew the secret places had at last yielded one of their own.

„It‟s a good book. It‟s needed to be written for a long time‟. Too long - before all that that need never have happened. The alternative that re-

quired no sacrifice. „I‟m leaving tomorrow - „ Leaving? Because of a stupid incident? She should be grateful - it sold a million -

what the hell, she‟d never understand. „Couldn‟t you stay just a few more days?‟ So he still needed her - after all the hurt - blame. No, not her- blame, her to blame -

anyone - „ - To pick up the threads of what should have been. It‟s needed to be done for a

long time‟. Quiet resolve, in the voice and the wide grey eyes. At last he understood. The secrets

clamour too loudly to be ignored. He was glad for her, for himself, for the burden of sacrifice that had given them both

their unsought freedom. A draught from the window fluttered the manuscript across the desk like leaves. It

won‟t sell a million, what the hell. He watched her walk away from him, tall in close, well cut jeans, tawny-blonde hair

glinting in the late autumn sunshine.

He‟d move his study from the room under the gable, at least for the winter. He‟d soon forget to watch for the bicycle being pushed up the hill - It was only an incident.

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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. Elizabeth I was on the throne. Kit Marlowe (wordsmith/detective), Harry Swann (the murderer of the-first victim who first found the chal-ice) Samuel Burball (Owner), Peter Pecksniff, Daniel Alleynes, young Hal who plays a girl‟s role very badly. The Boar‟s Head Tavern, Trentby: Bertha landlady, Molly Golightly, Martha Goodnight wenches The Trentby Abbey of St Jude : Abbot 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 to locate silver chal-ice 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

Ned the Bear-baiter and the constable. The parish constable, Daniel Smithers had been dispatched to track down Ned the Bear

-baiter and question him about the demise of his rival, the unfortunate Harry Swann. Smithers found him mucking out the creature‟s pen. The fearsome animal was tethered

by a heavy chain in the corner. „Now then, Constable, what might you be doing round these parts, might I ask?‟ „Why, I be looking for thee!‟ Smithers announced, backing away slightly, as Ned

wielded the pitchfork in his direction. „Well, it seems like you‟ve found me.‟ He added sarcastically. „So what‟s it all about?‟ Smithers noted that Ned was an ugly brute, both physically and in every other way,

and that his bear was considerably prettier and better-tempered. „Er, I‟m sure you‟ve heard of the terrible crime that‟s been committed in our neighbour-

hood…‟ „Which crime would that be then? Be you talking about the price I have to pay for hay

these days, or the cost of bear food, or the rent that swindler landlord of mine charges me each month for my cottage? For sure, they all be terrible crimes, right enough.‟

Smithers didn‟t want to cross Ned, and answered sympathetically, wishing he‟d not been the one sent to interview this particular suspect.

„I agree entirely, but no, I was thinking more of the murder of our friend Mr Swann.‟ „Swann? Oh he was no friend of mine!‟ Ned spluttered. „So I‟ve heard…‟

„Just WHAT have you heard, huh?‟ „Only the rumours, of course,‟ Daniel murmured. „There you go. You shouldn‟t listen to rumours. Rumours can get you into trouble.‟ Ned

stepped close to Smithers, almost staring right up his nostrils, in what the constable felt was a very threatening and intimidating manner.

„Oh, I see. You think that I am chief suspect in that oaf‟s murder, do you?‟ Smithers took several steps back, and fingered the truncheon hanging from his belt, before bravely

continuing. „You must admit it‟s a possibility. You do, after all, have a motive. And I, in my capacity of upholder of the law of the land, have to check it out. It is widely thought around these parts that your good wife, Moll, may not be quite as good a wife as she ought. That you may have been … cuckolded indeed!‟

„WHAT?‟ Ned roared. „Your Moll has been seen wearing a gold comb thought to have been given her by

Swann, but I‟m sure we can sort this matter out. If you just tell me your side of the story…‟ Smithers tried to sound placatory.

„When did all this murder business happen?‟ Ned demanded „Two days ago.‟ „Well then, my side of the story is that I wasn‟t even here at the time. My side of the

story is that for the past four days, I have been in Strafford, earning an honest crust, pit-ting my bear against the finest hounds that town could come up with.‟ He licked his lips. „They‟re not looking so fine anymore!‟ he added with an evil grin.

„So let me get that straight. Your defence‟s that you couldn‟t have done it, because you were not in Trentby at the time the crime was perpetrated?‟ Smithers made a few brief jottings on a scroll. „I see. That would make it kind of difficult for you. But do you have

anyone who can corroborate your story… I mean, alibi?‟ „All the village can tell you I wasn‟t here. And the bear will confirm what I told you

about being in Strafford‟. „Yes, of course he can. I‟m sorry to have troubled you. Nothing personal, you under-

stand. Just doing my job‟. Ned scowled. „I take it VERY personal‟. He spat the words out with venom. „But if it‟s not you… and it very clearly cannot have been you… then who?‟ Daniel

Smithers mused, sotto voce. „Why anyone. That‟s who, you numbskull! All of Trentby heard that Swann had come

into money and would have been delighted to have relieved him of it. Couldn‟t keep his stupid mouth closed,‟ Ned yelled.

He had difficulty keeping other things closed too! Thought Daniel to himself. Maybe I should talk to Moll next.

RADIO WILDFIRE UPDATE November's re.Lit features another unique selection of material newly uploaded to the Radio Wildfire web-site and sent to us on cd in this month's re.Lit on Radio Wildfire ... and news of it comes in that rare thing

in early November, a mailshot without any banal puns about bonfires and fireworks. In tonight's programme we'll have spoken word and music from the excellent 6&8 in a collaboration with Philippe Blanche from Day Before Us.

There'll be poetry from Sara Clark and from Huw Parsons with a piece for Remembrance Day, recorded

in Brecon Cathedral during the Brecon Jazz Festival.There'll be a story that catches your ear from the first words from Ron Runeborg in Minnesota and Soulful instrumentals from Matell based in Los Angeles. There'll be another in our regular series of plays from Bunbury Banter Theatre Company. This month

a play guaranteed to have you in fits of laughter, the sci-fi spoof Aliens from Uranus by Kester Blaize complete with unexpected nonsense and flashing lights! And there'll be an interview with Adam Steiner

of Silhouette Press about the latest edition of Here Comes Everyone, The Jerusalem Issue. Plus we'll be looking at cd tracks and material from our archives giving a selection that we can guarantee

that you won't hear anywhere else. The show is presented as always by poet and performer Dave Reeves. www.radiowildfire.com (RBW EDITOR NOTE: This programme went out on 4th Nov and their press release arrived at RBW on 5th Nov but this content should be uploaded to their LOOP.)

re.Lit Live! is produced by Vaughn Reeves with backroom support from Ali McK.

… Why not send your own tracks to Radio Wildfire by going to the „Submit‟ page of our website and uploading MP3s of your work. Spoken word and music, comedy, storytelling, poetry, song and aural art, they

are all part of the eclectic mix we are looking for when we create Radio Wildfire Live

WHAT IS RADIO WILDFIRE? Radio Wildfire is an independent online radio station which blends spoken word, poetry, performance lit-erature, comedy, storytelling, short stories and more with a novel selection of word/music fusion and an

eclectic mix of musical styles. www.radiowildfire.com broadcasts live 8.00-10.00pm (UK time) on the first Monday of every month. Listen to Radio Wildfire at www.radiowildfire.com where The Loop plays 24

hours a day. Twitter @radiowildfire

Fireworks. I must admit I love fireworks, And it fills me with delight When my favourite day of the year is here; I mean of course, Bonfire Night. Oh yes, I return to my childhood And become like a youngster again. I don‟t care if it‟s cold and frosty, And I don‟t even mind the rain. I love fire crackers and bangers, I love jumping jacks, traffic lights, Catherine wheels, squibs and roman

candles, And things that give everyone frights. Oh yes, I love fire crackers and bang-ers, I‟m not frightened at all by the noise. At heart, I‟m just a big kid again, Along with the other girls and boys. I love the sparklers held in my hand, Drawing patterns and circles in space. I love to watch the children

And the joy on everyone‟s face. I love the smell of the sulphur, And to see the sparks that fly. My favourites of all are the rockets As they sail overhead to the sky. I love the smoke of the bonfire, The crackle and smell of the wood. I love eating jacket potatoes. Oh how is it they taste so good?

I love to go out in my wellies, And feel the nip in the air. All wrapped up well against the cold, Cold nose, and damp in my hair.

Now I know it‟s a waste of money And that‟s what some folk are saying,

But to me, it‟s a foretaste of heaven, And a different style of praying. When rockets burst into showers, I can‟t contain my feelings, for I‟m put in mind of cathedrals And their wonderful vaulted ceilings. So I hope I‟ve gone some way to ex-plain And help you all to see Precisely where I‟m coming from,

and What fireworks mean to me

(Footnote:- Sadly, my mother died on November 5th 2001. Al-though the word ‘fireworks’ would have often been appropriate in the latter years to describe our relationship, nevertheless the date is tinged with huge sadness and the pleasure of the occasion hasn’t been quite the same for me since.)

http://www.forwardpoetry.co.uk/competition-categories.php

POETRY LIBRARY UPDATE: Latest Competitions: Sentinel Annual Poetry Competition 2013 | Closing Date: 30-Nov-13 http://www.poetrylibrary.org.uk/competitions/?id=1447

The Plough Poetry Prize |Closing Date:30-Nov-13 http://www.poetrylibrary.org.uk/competitions/?id=1454

The Rossica Prize 2014 | Closing Date: 01-Dec-13 http://www.poetrylibrary.org.uk/competitions/?id=1450 The Gregory O'Donoghue International Poetry Competition | Closing Date: 15-Dec-13 http://www.poetrylibrary.org.uk/competitions/?id=1455 The Ted Hughes Award for New Work in Poetry | Closing Date: 09-Jan-14 http://www.poetrylibrary.org.uk/competitions/?id=1443

New Magazines: Asymptote http://www.poetrylibrary.org.uk/magazines/emagazines/?id=710

New Events: MATLOCK BATH: Derwent Poetry Festival|01-Nov-13 http://www.poetrylibrary.org.uk/events/readings/?id=9553

MANCHESTER:The Last Men on Mercury Tour|01-11-13 http://www.poetrylibrary.org.uk/events/readings/?id=9600

Latest News: Bursary for young poets/artists | 30-Oct-13 http://www.poetrylibrary.org.uk/news/poetryscene/?id=1110

LONDON SW1: Found in Translation | 27-Oct-13 http://www.poetrylibrary.org.uk/news/poetryscene/?id=1107

Poetry Library 60th Birthday Party | 25-Oct-13 http://www.poetrylibrary.org.uk/news/library/?id=1106

Michele Leggott wins the NZ Prime Minister's Award | 23-Oct-13 http://www.poetrylibrary.org.uk/news/poetryscene/?id=1105 Vincent O'Sullivan - the 2013-2015 Poet Lau-reate for NZ | 23-Oct-13 http://www.poetrylibrary.org.uk/news/poetryscene/?id=1104

Place Name Limericks Wanted | 22-Oct-13 http://www.poetrylibrary.org.uk/news/poetryscene/?id=1103

Emma Press is seeking submissions | 15-Oct-13 http://www.poetrylibrary.org.uk/news/poetryscene/?id=1102

Lord never let her feel alone Without someone to call her own Don't let her think that countries far Will ever take away the star That she alone creates around All other far off foreign ground I'll pray she's waiting true and strong If that is right I wont go wrong So tell her with your gentle calm to keep away from things that harm Remind her that there'll be a day When I'll be home no more to stray Then dear Lord I'll love her more Than she's been ever loved before The things I've missed will all be there Her smiling lips her gorgeous hair The gentle precious hands Of which I've dreamed whilst in the lands That keep us far apart. So tell her that I think of home How could I let my fancies roam When all they want to do is flow Back to the one that I love so Just tell her nothing can replace The memory of her darling face No matter where I go.

This charming poem was supplied by Alice: it was sent to her by her late husband when he was in the Navy during wartime. The text was unfortunately mislaid by a framer. Her son was, sometime later, able to find the same poignant words on a Navy memories website as a poem sent by another sailor to his wife at home. So, happily, Alice and the poem were reunited. The original author of the poem is un-known. Do you know who wrote it?

Issue 311

Page 18

My LOST POET for this week is WILLEM KLOOS (1859-1938)

My only experience of this Dutch Poet‟s work is a poor translation made by an online Dutch to English translation tool, which although awkward and sometimes failing to translate words did pro-vide me with enough of an understanding to say that Kloos, whilst relatively unknown in Britain,

deserved the recognition of one of the greatest Dutch writers. It is his approach to poetry that interests me. He asserts, or even demands, individual expres-sion and vocally insists on the rejection of the expression of shared experiences and emotions in

the arts, commanding that poetry should always focus on the poets experiences and the individual expression of emotions.

Kloos (pronounced Close) was born in Amsterdam in 1859 and is best remembered as leading member of the Movement of 1880 of The Tachtigers. This group were formed following the death of the young poet Jacques Perk, who in his short life had produced only a few sonnets, it was

Perk‟s rejection on the formulaic approach the rhetoric poetry, breaking the convention of rhythmic verse that brought a new chorus into Dutch Poetry.

The group grew around such voices as Kloos and Marcellus Emants; they rejected the older forms of Dutch poetry and sought new influences from the British Romantic poets and the French Naturalists. They undertook a rebellion against the established authorities in the aesthetic arts and

caused much scandal. Their voices were barred from publication in the journals of the time and they found an outlet through the creation of their own review De Nieuwe Gids (The New Guide) which was a direct challenge to the old guard and their periodical De Gids (The Guide).

The Tachtigers stipulated “that style must match content and that intimate and visceral emo-tions can only be expressed using an intimate and visceral writing style.”

Kloos was at his most prolific during the period of 1880 to 1885, when most of the work for which he is renowned was created. His mental condition deteriorated from 1888, when he first sought psychiatric help brought on partly through alcoholism. He was committed briefly to a sana-

torium in 1895 and although he continued with his writings these were mainly rants and sugges-tions that his former friends had become traitors to the cause. He died in The Hague in 1938 hav-

ing seen his early works venerated into the canon of Dutch Literature. Whether you believe in the philosophy of the Tachtigers or not with regard to the aesthetics of poetry, is not important to me, personally. What I most admire about Kloos and the Tachtigers is

their challenge to the order of things, that they had a belief in poetic style that they felt was more valid for the times than the established order. Artistic thought only develops through not accepting

that what is established is as far as you can go; Art should not be allowed to settle into a comfort zone, to become a defined medium. Art is often the only voice that can cut through the rhetoric to find truth.

My second LOST POET for this week is the Cornish Poet

JACK CLEMO (1916-1994).

It seems appropriate having spent a weekend in Cornwall to select

a poet from the county. I could have chosen Charles Causley, a contemporary and friend of Jack Clemo, but I have chosen Jack for

several reasons not least for his poetry. Jack is very much a poet of place writing about the China Clay landscape around St Austell where he grew up. He is also a poet who could be considered as one

of THE GRAFT poets. Jack is also lesser known that Causley and therefore fits with the ethos of being a lost poet.

Reginald John (Jack) Clemo was born in Goonmarris in 1916, his father was a china clay worker who was killed in the first world war. He was raised by his mother an ardent non-conformist. He suffered from bouts of blindness throughout his childhood and was completely blind at 13 and by twenty he was almost

completely deaf.

His poetry is heavily influenced by his strong religious beliefs and the rugged coastline and the clay lands

of his native Cornwall. Poems capture the spirit and light of the Cornish landscape wrapped within the spiritual path that guided his life.

As a poet who writes about places, I often see myself as an outsider, a watcher, someone who seeks the spirit of the place without putting some of my own identity into words. This I realise is not realistic, as what I write is based upon my own experience of the place and my interpretations are based upon my

experience of life.

Jack Clemo brings his religious outlook into the landscapes, styling them through his beliefs interpreting

them as Christ‟s country. His poems about the clay country sees the industry stripping back nature to ex-tract the creamy china clays and then when the industry declines, nature reclaiming the land healing the

scars, “The Clay Tip Worker” – this much like our experience at Pooley Country Park.

His first two collections of poetry “The Clay Verge” (1951) and “Map of Clay” (1961) reverberated with the stark clay landscapes, the tips and pools of the wheal prospects that now provide the backdrop for

the Eden Project.

By contrast in later life Jack, visited northern Italy, which brought more warmth and colour into his writ-

ing published in “The Cured Arno”, still exploring his religious beliefs through the metaphors of an unfa-miliar landscape.

Jack found love when he was in his fifties when he married Ruth Peaty, it is said his outlook changed, he

became more playful and his wit shone through his writing, especially in the letters and cards he created for Ruth.

He was a Bard of Gorseth Kernow titled as the Poet of the Clay.

He died, aged 78 in Weymouth, the hometown of his late wife in 1994.

Links for Jack Clemo

Rescorla Festival – with some of Jack Clemo‟s poetry. http://www.sense-of-place.co.uk/Rescorla/clemo.htm

The Bloodaxe Books – Author page http://www.bloodaxebooks.com/personpage.asp?author=Jack+Clemo

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