ISSUE 304 Date: 20th September 2013

RISING BROOK FIRE STATION COMMUNITY ROOM Monday 30th September 2013 1.30pm to 3.30pm

Come and celebrate National Poetry Day (theme WATER) with Rising Brook Writers and

Staffordshire Poet Laureate MAL DEWHIRST.

All welcome, please confirm you are coming to

reserve your place and remember to bring your own poems.

Come and meet a Fire Officer: The Fire Station Community Room in Hesketh Road, (by the

school and within a few yards of the library build-ing) is a bright, contemporary venue for poetry

readings. Bonus: a Fire Officer Home Safety Presentation.

Tea Duty volunteers greatly welcomed.

LIFE OBSERVATIONS Stafford Crematorium on the Tixall Road has a spectacular wild flower conservation pro-ject. Formerly mown sections of lawn have been seeded with many species of native wild flowers.

You can discover what your enemy fears most by observing the means he uses to frighten you. Eric Hoffer (1902-1983)

Having one child makes you a parent; having two makes you a referee. Sir David Frost “Love is like the wild rose-briar; Friendship like the holly-tree. The holly is dark when the rose-briar blooms, But which will bloom most constantly?” Emily Brontë

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Germinal n was the seventh month in the French Republican Calendar. The month

was named after the Latin word germen, "germination". Germinal was the first month of the spring quarter (mois de printemps). It started March 21 or March 22, and ended April 19 or April 20. It follows Ventôse and precedes Floréal.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Germinal_%28French_Republican_Calendar%29

Musquash n a muskrat The muskrat (Ondatra zibethicus), the only species in genus Ondatra and tribe Ondatrini, is a medium-sized semiaquatic rodent native to North America, and introduced in parts of Europe, Asia, and South America. The muskrat is found in wetlands over a wide range of climates and habitats. It has important effects on the ecology of wetlands and is a resource of food and fur. It is an introduced species in some of its present range. The muskrat is the largest species in the subfamily Arvicolinae, which includes 142 other species of rodents, mostly voles and lemmings. Muskrats are referred to as "rats" because they are medium-sized rodents with an adapt-able lifestyle and an omnivorous diet. They are not "true rats", not members of the genus Rattus.

Mattoid adj unbalanced mentally with regard to one specific subject about which a per-

son is seemingly obsessive

Virgate adj straight, slender, long and thin as in plants; (noun) an old English measure-

ment of land about 30 acres/12 hectares

Hectare n metric unit of area equal to 10,000 sqr metres (2,471 acres)

Torrefy v to subject to intense heat especially ore or chemicals to remove excess water

The most difficult subjects can be explained to the most slow-witted man if he has not formed any idea of them already; but the simplest thing cannot be made clear to the most intelligent man if he is firmly persuaded that he knows already, without a shadow of doubt, what is laid before him. Leo Tolstoy

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

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DynamicPage.aspx?PageID=52

2012: RBW FREE e-books

PUBLISHED on RBW and issuu.com

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Random Words: painter, castigate, week/weak, cappuc-cino, knife, candid, chicken, tortoise Assignment: The hobby

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

By popular request ... How to submit to RBW ... By embedded email ... please do not send attachments other than jpgs Please follow these guidelines:

Use 14pt, single line spacing, one space after a full stop Never leave a line between paragraphs ... you are a writer not a secretary Indent the first word of each new paragraph except on the first para-

graph and after a line break to denote change of action Never centre headings Never underline anything Never use bold Never use different coloured fonts or backgrounds Never. Never. Never, use tables If submitting a jpg please say who owns the copyright Never send in a first draft, always check for typos. Lower case ―i‖ might

be okay in texting, it is not okay in submissions. This is our house style. Other publishers will have their own, it is a good idea to find out a house style before submitting to anyone. Many thanks.

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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

Have you sent in your submissions for FOOTPRINTS the RBW 2014 poetry collection?

ELEMENTS by Clive Hewitt

[Not to be confused with those in kettles, light bulbs and the like] Surprisingly, or not, as the case may be, the world is full of Elements. All sorts of things are ele-

ments, you'd be surprised at some of them, but, as Mr. Holmes said, it‘s elementary. Regardless of the 113 or so listed by Mr. Mendeleev the well-known ones are Earth, Air, Fire

and Water. Now Mr. Mendeleev did remarkable things with numbers, but you can never trust

numbers! They keep changing. I mean, just who, in his or her right mind, really and truly be-lieves that there are numbers between 3 and 4? Numbers so strange that they have to give them names like Pie and E. Not that I've got anything against Pie; with lots of gravy and some

mashed spud anyway, and as for E, well I can take it or leave it, although it just could be bad spelling for Eel which makes a good pie. So there we have it, Pie and E at the same time.

Sounds good; needs pepper of course. The ancients, good lads down at the pub, after the match, no doubt, where not up to snuff -

or cigars for that matter - when it came to looking at things properly. They completely missed

the others. The BEST-known element is of course Surprise; possibly better known as 'BOO!' Just were

would we be without surprise? In fact, I'd be surprised if we could get anywhere. Surprise is everywhere, getting up in the morning and looking in the mirror? Well there's a surprise for you. Is that you in there? Where's the witty, good looking, urbane, cultured, person who went to bed

last night? Surprisingly that one seems to have escaped so we'll never know. Then there is the inescapable fact that we're human - a lot of us, anyway - and humans have

this way of looking for patterns in things. Now recognising patterns is a very good thing when you're in the wild, it saves you being

eaten by an itinerant tiger or articulated lorry or something. So we look for a recognisable story

the narrative of which is, 'yellow and stripy equals tiger; run like blazes'. Which, after Surprise, brings us to our next element, the element of Narrativion.

The world works on vast helpings of this element. Just think for a moment what you do when

you go down, or up, to the shops. They've got tanker loads of Narrativion - the short shelf-life kind called advertising - leaking out from all the doors and windows. The only problem is that

it's difficult to put in a bottle but just like the Higgs Boson (which may not exist), it's there all right.

The next element is the most difficult to define. For some strange reason humans have this

strange belief that there is an element called Justice, or fair play, which may be its younger sib-ling, in the world. This has never been completely identified by that branch of philosopher called

scientists; however, the belief is so strong that spontaneous creation, a bit like spontaneous combustion except that it doesn't burn hayricks, may have occurred. Tentatively particles of Jus-ticium have been identified in the densely packed far reaches of the legal libraries; however,

search parties have yet to return to report success. From the screams issuing from the area it is believed that they may have been trampled by a herd of incomplete copies of the Motor Vehicle User Regulations (1985) attempting to escape the clutches of The Highway Code, or vice-versa.

Evidence suggests that Deityum, the penultimate element in the list, has been known about for some Eight or Ten Thousand years, however, the people who may have discovered it at that

time, inexplicably, failed to tell anyone about it; they built temples instead. However, the secret of writing with triliths has died out which is very careless of them.

This may have been because of the much better known Secretion, something that may be

recognise by the teachings of the Whitehall School of Philosophers who claim that, 'Secrets have power and that power diminishes when they are shared. Sharing secrets, any secrets, with one

other person will change them. Writing them down is worse, because, no matter how careful you might be with it, who can tell how many eyes might see them on paper. So, if you have one, for its own good as well as yours, it's really best to keep secrets to yourself.'

So there you have them then, the eight elements that rule the world:- Air, Deityon, Earth, Fire, Narrativion, Secretion, Surprise & Water.

Mind you it's not any kind of Secretion that I'd be very Surprised if any of the Narrativion in the above held Water much less Air. CMH. 5 Sept 2013.

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The Start Of Seed Sowing Time And The Beginnings Of New Life.

The other week I finally cleared the last of the Cape Gooseberries from my allotment. The plants had long died off and dried up, but many of the berries were still clinging on with a sea of berries

fallen on the floor underneath the dead plants. The plants should have been removed months earlier, but with the crazy winter we

have had, I left them in the hopes that more berries would ripen. After roughly pulling and bagging the plants to take home and pick them clean, I soon found that the cases on the plants held virtually no berries and

the few that there were had been frosted. However, when I cleared the ground of fallen berries there were a couple of punnets, of large, ripish berries that had been protected

from the frost by the plants above. It was ridiculous to be able to harvest a frost tender fruiting berry at the beginning of January!

I am still digging a few Carrots and Turnips, as well, although some of the carrots have started to rot in the ground. The last of the Jerusalem Artichokes have been dug up and the smallest tubers have been replanted for this coming seasons crop.

With the new planting season rapidly approaching, I have started a few potatoes in small pots in my cool greenhouse.

Seed sowing has also started with some Cape Gooseberries and Kohl Rabi being the first, apart from the onion seed which are already up and out of the propagator. Not hav-

ing much experience of what to sow and when, I have gone through my tin of seeds that are stored in the cool garage, and made a list of the coming months and weeks in a sort of planting diary. The idea is to sow a couple of trays of seed in succession to make the

most of only two propagators. Where I can I am trying to sow most of the seeds in trays that contain cells, (except

those that will go straight into the allotment ground like Carrots) so there is no, or very little, pricking out to be done! The only thing with using cells is that you need to be more careful with watering as they dry out much quicker than conventional seed trays.

On the subject of watering, I thought I had lost all the young Chrysanthemums that had been salvaged at the end of the season from the tubs of bedding plants on the yard.

I had potted them up in small pots and watered them some weeks before, but mould had quickly covered the plants as I had got them far too wet. However, after being left to

really dry out, most of them are shooting again from their bases. Now I am trying to wa-ter them very sparingly from beneath by occasionally putting them in a tray of shallow water. By picking the pots up I know when they want a spot of water at their feet as the

pots become lighter. The bigger, older stools under the staging are shooting well- too well even, at this time of

year, but being bigger pots and the fact that they are standing on the cold floor, they are not drying out so quickly. As there were so many big stools at the end of last season I left

some in the ground on my allotment, but earthed them up for a little protection. There are no signs of life at all on these so we will have to wait and see what the Spring brings.

Yet More Fruit Trees!

Under a plum tree that was growing as a ―Cordon‖ against a fence, at home, I had planted two

Josta Berries that I thought would grow well in the space, but later I found out that they only pro-duce fruit at a mature size of 2 metres! Consequently I decided to dig them up while they were dormant and take them up to the allotment. A lot of damage was done to the roots as they were

already quite big plants, but I am hoping that with a bit of nursing, they will survive. Quite a few small branches were also broken in the upheaval, but of course they were trimmed and simply pro-

vided material for ―Hardwood Cuttings.‖ A dozen or more 15 inch lengths were carefully pushed deeply into the freshly dug soil by the big bushes and will be left until later in the Summer when

hopefully they will have rooted. Always fascinated by fruit trees and bushes I was excited to see that my Strawberry tree seems to be throwing up suckers, or at least shoots from the main stem below soil level. With a lot of luck

the shoots may well start to root, so as I lost a mature plant the previous winter, a few ―free‖ young plants will be most welcome. People don‘t normally think of the unusual little ―Strawberries‖

as being edible, but according to one of the TV gardeners they are and I can personally vouch for the fact that, although they have an odd feel in the mouth, they are very tasty! If the suckers do root they will be ideal fruit to grow on my allotment as they will happily fruit as

small bushes and another fruit tree that I bought a little while ago, which has also produced an un-expected opportunity, is a Kumquat. It was loaded with edible fruits on when I bought it and as

they are slowly ripening in the house, we are putting them in our daily fruit salads. Normally the small fruits sold in the shops don‘t have any pips in, but these do, so yes I have planted a few.

Compared to other Citrus, like Oranges, Lemons, Limes and Grapefruit, they are supposed to be fairly hardy, although nowadays, you do sometimes see Oranges and Lemons advertised that claim to be frost hardy. If the Kumquat pips grow well I might try a few small plants outside in my allot-

ment along with the other strangely assorted fruit! I have still got two small Lychee plants upstairs at home, that I grew from pips a couple of

years ago. These will never be of any use whatsoever as they really are tropical plants. But I am hoping that the seeds of the (Acca) Feijoa Sellowiana, that are just germinating, will be suitable for

planting in my allotment. The ―Pineapple Guava,‖ as it is commonly called is a member of the Myr-tle family and has attractive, almost, Fuchsia-like blooms, followed by delicious guava-flavoured, green fruit. The claims made are that mature plants are quite hardy in mild winters, but severe

frosts can take the fruit buds in much the same way as with figs. My collection of strange and exotic fruit trees and bushes seems to keep growing as I track

down more and more varieties. How many more are out there I don‘t know!

Editor : Thus ended the first year of Alan‘s allotment blogs of his

endeavours at Wellington Fields Allotments in the village of Hixon,

Staffordshire... Next week sees the beginning of Year Two, personally

I‘m loving this blog and I can‘t wait to see what happens next ...

This only goes to prove ... write about what you know ...

NOT RIGHT by Pamela Clare-Joyce

The shock was immense. We both stood there, rooted to the spot, amazed, after all the

anticipation, the endless waiting, the fear that it would all fall through, looking at the baby being carried towards us, held securely in the escort‘s arms, knowing that this was

not the child that had been offered to us. This baby was dark skinned with a shock of black hair, and this baby was screaming

the airport down, her face an angry red/brown, her mouth a raging toothless ‗O,‘ her

cheeks wet with tears and snot that were dripping down her face on to the matted wool jacket she wore. Her thin legs and arms were kicking with rage. We stared, unable to

say a thing as this nightmare vision approached us down the Arrivals Hall. This was NOT our baby!

When we at last gained approval to adopt, we were triumphant! It had been a contin-ual goad, especially to Mike, that friends and family were all bringing up children, boast-ing of their progress, their talents, their achievements while we could not compete. My

best friend adopted a rather taking Chinese baby and oh, the praise and attention she and her husband gained. Suddenly, we began to feel we were yesterdays‘ people, out of

the loop, anachronisms and determined that this was going to change, by hook or by crook. When the photograph arrived of baby Sunita, we pored over it in glee. This

would be our child! Our child, at last! Sunita was angelic, cafe crème, with ash brown hair and believe it or not blue eyes! It was not that we minded dark skin or black hair. We didn‘t care as long as it was a baby, our baby! We had no racial prejudice at all, but

this child was so astoundingly pretty, so enviably right for us, we could hardly believe our luck! Of course, we sent the picture around to all of our friends, all of our families and

everyone agreed that this child was just perfect, utterly perfect. I‘d fantasized the scene over in my mind a thousand times, this first meeting at the

airport, imagining the approach of our child, us standing, our faces radiant, brimming with pleasure, my arms opening to receive this adorable baby girl, who would smile shyly at us, come into my arms without demur and settle against my breast. Our Sunita didn‘t

look like this brat! Our Sunita would not cry like this. They had brought the wrong child! When the escort came into earshot she asked, ‗Mr. & Mrs. Morris?‘ and raising her

voice above the child‘s continued screams, added, ‗Here‘s your baby. This is Sunita. If you‘ll just come over to the desk, we can get the papers signed.‘

‗‘I‘m sorry.‘ Mike said in an indignant voice, shouting over the child‘s howls. ‗This is not

the baby we were expecting.‘ I pulled out the photograph. ‗Look, this is not my baby! You can see this child is

nothing like this photograph, nothing at all!‘ The escort, now having trouble containing the baby, who was working herself up into

dangerous hysterics, throwing herself backwards and forwards with a quite surprising strength, stared at us then stared at the photograph. ‗I‘m sorry, but all the paperwork is here. This is Sunita, this is your baby. Our organisation doesn‘t make mistakes, has

never made any mistakes. I have a baby here for you. This is the child you‘re adopting. I‘d be grateful if you would come to the desk, sign the papers and take the child home.

She is very tired and very upset. She needs changing, feeding and rest.‘ ‗But this is not the child we ordered.‘ Mike insisted.

The girl looked at us in disbelief. ‗I‘m sorry, but you don‘t ‗order‘ a child! We are not Harrods or Currys. We carefully select a child we think would suit each family. There‘s no ordering about it. This is the child we selected for you. This is Sunita. Please take

your child so that we can get all the formalities done and she can be looked after prop-erly. I have to catch the next plane back to Geneva to Headquarters. I have very little

time I‘m afraid.‘ ‗But this is not our baby./‘ I wailed. ‗There must be some mistake. There must be!‘

thrusting the photograph again in the girl‘s face.

The smell from the child was growing more and more powerful and obnoxious, when, Issue 304

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to accompany the horrendous howls, we heard the unmistakable sound of an ominous nether-end ex-

plosion and something unpleasant began to seep inexorably into the child‘s leggings. ‗Oh my God!‘ the girl moaned. ‗She‘ll have to be changed right now. Have you got any nappies with

you? I used my spares on the plane. Have you got any clothes as well?‘ I fished in the bag for the nappies following the girls‘ rapid pace to the loo, the child‘s cries ringing

around the airport as we went. ‗Don‘t give her those.‘ Mike called to me. ‗Those are our nappies. Those are our clothes. We paid

for those. Let her buy some herself.‘

I turned to him to reply and then deciding to ignore him, raced after the pair. In the Changing Room the girl undressed the screaming baby. The state she was in was quite disgusting. The soggy sagging

nappy had overflowed so that effluvia had found its way on to her back, her legs and had started seep-ing into all her clothes. Trying to keep her still enough to clean her up as she roared and thrashed on the changing mat took quite a lot of strength and dexterity.

I stood, horrified, nauseated by the smell and the sight and unwilling to touch the child, watching the pack of wet wipes practically used up before the child was anything like clean. It was obviously impossi-

ble to dress the child back into those disgusting clothes and it was just lucky that my mother had ad-vised me to add a babygro and a fleece blanket to the welcome bag, just in case.

‗After all,‘ she had said, ‗That poor little thing will have had a long flight and then you‘ve got a long drive home. You never know with babies.‘ Silent, I watched as Sunita was with difficulty slotted into the garment and wrapped in the fleece.

‗Look,‘ the girl said, preventing the child from rolling off the table by blocking her with her body, washing her hands over and over again and dabbing at the stains on her cuffs and front, ‗I‘ve got to go.‘

She looked at her watch, her other hand controlling the still roaring Sunita who lay in a paroxysm of dis-tress on the changing mat, ‗My plane goes in ten minutes. I‘m afraid I‘ve just got to go. If you ask at

the cafe, they‘ll make a bottle for you. She needs feeding.‘ ‗But I can‘t!‘ I said in horror. ‗I can‘t cope with this!‘ pointing at the baby. ‗I don‘t know what to do

with a child in this state. I never imagined it would be like this!‘

‗What on earth did you imagine?‘ the girl snapped. ‗Did you think you were getting a doll? This is what babies do! I‘ve had worse than this many times. Why did you want a baby if you can‘t cope with

one?‘ ‗But this isn‘t the baby we....‘ I almost said ‗ordered‘ but decided I better not, ‗....expected.‘ The girl sighed. ‗Look Mrs. Morris, I‘m supposed to catching a plane right now. Are you taking this

baby or are you not? If you are not, I‘m afraid I‘m going to have to ring Head Office for instructions and there is absolutely no chance of you ever getting another child. We will inform all the other adop-

tion agencies of this incident, because it is of vital importance that these children go to the right homes.‘ ‗But ours‘ is a ‗right home.‘ I pleaded. ‗We can give any child a wonderful life.‘

‗But you are not willing to give this child a wonderful life.‘ ‗But it isn‘t the right child.‘ I wailed. ‗It just isn‘t right!‘ ‗No, it isn‘t.‘ The girl snapped. ‗It‘s not right at all.‘ She picked up the still screaming child, rocking

the baby in her arms. ‗Come on little pet. We‘ll get you fed and then we‘ll decide what to do, shall we? Oh, give me a few more of those nappies will you. She seems to have the runs and I could do with a

few extras for emergencies.‘ ‗But they‘re our nappies.‘ I said, echoing Mike, ‗And what about those clothes? They‘re our clothes.‘

The girl looked at me with withering contempt. ‗Do you know,‘ she said, ‗I‘ve seen people struck wordless when they get their allotted child, I‘ve seen people so moved they can‘t stop crying and I‘ve seen a few who are a bit fazed, but I‘ve never seen anything like this in the whole of my time doing this

job and you actually genuinely thought that you wanted a baby? Just don‘t ever, ever try and adopt a child again.‘ and she just walked off comforting the still roaring Sunita in her arms.

I stood there staring at myself in the mirror, not quite believing what had occurred and very unwilling to face the waiting Mike. I knew he‘d add up all the costs we‘d incurred and he‘d never let me forget it. We‘d have to start selling all that nursery equipment and it would be bound to be at a loss! And what

would all their family and friends say? Oh well they‘d understand when she told them. No, it just was-n‘t right.

INDIAN SUMMER

The September sun felt different. The September warmth felt as though it did not belong to the rest of the summer - the heat felt more delicate, more luxurious even than the sometimes burning sun of August. It was a comfort-

ing warmth. It felt a bit like a bonus. It could be starting to get chilly but this was a welcome extra - perhaps the start of an Indian summer.

I sat in the sun outside Walsall Council Offices waiting for a friend to come out of a job interview. I rarely come back to my home town, Walsall. If I do then it is usually to visit the Art Gallery which used to have Noddy Holder, or rather his voice, in the lift "Yam now arrivin, on the grownd flooor"

This time I was helping a friend and had time to kill sitting on a bench, en-joying the sun and watching the people go by.

Walsall used to be a very mixed sort of place, labourers, shop workers, of-fice workers, people as well with a "bit of brass" rough diamonds with broad Walsall accents in expensive clothes. Now I only see two distinct groups of people. The one group of people have nothing. Girls pushing pushchairs their

boyfriends, unemployed, swearing, blaming foreigners "yoave bloody Chi-nese. Cantonese from Afghanistan."

I did not know what he was blaming them for but he was blaming them for something not singing the praises of the multi-cultural society. An older guy was not far behind, agitated on his mobile phone "and if they ask me again I will tell them where to stick it."

The second group I see are the council workers coming back from lunch or going to meetings. The men in their white shirts and ties - the women in their trouser suits. Unified by their identity cards hanging round their necks from chains. These were the lucky ones. They had made it - they had a job with the council. So there seemed like just two classes in the town - The un-derclass and the council workers, the uninhibited and the restrained, the

roughs and the respectables. It was 3 o'clock on a Thursday afternoon and it was hard to find anywhere

to eat. there were plenty of pubs filled mainly with men drinking pints, most solitary figures sitting at tables staring at their past. The Wine Lodge had a meal deal - two meals for £6.45 (how do they do that? - ah it‘s on the drinks that they make their profit!) On the next table a group of older Indian men were laughing and joking in Gujarati or Punjabi. They were the only happy people there perhaps reminiscing about their past working lives on the trolley buses or in foundries in the days when Walsall still had both. Or perhaps they were recalling their childhood and their own authentic Indian summers.

Assignment September 2013

http://www.thenewartgallerywalsall.org.uk/

This idea came up in workshop ... A journal with a difference ... A book of blank pages with a question at the top of each page posed by a grandchild to be answered by the grandparent about their family ...

Where were you born? Who was your mother, her mother? What did you father do? What did his father do?

What is your first memory? Where did you go to school? What was your first occupation? etc

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I had an encounter with an A10 Tank Buster writes Countryman (Owd Fred) A few years ago, while ploughing in one of our furthest field, I had an encounter with an A10 Tank Buster, or should I say three of them. It was the time of the Gulf War, and some American war planes were on training ex-ercise in the UK before being sent on duty giving air cover the troops out in the Gulf. Each day around mid-morning three of these aircraft came over at high speed at around a thousand feet, banking and turning so as not to fly directly over outly-ing villages or towns. They were like nothing I had ever seen before, being a very distinctive shape and outline, it had twin fins one at each end of the rear wing, and two engines saddle bag fashion half way along the fuse-lage. They followed each other perhaps a half mile apart, the sudden noise from the first one, particularly if I was driving or looking the other way, it was enough to frighten anyone, then I knew to expect the next, and the third one. It was the third day when I was working in that same field when I noticed them coming in the distance over the horizon, approaching very rapidly, then when about a mile or so away I realized that they were flying directly at me. Not over me, not round or down on side or the other, but directly at the tractor. In my mind they had locked their radar, or sights, and aiming at me in the tractor as if it were an enemy tank. I stopped the tractor and in effect froze; it was no use me weaving at three miles an hour to avoid the rockets which could have been deployed in those last seconds. Then when about quarter mile away the pilot must have pulled back on his stick and swoop-ing up from lower than normal, passed directly over the tractor, the following two did exactly the same. It must have given them great satisfaction to have had a "sitting duck" part way through their maneuvers on which they could practice. It left me sitting in the cab shaking like a jelly, and could not believe what I had wit-

nessed; what with the noise of the jets overhead and what might have happened if one of them had actually produced a friendly fire incident. On the main news that night it reported that A10's were being deployed to the Gulf from their base in Britain. The exercises had taken place for a whole week then all of those aircraft must have flown off on their mission abroad. I have not ever seen another one of those aircraft since other than on the news programs, so if I in my small way had helped those pilots, good

luck to them, they will never know me and I will never know them, but I thank them for keeping their fingers off those triggers, and left me to go home for my dinner, shaken but safe.

Original artwork of A10 © FW (Countryman 2013)

Saturday, 31 August 2013

Gibraltar Once again, Spain is making claims over Gibraltar. It would be worthwhile to give a quick

sketch of the history of Gibraltar, showing why it is under British rule. We should first look at the origin of the name. In the later seventh century AD the first

great wave of Islamic conquest swept right across north Africa to Morocco, and in 711 a Moslem army crossed the straits and routed the forces of the Visigoths, a Germanic people who had ruled Spain ever since the collapse of the Roman empire three centuries earlier.

The Moslem commander, Tariq ibn Ziyad, named the landing-place after himself: "Jebel Tariq", "the rock of Tariq", hence "Gibraltar". The Moslem tide swept on through Spain

and into France, and was only brought to a halt at Tours in 732. For the next few centuries, Islamic Spain was one of the great civilizations of European

history, famous for its philosophers and poets (Jews as well as Arabs); and its magnificent buildings can still be seen, particularly at Cordova and Granada. The Christian re-conquest of Spain began in the eleventh century, and lasted four hun-

dred years. Spain was not a united country; its two principal kingdoms being Castile in the centre and Aragon on the east coast. Gibraltar changed hands more than once, but finally

fell to the forces of Castile in 1462, and the re-conquest was completed with the fall of Granada in 1492. Isabella of Castile married Ferdinand of Aragon, and a united Spanish monarchy was established.

The new nation rapidly became rich and powerful. The kingdom of Aragon had for cen-turies included the Balearic islands, Sardinia and Sicily, and by a combination of conquest

and diplomatic marriages, Ferdinand and Isabella's grandson, Philip II, also ruled the Netherlands and much of Italy. In the sixteenth century Spain claimed sovereignty over

the newly-discovered American continent, and the gold and silver of Mexico and Peru flooded back into Spain. But Spanish supremacy did not last long, and the economy was not helped by the decision to expel all Moslems and Jews from Spain. (The notorious

Spanish Inquisition was originally established not to persecute Protestants but to ferret out Jewish and Moslem converts to Catholicism who still secretly clung to their old religion)

By 1700 Spain was in severe decline as a great power. In that year there died King Charles VI, imbecile and childless, leaving his vast empire to a relative: Philip, the young

grandson of Louis XIV of France. The result was the war of the Spanish Succession. Alarmed at the prospect of an enormous French-dominated superpower stretching all the way from Gibraltar to the Rhine estuary, plus the Mediterranean islands and much of Italy,

plus the huge overseas Spanish empire, Britain, Holland, the Austrian empire and various lesser powers formed a "Grand Alliance" to check French ambitions. The Catalans also

rose in revolt against the rule of Madrid. The war is best remembered for the Duke of Marlborough's great victories over the French in Germany and the Netherlands, but in Spain Allied forces were less successful. A British army briefly occupied Madrid, but was

then defeated and driven out. The war ended with the compromise peace at Utrecht in 1713. Philip became King of

Spain; but a Spain deprived of its European possessions. Belgium, Sicily and much of Italy went to the Austrians, and the Duke of Savoy became King of Sardinia. Britain's share of

the spoils was comparatively modest, but included Gibraltar and Minorca. Together they formed the base for a naval presence guarding the entrance to the Mediterranean. Throughout the 18th century, Spanish attempts to regain its lost possessions caused

spasmodic diplomatic crises. Soon after Utrecht, a Spanish expedition attempted to recon-quer Sicily, but after causing much damage on the island was defeated by the British fleet.

The most serious attempt came in the War of American Independence, when Spain joined France in backing the American rebels and laid siege to Gibraltar. The attempt failed, with

the Spanish fleet destroyed by Admiral Rodney at the "Moonlight Battle" of January 1780.

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In the eventual peace treaty Spain was rewarded by being given back Minorca, and also Florida,

but Gibraltar remained British. (In this war the British government was so desperate for allies that Mi-norca was even offered to the Russians in return for help; but Catherine the Great wasn't interested.

This opens up fascinating prospects for "alternative history", does it not?) In the 19th century the opening of the Suez Canal made Gibraltar vital to British strategic interests,

since the "spine" of the British Empire now ran through the Mediterranean and the Red Sea to India and Singapore. At the start of the 20th century Admiral Fisher named Gibraltar as one of the "Keys to unlock the world", along with Alexandria and Aden.

Spain hit the international headlines in 1936 when the army under General Franco rose in rebellion against the Republican government. In the worst of all possible outcomes, the revolt was successful in

the south, but the north and east, particularly the Basque and Catalan regions, remained loyal to the government, with Madrid on the front line. Three years of savage civil war followed. The official policy of the British government, with the reluctant support of the French, was "non-intervention", but inevi-

tably other countries began to use the war for their own advantage. Hitler and Mussolini openly sent troops to fight alongside Franco. The Soviet Union supported the government; but the sheer forces of

geography, plus Stalin's preoccupation with industrialization and the Purge, meant that Russian aid was far less effective.

The British government pretended not to see these blatant infringements of non-intervention. This car-

toon by David Low shows Anthony Eden, the For-eign Secretary, playing cards on the prostrate body

of Spain, alongside Hitler, Mussolini, Stalin and Leon Blum, the French Prime Minister. "Trustful

Tony" is saying, "Just to discourage cheating, I'll wear a strait-jacket and let you chaps play my cards for me". Meanwhile in the background Italian war-

ships and Nazi bomber-planes head for the rock of Gibraltar.

George Orwell, who went to Spain to fight for the Republican government, was equally frustrated at

his country's attitude; particularly those Conservative M.P.s who supported Franco even when British merchant ships trading with the Spanish government were sunk by Italian submarines. Was it not ob-

vious to them, he protested, that a Hitler-backed government in Spain would seize Gibraltar and seal off the Mediterranean to British shipping? Indeed, in 1940 this is precisely what Hitler expected Franco

to do. But Franco was too cautious, or too canny, to enter the war, and consequently he survived, though he was treated as a pariah for many years after 1945. And so Gibraltar survived in British hands, and remains so, since that seems to be the wish of the

vast majority of its inhabitants. Any attempt to transfer territory against the wishes of the inhabitants (as, for instance, in the Falkland Islands) must be based on a "sacred soil" argument: namely, that the

inhabitants have no right to be there, and therefore their wishes are of no consequence. I submit that such arguments are either drivel or very dangerous. Drivel because it is meaningless to say that any

state has a "right" to take, against the wishes of the inhabitants a piece of territory which has be-longed to another state for a considerable time (and, as we have seen, Britain has held Gibraltar for longer than it was held by Spain; though not as long as it was held by the Islamic Caliphate. Also, the

Spaniards ruled Sicily for much longer than they ruled Gibraltar, but I see no sign of them demanding Sicily back). Dangerous because it postulates that the inhabitants of the territory, who may have lived

there for several generations, have no right to be there or to decide their future.

PEOPLE CARE ABOUT CHARITIES, NOT POLITICIANS writes ACW Politicians could rue the day if they pass this gagging law. Today, we care about cam-

paigning charities doing something to help vulnerable people. We sign their petitions. But what if we were told we couldn't?

How are we to know about these petitions without charities advertising? That all costs money.

POLITICIANS HIDING THEMSELVES AWAY FROM CHARITIES So if government passes a law that impedes campaigners for some charitable aim, for a

full year before an election, then we have politicians never really listening. Because only when an election is coming and politicians' jobs are on the line, do politi-

cians turn and have any interest in potential voters. Politicians are only interested in voters, but they do not know which of us may aban-

don apathy and put our tick or cross against their name and put the bit of paper in the

ballot box.

ONLY BY ADVERTISING CAN CHARITIES HELP THE VULNERABLE Folk don't concern themselves with the doings of government, politics and politicians.

Rarely watch the news on TV or read it in newspapers. So charities must advertise to tell us about petitions.

There can be no paid political advertising on television by law, other than just before

an election by those candidates / parties trying to get your vote. So only political propaganda of government is what you see on TV news. And there is

not one political party who knows who the actual poor are, and have never known. The poor I sat and watched in a Citizens Advice Bureau: a working young couple,

working full time, even up to 40 hours a week, yet not on a living wage between the two of them. And the rest are over 50 not in work due to some health problem or by mere ageism in job recruitment. Advocacy gone by loss of legal aid, benefits being lost when no

other source of income, and no state pension for women at 60 to compensate. Politicians believe we can live on fresh air.

PETITIONS THAT EFFECT WELLBEING AND THREATEN LIVES I have found that when talking about all the deluge of discrimination against women

not gaining their state pension at 60 and the far more coming in 2016-2017 that will leave many women with absolutely nothing, few if any people know these changes are coming.

Such as the contribution years rise from 30 (from 2010) to 35 (2016) to get a full state pension.

Most unemployed over 50s women are because they are chronic sick and/or disabled and those benefits are being lost or never gained, and very many such women are not married/co-habiting to share the bills, and have little or any works pensions or sav-

ings. Some even may have no works pension as private sector part-time jobs did not have them.

The average cost of being a pensioner, at home all day, is £10,020. Few reach even half that funding. A London pensioner needs £12,299 and yet the higher age related tax

allowance was lost in 2013 at 65. This again discrimination as women's retirement age has been 60 since the Second World War.

The pension petition is on 38 Degrees is at: http://you.38degrees.org.uk/petitions/state-pension-at-60-now

If you agree with me then sign it today. Because there are Spring 2014 elections and

this gagging laws could bring down 38 Degrees, with its 1 million members (when no po-

litical party has more than a few hundred thousand members at most and reducing each year).

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MOST CHARITIES ARE AGAINST THE GAGGING BILL Sir Stuart Etherington of the National Council for Voluntary Organisations is said to be a leading

critic of the proposed legislation. Others critical of the gagging law are a great many charities such as Oxfam and the Royal British Legion.

FREE SPEECH THREATENED The Electoral Commission has stated the new limits (if this gagging law is passed by parliament)

would mean it would have to ask charitable organisations in breach to take down blogs or stop politi-cal rallies.

This contravenes the basic rights of a western democracy and free speech of us all. It‘s as if women had lost the vote after all the hard won effort of the Suffragettes, and no-one

but the rich could vote today after all the hard work of our 19th Century working class for universal

rights to be human to the state, inspired by the French Revolution. Brief summary of history background click here:

http://www2.stevenson.ac.uk/comenius/pf/articles/univsuff/uk_dg/suff_1_p.htm

What does the vote mean? It means, politicians and government have the belief the working class and lower bourgeoisie (the

new rich of the industrial revolution in the 1900s) and women of all classes are human beings to the

state. This is a recent thing in history, by law and rights. Only the aristocracy held those rights for 800

years. Listen to the voice of Louise XIV and XV of France, who upon making himself Prime Minister and abolishing parliament on a whim, said words to the effect of, What, the King must make an expla-

nation. Who dares to speak against the ruler of France. And a royal wife of that lineage said the im-mortal words of the French poor, They Have No Bread! Well... Let Them Eat Cake!! Then came the French revolution.

Not for nothing do I cheer when the cereal ad comes on the TV depicting some callous aristo-crats being taken to Madame Le Guillotine for the chop. It is from this execution that we learned that

brain death happens in two minutes of lack of oxygen. An executed doctor told his mate to start a stop watch and he would blink as long as he could once he was made into two, shall we say.

FIVE MINUTE VIDEO ABOUT THE GAGGING LAW A brief 5 minute summary of why the gagging law affects us all,

is at: https://secure.38degrees.org.uk/gagging-law-video

Graveur; Isidore-Stanislas Helman (1743-1806). Graveur (eau-forte); Antoine-Jean Duclos (1742-1795). Illustrateur; Charles Monnet (1732-180?)Journée du 21 janvier 1793 la mort de Louis Capet sur la place de la Révolution : présentée à la Convention Nationale le 30 germinal ** par Helman Wikipedia image http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Guillotine ** 19th April 1795

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Year 1564 : The Cast : The Queen‘s Men : a group of strolling players thrown out of London where the theatres have been closed due to an outbreak of plague Kit Marlowe (soon to be private-eye), Harry Swann (the first victim who first told the story of the poisoned silver chalice), Samuel Burball (Owner), PeterPecksniff, Daniel Alleynes, young Hal who plays the girl‘s roles very badly, Mistress Hood the seam-stress The Boar‘s Head Tavern, Trentby: Mistress 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 Mis-tress Anne, daughter Penelope about to be sold off into matrimony, Mis-tress Hood seamstress dead ringer for Penelope The Sheriff‘s Castle : Magistrate: Squire Humphrey Pettigrew, Black Knight the Sheriff 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 chalice and Roman hoard of Trentby Abbey + an unknown corpse. 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... Suggest we read some Ray-mond Chandler, (opposite im-age) Dashiell Hammett, James M. Cain and other Black Mask writers, of the hard-boiled school of detective fiction e.g.

The Big Sleep, Farewell, my Lovely, The Little Sister, The Long Goodbye etc ** Characters from Where There‘s A Will There‘s A Weigh RBW fiction project

1564 Background Research by ACW

Christopher Marlowe (baptised 26 February 1564 – 30 May 1593 http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/

Christopher_Marlowe) and William Shakespeare (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/William_Shakespeare 26 April 1564 (baptised) – 23 April 1616) were babies and both baptized in that same year. The

year 1564 (MDLXIV) was a leap year starting on Saturday. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/1564 EARLY LIFE

What was life like between 1564 and 1616? Life between 1564 and 1616 was a city of loud noises, hooves and raw coach wheels on the cobbles, the yells of traders, the brawling of apprentices, scuffles to keep the wall and not be thrown into the oozy kennel. The streets were narrow, cobbled

and slippery with the slime of refuse. Houses were crammed together, and there were a lot of furtive alleys. http://uk.ask.com/question/what-was-life-like-between-1564-and-1616

FIRST ENGLISH DRAMA FARCES From the internet it appears 1564 is before the writing of Shakespeare and Marlowe. But the first English farces were already

written. The period known as the English Renaissance, approximately 1500—1660, saw a flowering of the drama and all the arts. The two candidates for the earliest comedy in English Nicholas Udall's Ralph Roister Doister (c.1552) and the anony-mous Gammer Gurton's Needle (c.1566), belong to the 16th century.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/English_drama RALPH ROISTER DOISTER

http://www.enotes.com/ralph-roister-doister-salem/ralph-roister-doister-0300100950 Udall‘s play calls for a set comprising canvas stretched over wooden frames to represent houses with a street running be-tween them. There are entrances to the stage from the end of the street and from two houses, one belonging to Dame

Christian Custance, a wealthy widow betrothed to Gawin Goodlucke, and the other belonging to Ralph Roister Doister, a braggart who is determined to win Custance‘s hand. Custance‘s house is wholly populated by women; Ralph‘s contains men. Urged on by Mathewe Merygreeke, a prankster who regularly bilks Ralph of his cash, Ralph writes letters and serenades

Custance, who angrily spurns him. The conflict develops into a farcical battle between the two houses as Ralph and his men attempt to invade Custance‘s house. In the light of the combatants and Ralph‘s suit, the attempted invasion seems sexual,

but the threat is easily overcome as the women, armed with kitchen utensils, easily rout the invaders, including Ralph, who wears a kitchen pot for a helmet. When Gawin, the merchantman who has been away at sea, returns, all is resolved as the adventurous outsider is reunited with Custance, and the townsman admits defeat. In the true spirit of comedy, however, all

are reconciled at the end of the play. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ralph_Roister_Doister Ralph Roister Doister is a comic play by Nicholas Udall, generally regarded as the first comedy to be written in the English language. The date of its composition is disputed, but the balance of opinion suggests that it was written in

about 1553, when Udall was a schoolmaster in London, and was intended to be performed by his pupils - who were all male, as were all actors at that period. However, the work was not published until 1567, eleven years after its author's death. It takes its theme from the Miles Gloriosus written by the Roman playwright Plautus. The play is written in five acts. The plot of

the play centres around a rich widow, Christian Custance, who is betrothed to Gawyn Goodluck, a merchant. Ralph Roister Doister is prompted by a friend to woo Christian Custance, but his pompous attempts do not succeed. Ralph then tries with his friends to break in and take Christian Custance by force, but they are defeated by her servants and run away. The mer-

chant Gawyn arrives shortly after and the play concludes happily. Gender politics is a very interesting aspect of this play, which was an innovative experiment in the field of English drama. The play is a farce, and it owes much to-Latin playwrights Plautus and Terence.

GUMMER GURTON'S NEEDLE And Gummer Gurton's Needle text shows we can't really understand the language of that day Link here: http://drama.eserver.org/plays/medieval/gammer-gurton.txt

http://www.gutenberg.org/files/37503/37503-h/37503-h.htm

"THE PITH AND POINT OF THE PLAY, SIR!" "Gammer Gurton's Needle was the first to gather the threads of farce, interlude, and school play into a well-sustained com-edy of rustic life [with] the rollicking humour of the Bedlem; the pithy and saline interchange of feminine amenities; the Chaucerian, laughter, not sensual but animal; the delight in physical incongruity; the mediæval fondness for the grotesque. If the situations are farcical, they hold together; each scene tends towards the climax of the act, and each act towards the dénouement. The characters are both typical and individual; and the execution is an advance because it smacks less of the academic. Gammer Gurton carries forward the comedy of mirth."— C. Mills Gayley, Litt.D., LL.D., Professor of the Eng-lish Language and Literature, University of California.

Further reading: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/English_Renaissance_theatre

Elizabethan Law: Research by CMH

For the purpose of the 2013/14 project, I thought it might be a good idea to remind folks of a few things. 1. Elizabeth 1 ruled over a country under FEUDAL law, which is a lot different to today. 2. There where dozens of different courts of law, all with their own peculiarities, many of which

could order the death sentence for offences that today would be considered trivial. The death sen-tence was usually hanging but could include beheading or being hung, drawn and quartered.

The most usual was 'The Courts Leet' for capital crimes [fully The Courts Leet with View of Frankpledge] Manorial courts didn't deal with criminal cases. Canon Law dealt with all matters concerning the clergy and clergy had a very wide meaning.

Basically if you could read it was assumed that you were in some sort of 'Order of Clergy', this could be one of the minor orders, which didn't really mean a lot, or one of the higher orders where the

rules where stricter. Although celibacy was the rule, it was often flouted. Assize Courts followed the King around the country and so didn't visit any area very often.

3. The Church of England had a very large say in what went on. Roman Catholics were effec-tively barred from doing almost everything as, at least legally, were classed as followers of the Jew-ish religion. None-Conformists [Methodists/Baptists etc.] didn't exist.

4. The stocks and the pillory were the usual punishment for all kinds of offences. Each village had to have a set of stocks to retain its identity or become a hamlet.

5. Judicial Mutilation was usual. Cutting off or slitting ears, slitting noses, branding, blinding, chopping off hands or feet and flogging [whipping up to 50 strokes] was normal. 6. The scolds bridle (various styles) was in use and both sexes where punished this way.

7. Being dead was no excuse. You could still stand trial. 8. No Habeas Corpus until 1679

9. Frankpledge, a hangover from the Norman Conquest, was in force. The deceased was as-sumed to be French unless proven to be English as this allowed far harsher sentencing.

10. The 'Hundreds' were in use. A town or, if big enough, village was split into areas of 100 men [women and kids under 12 didn't count] who were held responsible for just about everything that went on in their 100. The 100 could be heavily fined if a murderer, thief, robber, etc wasn't

found, sometimes even if he/she was. 11. NO POLICE FORCE. The local lord, or burgesses if there were enough of them, could ap-

point a Constable to police the area. He was paid from any fines he levied. No training or knowl-edge of the law was required.

12. The Law varied from place to place and time to time at the whim of the local lord, the local court of burgesses etc (if any), or the Monarch. Also by custom and practice of the area. 13. Witchcraft, although illegal and punishable by burning at the stake or hanging, was often

commuted to a few hours in the stocks, a few months in prison and a promise not to do it again. 14. Unless infirm or ill attending church every Sunday and on certain feast or fast days was

compulsory.

The old village stocks in Chapeltown, Lancashire,

Wikipedia image

1564 the market place

Mistress Hood and Penelope looked at each other startled. For each saw a mirror image of themselves on each other‘s face.

The stallholder sought to interest the obviously higher born Penelope by her dress and

demeanour, with her lace, ribbons and fancy buttons, but to no avail, as Penelope haugh-tily waved her away.

Mistress Hood stood amazed, holding before her the neatly wrapped brown paper par-cel of the tools of her theatrical trade, of linen and wool cloth, thread, base wire, button and lace.

Penelope‘s ladies maid was burdened only with a fancily wrapped shawl of exquisite weave of silk and embroidered gold wire and real pearl.

Penelope looked down her nose at Mistress Hood‘s drab brown dress and surmised her lowly status.

‗And who might you be, girl?‘ ‗If you will, My Lady, I be Mistress Hood of the Queen‘s Players come to offer the most

discerning of plays Ma‘am.‘

‗Ah! I will tell my father and see if your Troupe can offer an Audition for our next ball at the Hall.‘

‗Oh you are too kind, My Lady.‘ The Ladies Maid handed Mistress Hood Her Lady‘s calling card. ‗Give the card to your Master, my girl, direct.‘ ‗Of course, My Lady.‘ And in return Mistress Hood handed the Queen‘s Player‘s flyer, fancily calligraphic in

hand of quill pen to the Ladies Maid, who rolled it up and put it in her pocket tied to her frock‘s belt. (ACW)

CELEBRATE

NATIONAL POETRY DAY With

RBW library group on Monday 30th September

With a poetry session led by

MAL DEWHIRST Staffordshire Poet Laureate

http://www.nationalpoetryday.co.uk/

Reading children a bedtime story is declining, says a new survey

12 Sep 2013 Publicity Release

A survey by the company Littlewoods has shown that one parent in every three never reads their children a bedtime story. The study suggests that bedtime reading has dropped by almost a third in a generation. 91% of

parents surveyed also saying they were read to regularly as children. Stress and lack of time were the main excuses given for not reading to their own children. The findings tie in with National Literacy Trust research which showed that 1 in 4 families also do

not sit down for a daily chat over a meal. To counter the drop in bedtime reading, Littlewoods.com has launched a story competition for

children aged seven and under. The campaign, is designed to encourage more bedtime story reading in the UK, will see children aged up to seven-years-old enter a drawing competition. As part of this, children will be asked to

create their own tale by submitting an illustrated storyboard based around adventures with a magi-cal friend.

The winner will receive a £200 shopping spree to spend online at Littlewoods.com, as well as be-ing invited to the audio book recording. 10 runners-up will also receive £50 to spend with Little-woods, and their storyboards will be given pride of place on a specially created online site.

Postal entry to: Bedtime Story Competition, Cow PR, 15 Bermondsey Square, London, SE1 Closing date for entries is 27th September 2013

A Verse to St. Swithin’s

St Swithin‘s day it turned out wet, For forty days it‘s rain,

Each day we watch the forecast, But alas it‘s all in vein,

Cloud and drizzle a little sun, Each day it starts the same,

The next day it turns out fine, And gives you hope again.

Fifteenth July the decisive day,

And forty more to come, Whole phase of the moon and more

Before we get the sun, Big depressions sweeping in, Low cloud and mist it brings,

Broken cloud and sunny spells, Muggy warm evenings.

The local show the village fete,

A chance they have to take, It just by luck rain holds off; Bring folks through the gate,

Just one day a year it is, And just a few hours that day, Six whole days since Sunday,

When the vicar‘s was meant to pray.

Hay makings been put on hold, And the corn is getting ripe

The grass matured and gone to seed, But who are we to gripe,

We take what comes from day to day, Work along as befit,

It‘s frustrating all the waiting about, Enough to make ya spit.

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My lost poet for this week is Morten Nielsen,

(1922 – 1944).

I cannot find a photograph of Morten, which is un-fortunate, but then again it allows me to picture

him as I want too. I have the freedom; to do this, to read his work and to capture in my mind the importance and privilege of being free.

Morton Nielson was born in Alborg, Denmark in 1922. He was a Danish poet who is recognised as

being symbolic of his generation‘s desire for free-dom, which saw him being killed, aged 22 for his participation in the organised Danish resistance

against the occupying German forces in World War II. Not an agitator, Not a martyr – Morten Nielson

was a poet. His poetry expresses his thoughts and those of

his countrymen, faced with living under the forces of occupation, his work in contrast to his contem-poraries, is still read in Denmark. A full collection of his poems was published ten years after

his death. His poem Death is very well crafted, where each verse builds upon the next from Death

as the acquaintance he once met as a child when some one dear to him died. To the ever present stalker, always around him, living on the edge of everything he does, always on the

side, as an almost omniscient presence, living in the light above a forest floor or as a moan that hovers over the sleepers mouth, Both the poet and Death are aware of each others presence and that one day they will meet.

It shows him living with death and not fearing it, almost accommodating it into his life, always aware that on the edge of freedom lives those forces that want to suppress. Free-

dom does not come with a blissful, contentment, it is something that is fought for and for which those of us who enjoy it, have to take a carefully, considered responsibility in how we use it.

Another poem – Moment, captures moments in past summers and compares them to a moment in a war time summer. Rain is the central theme, cleansing, life giving, taking

pleasure in the stillness. http://allpoetry.com/poem/8627433-Moment-by-Morten_Nielsen

There is very little on the web about Morten, sketches of his life, the two poems I men-tion above and no photographs.

But the two poems are magnificent examples from a man tied by the bonds of war and

occupation, with no certain future, capturing a presence in a way that continues to touch people.

Morten Nielson, shook the hand of Death in Copenhagen in 1944, a city where today, I have many friends, a city that has many freedoms not least the village of Christiania, the

original hippy village, built from the remains of a military barracks. Freedom is not to be taken lightly, on the edge of freedom, on the side lines, in the

breath of the sleeping, in the light above the forest floor stands death, waiting to extinguish

it. The considered responsibility that comes with Freedom means that we take care in our

actions, that we consider the outcomes and the impact on others. That we do what is right and not take ourselves on a selfish ego trip, just because we can, we need to weigh up the consequences.

Some may argue that this is not freedom, that the self controlling barriers are the Death that is trying to extinguish it. So many people see Freedom as the means of criticising the

current order of the things; I like to think that freedom is the means that allows me to offer alternatives.

Death

Death I encountered when I was a boy. But only as a stillness in one dear to me. Never as something around me, a coldness, a shadow no one can name by name or get to leave. Never as the coldness of some strange thing As depth on depth in stiffened muscle band. As if I fell and fell in a coldness without space from holding a stranger‘s cold hand in my hand. Now I know it once more, here and everywhere. It stands in the silent light above the forest floors. It moves like a dizzy distance in the summer sky above the sleeper‘s mouth it lies like moans. It waits, always just to the side of things, a shadow, invisible, along veins and stones and trees. It makes it richer with the new seconds and more evil. And it is always close to me. But we conduct no conversations with each other, neither at dawn nor when the stars form fleets. We just know both of us that the other is there. No more is necessary. One day we‘ll surely meet. © Morten Nielsen. Added for educational purposes by volunteers and provided at no charge.

http://sv.wikipedia.org/wiki/Morten_Nielsen_%28poet%29

Karl Bent Lebrecht (Morten) Nielsen, born 3 January 1922 in Ålborg, died 29 August 1944 Wikipedia image.

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