Call for President

Dear RCLAS Members:

It was with regret that I inform you I will be resigning as President of the Royal City Literary Arts Society. I am a

bookseller by trade and my involvement with this wonderful Society has compromised the time I need to devote

to my young business.

At the last Board Meeting, I reaffirmed my decision with all Board Members and have advised that my

resignation takes effect April 30, 2016. I added that should the Board be successful in procuring an Interim

President before then, I would be willing to stay on for one additional month in order to offer transitional

assistance and support to the successful candidate.

The Board of Directors has begun the search, but here is where you can help: if you are at all interested, or if you

know of a great candidate, please do let me or one of the Board Members know. The individual does not have

to be a resident of New Westminster. Our ideal candidate is someone who:

is outgoing, enthusiastic, organized, communicative, empathetic and can readily delegate

prior experience with a non-profit society is an asset, but not essential

has a love of the literary arts but who isn’t necessarily a writer

has competent expository writing skills and is comfortable with their basic computer skill set

The role of President is such that you will never have to work alone. You will work closely with a highly engaged

and supportive Board of Directors and a growing number of volunteers. It is enjoyable work with a healthy dose

of fun mixed in, and a wonderful way to make a difference in the writing community of New Westminster.

I have been very honoured to be a part of RCLAS and I am very proud of what this Society has achieved in its

three years since inception. So if you (or a candidate you know) feel that you’re even just curious about this

volunteer position, please contact me or a fellow Board Member for an informal chat about what is involved. A

Board Member’s email address is available when you write to our Secretary, Toni Levi, at secretary@rclas.com.

Sincerely, James Felton President Royal City Literary Arts Society jamesfelton@rclas.com Tel: 604-767-6908

RCLAS WRITER OF THE MONTH

Andrew Parkin

Andrew Parkin, a member of RCLAS, published his first poems in Ariel magazine

in Canada. Since then Dancers in a Web, Yokohama Days, Kyoto Nights, Hong

Kong Poems, and Star with a Thousand Moons have also appeared from

Canadian publishers. Two other collections, The Rendez-Vous and Another

Rendez-Vous have appeared in Germany. His scenariode for Sir Run Run Shaw,

Star of a Hundred Years, was first published in India with a Hindi translation by the

poet Anuraag. Two short poems were made into hand-made and illustrated

‘artists books’ by the Parisian engraver, Jacqueline Ricard. These are collectors’

items. Andrew has also published short fiction and a recent novel, Private

Dancers or Responsible Women. This is in paper, hard cover and e format.

Andrew is now revising his first draft of the sequel to the novel. His work has

appeared in a number of journals and anthologies and has been translated into

Chinese, French, and German. Canadian since 1970, Andrew has worked in

three different continents but is now permanently based in Vancouver. Last July

he was invited to Göttingen to talk about and read from his own writing. This

year he will go to Hong Kong to talk and read at a conference on digitalization

and literature. Educated at Pembroke College Cambridge and Bristol University,

Andrew has taught at UBC and at the Chinese University of Hong Kong, where

he is Professor Emeritus and Hon. Senior Tutor of Shaw College. He is also an Hon.

Life Member of the Canadian Assoc. for Irish Studies, Hon. Adviser to the Chinese

Canadian Writers’ Association, and Hon. Adviser to the Chinese Academy of

Social Sciences. He thinks of the Vancouver area and B.C. as a sailor’s paradise

and a haven for writers, offering good working conditions and wonderful

inspiration from Nature.

A Poet’s Curse © Andrew Parkin

I was working on a fiendishly complex academic book about a famous poet who flourished

in the early modern period of the last century. Working on the poet’s manuscripts was a

privilege. But it was apparent from the first that deciphering his hasty and untidy

handwriting was a disastrous venture into uncertainty. One late afternoon in Paris, after

two days of heavy rain, I was struggling with a brief pencil jotting by the poet about leaves

in autumn falling into mud. Or was it mulch? On the ground or on the crown? A

magnifying glass was no help. I turned to my window, heaving a deep sigh, and looked at

a pigeon strutting and nodding as if he knew all there was to know.

What led me to open at a random page the unpublished poems of this writer I cannot say. I

stared at the page and read a curse he had written on those who dared to peruse his

manuscripts. That was exactly what I was doing. Reading, perusing, but not, I hope,

abusing.

I needed to wind down the shutter that covered the window for the night. As I turned the

handle of the winding mechanism it broke leaving me holding a useless handle and leaving

the shutter half closed and stuck. I swore and decided to comfort myself by having a glass

of Sancerre. In the kitchen where I had taken a bottle from the fridge, I heard a thumping

and my wife calling for me to help. She was in the lavatory but couldn’t get out.

“What’s happened?” I called, face close to the door.

“I’m locked in!”

“Well, try to unlock it again,” I said reasonably.

“I’ve tried. Several times.”

“I’ll get a locksmith,” I said.

“No! Get the fire brigade, les pompiers are quicker!”

I saw the truth of this and did as I was told. It took them an hour to get the door open

without breaking it down. A triumphant fireman looked at the door lock. It was simply a

knob that turned in one direction to lock and turned the other way to unlock the door. The

fireman scratched the back of his neck.

“It’s so simple, I can’t see how it could stick like that. Get a lock that can be opened from

outside as well.”

We told him we were very grateful for his help.

“I’m sorry it took us so long,” he said, grinning. “You must have been bored, madame!”

“Not really,” countered my wife, “I had a book of skeleton crossword puzzles in there with

me.”

The firemen left and I went to the computer to look at emails. The computer simply

showed a black screen that was locked and the only thing I could do was turn it off again.

Yet the electricity was working.

Next morning at about eight or ten past, a neighbor from the sixth floor rang our bell. She

was a Francophone woman of Vietnamese origin. We would chat briefly when we met and

she was always very pleasant. That morning she was agitated. Her phone would not work

and so she wondered if we could help.

“How can we help?” my wife asked.

“Phone emergency,” she replied, looking very worried. “I can’t speak to them. I’m so

upset.”

My wife phoned the number immediately. Each question she was asked on the phone she

repeated to our trembling neighbor, who replied in a quiet voice. My wife then repeated

this to the emergency operator. It went like this:

“What’s wrong?”

“It’s my husband.”

“Is he awake?”

“No.”

“Does he move?”

“No.”

“Is he breathing?”

“I don’t think so.”

“They are on their way,” my wife said as she put the phone down.

“Thank you, thank you,” said our neighbor and said she would go and wait upstairs in her

own place.

At about ten o’clock on the same morning our bell rang again. Two large policemen were

at the door.

“Yes?” I said.

“May we come in? It’s about the neighbor up on the sixth floor.”

I ushered them into the sitting room, where they looked at my wife and I as we all stood

there.

“Do you know the couple upstairs?”

“They are neighbours. Mrs Tranh is very pleasant,” observed my wife.

“And her husband?”

“Well, he was usually a bit grumpy and kept a low profile. It was as much as he could do

to wish us good day. But after their recent holiday to visit his natal village in China, he

was all smiles.”

“Yes. It was a bit odd,” I added.

“When did you see him last?”

“Oh, it must have been last week,” I said and my wife nodded in agreement.

“So your neighbor asked to use your phone earlier this morning?”

We both nodded.

“Well, is her husband all right? She seemed worried,” added my wife.

The policeman who questioned us looked at his partner. Then he said, “Her husband

hanged himself this morning. He’s dead.”

We sat down on the sofa. The policemen said they had to go.

“But why was he suddenly so cheerful last week?” we asked.

“Once they have made their decision to die, suicides are relieved. They seem somehow

happier.” With that the policemen left.

My wife went to the phone to get in touch with some friends we were due to see later that

day. Our phone would not work.

“Do something!” she pleaded.

I went to the shop outlet of the telephone company. They would send a technician to see

about both the modem and the phone. The technician who came the following day could

not solve the problem. Another man would come the following day. This man wanted to

know where the main junction box was situated.

“You’re the technician. You should know where it is,” I said testily. I took him down to

the building’s caretaker. Our caretaker was a cheerful man who had a stock of useful

knowledge.

”The junction box is about 350 metres away on the corner of the street. I’ll take you there.

Bring your tools.” The technician followed him with his tools and I followed chewing on

the end of a baguette I bought at the boulangerie at the end of the road.

“Oh would you look at that!” exclaimed the technician.

I peered over the caretaker’s shoulder. The technician had unscrewed the metal cover of

the junction box. There were knots and wreaths of coloured wires all covered by backed up

rain water. There were dead leaves lying in muddy clumps over and under the wires.

“Well, there you have it,” said the caretaker. We walked back to our building.

I told my wife of this little adventure of autumn leaves and pointed out that the manuscript

had been about leaves and mud— or mulch.

Ever practical, she then asked what I was going to do. I told her about the curse on those

who mess with manuscripts.

“Yes, but what are you going to do?”

“I’ll make a counter curse, like Harry Potter.”

“Well I’m making lunch,” she replied, taking the baguette with her into the kitchen.

I thought for a few minutes and then wrote down:

You really ought to lift that curse,

Because I’ve fashioned with my verse

A mirror to reflect your rage

And flash it back upon the page.

The very next day, the telephone worked, the computer worked, the blind was no longer

stuck and the postman delivered a letter from my publisher. I opened the letter and read it

hastily. I grinned and waved it about.

“My publisher is sending me to the National Library of Ireland so that I can study the

originals of the manuscripts.”

“Rather you than me,” said my wife drily.

I went; I saw; I ventured — into the National Library. At reception I was told the

manuscripts I had asked to consult were all in boxes, waiting for me. First, though, I must

report to the Keeper of the Manuscripts.

“And where is he, when he’s at home?” I asked jauntily.

“You’ll be wanting him here not at home. Up the stairs it is and turn left. You can’t miss

his office.”

Upstairs at the end of a small passageway was a door with a frosted glass panel. Black

lettering on the glass proclaimed: Keeper of the Manuscripts. I knocked.

“Come in, come in.”

I opened the door to see a comfortable and cheerful man who stood up to shake hands.

“Welcome to the National Library and the Manuscripts Room,” he beamed. “Did you have

a good trip over?”

“I flew and avoided tripping over!” He laughed good naturedly at my attempt at wit.

“Well, they’re all there for you. How long will you be studying them?”

I should guess for about four days or a week. But did you know that there’s a curse on

those who ferret about with these manuscripts?”

“I did not!” he said, frowning. Did he believe in curses? I asked myself.

“I’ll tell you what happened in Paris.” I recounted the whole melancholy train of events.

The Keeper began to look worried and then shocked.

“But not to worry,” I added. “I wrote a counter curse and everything stopped and my

publisher sent me here, all expenses paid. Alas, the suicide is still very dead.”

The Keeper looked at me with his twinkling Irish eyes over his scholarly–looking half

glasses.

“Do you think I could have a copy of that counter-curse?”

“Indeed you may. I have a copy here on this card prepared specially for you!”

I handed it over to him. He read it whispering to himself. He looked up and smiled. We

shook hands. As I was turning to leave, he said his final words on the subject.

“I’ll keep it under my blotter!”

--------------------------------------------------------------- Copyright Andrew Parkin

SAVE THE DATES

May 13th-19th 2016

New Westminster BC

More info: LITFEST NEW WEST

Raine Storm in Paris © Denise Kemp

Paris, 20 July:

I’m starting this letter to you from a charming cafe in Paris

The heat wave persists and it’s making me restless

I’m missing Cape Town so much – it’s where I was born

But I have to persevere and get my degree from the Sorbonne

I miss you; I’m filled with pain

I’m longing for the rain

In between my studying, I’m trying to write this book once and for all

You believed in me and my fountain of words and how gently they fall

You whispered to me, “You’re an ancient heart;

I knew it from the start.”

Your face is imbedded in my mind

In dreams, the road to you and South Africa is the only one I find

I miss you; I’m filled with pain

I’m longing for the rain

You left when I said you were suffocating me

Your response still rings in my head; “I’ll leave, you’re free!”

You didn’t have to go; I just needed time to write more often

The words are drying up, without you, there’s little inspiration

Paris, 21 July:

Last night, a few rain drops fell while I willed you to return my phone calls

I’ve left so many messages but I’ve heard nothing from you at all

This new day dawned with no sign that the hot land would be drenched;

No sign that my thirst would be quenched

The promise of rain during a long dry season,

Teases like a woman, trying to win back her man

You finally called, but you said you needed to be free

To follow your own path and destiny

This evening, there was an earth shattering electric storm

Well it thundered and roared, just like a woman scorned!

But it was still hot and there was no release in the form of rain

And I was still wracked with pain

Paris, 22 July:

This morning I did a rain dance and I prayed out loud,

Far too desperate in the heat and humidity to feel proud

The postman arrived with your letter and I grabbed it from his hand!

I read the good news and instantly rain fell and cooled the hot land

From the Arc de Triomphe I admired the brightly lit Champs de Elysees

Thought I saw the ghosts of Napoleon and Josephine smile as I shared my glee

I revelled in the rain storm and the sweet smell of the rain soaked earth

Paris was finally rejuvenated and I tasted the rain to quench my thirst

I'm finishing this letter by the fire while I enjoy the warm glow

I’m sipping wine and there’s a gentle tap of rain at my window

A light breeze sweeps in under the door -

And I want more

So refreshing is our love, just like the rain

I’ll see you soon! I love you. From your sweetheart, Raine

http://rclas.com/membership/become-a-member/

Check out poet Franci Louann's "THREE NEW WEST POETS" in

the April issue of Piffle Magazine. You may know the poets!

April is National Poetry Month

Let’s Celebrate

Write a poem

Attend a poetry event

Buy a book of poetry. Buy a dozen!

Support the Literary Arts! # NPM16

Janet Kvammen, RCLAS Vice-President/E-zine janetkvammen@rclas.com

Antonia Levi secretary@rclas.com

Open Call for Submissions - RCLAS Members Only

May/June: Theme – No Theme!

Poetry, Short Stories, Book excerpts & lyrics are all welcome for

submission to future issues of Wordplay at work.

Deadline 15th day of the current month for the upcoming issue.

No E-zine in July and August.

Submit Word documents (include your name on document title) to

janetkvammen@rclas.com

VOLUNTEERS NEEDED!

Call for President

If you would like to participate in a single event, or make an even

bigger contribution, please contact our event coordinator.

Director/Event Coordinator: Sonya Furst-Yuen

sonya.yuen@rclas.com

WORDPLAY AT WORK FEEDBACK & E-ZINE SUBMISSIONS

Thank you to our Sponsors

City of New Westminster

Arts Council of New Westminster

New Westminster Public Library

Judy Darcy, MLA

Renaissance Books

100 Braid Street Studios

The Network Hub - New Westminster

Boston Pizza

The Heritage Grill

Original’s Restaurante Mexicano

See upcoming events at www.rclas.com

www.poeticjusticenewwest.org

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April 2016 Wordplay at work ISSN 2291- 4269

Contact:

janetkvammen@rclas.com RCLAS Vice-President/

E-zine Design

National Poetry Month http://poets.ca/npm/

“Poetry is when an emotion has found its

thought and the thought has found words.”

― Robert Frost

“Poetry is just the evidence of life. If your life is burning

well, poetry is just the ash.” - Leonard Cohen

Summer 2016

Starts again in July!