RBW Online

ISSUE 272 Date: 8th February 2013

Ever tried writing a comedy? How hard can it be? More instalments of the 2013 farce start on page 9

(Inspired Druidic (?) poetry thanks to children‟s author Yan Watwood)

‘The toenail of a ginger cat

The left wing of a vampire bat

A frog, a slug, a bee, a rat

Fry together in bacon fat.

Hooray, hooray, hooray for that.’

Wyllfa the Druid rehearses

Merlin’s secret spell and

gets it all mixed up ...

Oh dear ...

Issue 272

Page 2

Cover

Images

F. Hickey

C. Massey

Happy Days ... Launch of the Seaside Memories Project at the Gatehouse Theatre May 2010

Chinua Achebe (born November 16, 1930) is a Nigerian novelist, poet, and critic. His

first novel, Things Fall Apart (1958), is claimed to be the most

widely read book in modern African literature.

The world is like a Mask dancing. If you want to see it well, you

do not stand in one place.

Arrow of God (1988)

For an African writing in English is not without its serious set-

backs. He often finds himself describing situations or modes of

thought which have no direct equivalent in the English way of

life. Caught in that situation he can do one of two things. He can

try and contain what he wants to say within the limits of conven-

tional English or he can try to push back those limits to accommodate his ideas ... I submit that

those who can do the work of extending the frontiers of English so as to accommodate African

thought-patterns must do it through their mastery of English and not out of innocence.

Quoted by Kalu Ogbaa, Understanding Things Fall Apart (1999), Greenwood Press.

Quotes from Things Fall Apart 1958

The sun will shine on those who stand before it shines on those who kneel under them.

Chapter 1 (p. 11)

When the moon is shining the cripple becomes hungry for a walk. Chapter 2 (p. 14)

We shall all live. We pray for life, children, a good harvest and happiness. You will have what

is good for you and I will have what is good for me. Let the kite perch and let the egret perch

too. If one says no to the other, let his wing break. Chapter 3 (p. 22)

A proud heart can survive general failure because such a failure does not prick its pride. It is

more difficult and more bitter when a man fails alone. Chapter 3 (p. 27)

The Ibo people have a proverb that when a man says yes his chi says yes also. Okonkwo said

yes very strongly, so his chi agreed. And not only his chi but his clan too, because it judged a

man by the work of his hands. Chapter 4 (p. 29)

“You will have what is good for

you and I will have what is good

for me. Let the kite perch and let the egret perch too. If one says no

to the other, let his wing break.”

LIFE OBSERVATIONS When a grandma finds that using a sledge hammer causes the heart to go into palpitations it’s probably a good idea to accept the ravages of time and call in a builder. The roots on established shrubs can be as thick as a man’s forearm. Something to con-sider if planting them over the top of drains. Thought should be deeper than the spoken word. Writing as part of a team in a group project does several things: it encourages the idea that writing is a creative process which can be self-disciplined and one can learn to write to a deadline with practice. It is a very big ask ... to ask a writer to read another writer’s work ... to do so takes time away from their own limited writing time ... and probably the subject matter will be of abso-lutely no interest to them because of the specialist genre nature of writing for a market. Asking a crime writer to read a rom-com for example ... If writers need a second opinion that’s what editors are for ... And yes, they aren’t free ... Their time is not voluntary.

Issue 272

Page 3

Burrow noun a rabbit home, a small snug place made by digging Supposition noun hypothesis something suggested that might be true without much proof but with some basis of previous evidence Lethargy noun tiredness, physical slowness and mental dullness due to lack of sleep, drugs, disease etc lack of energy, activity or enthusiasm Dupe verb to trick someone, to persuade through deception Fug noun thick stale atmosphere, airless, stuffy Contemptuous adj showing or feeling contempt, to demonstrate strong dislike and utter lack of respect Skirl noun shrill wailing, high pitched sound typically from bagpipes Hyperborean noun legend member of far Northern Peoples Incorrigible adj impossible to change or reform, unruly and unmanageable Concourse noun large open space where people might gather Inveigle verb persuade to charm or entice someone to do something out of character, to obtain by persuasion

Happy Days ... Launch of the Seaside Memories Project at the Gatehouse Theatre May 2010

Concourse Euston 2007 Wikipedia image

CLIVE’s three FREE e-books NOW PUBLISHED on RBW and issuu

http://www.risingbrookwriters.org.uk/DynamicPage.aspx?PageID=52

http://issuu.com/risingbrookwriters

Issue 272

Page 4

Steph’s two FREE poetry e-chapbooks now 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 NOW PUBLISHED on RBW and issuu.com

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

DynamicPage.aspx?PageID=52

http://issuu.com/risingbrookwriters

Random Words: match, stalk, doughnut, tou-tou, sandwich, sum-mary, orange, river, meditation, hazard Assignment: Tricks of memory

re.Lit Live! - Monday 4th February 2013, 8-10pm (UK time) at www.radiowildfire.com It's that day of the month again when Radio Wildfire goes live and targets your ears with another two hours of the best poetry, story, and spoken word, all of it sent to us on cd and uploaded to us through the Submit page of the Radio Wildfire website by writers and performers around the globe. In tonight's programme tracks from a new cd by Michael W.Thomas plus contributions uploaded to us from France, Ireland, the USA and the UK by Madison Shadwell; Stephen Mead; Aly Stoneman; Mark Good-win; Gable Ratchet; Bissecta and Kinsâme from Montpellier; 6&8 (Rory McCormick with Jessica Peace); and Savaran in a collaboration which features words from TraiSkin. There's a play written by Nic Bowden and produced by Cornucopia Radio; and we have another excellent short story written and read by Catherine Vallely, a tale of life in post-Franco Spain. Plus we'll be scouring our archive for suitable po-

ems and performances on the theme of love and being martyred with arrows, for a celebration of St Valen-tine. The show is presented as always by poet Dave Reeves.

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. Spo-ken 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! Follow Radio Wildfire on Twitter @ www.twitter.com/radiowildfire WHAT IS RADIO WILDFIRE? Radio Wildfire is an independent online radio station which blends spoken word, poetry, performance litera-ture, 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 (a recording of the live show) plays 24

hours a day.

Issue 271

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Here We Go Again

Well, once again it’s over And we celebrate twelfth night.

Down with the decorations And every twinkling light.

The ceramic Father Christmas And nativity scene are boxed,

We’ve carefully wrapped the fairy, and folded up the socks.

We’ve sorted through the Christmas

cards Some addresses we’ve amended, We’ve savoured happy memories Of friendships that have ended.

So, once again it’s back to work

The daily grind has started, We need to keep our spirits up, And mustn’t get downhearted.

For, we have to mount the treadmill,

Get our lives back into gear, We’ve lists to write and cakes to make Well, next Christmas will soon be here.

© Janetto | Stock Free Images & Dreamstime Stock Photos

Some odd thoughts on CLOTHING and its COLOURS NB: Historic facts have been mangled and some dramatised out of existence - or maybe not.

As many have pointed out humans are one of the many Ape variants. One of the many

differences is that somewhere along the line our remote ancestors lost their fur; which could have been either gross carelessness or brilliant forward planning. Running around in a state of furlessness is a reasonable thing to do provided you live in

the tropics, however, our remote ancestors had other ideas about that and, being foot loose and fancy free, they decided to move house.

At that time any postman who happened to be around would have had a difficult time of it as the address was, 'Somewhere in what will be Africa‟. Continental Drift being what it

is, it wasn't in the same place, and it wasn't the same Africa that we know. This one was well watered, fertile and had a lot of tree cover where we expect deserts and scrub land. “Go North Young Hominid!” said the ancient, lying basking in the sun, to his young rela-

tives. “There's a land of fruitful opportunity up there for lively young folks. You could have your own hunting grounds and fishing pools without any problem.”

But, like all travel agents of the time, his brochure had a gap in it. “Eeh bah gum,” Young Hominid, who was obviously a Proto-Yorkshireman, said after a few years of travel, “ Hecky thump. It's a bit parky up here come evenings. I'm glad we all

got these here animal skins for warmth.” “The fire's not a bad idea either,” put in Mrs YH. “At least it keeps us a bit warmer when

it gets cold and scares the animals away.” “Don't hold with all this cookin' though,” said slightly older and set in their ways homi-

nids. “Never had nothin' like it when I were your age. Nor this cave livin' neither, the trees was good enough then and I reckon as how they're good enough now.” But they took no notice of him, or her as the case may be.

“What we need is,” Mrs YH said to the group, “something much better before we go much further into the cold lands. Something that'll keep us warmer and not smell as much.

Form a committee, focus group or a task force or something. Get your heads together and see what you can come up with.”

Like all committees it took a while to come to as near a conclusion as they get. “Knitting and Felting is the way to go, at least for now. We've some other ideas in the pipeline but they'll take a while to develop,” they reported.

Like all state-of-the-art ideas the geeks, or maybe the nerds, jumped on the bandwagon and, before you could say 'Woolly Mammoth' or possibly 'Sabre Toothed Tiger,' there were

knitting and felting groups all over the place. Fast forward a few centuries. “What d'you mean, it's not very colourful and you want to

stand out from the background? It's brownish init that's what colour the woolly stuff we get off the goats is, what colour d'you want it to be. Red, Blue, what? You're daft! If you get yourself ate by some carnivore or or some'in' I'll never speak to yer ag'in?”

Eventually colours did come into clothing. “That's a pretty good colour,” said one experi-menter to another, “What you goin' ter call it then? We got Blue an' we got Red an' we got

that leaf colour what they calls Green, so yer can't use them names.” “Dunno. The other half say we should call it Yeller (Yellow, gedit?). 'Cos she all'us yellin' at me to get a brighter colour. I reckon her's right too. There's problem tho', it dunner last

long afore it fades away.” “Needs more work then! Well my great gran said it were fad.”

They went back to their smelly dye vats. Then somebody invented weaving and colours really took off. It wasn't that there were

any more colours but that you could do some interesting things with them. Plain weave, still the easiest to do, could become the ever popular checks as did the forerunners of tartans. By over dyeing the wool before spinning more and more colours

came off the weavers looms. Of course matching a colour was a matter of miss and some-times hit, but it was colourful anyway.

http://www.worldbookday.com/ Publicity Information World Book Day: Thursday 7 March. Exciting plans for this national event have now been revealed. As previously, an excellent range of £1.00 books will be available for children aged 2-11 including titles by top authors Francesca Simon, Lauren Child, Anthony Horowitz and Shirley Hughes.

Along the way somebody had invented tailoring and that was a whole new bag of snakes. Before that

the weaver took a piece of cloth off her loom - yes it was essentially a female activity - and sold it on as a more or less finished article. “Just needs a bit of sewing up down the side dear and it'll fit beautifully.

The daughters got a piece of stuff there you could use as a nice belt. A few bits of metal on it, Silver or Bronze would go nice as a buckle, and you've got a best dress for the new year celebrations.”

Now it was; “Well you'll need the right sleeves of course. Long, very full, sleeves are the in thing this year, and the length and fit will have to be maintained. The old kilt effort, skirts they're starting to call them, is long out of fashion in this part of the world. Specially at this time of the year; it's the draughts

you know! There you are sitting down to a nice dinner when that wind blows and we all know where it goes don't we dear? Not at all nice up the south end it isn't. I do wish somebody would invent under-

wear. Of course you'll need a hat and some shoes to go with that. If you pop next door my Son-in-law has some nice hats, very stylish, and I'm sure he has ones that should go well with that new dress. Talk to

my daughter though; he's as mad as a hatter!” Not quite a Superstore but everybody was happy about things.

Then somebody discovered how to dye things really BLACK! A very expensive way and in the Northern, and Monied, hemisphere it became the 'Must Have' colour

for centuries. If you could afford black you'd arrived. The Armies could only afford to clothe the rank and file in the much cheaper Whites, Reds, Yellows, Greens and Blues so they got stuck to those. Anyway they were prettier and frightened the enemy

more. Things carried on this way until the C17 medical profes-

sion got involved in searching for cure for diseases by way of this new fangled Chemistry. However, being too much

Alchemists they weren't, at first, that good at the cures but they did get moving on dye stuffs. Soon new, colour-fast, reproducible, dyes were coming out of the labs. With

the Industrial Revolution finished cloth was coming out of the factories at hundreds of metres per day.

Now cheap black was available and everybody could wear it, so it more or less started to go out of fashion. Clothing changed, more and more frequently for the la-

dies, but slowly for men and we now have a, historically strange, reversal of roles where the male human peacock-

ing around is still something of a rarity but brightly col-oured female clothes are normal.

Right then. I haven't even touched on materials yet, but that's enough of my blithering on about things for this session. BFN!

More next week ...

A foot-treadle operated Hattersley

& Sons, Domestic Loom, built

under license in 1893, in Keighley, Yorkshire.

Wikipedia image loom weaving

YE SLIGHTY OBLONG TABLE OF TRENTBY

YE CAST OF CHARACTERS NB: Historical accuracy is NOT encouraged

Nobles and similar Harffa Ye Kyng. Not ye sharpest knyfe in ye drawer. Queen Agatha (the tight fisted) Don Key O‟Tee Spanish ambassador to Court of Kyng Harffa .. Wants saint‟s big toe back Baron Leonard Bluddschott (Stoneybroke) Gwenever Goodenough Wyfe of ye Baron Della Bluddschott Ugly Daughter of Baron Bluddschott. GalLa of Hadnt Hall A Prince but Charmless Daniel Smithers Constable of Bluddschott Castle and maybe the Corowner of the County Old Maids Vera, Gloria and Bertha husband hunting sisters of Baron Bluddschott Evil Sherriff and Baron Morbidd up to no good Morgan le Fey king‟s evil sister - Merlin the king‟s magician

Ye Knights [they‟re better during the day] Lancealittle, Dwayne Cottavere, Percivere Mailish (Narrator) Page to Baron Bluddschott (Probably Son by wife‟s sister)

Religiouse Lionel, Bishop of Trentby keeper of the Mappa Tuessdi Abbot Costello of Nottalot, a Nasturtium Abbey desperate for pilgrim pennies Vladimir A monk from far off somewhere, a Calligrapher Wyllfa the Druid Sorcerer

Others Big Jock A Welsh poacher and short wide-boy. Robbin‟ Hoodie another poacher and wide-boy. Peeping Barry member of Hoodie‟s gang of miscreants Clarence the cook and a Wandering Troubadour

None living The Ghostly Sword of Bluddschott Castle The Mappa Tuessdi ... Velum maps of the known world bought in a bazaar in Constantinople for a few pennies by Vladimir oft times copied The toe bone of St. Gastric. Gallstone of St. Hilarious Crocodile and a Unicorn and a Dragon carved in stone

Good luck, we ’ l l need it ...

Issue 272

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WYLLFA REHEARSES (YW)

As soon as Sirs, Lancealittle, Cottavere, Percivere and Dwayne had departed,

Wyllfa read the secret recipe a few times and then attempted to learn his lines. It

was more difficult than he imagined, but soon he was confident that he had

memorised everything and putting down the parchment, he started to chant in

his lyrical Welsh voice.

‘To help them in the pot, I’ll tie them in a knot.

To help them in the pot, I’ll tie them in a knot.

To help them in the pot, I’ll tie them in a knot.’

It was some time before he realised his mistake and then he swore in the

lyrical Welsh language before moving on to an easier part of the spell.

‘Sage, Thyme, mustard and cress,

Three herbs that are known to bless.’

Wyllfa was sure he’d remembered the herbs correctly and resisted the urge to

pat himself on the back or peep at the parchment. He was pleased with himself,

but pride comes before a fall… even for wily Welsh Druids.

‘When mixed together with horse’s wee.’

They lead the way to love’s first kiss.’

That didn’t sound quite right, but he moved swiftly on…

‘Love’s first p**s makes horses kiss.’

It’s only a bit wrong, I’ll correct it later, thought Wyllfa. He was sure he’d get

the next bit right…

‘The toenail of a ginger cat

The left wing of a vampire bat

A frog, a slug, a bee, a rat

Fry together in bacon fat.

Hooray, hooray, hooray for that,’ sang Wyllfa. He attempted the next lines.

‘Empty into a copper bowl and vigorously boil the whole lot.’ That’s nearly right

he told himself.

‘Cool the mixture down.

Let the lovers drown.’

But no way could that be right. Wyllfa didn’t sing about adding a blade of

grass, because the only thing he could think of to rhyme with grass was quite

rude. He would check the parchment later.

Wyllfa vaguely remembered something about the new moon’s light, but it

would be impossible to stir the concoction with a kite.

He’d check later. Now he remembered, the mixture had to be stirred with a

silver spoon.

‘I’m glad the performance will be over soon,’ he sang, reassuring himself that

his memorising was perfectly fine for a first attempt.

Next he inspected the parchment again. The actions it stipulated were com-

pletely ridiculous, but to achieve his ambition and outwit Merlin, he would have

to think of a way to make them seem acceptable.

The knights had assured him that Merlin was concentrating hard and had a

serious face while mixing the potion. All four knights agreed that the atmosphere

over the spot where Merlin worked was enchanted and hypnotic. They were obvi-

ously very impressed by that.

Wyllfa was impressed by the fact that Merlin’s love potion had brought about

the engagements of two of the ugly Bluddschott sisters. If this fact wasn’t

enough to encourage Wyllfa to carry out the instructions for making an effective love potion,

then the thought that he might soon be proposing to Gloria was. It was that or fleeing to the

hills. He decided to give the manufacture of the secret potion his best shot, stay in Trentby,

get three of his knights married to the three Bluddschott sisters, knock Merlin off his pedes-

tal, and avoid marriage at all costs. Good plan!

He even wrote down his plan in bullet points, (before they’d been invented.)

Learn the secret recipe

Practise hard

Stay in Trentby

Get knights to marry sisters

Dethrone Merlin

Avoid marriage

When learning the ingredients and procedure for making a secret love potion seemed dif-

ficult, Wyllfa looked at his bullet points and they encouraged the worn out Druid to keep go-

ing.

Practice makes perfect, he told himself, (before anyone had thought of this phrase). (YW)

WYLLFA CONJURES UP A PLAN - A BRILLIANT ONE

Wyllfa had spent a great deal of time and energy trying to memorise the lines of Merlin’s se-

cret recipe, but the Druid kept getting the words mixed up and in the wrong order. The reali-

sation that the parchment itself was enchanted came in a flash. Merlin, the cunning English

wizard, had written the formula down in such a way that no one could remember it.

But Merlin hadn’t reckoned with the wily Welsh Druid. Having recognized the futility of try-

ing to learn the lines as they appeared on the parchment, a plan sprung to Wyllfa’s mind;

not just any old plan; but a really brilliant plan. Wyllfa felt very pleased with himself and won-

derfully Welsh and so he did what he usually did on victorious occasions such as this; he

draped himself in the large flag he’d painted on an old sheet. The bottom half of the mate-

rial was dyed green and the top half left white; in the centre was a picture of a magnificent

red dragon, breathing fiery red flames. If only registered Trade Marks had been established

during Wyllfa’s lifetime, he’d have been an overnight sensation and multi-millionaire.

Being blissfully Ignorant of TMs, he stood in his turret workroom, as proud and formidable

as the fiery red dragon draped around his shoulders. He inhaled deeply and sang, ‘My Welsh

pride I will not hide. My Welsh race I will not disgrace,’ which was pretty ironical considering

that some years ago and in the middle of the night, he’d had to flee from his homeland. But

now was not the time to remember the past.

Having sung a couple of lines of what would eventually become the start of the Welsh Na-

tional anthem, Wyllfa set about converting the plain English words on the parchment into

the unpronounceable Welsh language.

The translation was brilliant and Wyllfa memorised the entire script in record time. Next,

he had to find an acceptable way to carry out the mysterious, somewhat, demeaning actions

and so he summoned the knights.

‘I’ve uncovered the secret of the secret recipe,’ he told them when they came eagerly into

his presence.

Sirs, Lancealittle, Cottavere, Perceive, and Dwayne shared a look of surprised awe, but

only Dwayne knelt down and kissed the Druid’s feet. Wyllfa showed them his Welsh transla-

tion and told them that Merlin had tried to trick him by using a complicated code, but he had

cracked it as far as the words were concerned, however, he needed their boyish athleticism

to help him with the actions.

The knights, overwhelmed by the honour Wyllfa was bestowing on them, promised to do

everything required of them to the best of their abilities.

‘When we get to the courtyard, you will need to take off your armour and strip down to your

breeches,’ Wyllfa told then.

‘Will I be able to wear my pretty pink scarf? asked Dwayne.

Wyllfa was about to say, of course not. Don’t be ridiculous, but stopped

himself. He only needed to get three of the knights married and so he smiled and said. ‘Of

course, Sir Dwayne. That shade of pink will help us with our magic.’

Dwayne sighed with relief and Wyllfa smiled as he picked up the original parchment and

led the way to the courtyard where the knights stripped to the waist revealing their muscular

bodies.

‘I need you to practise some simple exercises to break the spell that Merlin has placed on

this parchment,’ he told the gullible four. ‘The more you flex your muscles the greater our

magic will be.’

The knights were pleased to oblige because all of them were proud of their well-built bod-

ies. Years of sword practise and no actual battles had ensured that the young men were free

of unsightly scars and at the peak of masculine loveliness.

Wyllfa had chosen carefully the time and place where the knights would reveal their rip-

pling muscles. The ugly sisters’ rooms overlooked the courtyard and, because the recipe re-

quired that Wyllfa count backwards from a hundred, it would give them time to rouse them-

selves and look down on the scene below.

‘I will start the counting,’ said Wyllfa, raising his arms as Merlin had done. ‘I want you to

raise your swords in the air and turn round slowly, making sure you show off your perfect bod-

ies. Feel the rhythm as I count and alter the position of your swords as I alter the position of

my arms, but be very careful you don’t cut one another.’

Having said this Wyllfa shouted out, ‘One hundred,’ as loudly and as lyrically as he could.

The knights played their part, looking mind-tinglingly attractive. They held their poses until

Wyllfa shouted ‘Ninety-nine,’ but the sisters didn’t appear. However, before ninety-five had

been reached all three old maids were looking out of the castle windows. Wyllfa was de-

lighted and carried on counting down, the knights kept posing and the sisters kept watching.

‘Three…Two…One,’ sang Wyllfa, finishing the first action by coughing three times and pat-

ting his head. He hadn’t managed to find any mistletoe, but didn’t think this would matter too

much. He asked the knights to place their swords down on the ground and skip round them

three times, displaying the intricate, light-footed steps of accomplished sword-fighters. The

sisters were impressed. Their opinions of the noble knights were definitely changing.

Wyllfa was wondering how bunny-hoping could be made to look manly and decided to alter

this action slightly to include intermittent press-ups as the knights move around in three cir-

cles. This done, he instructed them to jump back to their feet and raise their swords in the

air again as he counted back from thirty. Wyllfa reached the end of the numbers and the

knights were asked to throw their swords in the air and catch them. They performed this task

perfectly and the watching sisters gasped in admiration. At one time they considered the

young men as idiots and not worth bothering with, but not anymore.

Bertha was asking herself if the feeble Baron Morbid could possibly do press-ups, bunny-

hop in a circle and skilfully throw a sword in the air and catch it. Vera doubted that the rotund

Don Key O’ Tee would look so attractive if he stripped down to his Spanish breeches. And Glo-

ria was deciding which of the three knights she liked best. Because of Dwayne’s delicate wav-

ing of his pink scarf, Gloria had ruled him out as a husband, but she couldn’t chose between

Sir Lancealittle, Sir Cottavere or Sir Percivere; all were adorable supermen.

Wyllfa’s gymnastic exercises had been a magnificent triumph. (YW)

VERA, BERTHA AND GLORIA CONSIDER THEIR OPTIONS

Bertha and Vera sighed forlornly as they moved away from the castle windows, but Gloria

looked happy for the first time since her sisters’ engagements. What a difference a day

makes! Yesterday she had abandoned all hope of finding a husband, but since the

knights’ courtyard workout, the tables had turned.

Gloria wasn’t daft; she knew that Wyllfa had a purpose in organising the training as he

had. Three virile knights and a not-so-manly one had been put through their paces for her

benefit alone. She had no idea that breaking her sisters’ engagements was part of

Wyllfa’s master plan.

Thinking that Bertha and Vera were spoken for, and ignoring the scarf-waving Dwayne,

Gloria quite naturally believed that as the other three had been vying for her affection,

she’d be in the glorious position of choosing her man. What a fantastic situation for an un-

attractive, unmarried spinster!

For hours her sisters had been gloating about their betrothals, but now poor Bertha

was saddled with the feeble Baron Morbid, a suitable name for such a depressing man

and Vera was lumbered with the rotund, Spanish onion-chewing, Don Key O’ Tee. Gloria

felt an unholy tinge of spiteful pleasure, but she needed to verify her suspicions with the

Welsh Druid as soon and as discretely as possible. And so, when her sisters went out for

their morning ride, Gloria feigned a headache and crept off to see Wyllfa. (YW)

Later that same night

After Wyllfa had left the scullery after much head scratching and wringing of hands by

which Mailish gathered he hadn’t a clue how to release the mythical beings trapped in

the fireplace or to find the way to Atlantis. Mailish had taken his new acquisition from its

hiding place under his straw mattress into the large kitchen and dropped it onto the ta-

ble. It didn’t look much, and he had the feeling he’d been ripped off. Surely this lump of

dirty old metal couldn’t really possess magical properties?

‘You’re too gullible for words!’ he told himself.

But, with a polish with some more goose grease, maybe he could get it to look a bit

more impressive, and that way, he would be able to be seen out and about with it

strapped to his side like a real young gentleman.

Oh yes, he’d soon have that hunk of metal shining like new.

He rolled up his sleeves and set to. And truth to tell, his efforts paid off. Decades of dirt

and tarnish gave way to a bright, shiny blade and intricate guard, hilt and pommel came

up like new. Mailish was pleased with his efforts.

‘Hm. Maybe it wasn’t such a pig in a sty that I bought after all,’ he mused contentedly,

giving it one last buff for luck.

But his musings were suddenly rudely interrupted by a whoosh, the likes of which the

young squire had never before heard in his (admittedly relatively) short life. There before

him, in the middle of the kitchen floor stood a stranger. Not just any stranger that is, but

an exotic stranger, muscular, swarthy, bare from the waist up, wearing long, brightly col-

oured pantaloons and sporting a turban.

Mailish fell back into his chair with fear and trepidation at this unexpected apparition.

‘Oh Master,’ the stranger began. ‘I am the genie of the Sword, and I am at your com-

mand!’

To say Mailish was taken aback would be the understatement of the century. But he

was a quick-thinking lad, and didn’t want to look this gift-horse, or to be more accurate,

gift-genie in the mouth. This could be great news!

‘Oh, I see,’ he said, addressing the scarcely-clad man. ‘And what exactly does that en-

tail?’

‘Master, I am able to grant your wishes, as the rightful owner of the Great Sword of Har-

ffa… within reason. What, oh great one, is your command?’

The page rubbed his hands in delight.

‘Well, to kick off, I’d like a nice girlfriend. Not one of those silly village girls, you under-

stand. No, as a young squire, I am looking for a suitable match… a social equal… a

woman of standing. Can you see to it?’

‘Sire, I will give the matter my immediate attention. It shouldn’t be too difficult to find

someone who is female and standing’.

And before Mailish had time to explain to his new friend that ‘of standing’ didn’t mean

simply ‘vertical’ with another whoosh, the genie was gone.

Previously, after a bread an water breakfast ...

King Harffa wanted to impress on his hosts, the Bluddschotts the importance of their

visitors. It seemed to him that they regarded him and his retinue as a bit of a trial. He

would show them that they needed to treat him with the respect due to a royal person-

age.

‘I’ll give them a quick flash of my sword, and unleash its magic powers. That will be

sure to concentrate their minds and change their insolent attitudes.’

Truth to tell, The Great Sword of Harffa had hung, almost forgotten, for some time

over the great fireplace in Wentalot Castle, there having been little call for it in bat-

tle, or for the slaying of dragons, and the king only reached for it when he travelled

to other parts of the kingdom, and needed the trappings of his position, along with

his other regalia.

As he withdrew it from its scabbard with a dramatic flourish, and twirled it round

his head in a great arc, he made a mental note that it didn’t fit quite as snugly into

the scabbard as he thought it ought. In fact, the tip of it didn’t actually reach right

down to the bottom, being a little shorter in length, and it was a tight fit width-wise.

Odd.

He hoped the magic would still work, or this could be a huge embarrassment to

him. He, like the sword, was a bit rusty, and he nearly took off the ears of a young

servant standing close by, as he wielded it and brandished it before his nervous au-

dience, who, as one, took a step backwards.

King Harffa rubbed the sword and waited. Nothing. He rubbed again. Still noth-

ing.

‘Gadzooks!’ he cursed. ‘By the blood of our forefathers, that dratted genie must

have fallen asleep… or perhaps died.’

He wondered to himself if genies DID die. The last time Harffa had had occasion

to call on his magical powers, he remembered having thought that the exotic man

had looked somewhat tired, more lined and certainly older than he was when the

Great Sword was handed down to Harffa from his esteemed father, the previous

king. Harffa couldn’t say that the magic man was greyer, because his head was

completely shaved, and he always wore a turban. But maybe the magic had run out,

evaporated, or dissipated and wasted away through lack of use. He wasn’t sure. At

any rate, this time it wasn’t responding. He rubbed one more time, whilst the fasci-

nated audience watched in a mixture of trepidation and wonder ... and felt some

slight indentations near the top of the blade.

On examining the precise spot, he read three words: ‘Made in Sheffield’.

Enlightenment slowly dawned. This wasn’t

the Great Sword of Harffa at all, but some

poor facsimile. He, the King, had been

duped! In a terrible fury, he hurled the sword

as far as he could and boomed at the top of

his voice

‘SAWDID! Where is that pesky fellow? By

heavens, you’ll pay for this, you pimple-

cheeked lackwit!’

Axecaliber flew through the air, above the

terrified onlookers, who all ducked down and

took cover… and fell with a loud ‘plop’ into

the middle of the lake, sinking from sight.

As the surface of the water calmed, a ring

of bubbles arose from the murky depths, and

the head of a large and ferocious crocodile

emerged for a moment, opened its powerful

jaws, and gave an angry SNAP!

(PMW)

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http://www.thepoetrytrust.org/stuff

Stuff Magazine. The Poetry Trust's latest news, events, podcasts and publications is now available online. This issue

looks at an in depth audience response survey of the Aldeburgh Poetry Festival 2012.

Latest Competitions: YorkMix/York Literature Festival Poetry Competition | Closing Date: 28-Feb-13 http://www.poetrylibrary.org.uk/competitions/?id=1298 Society of Civil and Public Service Writers/Herbert Spencer Poetry Competition | Closing Date: 28-Feb-13 http://www.poetrylibrary.org.uk/competitions/?id=1301

Flash 500 Humour Verse Competition | Closing Date: 31-Mar-13 http://www.poetrylibrary.org.uk/competitions/?id=1295

Poetry on the Lake 13th International Poetry Competition | Closing Date: 22-Apr-13 http://www.poetrylibrary.org.uk/competitions/?id=1303

New Magazines: Black Light Engine Room, The http://www.poetrylibrary.org.uk/magazines/magazines/?id=676

Butcher's Dog http://www.poetrylibrary.org.uk/magazines/magazines/?id=675

POEM http://www.poetrylibrary.org.uk/magazines/magazines/?id=674

Latest News: Groups and Workshops Listings | 29-Jan-13 http://www.poetrylibrary.org.uk/news/library/?id=1013

Wanted - London Poets! | 28-Jan-13 http://www.poetrylibrary.org.uk/news/poetryscene/?id=1012

Poetry Magazines received in December 2012 | 22-Jan-13 http://www.poetrylibrary.org.uk/news/library/?id=1011

Poetry Magazines received in November 2012 | 16-Jan-13 http://www.poetrylibrary.org.uk/news/library/?id=1010

Sharon Olds Wins Twentieth Anniversary T S Eliot Prize | 16-Jan-13 http://www.poetrylibrary.org.uk/news/poetryscene/?id=1009

Free Fall Jump! Engine noise drifts away. Silence. Only wind rush in your ears. Falling, falling, forever falling The ground impossible Nothing holding back Nothing on your face but joy Wind whipping at your face Clothes like sails or wings of a bat The ground is impossible. Chute fails. You smile Tears whipped away. Reserve tangles. Slow motion of time: Space and time become one. Wind from the South not your friend Carries you for miles Away from the sea Your only hope. The trees are impossible. The inevitable happens. The last day, living The last hour, excitement The last minutes, terror Exhilaration, never so alive The last second, resignation. Landed. Gone. ©SMS 2013

Assignment: Free Fall Picture Faith Hickey

Issue 271

Page 20

Some detective work is needed here. In the loft I found this very old book encased in a protective leather cover. The recipes and „good ideas‟ are bonkers and bordering on the dangerous — there‟s a cracker for sooty chimneys involving lighting explosives in the grate. The front pages are missing so I don‟t know the age of the publication, its title, or who wrote it, but it‟s a fair bet that it‟s out of copyright. It has been „amended‟ by someone, probably Grandpa, who scored out some of the more dangerous suggestions. The Hair to Arrest Falling (below) is a hoot ... clearly „health and safety‟ hadn‟t been invented when this tome was published.

The Way We Were

When I was a child, we played lots of games, Like ‘hopscotch’, ‘hide and seek’, ‘hit and

run’, Unlike all the children we see today,

Who sit and press buttons with their thumbs.

We played outdoors, and loved climbing trees,

We had gangs; and splashed about in pools Had there then been any ‘Health and

Safety’, We would surely have broken their rules.

In the old days our pleasures were simple,

We just loved playing out together, With our toys and our imagination We shared times we would always

treasure.

Technology now has impinged on our lives, We’re turning into a press button nation

Many consider this to be progress With X-boxes, i-pads and play stations.

But I have to confess I do not agree

Maybe I’m just stuck in my ways All these gizmos and gadgets maybe hailed

as the best Yet how I long for the Good Old Days.

Winter

Cold and dismal afternoons Curtains drawn at three,

No rays of sun to keep me warm Just a welcome cup of tea.

Frosty mornings, cosy bed It’s hard to start the day,

But I struggle to make the effort Work to do and bills to pay.

After a steaming bowl of porridge

I go out to clear the snow Chat to woolly hatted neighbours

Back indoors, I’m all aglow.

Switch on music, stoke the fire Have a read, then phone a friend

Just because it’s cold outside Enjoyment mustn’t end.

We have to make the most of life,

However bleak the season, We must grab the moment, seize the day

Only then we’ll find life’s reason.

This morning I discovered mine, And it made me want to sing,

There were snowdrops in my garden So, ‘Farewell Winter, Welcome Spring!’

Feb 2011

© M

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© Velkol | Stock Free Images & Dreamstime Stock Photos hopstotch

Bonfire Night

I’ve just been to a bonfire ‘do’ it was held in a very posh park We had cocktails and canapés on the lawn as we waited for it

to get dark The evening was terribly civilised, we mingled and chatted a

bit Then on the dot of six o’clock, both the fire and the fireworks

were lit.

A kaleidoscope shower of colour descended from on high Explosive sparkles of every hue filled the November sky

And so it continued for more than an hour our sense all bom-barded

Then, after mince pies and coffee, we said our goodbyes and departed.

On reflection the evening was pleasant, but if I’m honest, I

have to say It didn’t hold a Roman candle to the bonfire nights of my day.

Back then as a child we had such fun, the whole neighbourhood got together

We’d gather wood, and pile it high, no matter what the weather.

We made a ‘Guy’ and in a pram, pushed it from door to door Collecting pennies as we went, to buy fireworks by the score.

On November the fifth, we assembled: family, friends and neighbours.

Then we tossed the Guy atop the fire and set alight the wood of our labours.

Next, some of the dads lit the fireworks, Catharine wheels,

jack jumpers and flares The everyone gathered together for all the refreshments we

had to share WE had hot potatoes, treacle toffee and parkin, sometimes we

had mushy peas But one thing we all shared together was the wish for an eve-

ning to please.

And please we did when I was young, Bonfire night was a night to remember,

So, I’d like to raise a glass and say ‘Three cheers for the fifth of November.’

© R

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