RBW Online

ISSUE 267 Date: 14th December 2012

Toast is non-alcoholic fruit punch

Issue 267

Page 2

Cover:

Stockfree

Images

Cannock Chase : pathway by

Sister Dora Nursing Home only

five minutes walk from main road

How I Wrote the Tarzan Books (1929)

I have often been asked how I came to write. The best answer is that I

needed the money. When I started I was 35 and had failed in every enter-

prise I had ever attempted.

I sold electric light bulbs to janitors, candy to drug stores, and Stoddard's

Lectures from door to door. I had decided I was a total failure, when I saw

an advertisement which indicated that somebody wanted an expert account-

ant. Not knowing anything about its I applied for the job and got it. I am

convinced that what are commonly known as "the breaks," good or bad,

have fully as much to do with one's success or failure as ability. The break I

got in this instance lay in the fact that my employer knew even less about

the duties of an expert accountant than I did.

I determined there was a great future in the mail-order business, and I landed

a job that brought me to the head of a large department. About this time our

daughter Joan was born. Having a good job and every prospect for advance-

ment, I decided to go into business for myself, with harrowing results. I had no capital when I started and less when I

got through. At this time the mail-order company offered me an excellent position if I wanted to come back If I had

accepted it, I would probably have been fixed for life with a good living salary. Yet the chances are that I would

never have written a story, which proves that occasionally it is better to do the wrong thing than the right. When my

independent business sank without a trace, I approached as near financial nadir as one may reach. My son, Hulbert,

had just been born. I had no job, and no money. I had to pawn Mrs, Burroughs' jewelry and my watch in order to buy

food. I loathed poverty, and I should have liked to have put my hands on the man who said that poverty is an honor-

able estate. It is an indication of inefficiency and nothing more. There is nothing honorable or fine about it. To be

poor is quite bad enough. But to be poor without hope ... well, the only way to understand it is to be it.

I had gone thoroughly through some of the all-fiction magazines and I made up my mind that if people were paid for

writing such rot as I read I could write stories just as rotten. Although I had never written a story, I knew absolutely

that I could write stories just as entertaining and probably a lot more so than any I chanced to read in those maga-

zines. I knew nothing about the technique of story writing, and now, after eighteen years of writing, I still know

nothing about the technique, although with the publication of my new novel, Tarzan and the Lost Empire, there are

31 books on my list. I had never met an editor, or an author or a publisher. l had no idea of how to submit a story or

what I could expect in payment. Had I known anything about it at all I would never have thought of submitting half a

novel; but that is what I did. Thomas Newell Metcalf, who was then editor of The All-Story magazine, published by

Munsey, wrote me that he liked the first half of a story I had sent him, and if the second half was as good he thought

he might use it. Had he not given me this encouragement, I would never have finished the story, and my writing ca-

reer would have been at an end, since l was not writing because of any urge to write, nor for any particular love of

writing. l was writing because I had a wife and two babies, a combination which does not work well without money.

No amount of money today could possibly give me the thrill that first $400 check gave me. My first story was enti-

tled, "Dejah Thoris, Princess of Mars." Metcalf changed it to "Under the Moons of Mars."

With the success of my first story, l decided to make writing a career, though I was canny enough not to give up my

job. But the job did not pay expenses and we had a recurrence of great poverty, sustained only by the thread of hope

that I might make a living writing fiction. I cast about for a better job and landed one as a department manager for a

business magazine. While I was working there, I wrote Tarzan of the Apes, evenings and holidays. I wrote it in long-

hand on the backs of old letterheads and odd pieces of paper. I did not think it was a very good story and I doubted if

it would sell. But Bob Davis saw its possibilities for magazine publication and I got a check ... this time for $700.

I had been trying to find a publisher who would put some of my stuff into book form, but I met with no encourage-

ment. Every well-known publisher in the United States turned down Tarzan of the Apes, including A.C. McClurg &

Co., who finally issued it, my first story in book form.

Edgar Rice Burroughs (1 September 1875 – 19 March 1950) American

author of science-fiction and adventure stories, most famous for Tarzan

Wikipedia image

LIFE OBSERVATIONS Practical skills are often looked down on by those who have attained higher education qualifications until the day comes when their washing machine breaks down, or their boiler packs up, or their drains are blocked. A blocked drain is a great social leveller. It would seem some of the excesses of the 1960s are finally coming home to roost - perhaps that generation of „free love‟ did have a price tag after all. “The nitrogen in our DNA, the calcium in our teeth, the iron in our blood, the car-bon in our apple pies were made in the interiors of collapsing stars. We are made of starstuff.” ― Carl Sagan Funniest story I heard this week: a police motorbike escorted two coaches along the A34 last week and took them to Port Vale Football Ground only to find they weren‟t full of football fans but an elderly ladies‟ choir who had been des-tined for the King‟s Hall, Stoke-on-Trent for a concert and were now, because of the unwanted interference, half an hour late for their performance. You couldn‟t make it up could you!

Issue 267

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Pluralist noun the existence of groups with different ethnic, religious, or po-litical backgrounds within one society/sociology the policy or theory that mi-nority groups within a society should maintain cultural differences, but share overall political and economic power/Christianity: the holding of more than one office or position by somebody, especially in a church/philosophy the phi-

losophical theory that reality is made up of many kinds of being or substance/ the state or condition of being plural. strategic adj relating to, involving, or typical of strategy or a strategy/necessary to a strategy, or done because a strategy requires it. identifiably verb to recognize somebody or something and to be able to say who or what he, she, or it is/to consider two or more things as being entirely or essentially the same. wrangling verb intransitive verb to argue persistently and angrily/ to obtain something or persuade somebody by arguing persistently.

antisocial adj hostile or indifferent to the comfort or needs of other mem-bers of a community or society as a whole/preferring not to spend time with other people. dissidents noun somebody who publicly disagrees with an established po-litical or religious system or organization.

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 267

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: revolution, monopod, lost, extraordinary, Will o’ the Wisp, remedy, hopeless, maybe, Wallaby, Jemima Assignment: Resolutions

Have a lovely holiday but please remember

to still send in your memories, poems and items for the bulletin

during the long break.

Library workshops start up again on 7th January 2013

RBW team send warm wishes to all our readers and

contributors for a happy holiday and a peaceful 2013

and, of course, our grateful thanks for all your support in 2012.

Issue 267

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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 big toe back Baron Bluddschott (Stoneybroke) Gwenever Goodenough – Wyfe of ye Baron Della BluddschotT - Ugly Daughter of Baron Bluddschott. GalLa of HADNT - 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 SISTER TO KING - MERLIN THE MAGICIAN

ye KnyghtS [they’re better during the day] Lancealittle, Dwayne Cottavere, PerciverE Mailish (Narrator) PAGE to UNCLE 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 where A relic abides—desperate for pilgrim pennies Vladimir A monk from far off somewhere — 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 WANDERING TROUPADOUR

None living The Ghostly Sword of Bluddschott Castle The Mappa Tuessdi ... Velum mapSof the known world bought in A bazaar in Constantinople for a few pennies BY VLADIMERE & COP-IED oft times & Much copied The toe bone of St. Gastric. Gallstone of St. Hilarious

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‘Percivere says that there's a group of strolling minstrels at the gate, Aunt

Gwenn. Shall he let them in to entertain us tonight?’ Mailish panted into the So-

lar to report,

Gwenn, Lady Bluddschott pondered. With the money she had from selling her

mother’s jewellery they could afford some decent food tonight; and there was al-

ways plenty left over.

‘Are they any good? You're into the youth scene; have you heard of them, Mail-

ish?’

‘An up and coming band, Aunt Gwenn. You may not like them because they

play Rick and Rowel musick. They used to call themselves 'The Liverpool

Luthiers' but they changed it last year. The last time I heard it was some sort of

creepy-crawly you'd want to step on.’

‘How loudly do they play, Mailish? Is it loud enough to drown out the boring old

battles and stuff that the Kyng keeps dragging up?’

‘Not that loudly, Aunt Gwenn. If you like, I can ask Wyllfa if he can do some-

thing to make it louder. I'm sure he has a handy spell up his sleeve, or under his

hat, or something.’

And so it was arranged:-

'The Liverpool Luthiers', or whatever they called themselves today, were to play

an assortment of Rick and Rowel Musick over the meal time. Dwayne was to do

the interval entertainment, if he could remember the punch lines, and then

Dance Musick to end up with.

Wyllfa had what he called 'The Volume Control' firmly arranged, although Mail-

ish couldn't see a book about anywhere, and Lady G was pleased.

Nobody asked what Harffa and Agatha thought. Let sleeping Kyngs lie –

which he usually did - was the idea.

The first course, a thick brown soup, went down well. A lot of it went down the

front of Harffa's tunic. He was doing well in his progress towards being a merely

messy eater. Another four or five years and he'd be able to do without his bib,

possibly.

Then the fish course. Aggy, naturally, didn't like the sauce it came with. It was

too rich and should be taxed she said. Up to his ears in the middle of a roast

beef leg, both elbows in the gravy and a dab of mustard decorating his nose,

Harffa was in his element.

When the roast capon with caper sauce was served Baron Bluddschott leaned

across to his wife and, under cover of the slavering and drooling, said, ‘Do you

think he's going to go soon, Gwenny? If we keep this up I can see him stopping

for another month or more.’

Lady B was sure that the scene would not be repeated. ‘I haven't said anything

but we're starting a fast tomorrow, Leonard. I've got Bishop Lionel to declare one

for us. Just wait, after three days on bread and water he'll be away from here so

quickly all you'll see is a hole in the horizon.’

'The Liverpool Luthiers', or whatever they were calling themselves tonight,

played a selection of tunes. At least the Baron, who wasn't a Rick and Rowel fan,

couldn't think of any other name for them so they must be tunes.

'I love me thank goodness', went down reasonably well. 'We all live in a blue

sort-of house', needed more work on the lyrics, and their theme tune lacked just

about everything. Still it was loud and drowned the sound of Harffa eating and

telling tall tales.

During the interlude Dwayne remembered his punch lines, mainly, and his

trick of turning wine into water went down well; mainly down the front of Aggy

and her new dress. By accident. Of course!

Dancing was committed and quaffing allowed until late at night. To their de-

light Vera, Gloria and Bertha found themselves in the arms of several young(ish)

nobles of the Court and came over all unnecessary, and, their aim improving

with practice, fainted several times.

When the candles guttered out the party went to bed, although, in the dark,

some of them got confused as to just where 'their' bed was and had to 'share'

with somebody else.

‘A good party, Gwenny,’ Len said as they snuggled down.

‘Yes, and I've got the rest of that beef hidden away for us in the morning,’

came the reply. ‘No fasting for us!’

Earlier at the banquet ...

‘Here he comes, Sire,’ muttered Mailish into Baron Bluddschott’s left ear. He did-

n’t need to all eyes in the feasting hall were fixed on Baron Morbidd. The gristle

pated Knight made an imposing figure as he strode towards the dais and bent

his knee towards the King.

‘Arise Sir Knight,’ said Harffa with a wave of welcome. ‘You do us honour by

your presence at these festivities.’ Mailish couldn’t help noticing the King’s other

hand had tightened on the pommel of the great sword at his waist.

‘I could hardly stay away from my own betrothal feast, Sire,’ grinned Morbidd

in a display of green molars and the leeriest grimace towards the now lovely

Della who, upon his entrance, had attached herself to Prince Galla’s arm as if

affixed by gum-Arabic.

‘Ahh yes, about that,’ stammered Baron Bluddschott from the far end of the

board. ‘Could I have a word?’ With that Baron Leonard attempted to stand and

promptly tripped over his dress sword and managed to land face uppermost in a

plate of marmalade goose. Lady Gwenny shook her head in despair. What a

plonker she had married.

‘My Lord Morbidd,’ she said rising to the occasion as her husband shook

sticky gravy from his whiskers. ‘Could you do me the honour of accompanying

me to the solar for a private discussion of terms?’

‘How can I refuse such a request from such a fine lady?’ the Baron of the Five

Wells replied with a flourish and followed in her wake as she quitted the ban-

quet.

‘That went better than expected,’ said Wyllfa to Merlin as they scurried in the

entourage of the Lady of Bluddschott castle.

‘What no blood soaking into the rushes?’ whispered the mage wishing he had-

n’t got such a hangover from the afternoon’s drinking session. ‘It isn’t over yet.

Wait till she tells him he’s being palmed off with the ugliest sister – the one with

the ...’ he stopped there as Wyllfa was wearing a deep frown, ‘ and a three part

share in a draughty manor house.’

‘Ahh,’ said Wyllfa, ‘I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that Lady Gwenny

wants a boon.’

‘A boon, you say!’ said Merlin in a stage whisper as he pulled Wyllfa into the

light from a flaming torch sconce, ‘What sort of a boon, and more importantly,

what’s it worth to me?’

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‘Worth?’ said the Druid. ‘I don’t know. What do you want? It’s only a couple

of little spells,’ he crossed his fingers at such a big lie, ‘or even a very strong

potion, she needs.’

‘Love potion number eight?’

‘Oh nine, my friend. Morbidd and Bertha are definitely a nine.’

Merlin rubbed his forehead in alarm, love potion number nine was the stuff of fairy folk:

very strong stuff, a drop too many and a person so affected would be bound forever to what-

ever, or whoever, it first clapped eyes upon.

‘Very well. I’ll make some. But understand this I want something in return.’ Wyllfa waited

in trepidation for the great wizard’s price. He’d never ever asked for anything before for him-

self, this was unheard of, ‘I want the Great Sword of Harffa. The real one not that heap of

scrap iron he’s carrying about with him. And when I’ve used it, it will be broken in to two

pieces and it will have to be returned to the lake where it was forged.’

Wyllfa paled under his ratty old beard. Merlin was talking of the ‘Prophesy of the line Pen-

drago’ of things of long ago when dragons and unicorns walked the earth and ... at which

point Lady Gwenny’s dulcet tones could be heard yelling in the next room ... ‘Look here toad

face. My daughter’s not yours. She’ll never be yours. Get over it! Take what you’re offered

and be glad any woman would even deign to look at your ugly kisser twice let alone being

tied into the matrimonial knot. I know I wouldn’t.’

‘Another case for counselling, I fear,’ related Merlin, whose ability of seeing into the future

was no gift.

Some days earlier ...

‘Mirror, mirror, looking glass,

Show me what will come to pass

Show me what has gone before

Show me all, open your door.’

The incantation spoken, Morgan le Fey scanned the clearing for any other eyes but hers

and hers alone and satisfied there was no-one within her sphere of influence focused all her

attention on the circle of polished metal held in her hand.

A sparkle of light danced across the silver plane, a purple mist gathered and rose from

the disc in a twisted spiral, voices spoke and spectres flickered in and out of vision the years

fell away until the smoke cleared and three images clarified.

Seated astride the twisted roots of an ancient oak, Morgan’s eyes had darkened to two

orbs of shining ebony as if dilated by atropine, her fingers clutched a sprig of the black ber-

ries of Belladonna tied at a chatelaine’s belt as the mirage unfolded its secrets at her bid-

ding.

The priceless maid and the striking blond youth, the Witch of Tintagel enflamed with jeal-

ousy, her bitter curse and the cruel interference in her plan by the crocodile. All became

clear. The smoke cleared and the silvered mirror trembled, then stilled.

S

tock

free

imag

es

Morgan had an answer. Exhausted, the enchantress stumbled towards Ruthin,

her charger. Using every ounce of strength in her meagre frame she pulled her-

self into the saddle and cantered away towards the castle.

Over what seemed like an age, sunlight dappled across the glade, birds sang

and a family of rabbits nosed into the sunlight, only as their cotton tails bobbed

in the leaf litter did the man hidden in the branches dare to move his frozen

limbs and scramble down from the lofty perch clutching his bow.

Robbin’ Hoodie was not a brave man. But like all streetwise ne’erdowells he

had a strong sense of survival. As he later told Clarence and Mailish in the castle

kitchen, it was these skills in self-preservation that had stilled his breath and

quieted his heartbeat as the powerful necromancer had per-

formed her dark magic in that wooded glade.

Strong ale in hand, Clarence was used to daft stories and

laughed it off, not so Mailish, who taking in the trembling fingers

and wild eye of the entrepreneurial thief, was inclined to belief the

story was true in part. Sometime later, sitting alone on his cot the

young page studied the ancient carving above the forgotten scul-

lery fireplace and scratched his head, perhaps he should tell

Wyllfa what Morgan le Fey was up to, perhaps he could get some

more smelly stuff for these nits at the same time.

The FAST.

‘Any more of that beef left, dear? A slice of ham, possibly? A nubbin of cheese,

even?’ Leonard, Baron Bluddschott, was feeling the pangs of hunger.

‘Len! It's only an hour since you had your breakfast. You can't be hungry yet!’

Gwenn, his help-meet and other half answered. ‘What do you think Harffa's do-

ing for his meal. He only had bread and water at dawn.’

‘Serves him right,’ came the grumpy answer. ‘He can go down to the camp and

steal something. We've got to stay here and go hungry.’

‘Let's go and see Wylffa, dear.’ Gwenn’s suggestion came like a clarion call;

not that Leonard knew what a clarion was. Well, not exactly anyway. If pushed

he'd have described some sort of horse, probably with horns, and wings, as a

second option. ‘I'm sure that he's got something hidden away for emergencies.’

‘You mean he might have the odd haunch of beef hidden away. With some

mustard to go with it? One that nobody wants? Maybe a loaf of bread or two?’

‘Nothing like that, Len. He could have eggs and some sausage, though. That, I

think, would go down well with a mug of tea. Wouldn't it?’

They were out of luck. Although a fried breakfast smell was hanging in the air

like a gossamer veil, the Druid was missing.

‘Oh yes,’ they were told. ‘He went into Trentby about an hour ago, saying some-

thing about seeing the Abbot.’

‘Well! Yes, Wyllfa, I suppose that these beefburgers, or hamburgers as you call

them, don't strictly come under the heading of meat. A bit like a duck being a

fish because it swims I suppose. In fact I'll pass the recipe on to our cook for

lunch.’ He scribbled the ingredients down: minced pork, leek, garlic, herbs, red

wine, fish sauce. ' Issue 267

Page 10

Yes, he thought. 'That's what gets it to be fish for Fridays.'

‘But the fast of St. Brickend has some strict rules.’ The Abbot counted them off on his

fingers. He was never good at sums and needed them to count over three.

‘One. No eating between breakfast and elevenses.’

Wyllfa winced; that was a tough act to follow. Even for a Druid.

‘Two. Only bread and water until tea time. Although butter and jam or honey may be

taken after midday, but only on day's that end with a Y.’

Wyllfa relaxed. That was okay, he could do that. Two out of three times anyway, mainly.

‘Three. All fish eating is to be done with the left hand.’ The Abbot paused to gather his

thoughts. After all this was a new one to him as well. ‘I'm not sure that I follow that one but

that's what they tell me.

Something about, 'Oh you eat a hake with a left-hand break,

and it's a grand, great time. I believe.’ He paused, again, to gather his thoughts. He was-

n't sure about it, he could have misheard that one. Still, faint heart never filled offertory cof-

fers, or so it was said; and he was being dunned for payment for that Mappa Thingy (even if

it was a dodgy copy).

Wyllfa wasn't bothered, he was ambidextrous; or was that amphibious - he'd never really

got that one sorted out - but he could eat with either hand so he could do that.

‘Four. All water to be diluted with wine. That's the lot.’ The unhappy Bishop concluded. He

didn't much like the idea either, and he'd nearly run out of fingers.

Harffa was not a happy Kyng. ‘Bread and water? Bread and water! That's all I get for

breakfast! What about some of that beef we had last night?’

Queen Agatha sank down onto her chair. ‘Do you good, dear,’ she said. ‘Do you good! It'll

get some of those pies and pasties out of your system. More exercise and less eating for a

few days will be good for you.’ Aggy the Mean was in fine form.

Harffa wasn't sold on the idea. 'I'll go and get some stuff from the Royal Wagon Train', he

thought. 'They'll have a fried breakfast for their dear old Kyng down there. I'm sure.'

He set out with visions of slabs of fried bread oozing lard, Mounds of sausages lying, glis-

tening, on a salver, Heaps of bacon awaiting his attention, mountains of fried eggs quiver-

ing in candle light, chunks of Liver and a dozen kidneys sitting in tangy sauce, strings of

black pudding lying there, darkly, starkly, ready to fill an aching void, Rows of broad beans

and a field of freshly fried mushrooms floating, ethereally, before him.

He was out of luck.

The cooks had packed up their gear ready to move out.

‘I'm very sorry, your Majesty, but there's no food left for ten miles around here,’ he was

told by the Head Butler. ‘We've bought and hunted the place out in the last few days. We've

only got bread and water left, which is good be-

cause of this St. Brickend fast being on for the

next three days. Of course we could do you a

few pancakes, but if you want real food you'll

need to order the court to move on.’

stockfreeimages

Can you remember your first job?

Or ...

Were you ‘called-up’ to do a stint of

National Service?

If so please send in your memories for

the 2013 memories project asap.

We hope to be able to collect enough

material to produce an e-book of memories.

As we no longer have the funding, or staffing, to go on a com-

munity tour collecting memories then we will have to think

laterally and produce the project in another way.

If you have old photographs that would be great ... scanned

in and sent as jpegs please.

My First Job

Did you work as a Saturday girl, or boy, while still at school?

Did you become an apprentice?

Did you start in the family business?

What princely sum were you paid for long hours?

National Service

Brasso, blanco and bull? Remember all that?

Nissan huts and square bashing, how did that appeal to a

Teddy Boy?

How much of a culture shock was this?

Did you go anywhere interesting?

What did you learn from the experience?

Were you the square peg in the round hole?

In retrospect did you gain anything from the time served?

This book won’t write itself ... We need your memories! Issue 267

Page 14

Debut Dagger Update 1 November 2012 - 2 February 2013 (Extract : see full bulletin on http://us4.campaign-archive1.com/?u=309bdda99c8364a6971f4db82&id=90b3d39414&e=cdcb43676e Bulletin No. 3 – 8 weeks to go Entries are already coming in. I‟d like to remind everyone to read the competition rules before submitting their entry. A few mistakes have crept into some entries already received and a couple of common themes are noticeable. Please ensure that personal information is not included on your entry. Judges need to read the stories “blind”, with no indication of the identity of the author. Hence, names should not be included on any of the opening pages of the novel or the synopsis. Keep your entry within the limit of 3,000 words, in addition to the synopsis of 500 - 1000 words. Judges won‟t have time to read more than that and we need to keep a level playing field to ensure fairness. For a reminder about the rules, take a look at the link below.

http://www.thecwa.co.uk/daggers/debut/rules.html

A Year Gone By - Win £25

FORWARD POETRY COMPETITION As we approach the conclusion of another year, we‟d like to invite you to write a poem on the sub-ject of the past year. 2012 has been a year to remember for Britain, with the Queen‟s Jubilee and the success of Team GB at the London Olympics. What were your memorable moments from the past twelve months? Was there joy, heartache, an unforgettable holiday? Compose a poem and let us know how 2012 turned out for you.

Closing Date: 28th December 2012

Rules

Free to enter

Open to all ages

One entry per person

No line limit (within reason)

No restrictions on poetic style or form How to enter Online poetry competition upload: You can upload your entry directly to us using our online up-load page. Remember to fill in all fields.

Email: You can email your 'A Year Gone By' poem to inbox@forwardpoetry.co.uk, including your name and address (and your age if under 18). Make sure you include 'A Year Gone By' in the sub-ject line.

Post: Send your entry form, along with your name and address to: 'A Year Gone By', Remus

House, Coltsfoot Drive, Woodston, Peterborough, Cambs, PE2 9BF

Please Note: RBW does not endorse any third party

workshop, competition or event.

William Henry Davies or W. H. Davies

(3 July 1871 – 26 September 1940)

Welsh poet and writer.

Davies spent part of his life as a tramp,

in the United Kingdom and also the

United States, and yet went on to be-

come a popular poet of the Edwardian/

GeorgeV era. The recurring themes in his

work are the marvels of nature, life's

hardships, his own adventures on the

road and the characters he met on his

travels.

Leisure

What is this life if, full of care,

We have no time to stand and stare.

No time to stand beneath the boughs

And stare as long as sheep or cows.

No time to see, when woods we pass,

Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass.

No time to see, in broad daylight,

Streams full of stars, like skies at night.

No time to turn at Beauty’s glance,

And watch her feet, how they can dance.

No time to wait till her mouth can

Enrich that smile her eyes began.

A poor life this is if, full of care,

We have no time to stand and stare.

William Henry Davies

Davies in 1913, photographed by Alvin Langdon

Coburn - image available on Wikipedia

Mrs O’Connor’s Chocolate Cake ...

This recipe was found tucked between the leaves of a South African Cookery Book. The book was part of the contents of the home of a wonderful old lady, Miss Evelyn Dann, who died a few years ago in her mid nineties. Miss Dann had been born in what was then colonial Africa and was an educated woman both well read and very well travelled. Who Mrs O’Connor was is unknown but judging by the style of the writing this recipe could be at least 60/70 years old.

What you need

6oz Flour

3 & a half oz Butter 4oz Sugar

1oz cocoa Pinch of salt 2oz Desiccated Coconut

1 egg Vanilla Essence

1 teaspoon baking powder Milk

What you do

Sieve flour, baking powder, cocoa and salt.

Rub in the butter—add coconut and sugar. Stir in the beaten egg and vanilla essence.

Mix to a nice consistency with some milk Bake at 395 degrees for 45 to 60 minutes

Barren Sliced like cold liver on a butcher’s slab, Ripped from its moorings By blue gloved hands. This pod of creation Sacrificed to prolong bearer’s life. Tattered reminder: Torn and shredded by attempted Foetus. Parasitic growths Taking all and leaving Nothing but devastation. The quick and the dead Both leaving their bloody mark. Now a void, a distant memory. Strange webs of knotted strings, Distorted digestive pathways. The moon holds no dominion The flood, too, passes into memory, Becomes buried in reminiscence. These barren depths which Duty fulfilled again and again, Like unseen medal ribbons, Hanging from an old man’s coat, Creation more worthy than any badge of honour, Quietly define matriarchal status on the road to oblivion. SMS Dec 2012

© Ronyzmbow | Stock Free Images & Dreamstime Stock Photos

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Print Express Poetry Competition | Closing Date: 27-Dec-12 Details: Theme: Winter. Poems up to 45 lines. Prize: £100 in Amazon vouchers. Entry Fee: £0.00 Contact:

http://www.printexpress.co.uk/blog/2011/10/17/the-print-express-poetry-competition

Holland Park Press "What's your history?" Poetry Competition. | Closing Date: 31-Dec-12 Details: For poems about individual histories with universal resonance. 50 lines or less. One poem per entrant. For poems in English OR Dutch. Judge: Stephen Watts. Prize £100 plus online publication. Please see website

for full details. Entry Fee: £0 Contact: http://hollandparkpress.co.uk/index.php

Thynks Pop a Poem on a Postcard Poetry Competition | Closing Date: 31-Dec-12 Details: Poems up to 14 lines. Judged by the Thynks team. 1st £100, 2nd £50, 3rd £25 (All 3 prizewinners will have 10 postcards with their winning poem printed on them) Entry Fee: £3 Contact: The Competitions Secretary, 18 Hillside Road, Blidworth, Nottinghamshire, NG21 0TR

Website:- http://www.thynkspublications.co.uk/competitions Email: thynkspublications@yahoo.co.uk

Ballymaloe International Poetry Prize | Closing Date: 31-Dec-12 Details:

1st Prize: 5,000 Euros plus 2 nights B&B and one evening meal for two at Ballymaloe House, Co. Cork, Ire-land; 2nd Prize: 1,000 Euros; 3rd Prize: 500 Euros. Winning poems will appear in the spring 2013 issue of The Moth. The competition will be judged by Leontia Flynn. Entry Fee: £6 euros (or 7.50 euros if paying by money order) per poem Contact: Enter online using PayPal or print off an entry form at: www.themothmagazine.com Send cheques/money orders payable to The Moth with poems, entry form or cover letter to:

The Ballymaloe International Poetry Prize, The Bog Road, Dromard, Cavan, Co. Cavan, Ireland

Flash 500 Humour Verse Competition | Closing Date: 31-Dec-12 Details: For humourous poems up to 30 lines. First: £150 plus publication; second: £100; third: £50. Winning entries will be published on the website. Entry Fee: £3 for the first poem, then £2.50 for each poem thereafter

Contact: http://www.flash500.com/index_files/humourverse.html

The Tryangle Project Poetry Competition 2012 | Closing Date: 31-Dec-12 Details: Poems up to 50 lines on any subject. Prizes: £100, £50, £30 and 2 x £10. The Tryangle project is a charity which aims to increase the safety of families who experience domestic violence and abuse. The 2011 poetry competition raised £143.50 for the charity. Judge: Gabriel Griffin. Entry Fee: £3 per poem, £12 for 5, £16 for 7 and £22 for 10 poems Contact: Enter online and pay securely by PayPal or print an Entry Form for postal entries at

http://www.easternlightepm.com/excelforcharity/tryangle/2012/

Sentinel Literary Quarterly Poetry Competition (December 2012) | Closing Date: 31-Dec-12 Details: Poems up to 50 lines. Judge: Noel Williams. Prizes: £150 (1st), £75 (2nd), £50 (3rd), £10 x 3 (High Commen-dation). Publication: 3 winners, 3 highly commended and 9 commended poems will receive first publication in Sentinel Literary Quarterly Magazine. Entry Fee: £3 per poem, £11 for 4, £12 for 5, £16 for 7 poems Contact: www.sentinelquarterly.com/competitions/poetry/For postal entries, send cheques/postal orders payable to SENTINEL POETRY MOVEMENT with poems, entry form/cover letter to: Sentinel Literary Quar-terly Poetry Competition (December 2012) | Closing Date: 31-Dec-12 Sentinel Poetry Movement, Unit 136,

113-115 George Lane, South Woodford, London E18 1AB, United Kingdom.

http://www.poetrylibrary.org.uk/competitions/

The Picture

Belladonna! lovely lady,

Your dark eyes wide,

Your skin so white,

To what artifice do you owe your looks?

Your portrait is admired now

On the gallery wall,

But you yourself are dust.

Were the pupils of your eyes made large

With atropine, distilled from Deadly Nightshade?

Were your cheeks made pale

With powdered lead?

Was your beauty worth the sacrifice?

No lady today would do these things-

Botox and silicone are so much safer.

Joy Tilley

Wikipedia image: Belladonna

Issue 267

Page 21

Is it too late To enjoy a lost Spring? Maybe so. Is it too late To find the one thing That makes life worth living? I really don’t know. The trouble of life Without passion Seems nothing but strife, That I certainly know. How once I loved to walk these woodland glades, To watch his loping stride with dogs at heel And see the sunlight glinting on a mane turned gold; Tall and proud as the beast whose name he bears A lion in my life. And still we walk the wooded glades with dogs at heel, But I no longer watch the loping stride, Or see a greying mane turned gold by glinting sun. This lion in my life, still tall and proud, Is just another man. I stood beside the shuttered boat, Watched the swirling chimney smoke; Windows blind, Tight closed eyes, Wondered are they safe inside? Man and dog; I need to know - And break my word To leave them undisturbed? Which matters most, Whose selfish needs – as all needs are?

Are there times to break ones word, Perhaps to save a life? Or simply to indulge ones own de-sires? And so I walked away Not knowing which, With no decision made.

2

Today I visited the village church, Christmas fete,

Vicar elderly, stiff of gait, Glanced briefly, nodded, turned

away. I hesitated, loath to stay.

But then I caught a glimpse of some-thing bright,

The Holy Family Bathed in dappled light Through stained glass

High in the dimpled wall Where yew tree shadows pass,

And fall.

A tiny child stood gazing at the scene

So still he scarcely breathed. He took my hand, his touch as soft

as thistledown. And so we stood

Close, silent in the dappled light. Then all at once a friendly voice en-

quired, Would I like some tea?

Oh yes I would, How kind to notice me.

I turned back to my companion, He was nowhere to be seen.

I asked after him but no-one seemed to know,

Or be concerned.

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