ISSUE 307 Date: 11th October 2013

Bloxwich poet, Tom Wyre, takes up his appointment as Staffordshire‟s Second Poet Laureate at a prestigious event on

National Poetry Day held at Baswich Library to celebrate

Mal Dewhirst’s successful year and pass-ing on the baton to the next Poet Laureate.

LIFE OBSERVATIONS Going on holiday abroad alone for the first time is good for one‟s self-confidence, and one‟s circle

of friends, if not for one‟s pocket!

A letter from the Teachers‟ Pensions folk made me wince. Not once, but twice did it contain apos-trophe errors, as follows:- “If you wish to nominate your daughters‟ as beneficiaries of your pension entitlement……”

These are the folk who represent the custodians of grammar!

If a toaster trips out the lights when four slices of bread are slammed down together, then it is

likely that the lights will all go out if the same action is repeated the following day ... and the day

after that ...

Call yourself a crime writer ... Then why are the British Police called the OLD BILL?

http://www.theguardian.com/notesandqueries/query/0,5753,-23636,00.html

This web page has a number of suggestions as to who was „Old Bill‟ and what facial hair has to do

with anything ... It‟s an interesting page ... My money‟s on the old gent with the moustache.

http://ibnlive.in.com/news/delhi-shopkeeper-runs-school-for-

street-children-under-a-metro-bridge/399955-3-244.html

Is it only me being sentimental, or does this ordinary man need

some help and some recognition? He is one person really trying to

make a difference: I think that‟s inspirational. Issue 307

Page 2

Conflagration noun large destructive fire

A conflagration is one term for a great and destructive fire that

threatens human life, animal life, health, or property. It may also

be described as a blaze or simply a (large) fire. A conflagration

can be accidentally begun, naturally caused (wildfire), or intention-

ally created (arson). Arson can be for fraud, murder, sabotage or

diversion, or due to a person's pyromania. A firestorm can form as

a consequence of a very large fire, in which the central column of

rising heated air induces strong inward winds, which supply oxygen

to the fire. Conflagrations can cause casualties including deaths or injuries from burns, trauma due to col-

lapse of structures and attempts to escape, and smoke inhalation.

Unitive adj causing union or uniting

Abnegate verb to renounce something, to give something up

Raconteur n storyteller, teller of tales or anecdotes

Revanche n policy of reclaiming territory (ethnic group or nation) can also

mean revenge or retaliation

Maugre prep in spite of, notwithstanding Middle English, from Anglo-French malgré, from malgré ill will, from mal, mau evil & gré grace, favour

Sere adj dry and withered

2013: RBW FREE e-books PUBLISHED on RBW and issuu.com

http://www.risingbrookwriters.org.uk/DynamicPage.aspx?PageID=78

http://issuu.com/risingbrookwriters

Steph‟s & Clive‟s FREE e- books published

on

www.issuu.com/risingbrookwriters

and on RBW main site

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

DynamicPage.aspx?PageID=52

2012: RBW FREE e-books

PUBLISHED on RBW and issuu.com

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

DynamicPage.aspx?PageID=52

http://issuu.com/risingbrookwriters

Random Words: junk, witches, indigestion, cough, bombastic, palindrome Assignment: Confession or Half Term

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

Gavin was a chronic agoraphobic. He was tired of having

panic attacks when faced with crowds, so he bid at auction and became the proud owner and occupant of a lighthouse,

miles from anywhere and anyone. He was trying to find a place for all his possessions in the rather cramped and oddly-

shaped interior of his new abode. “Now where‟s the box with the coffee machine?” he mused,

“I need an espresso!” (PMW)

It was Joe‟s stag night, though he had little memory of it next day. He‟d been a model stu-dent at university, but modern- day youth culture seemed to require him to be „one of the

boys‟, and indulge in heavy drinking, and of course, the ale was free, courtesy of his feckless friends, who were delighted to see him the worse for wear.

So it was that he ended up totally inebriated, singing „Jai ho‟ at the top of his voice and doing his best impression of Bollywood dancing, whilst riding his niece‟s tricycle down the street. He grew indignant when PC Jones, the local bobby told him not to horse around. And

even more fractious when led to an empty cell in the station. “I‟ll just put you in quarantine for the evening,” Jones told him.

Next morning Joe wailed, “I‟m supposed to be getting married….” his voice tailed off. “Oh, we‟ll get you there, don‟t worry. You won‟t escape that fate! I‟ll get a razor. Can‟t have you turning up at church with a five o‟clock shadow.” (PMW)

Issue 282

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Issue 307

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Submissions for the RBW 2014 Short Story Collection

Roads Less Travelled are now invited.

All contributors must be registered with RBW Library Workshop or be weekly

email pdf recipients

Submit in the usual way. Closing date for submissions

30th Nov 2013

RBW team are delighted to announce the RBW

2013 comedy, King Harffa and the Slightly Ob-

long Table of Trentby, which has a knavish

chuckle at the expense of our Arthurian heri-

tage, has now been published as a free e-

book on Facebook,

www.issuu.com/risingbrookwriters and the

main RBW website:

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

DynamicPage.aspx?PageID=78

RBW team are delighted to announce the

RBW 2013 memories collection, has been

published this week as a free e-book on

Facebook, www.issuu.com/

risingbrookwriters and

the main RBW website:

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

DynamicPage.aspx?PageID=79

Art Lovers: Stafford Art Group has resumed after their summer break on Tuesday afternoons and Friday evenings at Littleworth Community Cen-tre (Fees £25.00 per annum) Stafford College has an art course on drawing and painting on Monday afternoons Penkridge 5 sessions for £39.00 enquiries to staffordcoll.ac.uk

HRH the Duchess of Cornwall launches our search for Literacy Heroes 4 Oct 2013 HRH the Duchess of Cornwall has launched the campaign for Literacy

Heroes, celebrating twenty years of the National Literacy Trust. Who are looking for Heroes who have improved their own literacy or inspired

others to improve. A Hero could be an author, a celebrity, a young per-son or adult, a librarian, a teacher or anyone who has inspired people.

The campaign comes after new National Literacy Trust research reveals

children are spending less of their own time reading and are increasingly embarrassed to be seen reading. Research with 35,000 8-16 year olds found that the number of children reading in their own time fell by a quarter from 2005 and that nearly a third more children are embarrassed to

be seen reading than they were just two years ago. In a message to the National Literacy Trust, HRH The Duchess of Cornwall says: “As Patron of

the National Literacy Trust, I am delighted to support this imaginative and timely campaign to find the country's Literacy Heroes. I firmly believe in the importance of igniting a passion for reading in the next generation. In a

world where the written word competes with so many other calls on our attention, we need more Literacy Heroes to keep inspiring young people to find the pleasure and power of reading for

themselves." Celebrity judges will help to select the Literacy Heroes. These include bestselling authors Jo-anna Trollope, Cressida Cowell and Dorothy Koomson, entrepreneur Levi Roots, actor, comedian

and writer Miles Jupp, and columnist Lucy Mangan. The judges have all nominated their own Lit-eracy Heroes, who can be viewed here.

You can nominate your own Literacy Hero here by 5pm on Sunday 27 October 2013. The winning Literacy Heroes will be celebrated at a special VIP event in December.

http://stafford1100images.blogspot.co.uk/p/blog-page.html

Issue 307

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The Jubilee Fete.

Of course, as everyone knows we have had the Queen‟s Jubilee,

and like every other village in the country, we had a celebratory

fete in Hixon. It was held on the “Millenium Green,” and was

run in conjunction with the Village Hall. The allotments com-

mittee decided to have a stall, more to promote the new allot-

ments than as a serious way of raising funds and we were not

really selling at realistic prices, although we ended up clearing

some £70 profit on the day. I was more or less volunteered to

man the stall, with another committee member, as everyone knew of my background,

when I both lived on, and worked in a garden centre for many years before my parents

sold up and retired some 18 years ago and moved into Hixon village.

As usual with this sort of thing it was suggested that if I had any tables of my own it

would be appreciated if I could bring them. Having attended many fetes over the years

selling my books, I had two sturdy, timber built, trestle tables stored in the garage,

which I had made a long time ago. Also I had a cheap “Woolworth‟s,” Gazebo and two

strong, but collapsible chairs.

The next question was whether we would be able to provide enough plants for a stall.

My Mother has always loved plants and since retiring, has always grown surplus to her

requirements so that she could pass them on to her friends and family. Gradually, as I

have taken over more of the gardening, I have continued the practice, also enabling

Mom to donate many plants to help with the village luncheon club‟s funds as well.

Last year, whenever I planted things in my new allotment I usually gave the

“leftovers,” to any other plot holder who was on the site on the day of planting and

who would talk to me! This year, however, we knew early in the season that the fete

was coming, so I had kept a lot of plants back for the expected fete. A request was

made by the committee that other plot holders would bring plants on the day to add to

the quantity, but I actually took 13 large crates filled with an assortment of plants,

ranging from trays of seedlings to flowering shrubs and small trees.

From the outset, the crowds piled onto the site and the weather was very kind to us af-

ter the wet weekend, but as fast as we sold plants and cleared a space, more plants ap-

peared and filled the tables again! The other allotment holders had really entered into

the spirit of the day and were bringing more plants as fast as we could sell them – at

least for the first hour or so, and then we started to get the upper hand! Having said

that we ended up taking 10 crates of assorted plants away with us, but most of them

were things that we hadn‟t taken in the first place! After a couple of hours people be-

came less interested in the plants as they were just enjoying the day generally, eating

ice creams and hot dogs, or listening to the music. We gave it 3 or 4 hours and then de-

cided to clear our stand, because we were directly in front of the stage where the enter-

tainers were housed. This then made a nice big open space for late arrivers to take ad-

vantage of and get close to the music. You could say that many people were pleased

that we went early! I did take home a few of the larger plants that I had brought which

had not been sold, but the “Leftovers,” went up to the allotments and were put in the

shade behind an old derelict building for people to help themselves.

Scorzonera – An Old Fashioned Root Vegetable.

Last year I tried starting a lot of my seeds off in seed boxes and cell trays with varying success.

It was always said by the old time gardeners that you couldn‟t transplant root vegetable seed-

lings, but never the less I tried it with some beetroot seedlings and had great success. However,

the Scorzonera seedlings did not give the same results. Perhaps the beetroot were okay as they

didn‟t have long, tapering, roots unlike the Scorzonera that are more like a thin Parsnip, but are

even thinner and longer. Maybe it wasn‟t helped either by the still quite stoney soil, as the new

allotment had only been started that season. Whatever the reason, when I dug up a couple of

roots in the Winter I was not impressed one little bit. They had made lots of healthy looking top

growth, but on inspection the roots had forked badly. So, I left them in the ground in disgust.

Come the Spring the Scorzonera started putting on fresh growth and then started going to seed,

so I dug them all up in late May as I wanted the space for other things. The tops still looked

good and the roots seemed to have filled out, but all of them had forked roots. Many of the

clumps of roots were obviously too thin to be of use, but I trimmed them and took them home

anyway. On getting home I read that they are one of the few root vegetables that can success-

fully be left in the ground over winter without rotting. Their seed is on sale everywhere, but

they are not very popular at all, not because they are difficult to grow, but probably because

they are a bit of a fiddle too cook and prepare for eating.

Cooking is best done before the Scorzonera roots are peeled, or skinned, in much the same way

as you might beetroot. The books say that the roots should be scrubbed well and then cut into 2

inch lengths before being boiled in salted water that has had a little lemon juice added. After 20

minutes or so, they can be removed, and while still warm, the white pieces of Scorzonera

should be “squeezed” out of their black skins. My roots were a little thin and therefore quite

fiddly, but the process definitely worked and for good measure I dropped them briefly back into

hot, “lemoned,” water before serving. It seemed a lot of trouble to go to, but I was actually quite

impressed with their taste.

The next day my brother came with his lady friend, so I decided to serve some up again and

made a fancy starter out of them. A little melted butter drizzled on to half a dozen small pieces

of Scorzonera each, along with a bit of fancy salad trimmings and they made quite an exotic

starter. Comments varied about their taste and texture from being a little rubbery and oyster

like, to being reminiscent of Asparagus. They certainly had a flavour and texture unlike other

vegetables and went down very well with the family. So much so, that they asked if I had any-

thing in any books about them, after which the guests all stuck their noses into the books read-

ing up about them. When I looked them up in the books myself I found that the young stalks

can also be blanched and treated like Celery and the new, tender

leaves, used as greens.

Next time I will try to grow Scorzonera properly by sowing the seed

directly into the allotment and hopefully with no transplanting, they

won‟t produce forked roots. With a little care they won‟t even need

thinning because each seed is about 1/3 of an inch long and so can

easily be sown individually, but I think that they are definitely some-

thing worth trying again.

Poet, Professor Kofi Awoonor killed in Westgate Mall Attack | 23-Sep-13 Ghanaian poet and diplomat Kofi Awoonor has died of his injuries at the age of 78. He was among the victims at the Westgate shopping mall attack in Nairobi, Kenya, in which his son was also wounded. He was due to speak on September 21st, the evening of the attack, at the Storymoja Cultural Festival in Nairobi. The festival was subsequently cancelled.

Awoonor was born in Ghana in 1935. His early poetry collections, the first published in 1964, were greatly influenced by the dirge singing and oral po-etry of the Ewe tribe. His later works featured the impact of colonialism in Africa. The Poetry Library holds his collections Ride me, memory and Until the morning after: selected poems 1963-85, as well as anthologies of West Afri-can poetry.

http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/worldnews/africaandindianocean/kenya/10326144/Kofi-Awoonor-Ghanaian-poet-killed-in-Westgate-Attack.html

Thomas Leo "Tom" Clancy, Jr. (April 12, 1947 – October 1, 2013)

has died in Baltimore aged 66 years. He was an American author best known for

his espionage and military science story-lines that are set during and in the after-math of the Cold War, along with video games which bear his name for promo-tional purposes. Seventeen of his novels (The Hunt for Red October Patriot Games, Clear and Present Danger, The Sum of all Fears etc) were best-sellers, with over 100 million copies in print. His main character Jack Ryan was played by both Harrison Ford and Alec Baldwin. The Clancy name also appears on many series of non-fiction books on military subjects and biographies of key world players.

Image Wikipedia http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tom_Clancy 1989 Burns Library Boston

Issue 307

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Water, Water, Everywhere A fistful of soil, bare and dry, His starving family, no tears left to cry Need showers of rain, a deluge, a flood, Prayers not working the way that they should. No crops to sell, the cycle of life, Turning slowly for children and wife. They need to be fed – life just isn’t fair, Because some can see water, water everywhere. Look out of the window. Oh No! Not again! Is there no end to this bloomin’ rain? Rivers are high as they run to the sea, Those fields will be flooded as water breaks free. Misery, heartbreak, steady stream seeps through, Furniture ruined, no insurance will do. A surfeit of water, let Africa share, They need to see water, water everywhere. A ship on the ocean, dewdrops on a rose, Diving in lakes, waves lapping round toes. If only this water could be equalled and shared, Not squandered or wasted as if nobody cared. A world of resources, carefully planned, With water everywhere, on supply and demand.

http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-wales-south-west-wales-24374664

PRINCE CHARLES records Dylan Thomas‟s „Fern Hill‟ for National Poetry Day. He is the Royal patron of the Dylan Thomas 100 Festival, which will mark the centenary of the poet's birth in 2014. http://www.dylanthomas100.org/english/multimedia/prince-charles-reads-fern-hill/

We wus Brung up Proper (1940s)

Looking at kids of today all pampered and molly coddled, with all the mobile phones and Ipods, Nin-

tendo Wii. X -boxes and video games, it seems it's every thing you can think of to keep them inside and isolated from social interaction with other children.

After all I was brung up in a cot painted with lead paint, and medicine was always a liquid in differ-ent colourer bottles, no child proof lids. In Purple bottles was poison, and I know there was some sort of colour code as to, whether you swallowed the medicine or rubbed it in, just can't remember.

But we survived In the car we never had seat belts, and the tyres wore out down to the inner tubes, and the parking brake was often a half house brick carried with you. No winking indicators, only an illuminated or-

ange finger that lifted out of the door pillar, this often got knocked off when left on when it shouldn't be.

When we were old enough (11) we had an air gun. Must say there was a mishap when one of our gang popped his head up and copped a slug to his forehead, we did try to get it out by holding him down but the lead slug had flattened on his skull, so we had to let him run home and then to

hospital and we got into deep trouble. And when we were reported to the police, our parents were all on the side of the law, and did

not stick up for us. But we survived (and the one who copped the slug, he's 70 now and still got the mark on his forehead).

We got caned at school, in my opinion for nowt, but then we did try to do thing our way at times, and on the way home we fell out of trees, got plenty bumps and bruises, but then you learn

to hold tight and not fall. When we played football, it seemed every one was a centre forward, with a great group of us lads milling round the ball all competing to have a shot at goal, no one passed the ball, it was every

mon for himself. If you did not get a kick and were not bold enough to charge in, it was no use cant-ing and moaning to your parents. But we all survived

We went tracking, two or three would set out with half an hour lead, laying down arrows along the way of twigs or grass or stones indicating the way they had gone. This would last for hours, ar-

riving back dirty wet and often blooded from the excursions through woods and brambles, remember we all wore short trousers back then. This lasted all day and no one ever came looking for us and I don't think anyone was lost. (or died to my knowledge).

And we all still survived. Dad‟s farm workshop would be taken over at times when he was not about, the tools came in handy for converting old prams into go carts, where one on the front would

sit with his feet on the front axle and a cord to steer with and the other „man' would sit with his back to the driver and provide the propulsion, even going down bank it would be important to go faster than your rival, best place was on the public roads, down a bank with a blind bend in our back lane

Until of course the village bobby, who was about on his bike nabbed us, and gave the cheeky ones a sharp clip round the ear with the back of his hand. The police man, our village police man never held back when punishment was to be handed out, again our parents seemed pleased we had been

caught, and never seemed to defend us against him. But we survived. We wus brung up on bacon for breakfast, bacon that was half fat and lean,

and slices hand cut from the flitch (half pig) hanging in the pantry. Hand cut thick slices of bread, (sliced bread had not been invented) floating in almost an inch deep bacon fat, and fried until it smoked, but it never killed us.

Cheese, no slice cheese then, it was cut from a huge wedge in great lumps and eaten with crusty bread, if you had cheese you did not have butter as well, nowadays they call it plough man‟s

lunch. We learned to swim in the river, and just for fun would plaster black mud all over ourselves, and then dive in, in the deepest corners of the river, narrowly missing what we thought was a whirl-

pool, to wash clean again. The old railway cottage down where the river and railway almost meet, lived a family. In the summer their well would run dry, and when they wanted a bath they would got to the river with a bar of soap and towel. No one worried about diseases back then in the rivers, it

was a matter of being up stream from where the cattle watered and they always stood in the river when the gad flies were about. (Cattle almost invariably lift their tails while standing in the river and

it was said gad flies never crossed water) And we survived that as well.

Issue 307

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You could only get Easter eggs and hot cross

buns at Easter time, strawberries only in late June July time, turkey was only at Christmas and goose for new

year. There were no pizza shops, no McDonalds, no KFC, or Indian restaurants, but some bright spark did loaded up a fish and chip fry pan outfit into a van, and

toured the out laying villages having a regular round visiting our village on one evening a week. It was coal fired and after he had served his cus-

tomer at their front gate, before moving on would put a bit more coal on his fire, I expect he could get a

good draw on the fire with the speed, he always had a plume of black smoke from his chimney where ever he went, he did a regular trade for quite a few years.

Memories of Olden Days

Memories of olden days, back then when I were a lad,

Of things we did and said and learnt, copied from me dad,

Of learning how to talk and walk, and manners got to learn,

Tell the truth and honest be, and respect you‟ve got to earn.

Never cheek your elders, and address them with respect,

Speak only when you‟re spoken to, and answer them direct,

Muttering and Laughing, in your hand it is the worst,

Hold it back don‟t let it out, even if you fit to burst.

He taught us how to use his tools, and how to work real

hard,

How to earn an honest crust, in the workshop cross the yard,

To make things useful on the farm, repair them if they

broke,

Keep the place all tidy, he was a very fussy bloke.

He taught us how to plant the seeds, in garden and the fields,

And as they grow look after them, to grow and give good

yields

Harvest time to bring it in, and store for winter use,

To feed the family, feed the stock, to run out‟s no excuse.

To rear the calves and pigs and hens, and feed them every

day,

Milk the cows and collect the eggs, and sell without delay,

Pigs to take to bacon weight, and sows to get in pig,

And start the job all over again, it‟s always been that way.

Thinking back o‟r seventy years, the basic things the same,

Treat others how, you would like, others to treat you the

aim,

Manners make‟eth man were told, it‟s only yourself to

blame,

Rules of life are rules to keep, it‟s always been the same.

Countryman (Owd Fred)

Looking Back them Years Ago

Looking back them years ago, when we were little boys,

We bumped our knees and elbows, and father made us toys,

Played around the farmyard, in and out the sheds,

Testing all the puddles, thick mud into the house it treads.

When at first we started school, father trimmed our hair,

Combed and washed with new cap, new shoes without compare

Short trousers and new jacket, a satchel on our back,

We all went there to study, but often got a smack.

Times tables chanted every morning, and the alphabet,

Till we knew them off by heart, of this I‟ve no regret,

Isn't till you leave school, that you realise,

How useful school and education, help to make us wise.

Father showed us all his skills, from very early age,

Studied Farmers‟ Weekly, read almost every page,

The pictures they were mainly, of interest to us,

News and reports on prices, what a blooming fuss.

We also had the Beano, a comic for us kids,

Dandy and the Eagle, must have cost dad quid's,

Him he had his Farmers‟ Weekly, it must be only fair,

Mother had a knitting book, for inspiration n' flare.

It must have taken fifteen years, till we felt grown up,

Left alone at home at night, parents meeting as a group,

In fact it was a whist drive every Friday night,

We supposed to be in bed, but sometimes had a fright.

(Our farm house was out on its own and scary at night)

An owl it hooted in bright moonlight, scared us all to death,

Door that blew in wind, with fright we nearly lost our

breath,

Scooted up the stairs so fast, and under the bedclothes dove,

In darkness we were frightened, it was for courage that we

strove.

On hearing the back door open, it was never locked,

Foot steps in the kitchen, bedroom door we chocked,

Then we heard mother‟s Coo-eee, relieved to hear her call,

„Have you missed me, duckies?‟ we bloomin‟ have an‟ all.

So our sheltered life was over, sometimes fended for our

selves,

Mother learned us basic cooking, as long as plenty on the

shelves,

One at a time we left home, with basic thing that we were

taught,

This knowledge we're to build on, foundations life not

bought.

Countryman (Owd Fred)

Editor Note: By popular request ... Clive‟s revisited E-type and Pipe etc good old timers chewing the cud in an ancient hostelry ... An exercise which shows writers should never throw anything away and that anything can be rejigged and improved by dialogue and character‟ interaction. Here by using humour Clive clearly demonstrates the art of showing not

telling ... From the Annals of the Nevercombe Upwards Ladies All-in Wrestling, Morris Dancing, Boxing, Cricket, Fencing, Croquet, and Competition Knitting & Embroidery Club.

Pipe, now converted to smoking a herbal mixture, better for the environment he said, put down the Chicken Sexers News & Pig Breeders Gazette, 'Well,‟ he said to no-one in particular. 'Somebody just had to do it, didn't they, they just couldn't let well enough alone, could they? I said at the time it'd all end in tears.'

'Did it?' asked G&T as he turned from gazing at the frogs playing leapfrog on the waterlogged cricket pitch. 'No,' Pipe didn't look best pleased. 'It all ended in Champagne, or at least fizzy grape juice, instead.' Shandy, hidden behind the tea urn, spilled the beans; he was improving, normally it was the tea, said it. 'They went and found the Higgs Boson. What-ever that is.' G&T, as the intelligentsia representative of the trio, said, 'Interesting fact that Shandy. Where did they find it?' 'Dunno, but I expect it was hiding behind something big, which is why they didn't spot it in the first place. Anyway, I expect it‟d been painted to match the background. Very careless these scientistic...ic...tic types. No idea of how to

handle a spray gun. They're probably better with a brush.' 'Hmm? Why's that Shandy?' Shandy sat down to tell the yarn. 'You remember that time when Whisky Sours‟ second sister ran off with one? Lovely girl she was, fourteen stone in her pink spangled waders and XXL overalls, never thought young Whisky Sour'd get over it. His missus thought he'd waste away from grief; off his food for nearly three days he was.' 'I remember him,' Pipe said. 'Left the area as I recall it.' 'Blamed it on the shame, he did. Emigrated to London! Got himself a job as the Second Hermit to the Ministry of Something.' Shandy remarked. 'Doing well I hear. Got himself a nice little house and he's slated to be the Chief Her-mit any-day now.'

'What's that got to do with the Higgs Boson, Shandy?' G&T was partially agog; he was working up to being ALL agog but hadn't had enough tea. Shandy was ready for it. '“Now,” they say - well they would wouldn't they, I mean they went and spent all the 'lectric money on a big machine. They've got to say something - “Now we can work out how the universe runs and Issue 307

Page 12

where all the dark matter is”. They must be daft! Anybody could have told 'em that! It's dead easy, you just push a pound in the slot and wind the handle, the light comes on, and BINGO, there you are. In the light! No dark to matter.' He paused for tea drinking - it was his new hobby - that and trying to clear the water off the cricket pitch so that they could start the match in three

months time. 'Of course, I blames them Continental Europeans. It happened over there so it must be them! Not any wonder they couldn't find it! The poor little Higgs Boson's afraid of the dark, probably run out of coins, and couldn't find its Euro's in the dark. '“Ah-ha!” they says, “Ah-ha!” Lots of training involved there; passed courses on it I don't doubt. “It's not that kind of dark!” “I mean! Just how many kinds of dark are there!?” “There's the type you get when you turn the light out and there's the type you get when you close your eyes. Of course if you do both you get the third type just before you go to sleep.” „Nice idea Shandy, nice idea.‟ Pipe interjected, reloading his smudge pot for a second run at a new mixture. He preferred the stuff that grew around the bottom of the church tower.

Unfortunately, that had been burned off during the Bell Ringers attempt at the worlds fast-est Triple Bob Major when the ladders caught fire. There was no stopping Shandy when in full-bore Story Teller mode. „If you go camping there's another type; a bit like nut and chocolate nougat, only not sweet o'course. That one's a sort of mixed dark with bits of starlight in it; unless you've been to the pub when it's got crinkly edges.‟ Pipe and G&T nodded sagely … well more Thymely actually, the Sage hadn't done too well this year, but the Rhubarb had come up a treat. 'There's bound to be a few more types of dark but them scientistic folks say that it needs extensive funding to find out about 'em. Anyway, that was my last pound coin I put in the meter and we need to boil the kettle before it runs out, or it gets dark. Then it will matter.'

THE WATER SHORTAGE AT NEVERCOMBE UPWARDS.

Tea endangered. Water main burst, our doughty trio had a thirst.

Quoth Shandy, 'The bottom of the urn will burn.'

But Pipe sat and, enigmatically, smiled. He'd be quite happy with a pint of mild. Turned out fine again, G&T said in turn

'Twas a wild and stormy night

The rain can down with all its might The river burst its banks and floods arose.

So who had been and pray’d for rain?

They blamed it on the vicar!

WATER

Water, water, everywhere, and not just down the sink leet. The river's been and burst its banks, and it’s all down the main

street.

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VOTE AND BREAK FREE ACW writes inspired by ... Vote for Me Lin Priest Issue 306 Saying what we want to hear

In an arrogant, pompous way. Vote for me. I AM RIGHT! That's what they all say?

I am for the Common Man, I‟ll work hard - just for you,

I‟ll fight all of your battles, Whatever you tell me to. Don‟t fall again for such rhetoric,

Let him charm the birds from the trees, We‟ve fallen for this once or twice,

And now the country is on its knees. Don‟t believe a single word,

Think politics of the past, All those empty promises, We knew they wouldn't last.

ACW blog ...

IF YOU DON'T VOTE - YOU‟LL JUST BE OWNED-SERFS UNDER FEUDALISM Don't fall for empty promises is what this poem encourages us all to do. Yet in history, many political promises have been kept and saved the lives of millions.

Calling politicians arrogant and pompous is right-on, when we have a system where only the rich and well connected can get into politics.

Plato - "The price of apathy towards public affairs is to be ruled by evil men." With over 70% of people permanent non-voters, many think we have no-one to blame but ourselves for what

has happened to us. WHAT IS AUSTERITY?

Austerity is the end of social medicine (the poor no access to healthcare), state pensions (paid for but morally stolen), and the welfare state (remember 19th century Vicar Malthus' philosophy - “There is no point in feed-

ing the poor” ). Austerity is leaving the disabled and chronic sick penniless, after burying them alive in paperwork and travel-

ling to assessments by private contractors paid hundreds of billions of taxpayers money, by assessors whose management require them to make as many claimants as possible lose benefit when they have no other source of income.

UN official Raquel Rolnik is looking for your personal stories about the Work Capability Assessment (WCA).

Ms Rolnik has already produced a statement on the bedroom tax, recommending that it be suspended imme-diately. She now wants to examine all of the recent welfare changes and welcomed personal stories about the WCA and how it is affecting people. This is because concerns have been raised about the number of WCA

related deaths due to deteriorating health or suicide. Once these accounts are collated the evidence will be presented to the United Nations General Council in

March 2014. You can email Raquel Rolnik about your experiences with Atos, the WCA or any other welfare reform issue at srhousing@ohchr.org

You can also write on the above issue to: His Excellency Mr Ban Ki Moon United Nations Secretary-General

UN Headquarters First Avenue at 46th Street New York, NY 10017 USA

Email: sgcentral@un.org

Issue 307

Page 14

WHY NON-VOTING MEANS DICTATORSHIP

Not voting means every such adult votes for dictatorship.

We cannot influence politics, because we are at the lowest level in history as members of political parties.

Already all political parties are gearing themselves up for the lowest voter turnout in history in the 2015 general election. The present government is talking to each other for yet another coalition, as no party might gain enough votes to form a government in parliament on its own.

HOW VOTING IN 2014 COULD ACHIEVE A LOT

Yet here is the power of voters in 2014 to upset the apple cart. In Spring 2014, the big city council elections and European Elections are on the same day in England.

If the 70% non voter all came out and voted differently to the current political class in both council and European Elec-tions, they would end those parties in council and European Parliament MEPs altogether.

You don't need any interest in politics to do that. Just pure revenge. There is a referendum on 38 Degrees petitioning government to make voting in Scotland compulsory for all Scots in the Scottish Referendum on 18 September

2014. This is easy to achieve, as the law is already available to import back from Australia, where it has worked since between the Wars.

And what would this achieve in England? One whole UK political party has most of its seats up in Scotland, so by their MPs being in a then independent nation, that

party would cease to have any power down in London's Westminster parliament from that date.

If the Scots vote yes majority on 18 September 2014 for their independence, then the Scots have said they will not follow London's welfare reform or enact the Bed-room Tax. So this is more of a Save a Scottish Granny vote.

And we can help the Scots disabled/sick/elderly by signing the petition that affects all of us here down in England, by at least getting rid of one of our current political

class. So that is the power of voting.

You cannot have democracy without voters. It is like a shop cannot thrive without shoppers. If we wanted to live in a dictatorship, why did millions of our grandparents die in the Second World War? Or are

we already doing that by accepting Austerity and Welfare Reform?

SCOTTISH INDEPENDENCE REFERENDUM - MAKE VOTING COMPULSORY http://you.38degrees.org.uk/petitions/scottish-independence-referendum-make-voting-compulsory#

Issue 307

Page 16

Year 1564 : The Cast : The Queen‟s Men : a group of strolling players thrown out of Lon-don where the theatres have been closed due to an outbreak of plague Kit Marlowe (wordsmith/detective), Harry Swann (the first victim who first told the story of the poisoned silver challis), Samuel Burball (Owner), Peter Pecksniff, Daniel Alleynes, young Hal who plays the girl‟s roles very badly, The Boar‟s Head Tavern, Trentby: Bertha landlady, Molly Golightly, Martha Goodnight wenches The Trentby Abbey of St Jude : Ab-bot Ranulf knows something about the missing Roman hoard of silver plate/chalice etc The Manor of Bluddschott : sodden Squire Darnley Bluddschott, wife Mistress Anne, daughter Penelope about to be sold off into matrimony, Mistress Hood seamstress The Sheriff‟s Castle : Magistrate Squire Humphrey Pettigrew, Black

Knight, the Sherriff Lord Haywood, man-at-arms Richard of Hyde Leigh, a constable and a scribe Modern Day: Rick Fallon and Tommy Tip-Tip McGee** Private eyes in Trentby on case for Sir Kipling Aloysius Bluddschott to locate silver chal-ice and Roman hoard of Trentby Abbey + corpse Jago Swann DI Pete Ferret To give the tale a twist we want to attempt to take what seems like an historical fiction novel and write it as if it‟s a hard-boiled 1930‟s pulp fiction romp. It might not work but we‟ll give at a go and see what happens... Suggest we all read some Raymond Chandler, Dashiell Hammett, James

M. Cain and other Black Mask writers, of the hard-boiled school of detec-tive fiction e.g. The Big Sleep, Farewell, my Lovely, The Little Sister, The Long Goodbye etc ** Characters from Where There‟s A Will There‟s A Weigh RBW fiction project

HARRY SWANN AND THE CHALICE MAP ACW Deep in the forest, a white hart stirred and leapt away from the poacher‟s arrow. The tales say that the hunter slunk off to seek other prey to fill his stomach and

line his purse through the back door of the village butchers. Only to fall through into a shallow covered but little, by the debris of foliage through the ages. This ac-cursed day rent the forest with loud medieval oaths most foul to frighten all nature around him.

As he thrashed about in rage let loose, his bow struck a hollow trunk, well strapped against time and man.

He drew his mighty sword (thus showing his thieving heart as no peasant could afford such wealth) and smote the chest‟s lock clean in two.

And what a sight met his accursed eyes, but a goblet of gold, a sleek Chalice, woven with golden wire, and as he held it up to the light and turn it about, at once the light shone through glass of the gods, in bright scarlet and from another aspect in brilliant golden light.

Harry Swann turned to his drinking party in the dim reaches of the Boar‟s Head,

„And you say this bright treasure lurks undiscov-ered nearby?‟

„Aye that be right, Sir, to those pure of heart, tis said, a dream, a vision, will depart the resting place of this cup of immortal youth when dipped into spring waters of the white hart in the hidden depths of the forest.‟

„Sounds a good yarn for a play, my good man.‟

„Nay, nay, tis true as I‟m standing here, Good Gentleman. For I be told this by a Greek trader soon come to our land to bring fine cloth and even finer wine to our betters, up in high church and manor.‟

„A Greek hey?‟ „Aye, he spoke of far lands, of great beasts with tails at both ends, and buildings

all covered in gold that shone like the sun, filled with peoples with skin burnt to a cinder, they were.‟

„And you believe these tall tales from some of the best storytellers in history, did you my lad?‟

„He bore a parchment of a brass rubbing of a key, and a cipher writ upon it to give a riddle clues of the hidden place of the great golden goblet. And I offer it to you this day, but for a trifling consideration, Sir.‟

„Very well, I‟ll use it as a theatre prop, in some Greek tragedy play. Here be a Groat for your trouble, not a farthing more.‟

„You jest Sire. It be worth at least a shilling for such a prize!‟ „A shilling! Be gone with you charlatan, you‟ll get no more than sixpence and be

glad of it.‟

„You grieve my heart Sir, but my stomach growls for want of bread and mead, so I must take my leave and grant your sixpence for such a prize.‟

„The parchment changed hands furtively between the two, and the peasant snuck off with his sixpence, giving a smug smile once out of sight and a muttering of Greek un-der his breath. Outside, his peasant cloak was tossed aside to reveal merchant costume of good cloth and cut.‟

„And another sixpence joined the throng in his purse hung from his waistband and a smile went from ear to ear as he murmured quietly a beloved Greek song of a love far, far away.‟

The body in the river. Early on Monday morning the news reached the ears of Kit Marlowe and, in a way,

stopped there, because he carefully wrote it down. Then, 'Our Harry Swann's been found and buried,' he reported to Master Samuel Bur-

ball. Burball grunted, 'Where?' 'Some fishermen down river found half a body so it's got to be him. They told the

Crowner and he told them to bury him, and fined them twelve pence for breaking Frankpledge. He's going to get second rate salt fish at first rate prices until he's paid back that twelve pence; and a bit more!'

'But Swann was English!' replied Burball. 'Oh well! Never mind. Anyway it's outside the city so it's nothing to trouble to the Constable with. Good thing too! Cheaper as well.

Now Kit, we could do with a new comedy, what you can do?' 'Something to give the yokels a good belly laugh, Master Samuel? How about a bit of

knock-about slapstick? Buried treasure and murder; always goes down well does a mur-der. I'm thinking about a piece with a catchy title like Ye Poisonéd Platter or something! What do you think?'

'Sounds good to me Kit. Write in some good parts for Hal though. He's been moaning about having to play silly young girls. Says he wants to play a beautiful older woman'.

Kit chortled, 'Ha! With that face? Fat chance! Ugly dame maybe.' Burball nodded in agreement, 'Got a good story have you Kit? Need to get these yo-

kels moving and parted from their Pennies and Farthings.' 'Hal has a good plot, Master Samuel, he's told me about it. Harry Swann told it to

him, when he was alive of course.' 'Alive? Who you talking about, Harry or Hal? One's dead from the neck up and the

others just dead. Not much difference there.' They both chuckled at the bad joke. Before Kit could turn away Samuel Burball grabbed his sleeve saying, 'Swann's de-

mise has left us short of players so now, Master Marlowe, you have your chance to

shine! To stand out from the common herd. Think well on it Kit! Now is your chance to tread the hallowed boards with the

Queen‟s Men, the finest company ever assembled in the Realm. You, Kit Marlowe, are gifted to illume parts as only you can! Afore long you could find yourself in the lead roles, even mine, who knows? The world is your winkle ready and waiting for you to

September Green drumsticks in the hedgerow Half-concealed by leaves, The ivy is in flower. In monochrome, it has little appeal To our eyes, No array of lipstick colours, No arresting structure of fluted petals Nor frilled stamens. But to bees, it provides an irresistible feast, A banquet of nectar. Their eyes discern further beyond red Than our limited prism of vision; Their senses detect the scents Hidden from our dull perception. Then, in the early half-light, Fleece-waistcoated crepuscular moths Hover above a discovered treasure-store.

seize it and bring it to life.' 'Winkle? Why a winkle Master Samuel?' Kit wanted to know. 'A very small oyster for a start, and a warning that they grow on you if you

stand still for long enough young Marlowe. Your very first rehearsal, as an actor, is after the Terce bell. There you shall bring to life the very roles so badly played

by Swann, you will see.' Kit wasn't so sure, and anyway he was gifted as a Playwright, not one of

those idlers who pranced about on the back of a broken down old cart dressed in ill fitting, fusty, clothes and spouting lines that somebody else; often himself, had written.

And those mysterious bloodstains on the midden yard fence at the Boar‟s Head intrigued him. The story they told was ... odd.

More than odd; they were definitely strange and peculiar. He decided to investigate further.

Robert Southey 1820.

The Cataract of Lodore "How does the Water Come down at Lodore?" My little boy ask'd me Thus, once on a time; And moreover he task'd me To tell him in rhyme. Anon at the word There came first one daughter And then came another, To second and third The request of their brother And to hear how the water Comes down at Lodore With its rush and its roar, As many a time They had seen it before. So I told them in rhyme, For of rhymes I had store: And 'twas in my vocation For their recreation That so should I sing Because I was Laureate To them and the King. From its sources which well In the Tarn on the fell; From its fountains In the mountains, Its rills and its gills; Through moss and through brake, It runs and it creeps For awhile till it sleeps In its own little Lake. And thence at departing, Awakening and starting, It runs through the reeds And away it proceeds, Through meadow and glade, In sun and in shade, And through the wood-shelter, Among crags in its flurry, Helter-skelter, Hurry-scurry. Here it comes sparkling, And there it lies darkling; Now smoking and frothing Its tumult and wrath in, Till in this rapid race On which it is bent, It reaches the place Of its steep descent. The Cataract strong Then plunges along, Striking and raging As if a war waging Its caverns and rocks among: Rising and leaping, Sinking and creeping, Swelling and sweeping, Showering and springing,

Flying and flinging, Writhing and ringing, Eddying and whisking, Spouting and frisking, Turning and twisting, Around and around With endless rebound! Smiting and fighting, A sight to delight in; Confounding, astounding, Dizzying and deafening the ear with its sound. Collecting, projecting, Receding and speeding, And shocking and rocking, And darting and parting, And threading and spreading, And whizzing and hissing, And dripping and skipping, And hitting and splitting, And shining and twining, And rattling and battling, And shaking and quaking, And pouring and roaring, And waving and raving, And tossing and crossing, And flowing and going, And running and stunning, And foaming and roaming, And dinning and spinning, And dropping and hopping, And working and jerking, And guggling and struggling, And heaving and cleaving, And moaning and groaning; And glittering and frittering, And gathering and feathering, And whitening and brightening, And quivering and shivering, And hurrying and scurrying, And thundering and flounder-ing, Dividing and gliding and slid-ing, And falling and brawling and sprawling, And diving and riving and striving, And sprinkling and twinkling and wrinkling, And sounding and bounding and rounding, And bubbling and troubling and doubling, And grumbling and rumbling and tumbling, And clattering and battering and shattering; Retreating and beating and meeting and sheeting, Delaying and straying and playing and spraying, Advancing and prancing and glancing and dancing,

Recoiling, turmoiling and toiling and boiling, And gleaming and streaming and steaming and beaming, And rushing and flushing and brushing and gushing, And flapping and rapping and clapping and slapping, And curling and whirling and purling and twirling, And thumping and plumping and bumping and jumping, And dashing and flashing and splashing and clashing; And so never ending, but al-ways descending, Sounds and motions for ever and ever are blending, All at once and all o'er, with a mighty uproar, And this way the water comes down at Lodore. Robert Southey. (Keswick, 1820) This poem seems appropriate for inclusion following the

WATER theme of National Poetry Day.

Robert Southey 12 August 1774 – 21 March 1843 was

an English poet of the Romantic

school, one of the "Lake Poets", and Poet Laureate for 30 years from 1813

to his death in 1843

National Short Story Week (NSSW). NSSW will take place between Monday 11th to Sunday 17th November. If you are organising an event to

celebrate the week, we'd love to hear about it. We'll be putting informa-tion about NSSW events on our blog from next month, and you can find out how to submit details of your own event at: http://www.nationalshortstoryweek.org.uk/tell_us_about_your_event.htm National Short Story Week www.nationalshortstoryweek.org.uk

Celebrating the short story and the short story writer

Assignment Water.

Water is cold or water is hot, Water is wet; it never is not.

Gran always vowed it was good for you,

And while I‟m certain that is true, “It makes the lions roar” said she,

I‟d rather have a cup of tea. “Drink lots of water every day,

And you‟ll be regular in every way!”

Some folks call it „Adam‟s Ale‟. Jack and Jill fetched it in a pail.

But sometimes there‟s too much of a thing.

For instance, think about last spring. It poured and poured and poured again, Until we were sick of the sight of rain.

But remember when you‟re ready to spit, None of us can do without it.

Image by kind permission of Jan Arnold via Facebook

Issue 307

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My Lost Poet for this week is Muriel Stuart (1885 – 1967)

Muriel Stuart is often cited as being one of the best Scottish Poets of her generation, despite being born and living all her life in England. She was considered as a Scottish poet due to her ancestry and her work was often included in anthologies of early 20th century Scottish poetry.

She was born Muriel Stuart Irwin of Scot-tish parents in Norbury, South London in 1885, her father was a barrister. She had a private education and attended art school before settling into a job in publishing.

She is known for her poetry on sexual poli-tics (e.g. ANDROMEDA UNFETTERED), al-

though her earlier work saw her writing war poetry (e.g. FORGOTTEN DEAD, I SALUTE YOU.)

Her poems are sharp and lively, from a woman‟s voice that not only desires the attention of men but also expresses a need for independent freedom. Po-ems such as IN THE ORCHARD show her experimenting with new forms, the poem consisting entirely of dialogue and was quite radical in its day. MEN AND THEIR MAKERS sees her seeking the roles of mankind in the landscape

of the earth, that humans are a whimsical dream of the more solid earth.

Her poem THE SEED SHOP, shows her seeking out the potential in everything as she explores the ap-parently dead seeds, trickling them through her fingers, she sees meadows and forests held in the palm of her hands.

After a brief first marriage, she married for a sec-ond time in 1922. Following the birth of her son and daughter she gave up writing poetry in favour of her love of gardening, THE SEED SHOP perhaps gives hints of this. She wrote a book on gardening in 1938 – The Gardeners Nightcap which is still available for Persephone Books.

Muriel Stuart is poetic voice that has been overlooked in the last seventy years and I believe she is due for reconsideration.

Muriel Stuart poems at Project Gutenberg. http://www.gutenberg.org/files/37087/37087-h/37087-h.htm#chap39

My second Lost Poet for this week is John Taylor – The Water Poet (1578-1653)

John Taylor was born in Gloucester in 1578, it is uncertain as to who is parents were or what

their occupations were, but they do appear to have a level of affluence to be able to educate

their son. John received his education until he felt he could no longer master the intricacies of Latin Grammar and so abandoned his education

and went to London in the 1590‟s. He had how-ever the ability to read and write and was articu-

late despite his choice of not pursuing an aca-demic life.

Taylor was an apprentice waterman, one of the many boatman who ferried passengers across the Thames, as London at that time only had

one bridge. His passengers were often well edu-cated and were seeking the entertainments to

be found on the South Bank of the river, with the theatres and drinking houses including Shake-speare‟s Globe. Taylor was able to engage with his passengers with far more conversation than is more rough hewn counterparts. He was noted for his knowledge and also his politeness.

He soon began to put is education to use and began writing poetry and social commentary. He be-came a great self publicist and published pamphlets of his poems. He would often poke comments

at other writers of his day and was embroiled in a pamphlet war with the established poet Thomas Coryate who was on the receiving end of Taylor‟s wit, in his first collection of 1612, The Sculler.

These controversies boded well for Taylor who saw his literary career take off, almost treating his work as a brand, he was one for challenges that saw him stood up by the writer William Fennor in a highly publicised “Trial of Wit” in 1614 and rival petitions to the King which saw his pamphlets

burned by the chief hangman. All of this kept his name in the minds of the public and was to offer him a literary career for next 50 year. His performances, readings of his poems were received to

great acclaim.

He continued as a waterman, styling himself as „The Water Poet‟, his verbal abilities saw him repre-

senting the Watermen at Court during the Watermen‟s disputes in 1641/2, when there were moves to bring the theatres from the south bank over to the north, thus removing the need for people to cross the river and so greatly impacting the livelihoods of the watermen, his protestations were to

no avail and so the theatres moved.

He was by all accounts a great traveller, often embarking on great journeys through Britain and

Europe, often travelling without money, relying on acquaintances to provide him with food and lodgings. He wrote of these travels, making comment of what he saw and who he met, perhaps one of the first travel writers, which are so popular today on the bookshelves of the retail bookshops.

One journey saw him rowing 40 miles of inland waterways in a wherry made of varnished brown paper kept afloat by eight bullock‟s bladders and powered by oars made from dried fish and canes.

This was documented in his poem, The Praise of Hemp Seed.

By the end of his life he was running a pub in Phoenix Alley, Longacre near to Covent Garden, call-

ing it the Crown at a time when the Crown had just lost his head. His loyalty to Royalty did not go down well and when he referred to the pub as the Mourning Crown he found the protest too much

to bear and so renamed the pub The Poet‟s Head. With declining incomes and failing health, he died in relative poverty in December 1653.

So the question remains did he leave anything of real worth?

There is a pub in Spitalfields called The Water Poet in his memory; of his own ale house The Poet‟s Head, the site is now Banbury Court off Long Acre, down the alleyway next to the H&M store.

Of his writings and out the 63 published works there must be something that is worthy of mention.

His writings are of great value to Social Historians, his commentary on daily working lives and his

travels give a real insight to the thoughts and conditions of working people of the time.

He is also credited with creating some 75 slang terms that were used in his poetry some of which is still in common parlance today, such as “blind” as in drunk.

He writes one of the first recorded palindromes “Lewd I live & evil I Dwel”.

He also is the first recorded writer to write about the death of Shakespeare, writing this in 1620

some four years after Shakespeare‟s death.

In paper, many a poet now survives Or else their lines had perish‟d with their lives. Old Chaucer, Gower, and Sir Thomas More, Sir Philip Sidney, who the laurel wore, Spenser, and Shakespeare did in art excell, Sir Edward Dyer, Greene, Nash, Daniel. Sylvester, Beaumont, Sir John Harrington, Forgetfulness their works would over run But that in paper they immortally Do live in spite of death, and cannot die.

This may not be a lot in terms of other writers of the time, but as I said at the beginning of this piece he was a very minor poet. He was certainly a great character and showman. He understood

how to manipulate the media of the day for his benefit. NO NEWS IS BAD NEWS – I can almost hear him say it. This mantra of the celebrity culture that says it does not matter what people are saying as long as they are saying it about you.

Finally, if there is any small grain of truth in films on Shakespeare, (and we do know how Hollywood likes to rewrite history) then Shakespeare, the great showman, the great self promoter, could have

learnt something from Taylor, because John Taylor not only had the showmanship capabilities, John Taylor was also a writer.

Poem – The Praise of Hemp Seed http://www.luminarium.org/renascence-editions/taylor1.html

NOBLE SIRS: THE PRAISE OF HEMP SEED

I Could haue soyled a greater volume then this with a deale of

emptie and triuiall stuffe: as puling Sonets, whining Elegies, the

dog-tricks of Loue, toyes to mocke Apes, and transforme men into

Asses. Which kind of writing is like a man in Authoritie, ancient

in yeares, rouerend in Beard, with a promising out-side of Wise-

dome and Grauitie, yet in the expected performances of his pro-

found understanding, his capacitie speakes nething but Mittimus.

But heere your Worships shall find no such stuffe: for thou I

haue not done as I should, yet I haue performed as much as I

could. I have not had riuers of Oyle, or fountaines of wine to fill

this my poore caske or book: but I haue (as it were) extracted

oyle out of steele, and wine out of dry chaffe. I haue here of a

graine of Hempseed made a mountaine greater then the Apenni-

nes or Caucasus, and not much lesser then the whole world. Here

is Labour, Profit, Cloathing, Pleasure, Food, Nauiga-

tion: Diuinitie, Poetry, the liberall Arts, Armes, Vertues defence,

Vices offence, a true mans protection, a Thiefes execution, Here

is mirth and matter all beaten out of this small Seed.

With all, my selfe for my selfe, and in the behalfe of Mr. Roger

Bird, doe most humbly thanke your Worships for many former

vndeserued courtesies and fauours extended towards vs, espe-

cially at our going our dangerous Voyage in the Paper boat: for

which wee must euer acknowledge our selues bound to your

Goodnesses. Which voyage I haue merrily related at the end of

this Pamphlet, which with the rest I haue made bold to dedicate

to your Worshipfull and worthy Patronages, humbly desiring

your pardons and acceptances, euer remaining to bee com-

manded by yon and yours in all obsequiousnesse.

A Preamble, Preatrot, Preagallop, Prearack,

Preapace, or Preface ; and Proface my Masters, if your

Stomackes Serue.

BOoke, goe thy wayes, and honest mirth prouoke :

And Spightfull spirits with Melancholy choake.

Booke, J command thee, where dost resort,

To be the bad mens terror, good mens sport.

Neere as thou canst, J pray thee doe not misse,

But make them understand what Hempseed is.

Me thinkes I heare some knauish foolish head,

Accuse, condemne, and judge before hee read :

Saying, the fellow that the fame hath made,

Is a mechanicke Waterman by trade :

And therefore it cannot worth reading be,

Being compil'd by such an one as he.

Another spends his censure like Tom-ladle.

(Brings in his fiue egs, foure of which are adle)

Mewes and makes faces, yet scarce knowes whats what :

Hemp-seed (quothe he) what can be writ of that?

Thus these deprauing minds their iudgements scatter

Eyther against the Writer or the Matter.

But let them (if they please) read this Preamble,

And they will finde that J haue made a scamble

To shew my poore plentious want of skill,

How Hemp-seed doth deserue, preserue, and kill

I muse that neuer any exc'lent wit

Of this forgotten subiect yet hath writ.

The theame is rich, although esteemed meane,

Not scurrulous, prophane, nor yet obsceane.

And such as taske may well become a quill

To blaze it, that hath all the grounds of skill.

This worke were no dishonour or abuse,

To Homer, Ouid, or to Maroes Muse.

A thousand Writers for their art renown'd

Houe made farre baser things their studies ground.

That men haue cause to raile 'gainst fruitlesse Rimes,

(Vainely compil'd in past and present times,)

And say, O Hemp-seed, how art thou forgotten

By many Poets that are dead and rotten ?

And yet how many will forget the still

Till they put on a Tyburne Pickadill.

Erasmus, that great Clerke of Rotterdam,

Jn praise of Folly many lines did frame:

The summe and pith of all his whole intents

Showes Fooles are guilty, and yet Innocents.

Another, briefly, barely did relate

The naked honour of a bare bald Pate:

And for there's not a haire twixt them and heau'n,

The title of tall men to them is giuen:

And sure they put their foes in such great dread,

That none dares touch a haire vpon their head.

Mountgomerie, a fine Scholler did compile

The Cherry and the Sloe in learned stile.

Homer wrote brauely of the Frog and Rat,

And Virgil versifi'd upon a Gnat.

Ovid set forth the Art of lustfull Loue.

Another wrote the Treatise of the Doue.

One with the Grashopper doth keepe a rut.

Another rimes upon a Hazell Nut.

One with a neat Sophisticke Paradoxe

Sets forth the commendations of the Poxe.

Signeur Inamorato's Muse doth sing

In honour of his Mistris Gloue or Ring,

Her Maske, her Fanne, her Pantofle, her Glasse,

Her Any thing, can turne him to an Asse.

Plinie and Aristotle write of Bees.

Some write of Beggeries twenty foure degrees.

One of the Owle did learnedly endite,

And brought the Night bird welcome to day-light.

A second did defend with tooth and nayle,

The strange contentment men may find in Jayle.

A third doth the third Richard much commend,

And all his bloudy actions doth defend.

A fourth doth shew his wits exceeding quicknesse,

In praise of Tauerne-healths and Drunken sicknesse.

A fift doth toyle his Muse quite out of breath,

Of aduerse Fortune, banishment or death.

A sixt the very Firmament doth harrow,

Writes of the Parrat, Popinjay and Sparrow,

The Storke, the Cuckoe : Nothing can escape,

The Horse, the Dog, asse, foxe, ferret, and the ape.

Mounsieur de Gallia, writes all night till noone,

Commending highly Tennis or Baloone.

Anothers Muse as high as Luna flies,

In praise of hoarsnesse, dropsies, and bleare-eyes.

The Gout, Sciatica, scab'd hams, small legs :

Of thred-bare cloakes, a jewes-trump, or potch'd egges.

One, all his wit at once, in Rime discloses

The admirable honour of red-noses :

And how the nose magnificat doth beare

A tincture, that did neuer colour feare.

One doth heroicke it throughout our coast,

The vertue of muld-sacke, and ale and toast.

Another takes great paines with inke and pen,

Approuing fat men are true honest men.

One makes the haughty vauty welkin ring

In praise of Custards, and a bag-pudding.

Another, albe-labours inke and paper,

Exalting Dauncing, makes his Muse to caper.

Anothers humour will nothing allow ....

To bee more profitable then a Cow, .... Continues ......

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