PPS NEWS

The Newsletter of the Preston Poets’ Society

Issue 65 Summer 2017

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President

Vincent Smith

13 Woodford Copse, Chorley, PR7 2ER

01257 272929 07740 552217 vsmith@pagehall.idps.co.uk

Treasurer

Desmond Hicks

66 Millfield Road, Chorley PR7 1RE

01257 264571

Vice President

Terry Quinn

1 Meath Road, Broadgate, Preston PR1 8EP

01772 822649 tsqdor@hotmail.com

Publicity Officer

Sue Hicks

6 Ox Hey Avenue, Lea, Preston PR2 1YD

01772 732734 poethicks@yahoo.co.uk

Secretary

Dorothy Nelson

16, Greenslate Avenue, Appley Bridge, Wigan WN6 9LG

01257 254331 07786 503765

dnelson48@blueyonder.co.uk

Web Coordinator

Lorna Smithers

7 Bank Parade, Penwortham, Preston PR1 9HQ

01772 740561 07847 240458

Lornasmithers81@gmail.com

PPS Programme 2017

If enough members are interested, extra daytime meetings can be arranged for workshops.

Dorothy is willing to lead these. A small charge would be levied to cover costs.

Competitions

MacKenzie Cup (2016): max 40 lines (Open Theme) Deadline 19th January

Pomfret Cup: 12-24 lines (Theme: An unknown destination) Deadline 16th March

Edna Margaret Rose Bowl: 12-32 lines (Theme: The River Bank) Deadline 18th May

McDade Trophy max 60 lines (Theme: The Staircase) Deadline 17th August

MacKenzie Trophy: max 40 lines (Theme: A Christmas subject) Deadline 16th November

Jan 19th AGM and members’ poems

Feb 16th Adjudication of McKenzie Cup plus members’ poems

Mar 16h Members’ poems

Apr 20th Adjudication of Pomfret Cup plus members’ poems

May 18th Poets’ Project (1): Favourite stanza from any published poem (not own)

Jun 15th Adjudication of Edna Margaret Rose Bowl plus members’ poems

July 20th Light poetry: limerick, clerihew, nonsense, comic, children’s – own or other

Aug 17th President’s Day

Sep 21st Adjudication of McDade Cup plus members’ poems

Oct 13 Joint meeting with Recorded Music Society (Theme – Autumn)

Oct 19th Talk from Martin Domleo: The Third Sister: Ann Brontë; an introduction

Nov 16th Poets’ Project (2): Poems of the Night

Dec 21st Christmas Party, adjudication of McKenzie Trophy and members’ poems

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Editorial

Welcome to the summer edition of the Newsletter. Well, the schools are on holiday so it

must be summer. But as I’ve just got soaked again during a walk I’m not so sure. My

only consolation is that I’m quite sure that our President got a lot wetter during his

annual pilgrimage to Chichester.

I may be wrong in this but it seems to me that for whatever reason the ability of poets to

project their voices so as to be heard across what are actually quite small venues has

decreased over the last few years. Other poetry groups and events around the country

generally use microphones so it is not a problem. Well, except for the fact that they are

totally unnecessary in some venues.

But here in Preston neither of the main Poetry groups use sound systems so, in my

opinion, it is a problem. How this has happened, or whether indeed it is a problem, can

be discussed at another time and this Newsletter isn’t the place to talk about the Damson

Poets group but from my perspective a part of the reason, and I hesitate to write this, is

that over the last couple of years it seems to me that the amount of time given over to

the reading of members’ poems out loud has diminished in Preston Poets’ meetings.

Reading poetry to an audience is something that can be learned. Here’s some advice:

Stand up straight. If you slouch that shows a lack of confidence in your work.

Make eye contact. If you're reading, of course you can't make eye contact all the time.

However, it's important to know your poem well enough that you can look up from time

to time to make eye contact with the room. It both engages the audience and helps you

project confidence.

Project to the whole room. People at the back need to hear, so you often will need to

speak louder than you normally do. You can always ask if those people at the back can

hear you. There are ways to make your voice sound louder and clearer without shouting.

Keep your chin slightly raised, your shoulders pulled back, and your back straight. Try

to speak from low in your chest, not your mouth and throat. Pronouncing every word

distinctly will help the audience understand you. Take deep breaths during your reading

so you don't run out of air.

Read the poem slowly. A nervous reader will want the reading over with and it will

show. Reading a poem slowly is the best way to ensure that the poem will be read

clearly and understood by its listeners. A poem cannot be read too slowly, and a good

way for a reader to set an easy pace is to pause for a few seconds between the title and

the poem's first line. Read in a normal, relaxed tone of voice. It is not necessary to give

any of these poems a dramatic reading as if from a stage.

Movement can help enhance a poem, but only if you do it sparingly and appropriately.

When considering how much movement is appropriate, think about the poem itself. If

it's a very serious, natural poem, you may not want to use any movement at all.

Many thanks, as usual, to Vince Smith for printing and producing this edition.

Terry Quinn

4

Response to Terry’s comments about notebooks

Ah Terry, Let's have a row about notebooks. I don't keep bits of rubbish in my pockets

eg screws, nails, broken teeth etc so a spiral-spined notebook doesn't need to compete

with any of these objects. The advantage of a spiral spine is the ability to tear out pages

of dodgy writing, or to tear it out and reinsert the page inside a different notebook,

better suited to the content. I keep different books for different purposes. I am Hon Sec

to 3 organizations, and need 3 books for keeping Minutes and crucial info. In addition I

keep a book for quotations, useful for my reading club, another for draft poems, and

another for ideas and fragments for a novel in progress. They can be any size or shape.

I’ll push them in a wheelbarrow if I like them enough.

The colour and design matters enormously. I have love affairs with my notebooks. They

are usually gorgeous, hard backed with magnetic covers, gloriously embossed and

emblazoned with designs: clouds drifting on blue skies, luminous trees in magical

forests or hosts of angels crowding the page. Some have coloured silk ribbons, though a

current favourite is plain duck egg sealskin, no ribbon, purchased at last year’s Hay on

Wye book festival. Place of purchase is also important. My notebooks are inspirational.

Inside, the writing just must measure up (hence the need for occasional spiral spines

enabling a neat removal).

I always set out to buy these as gifts for close friends, but I have to confess that, once

bought, I can't part with them, so I have a stash in a wardrobe kept purely for this

purpose. I must force myself to buy notebooks I already possess for my friends, or

choose something I wouldn't want for myself, with cats or fish on the covers (I hate cats

and fish). I don't hate my friends, I must stress, so if I give you a notebook at any time,

please bear this is mind.

I keep all my notebooks in a wicker chest and as far as I remember, I haven't yet cried

over a last page. Do you think this is why some books are watermarked?

Dorothy Nelson

Poetry reading at Winstanley Tennis Club On 9

th June, Dorothy and David Lythgoe (Ashton Writers) joined forces to give an

evening of poetry readings. Most of the poems were by established poets but both

presenters included several of their own works. It made a very pleasant and balanced

programme. Refreshments during the interval ensured a relaxed and enjoyable evening.

Most of the offerings were light hearted, the performances being bookended by

Betjeman’s Subaltern’s Love Song and Patten’s Hair Today, no Her Tomorrow, whilst

the presenters began the second half by sharing Roger McGough’s entertaining 40 Love.

More serious, but not heavy poems included Larkin’s Mr Bleaney and Yeats’ Lake Isle

of Inisfree. In-betweeners included Duffy’s Mrs Darwin and Mrs Aesop.

I very much enjoyed the format of the evening which is something two or more PPS

members might consider presenting.

Vince Smith

5

Results of the Pomfret Cup

Adjudicator: Katherine Gallagher

Theme: an unknown destination

First: Mike Cracknell

Back to my roots

For two hundred miles of motorway tedium,

I pondered on the irony of my destination,

the place of my birth last seen when aged ten.

Fifty years later it was just vague memories,

in childhood it was all of the world that I knew.

Now the roads narrow and connect tiny villages,

each with its ancient picture postcard church.

I drive past fields of sugar beet, barley

and wheat which we gleaned at harvest time.

The rampant red poppies are now less abundant.

Arriving at Leiston I immediately recognised

the same streets and buildings, now seeming much smaller.

The engineering works has become a museum.

Now the town works at a nuclear power plant,

by the beach where I paddled in the cold North Sea.

Many branches of our family tree were scattered

by the freezing blast of economic winds.

Only one of my family elected to stay,

living in the same house for ninety years

and the reason that many have come here today.

Tomorrow we gather in our own scenic church

to say goodbye to my much loved auntie,

being laid to rest with our many ancestors

in the graveyard where a chill breeze always blows.

6

Second: Phil Howard

BSAA Star Dust, 2 August 1947

'STENDEC' - what could it possibly mean?

A desperate message sent on an Andean

Flight. Perhaps the control tower misunderstood,

Yet the word was confirmed twice in Morse Code,

The last word from an old-time aeroplane

Flown into a South American mountain -

The Jet-Stream may have caused a navigational error,

Then Star Dust flew into dirty weather -

Could it be that the radio operator

Was confused, fazed by the unpressurised air?

God alone knows what he meant to say

But STENDEC was Star Dust's opaque goodbye;

A case where the gap was an ocean-wide

Between sign and that which was signified.

7

Third: Dorothy Nelson

Smoke

All night a veil has hung above the town.

Chimneys rise and press against the clouds.

Prepared for sleep, its people settle down,

or blankly gaze through netted window shrouds.

A diminished moon does nothing to respond,

oblivious, hangs curled with day encroaching.

Light, emboldened, creeps across the sky,

arrives by stealth, nourishing and coaxing.

The boy whose sleep was broken now can dream.

A railway worker cycles to his shift.

Inside the houses women stoke their fires,

and girls in love allow their thoughts to drift.

Night fears snuffed out, a promise of ideas

blows against a stranger on the lane.

He smiles and understands that he’s inhaled

a wisp of smoke; that sort that permeates the brain

and dulls all thoughts of reaching destinations.

He stops to rest beside an ancient stile.

A place-name, once important, now escapes.

He’s in no hurry, will linger here awhile.

8

Members’ News

A photo from April’s What’s Your Story event at Chorley.

Terry Quinn is featured on the Acumen Literary Journal website. Here’s what editor

Patricia Oxley said -

Just to say that your poems are featured on the Acumen website for the coming week.

Do tell all your friends, relatives etc etc about it and ask them to look you up.

And here’s the link: http://www.acumen-poetry.co.uk/terry-quinn-2/

Vivienne Artt launched her book Blue Moon Rising in Leyland

on 4th May. The back cover includes the following description

(from Susanne Holt):

Blue Moon Rising is a collection of strikingly beautiful writing

which captures moments from life together with observations of

landscapes and interiors with the keen eye of an accomplished

artist ...... Vivienne is a poet who has a gift for language and

these are poems which readers will remember for a long time.

Dorothy Nelson did a joint reading of poems with David Lythgoe at Winstanley Tennis

Club on 9th June (see p4 for a fuller account).

9

Results of the Edna Margaret Rose Bowl

Adjudicator: Maria Isakova Bennett

Theme: The Riverbank

First: Mike Cracknell

Bobbing for snigs

The rain was merciless for days on end.

The strolling river became a swollen torrent.

The fields were sockwettingly sodden.

On Sunday the heavens had a day of rest.

Uncle Sammy and Dad decided that this

was the time to go bobbing for snigs.

With sack, broom handle and washing line,

we squelched in wellies through muddy meadows

till we reached the bank of the turbulent Wyre.

An uprooted sapling sailed past on the flood

as my uncle assembled his broom handle rod

with a garish lure made from strands of wool.

The next passerby was a bloated dead sheep,

with stiff legs pointing to the angry sky

like an upside down Chippendale table.

Sammy cast his bait into the murky wild water

with dangling wool dancing to entice the eels

hunting earthworms dislodged by the spate.

As the float bobbed helplessly on the surface

a sinuous predator sank needle-like teeth

in our tempting bunch of woolly worms.

As Sammy heaved the startled fish hurtled

out of the water, hopelessly unable

to free itself from the Velcro like grip.

As soon as it hit the ground I pounced

and thrust it into the sack where my Dad

disentangled it from the decoy worms.

Three hours later the sack bulged and wriggled

with the protests of thirty six seething serpents

who now wouldn’t make it to the Sargasso Sea.

Instead our street all had eels for their tea.

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Second: Dorothy Nelson

River Walk

We walk by the river.

Nodding on the breeze,

bluebells in earnest conversation.

The path narrows here,

the bank steep.

Below, the river flows fast,

and deep.

Either side of a railing,

iron-hard,

our minds fall

down to the muddy bed

where, tangled with weed,

love struggles for air.

You watch the water

and I watch

your familiar back,

coat collar turned up.

Despair is here,

face-down,

stuck-fast.

Higher,

a grey sky is suspended

over savage silence.

11

Third: Joan Yates

Snapshots from the Riverbank

May, the fairest month of all,

if faithful to herself.

Lacy heads of wild garlic adorn the banks,

nature's bridal Guard of Honour.

Bluebells mingle amongst them,

excited bridesmaids in brilliant blue.

Swans enthroned on raft like nests,

long necks curled, incubating eggs.

Heron stands, in statue pose,

startled, takes off, clumsy in flight.

Fishermen, deep in contemplation,

pockets alive with wriggling bait.

Spiteful nettles, hairs bristling,

angry magnets for bare skin.

Light changes, clouds gather, mood shifts,

the river fickle, like May's weather.

12

Day trip to Ulverston

Eight of us travelled to Ulverston on Tuesday, 13th June, for our annual summer trip.

We met just after 11am at the Buddhist meditation centre, Manjushri Kadampa, trickier

to find than perhaps we’d envisaged. The threatening clouds lifted as soon as we arrived

and the rest of the day was spent under a clear blue sky in glorious sunshine.

After coffee we walked through the woods, led by Martin and Jan, who knew this area

well, to a stony beach on the river estuary. Photographs might reveal a Last of the

Summer Wine moment with several ageing poets skimming stones on the water. There

had been a bit of tree hugging on the way down. Jan picked up a stone with LOVE

scratched on its underside. What were the chances of turning this up on a pebble beach?

She gave the stone to me, and I brought it home in my handbag (and had to remember to

remove it before going out the next day!)

We took a leisurely walk along a footpath which led nowhere, and some members

stopped to watch horses in a field. By now the day had taken on a lovely character,

friends together with all inhibitions lost. We traced our steps back to the centre for

lunch (and were made welcome by staff who allowed us to rearrange the tables so we

could sit together) and an invitation to see the inside of the temple for 15 minutes. Most

of the party went inside, though I chose not to, and sat in the sun, writing a letter to a

friend. This time was very relaxing, and I was struck by the incongruity of the golden

domed building set in a very English garden. I couldn’t resist photographing the

perfectly formed pink roses, and experienced a strong sense of loss for the past. The

ancient Connishead Priory still stands proudly on the site. I wished we could have gone

inside. When the others emerged I took the opportunity to look inside the temple, and

was drawn to the colour and design of the interior.

We left to a swift change in mood,

heading for the Laurel and Hardy

museum in the town. This was fun, the

museum newly housed in an old art deco

cinema. Some of us posed for photos with

the statue outside the old venue, with

others wondering what the heck we were

up to. The museum’s owner, a young

man, treated us to an interesting talk on

its history, started by his grandfather who

collected hundreds of Laurel and Hardy

curios and stored them at the back of his

butcher’s shop. Enquiries by tourists led

him to open his collection to the public.

We watched a film, The Music Box, excruciating in its simplistic humour but by the end

we were exhausted by Stan and Ollie’s antics. It was easy to see why they were

considered comic geniuses in their own time, especially Stan who created the situations.

There was lots of laughter through the day and we enjoyed looking around the museum,

with more photos of Jan and Vince, posing with their heads through cardboard cut-outs.

We left around 5pm. Another fine day, no mess to be got into.

Dorothy Nelson