RBW Online

ISSUE 249 Date: 10th August 2012

Words

Exercises

Assign-

ments

Fiction

Projects

Events

Work-

shops

Thoughts

Your

Pages

Poetry

News

Items

Issue 249

Page 2

Margaret Wheatley: http://www.margaretwheatley.com/biography.html

'I'm sad to report that in the past few years, ever since uncertainty became our insistent 21st Century companion, leadership has taken a great step backwards to familiar territory of command and con-trol.' 'In these troubled uncertain times, we don't need more command and control; we need better means to engage everyone's intelli-

gence in solving challenges and crises as they arise.' 'When leaders take back power, when they act as heroes and sav-iours, they end up exhausted, overwhelmed, and deeply stressed.'

'Change always involves a dark night when everything falls apart. Yet if this period of dissolution is used to create new meaning, then chaos ends and new order emerges.'

‘Well, it is time for all the heroes to go home, as the poet William Stafford wrote. It is time for us to give up these hopes and expec-

tations that only work to make people dependent and passive. It is time to stop waiting for someone to save us. It is time to face the truth of our situation—that we’re all in this together, that we all have a voice—and figure out how to mobilize the hearts and minds of everyone in our communities.’

‘If we want to transform complex systems, we need to abandon our exclusive reliance on the leader-as-hero and invite in the leader-as-

host. Leaders who act as hosts rely on other people’s creativity and commitment to get the work done. Leaders-as-hosts see potential and skills in people that people themselves may not see. And they know that people will only support those things they’ve played a part in creating. Leaders-as-hosts invest in meaningful conversa-tions among people from many parts of the system as the most productive way to engender new insights and possibilities for ac-tion. They trust that people are willing to contribute, and that most

people yearn to find meaning and possibility in their lives and work.

And these leaders know that hosting others is the only way to get large-scale, intractable problems solved.’

http://www.hesselbeininstitute.org/knowledgecenter/journal.aspx?ArticleID=887

Many

thanks

to the Con-

tributor

who

drew our attention

to the

inspira-tional

writer

and educator

Margaret

Wheatley

LIFE OBSERVATIONS Maturity ... when one begins to understand the importance of small things and

events.

The quickest way for a mother to attract the attention of her offspring is to sit qui-

etly and appear to be comfortably resting at peace with a good book.

So many things run in cycles, they start, run for a while, wind down and then fade

away. It is as it should be. Things must change. Nothing goes on exactly the same

forever. It can‘t do.

As far as I know, to ‗meddle‘ is to interfere or tamper with something, and not, as

many sports commentators seem to believe, to win a medal.

Bread and circus ... How true! ... How easy it is to distract the masses. Heaven for-

bid they should ever wake-up and start to think for themselves.

Religious hatred has caused many problems — but never solved one.

dog days n plural

The days between early July and early September when Sirius (the Dog Star)

rises and sets with the Sun.

Hot, lazy days A period of inactivity, laziness, or stagnation.

progeny n

(uncountable) Offspring or descendants. (countable) Result of a creative effort.

superannuate v

(transitive) To retire or put out of use due to age.

(intransitive) To become obsolete or antiquated.

guardian angel n

A spirit believed to protect and to guide a particular person. (Relating to some

Christian religious belief sects)

vulgarian n

A vulgar individual, especially one who emphasizes or is oblivious to their vul-

gar qualities.

enfranchise v

To grant the franchise to an entity, generally meaning to grant the privilege of

voting to a person.

literati n plural

Well-educated, literary people; intellectuals who are interested in literature.

Issue 249

Page 3

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 249

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

The chapbooks are illustrated by some of her original artwork.

She is a member of Stafford Art Group. Next exhibition: Millbank Gallery, October.

Random words: biscuits, hard-liner, salt, undulate, behind,

kipper, fashion, doubtful, prescription, Medusa - 150 words

Assignment: ―When did you last wear that suit?‖ - 400 words

Random words (PMW)

Tom was a stonemason and clever with his hammer and chisel. He made his niece

Annie a dolls house, complete with tiny wooden figures, in suits or petticoats. Tom

and his team of builders were repairing stonework on St Cuthbert‘s Church, but

sadly, Tom liked a drink, and as he got older and stiffer and his strength and abili-

ties grew weaker, he would oil the wheels with first one drink, then a second. Un-

surprisingly, this led to a misadventure, and a fatal fall from the roof.

On her way to school, Annie would stop and look upwards to where Tom‘s skills

were on public show, in the form of stone carvings and gargoyles. One resembled a

creature similar to an armadillo, and it was said that at night, it came to life as a

heavenly being and roamed the rooftops, letting off the occasional burp;- the ghost

of Uncle Tom.

Cryptic clue

Strange that two letters near the start of the alphabet makes a

perilous Greek adventure.

Issue 249

Page 5

DO MIRACLES REALLY HAPPEN?

Wikepedia offers several definitions of miracles including: events attributed to di-

vine intervention, perceptible interruption of the laws of nature, God working with

the laws of nature to perform what people perceive as miracles. Many have sought

to explain away miracles by making the observation that advanced understanding

of physics, for example, can explain many events hitherto regarded as miracles.

What of the term ‗modern day miracle‘ as attributed to advances in medical

science? Do we ever think of these events in terms of the dictionary definitions?

What we tend to say is ‗It was just like a miracle‘.

This is what I said after having cataract corrections. For the first time in my life

I have 20/20 vision. Having been born with severe myopia and a high degree of

astigmatism in one eye, my first action on waking had always been to reach for the

glasses, without which walking downstairs was potentially hazardous, crossing a

road would have been unthinkable and driving, well, out of the question.

When the problem was diagnosed I had no expectation of improved vision

other than a return to clarity, loss of which had prompted me to seek advice. I had

not realised that the surgery involved replacement lenses which could be selected

to achieve, as far as possible, 20/20 vision. Neither had I considered the possibil-

ity of reducing the degree of astigmatism which in my case was achieved to the ex-

tent that driving would be within legal limits even without the use of glasses.

The prospect of any surgery is not pleasant, especially eye surgery with only a

local anaesthetic. The injections were, at worst, slightly uncomfortable but as vi-

sion is lost when these take effect there is little or no awareness of the actual pro-

cedure, other than that of a bright light.

Adjustment takes a few days during which time I experienced double vision, as

if looking at a framed picture floating in space; to my delight this was amazingly

clear.

Eye drops have to be used four times a day for one month and after a further

two weeks, if all is well, the second eye can be treated.

After a lifetime of spectacles, and contact lenses as soon as they were suffi-

ciently developed for use with my type of vision, the need for reading glasses is

certainly no hardship. To see our beautiful countryside without the barrier of

glasses is still a novelty as is the improvement in night vision.

I can truthfully say, without exaggeration, ‗It‘s just like a miracle‘.

Pauline Walden

1st August 2012

Faith Hickey image

Issue 242

Page 6

Window leather in hand Deirdre Drinkwater was despondent. The man of her

dreams had turned into a nightmare, how could a dream disappear into a puff of

reality like that? What had a married Countess got that she hadn‘t got in spades?

What could Michael Grabble see in that hussy? She was common as muck. She

might have money? But taste? Had she any taste? The only taste Countess

Bluddschott had an knowledge of was that of fried bangers. The circles in the

grime on the shop front window grew larger and larger as Deirdre vented her an-

noyance.

It so happened the luckless Barry was about to enter said shop in search of soul

-mate Randolph, who he had forgotten to tell to bring some props for the photo

shoot, when Deirdre decided it was time to empty her bucket into the gutter. With-

out a thought ... whoosh ...

‗Oh I‘m so sorry,‘ she spluttered as the soaking wet and bedraggled Barry

gasped in amazement.

‗Crikey, I haven‘t been this wet since Christmas morning when mam threatened

me with the sharp end of the toasting fork if I didn‘t shower and shave in time for

Christmas dinner. If you can call fish fingers and baked beans worthy of celebra-

tion.‘

Clearly, he was delirious and in shock. Deirdre took charge of his arm and

steered the dripping Barry inside the shop.

‗There‘s no one in the changing room,‘ said Geraldine eyeing the trail of squelch-

ing footprints on the lino.

Such close and intimate proximity was a new sensation for both parties, and as

Barry allowed Deirdre to towel him down, comb his hair and rearrange his soggy

clothing in the bijou changing room something decidedly odd occurred. His breath-

ing raced, his skin tingled and his stutter vanished. Flush-faced Deirdre insisted,

‗You‘d better come home to my house for dinner. Compensation like, it‘s fish-pie!

And there‘s pudding.‘

She had him at fish-pie. All thoughts of the missing Randolph went entirely out

of Barry‘s head. True Deirdre was Rubensesque in stature and had a face for radio

but when she was in that cubical on her knees rubbing him all over with a teacloth,

Barry‘s soul had soared to heights untold, never connecting the influence of the

mischievous sacred scarab‘s mismatching of opposites between the events un-

folding.

What Geraldine meant by, ‗no glove, no love‘ as she pushed them out on to the

street wasn‘t lost on Barry either. Bit rude! he thought. What an afternoon so full of

possibilities! Marmalized by a space Princess and now he seemed to have

acquired a girl-friend of his own. A real girl-friend who could make fish-pie and

send shivers up and down his spine. Although that

might have been the unexpected faceful of cold soapy

water. Exactly how he had achieved this minor miracle

this was a mystery. His mam would be pleased, he was

sure she held suspicions that he batted for the other

team.

Thus it was Geraldine was left alone to cash up that

Saturday teatime and, unconcerned, not far away on

the island in the middle of Bluddschott park‘s lake

Reggie yawned, and picked his teeth with a claw,

watched benignly by the dog-headed statue guarding

the faux-temple of Dumilla.

Maxie had visions of gaping jaws for days after his rapid departure from Trentby, even when he

was back at work at the museum, but now he had a plan.

‗Miss Spur, can I have a word with you, please?‘ To say that Maxie was polite to his supervisor

was an understatement. He grovelled.

‗What is it now Maxie?‘ She ticked them off on her fingers. ‗Too many school groups? Too

much to learn? Not enough time off? If I've told you once I've told you a dozen times. Just buckle

down and do it, don't moan!‘

‗Oh no, it's not that, Miss Spur. It's just that...well... you see …. I'll never be anywhere nearly as

good as you are at this personal skills thing you're teaching me. So it'd be best, much more use

to the Museum, if I do something I can do and moving things around is where I'm good.‘

He didn't say that he had, on occasion, and sometimes with the real owners knowledge, suc-

cessfully 'moved' things when he had a sometimes questionable right to do so. Exactly what

those owners told 'The Plod' and the Insurance Companies was another matter. One that Maxie

didn't ask questions about.

‗I think I'd be better as a Museum Assistant than as a guide. There's a position just come up

and I'm going to apply for it.‘

Miss Spur paused; she knew that Maxie was right. Personal skills were more inborn than

teachable. ‗You know what they do, and, you want a reference from me, don't you?‘

‗Yes please, Ms Spur.‘ Although Maxie was mediocre at personal skills, when it suited him he

could have given lessons to Dickens' Uriah Heep.

‗I'll have a word with the Senior Handler,‘ she told him. ‗I'm fairly sure that he'll listen to me,

but I'm not promising anything.‘

Later that morning Maxie was called into the Museum Services Offices and interviewed. Two

hours later Miss Spur told him he'd got the job and was to report to the Head of Museum Ser-

vices, immediately!

‗We've got a problem in Egypt,‘ he was told by his new boss. ‗You're the only pair of hands cov-

ered by insurance we've got to spare and, although you aren't trained, you'll just have to do. The

only thing you need to remember is to do as you're told by the lads over there. No nipping out for

a quick burger and no beer! Got it?‘

Maxie admitted that, ‗He'd got it,‘ and found himself on a plane heading for Egypt. At Cairo he

got off the plane, feeling terrible, as if he was short of some important parts, and staggered off

to find the driver waiting for him.

After a fast wash and brush-up he was renamed. ‗You can't be called Maxie! That's a kid‘s

name! We'll call you Max, that's a man's name,‘ was decided by consensus of the other handlers

on site, and he was put to shifting packing cases around.

‗Number four,‘ said Will, the senior man on site. ‗The Bluddschott Mummy. That's to go into

position six. Shift it to one side for a second, when Ron gets back open it up and put it into the

display case.‘

‗What's Ron doing, Will?‘

‗Not a lot, Max. He's got a runny tummy. Let that be a lesson to you, stick to food-stuff you

can rely on.‘

Maxie, now Max, was intrigued. ‗The Bluddschott Mummy, you say, Will! Now that's odd. I was

up at Bluddschott Hall last week listening to a talk by Lady Bluddschott, she said it's unique.‘

‗Not unique, Max. There's lots of them around, so many that about a hundred and fifty years

ago they got burned instead of coal, but that one's a bit special. That's why it's back here on

semi-permanent loan. At least we won't have to lug it back to London.‘

Maxie was elated. Here he was in Egypt, and, he was getting paid for it. All he had to do was

find the Greens and get the scarab from them.

Money for old rope!

Maxie hadn’t gone far from the shop when a stranger, a foreigner to judge from his

accent, came up to him.

‘Excuse me please,’ the man asked, ‘Can you tell me the way to the station,

please?’

‘Sure!’ said Maxie, always willing to please, ‘The best way from here is across the

park. I’m going part of the way myself; I’ll show you.’

They walked through the streets. Maxie pointed out various places of interest as

they went. The stranger remained absolutely silent. Maxie would have like to ask him

what country he came from, but felt that would somehow be rude. There were very

few people about in the park, but then suddenly and unexpectedly another stranger

appeared from behind the rose-bushes. Each man took Maxie firmly by the arm and

marched Maxie off to a park bench, where they made him sit down between them.

‘Now, sir,’ said the first stranger, ‘We need to talk about the scarab.’

‘What business is it of yours, might I ask?’

‘We are Egyptians. It is our business. And yours as well, if you are sensible.’

‘Are you trying to threaten me?’ Despite the unusual situation, Maxie didn’t feel par-

ticularly frightened: he felt he could handle himself well enough against this pair, and

he found the whole experience strangely intriguing.

‘We have no need to threaten you. The scarab is threatening enough.’

‘What on earth are you talking about? Anyway, I don’t have the scarab. It’s not

here anymore. I think it’s going to be taken back to Egypt.’

‘And the mummy? The one that your English lord took?’

‘That’s still here. At least, I think it is.’

‘That is no use. The scarab and the mummy: they must not be separated. The god-

dess will be angry.’

‘The goddess? You mean Dumilla?’

‘That is what the Romans called her, yes. But her true name, in the ancient lan-

guage; that is too sacred to be spoken out loud. Your Mister Twogood, if he was any

kind of a scholar, he could have told you this.’

How come they knew about Tim Twogood, Maxie wondered. And why hadn’t they

approached him, not me? But he said nothing for the moment. The first stranger con-

tinued to talk, while the third man said nothing, his face remaining absolutely mo-

tionless, staring straight ahead. Like some kind of automaton, thought Maxie.

‘Listen, sir; this is very important. The scarab and the mummy; they do not like be-

ing separated; they want to be together. Otherwise strange things will happen. Al-

ready you may have seen people behaving oddly, perhaps? That is the scarab’s doing.

It will get worse. And who knows what the mummy might do? There is great danger

here, not just for the people of this town, but perhaps for the whole world!’

‘That’s just rubbish!’ Maxie exclaimed in disgust, ‘I’m not superstitious, you

know: occult powers or any of that twaddle! It’s no good your trying to scare me!’

‘I am not surprised, sir, for that is what you have been taught. But you are wrong.

The old gods of Egypt; long, long ago they fell before the Cross and the Crescent, but

they are not dead. No! They are watching, and waiting. They are stirring once again.

And she who must not be named; she whom you call Dumilla after the Roman fash-

ion; already I can sense her impatience, her anger.’

Maxie looked from one to the other of the two strangers. ‘I think you’re a couple

of frauds. You’re trying to con me, aren’t you? I don’t believe you’re real Egyptians

at all!’

Continued on page 10

We offer a huge vote of

thanks to Peter for

donating this Egyptian

collection of stunning

photographs for us to play

with in the farce

Going to the Dogs.

There on a park bench, sat a man reading a newspaper. It was a nice sunny day, but the man

seemed unaware of it. He was engrossed. Middle-aged, clean-shaven, heavily-built, wearing dark

overcoat and trousers. Fairly ordinary-looking. Nothing in his appearance to give away his stand-

ing or occupation.

So caught up in his paper was he that he didn‘t even notice when I sat down at the far end of

the bench. He simply carried on reading. The odd thing was, I recognised his face. Our paths had

crossed before. He hadn‘t changed much in twelve years. Unlike me. Plus short beard and dark

glasses. Anyway, he‘d never looked up once from his paper.

I glanced across. He had the paper open at the sports page. No doubt checking the racing re-

sults. Always did enjoy a flutter. Probably imagining he‘s won a fortune, and will be able to take

early retirement on some exotic foreign shore, instead of spending yet another Friday afternoon

on a park bench in a dingy Midlands town, and the following week and so on, for the foreseeable

future. No, for sure he‘d be back at the station come Monday. Having to deal with all those un-

pleasant people who do such unpleasant things.

He took out a pen and marked some of the horses and riders. Never noticed the children play-

ing on the swings. Never noticed the people strolling past. Never noticed the ducks on the small

lake, squabbling over pieces of bread tossed to them from the bridge above. Never noticed the

men on the bowling green. Never noticed the neatly manicured flower beds. Never noticed me

sitting alongside him. But then, it‘s true, isn‘t it? The best way to hide is to be right under some-

one‘s nose. They won‘t think to look there. They won‘t see the wood for the trees.

I wonder if he‘ll bother to read the article on page six. It‘d be rather a pity if he missed it. Quite a

good photo, though I say it myself.

―Dangerous psychopath escapes from police custody. Suspected of double murder. Britain‘s

most wanted man‖.

Nice to be wanted!

‘And why should you think that, sir? How would you know what real Egyptians

would be like?’

Maxie had not anticipated this response. ‘I’ve seen Egyptian leaders in pictures on

television’, he replied, ‘Mubarak, Nasser, Sadat … King Farooq …’ He was aware he

was becoming less and less convincing.

‘Tush! They were not real Egyptians, they were Arabs! Apart from Sadat, who was

a Nubian from the south. But we are of the ancient blood of Egypt, and we remain true

to the old ways.

‘It is for your own good, sir, that you must bring us the scarab. As for the mummy,

we shall see to that. Now we shall let you go. You need not try to find us, for we have

put our mark on you, though you cannot see it, and we shall know when you have the

scarab in your hands. Expect us then. And be warned: do not delay too long! The god-

dess is waiting, and she will not wait forever!’

Radio Wildfire Live! - Monday 6th August 2012, 8-10pm (UK time) August is Audio Appreciation Month! So we hope you'll join us to appreciate an exclusive interview with poet Nick Toczek discussing stolen lines, plagiarism and the (Baby)shambles of a court case he's just been through to get due credit for his words - just one of the items on this month's edition of Radio Wildfire Live! Also in the show there'll be a poem from Longbarrow Press' Rob Hindle; a superb poetry and sax track from LA based Frances Livings; and an extended poetic field im-provisation of from Mark Goodwin. The Bunbury Banter Theatre Company will be bringing us social satire with Conception, a play by Tony C.Pearson and Terry Kitching. And there'll be the latest edition of Mal Dewhirst's The Lost Poets: this episode featuring the Japanese Poet Matsuo Basho. Plus more uploads, sourced texts and delvings into our back catalogue including Tom Sykes reading live in Bristol about life in a seaside town. Then at 10.00pm there'll be the latest edition of Jan Watts' Irons In The Fire, her musings about life as Birmingham's Poet Laureate.

www.radiowildfire.com Radio Wildfire: appreciating in value like any fine

whine.

Follow Radio Wildfire on Twitter @ www.twitter.com/radiowildfire

WHAT IS RADIO WILDFIRE?

Radio Wildfire is an independent online radio station which blends spoken word, po-

etry, performance literature, comedy, storytelling, short stories and more with a novel selection of word/music fusion and an eclectic mix

of musical styles. www.radiowildfire.com broadcasts live 8.00-10.00pm (UK time) on

the first Monday of every month.

It has been decided that with so many people

saying they will be away on

holiday this month that the annual lunch will be

postponed until later in the year.

The AGM will go ahead on 20th August

at the library at 1.30pm

followed by a usual workshop.

The Church of the Holy Ghost’s primary school, had come second once again in the

Remembrance Sunday sports day events: it was true they were by far the weaker

team. Father Armandio, fresh from the seminary, was laughingly called Father Arma-

dillo behind his back, by his young footballers. His five-a-siders needed heavenly in-

tervention. Warmed by a dram or two of Irish whiskey, flashers, lead-strippers-not-

dirty-raincoat, Jimmy and Wallace were watching the games from the sanctuary of

the vestry roof which had recently been vandalised by themselves and was in the

process of being fixed. The builders had left several of their tools lying about includ-

ing a handy chisel, which was just what Jimmy need to fix his sister’s dolls-house.

Poor kid, it wasn’t her fault she’d caught her foot in her petticoat and to complete her

maladventure had sat down hard on the little red painted roof and smashed it.

‘There’s a guy sitting on a park bench still reading a newspaper,’ Talking of meat

pies, which they weren’t, had made Cooper hungry. Cooper’s stomach grumbled.

‘You eating anything nice?’

‘Ginger nuts.’

‘Lucky devil.’ Cooper looked in his snap bag. No biscuits. Evil witch. He’d give

‘er-in-doors a good talking to, putting him on a diet.

Austin was talking. Cooper swapped ears. ‘Surveillance is a bit too long term for

that lot in traffic; trouble with the old attention span.’

‘A.D.D. I shouldn’t wonder,’ Cooper added, although he was no longer really lis-

tening. ‘Not even a garibaldi. I just fancy some crumpets.’

‘Jam crumpets?’

‘No, just crumpets – no jam.’

‘Emmmm ... crumpets. But, with jam. Blackcurrant.’

Cooper was salivating. ‘I’ll check back later, got to do the log. Out.’

Jack Cooper actually liked moving surveillance: no doubt there’d be another team

waiting round the corner to drop in to play weaving in-and-out the traffic lanes. Had

to possess a certain kind of mindset to be jigging about forwards-and-backwards.

Dodging and diving all around the manor as they recorded the mark’s every move. A

moving shadow, always three steps behind, or two in front, across the street or eye-

balled right under his nose without the target’s knowledge.

Briefing said, if the suspect’s status went up there could be a twelve man team on

the shadowing job within minutes, but that’d play havoc with the overtime budget. Or

as the Gov’nor said: ‘What overtime budget?’ They all knew it was best not to men-

tion funding to the Gov’nor. He who must be obeyed took department under-funding

as personally as he would if any punter was daft enough to be taking liberties with his

good lady. So for now it was only the six of them: Bennett, himself and four sec-

onded pie-eaters munching in two ‘off-duty’ taxi-cabs.

Cooper’s missus, the much-maligned Tracey, swore he lived for the adrenaline

rush, playing cops and robbers, shadowing motors and spying on villains, but, today

Cooper wasn’t on moving surveillance. This was due to a gammy knee and the slight

matter of losing a mark on a simple hand over from the B.T.P., of all people. He was

stuck on static duty, which didn’t help the state of his health and temper. There was

no love lost between CID and Traffic in most nicks, but between Traffic and CIB3,

was outright warfare.

In moments of clarity, Cooper believed the main reason for the bitterness was

‘tenure’. Even though this outdated practice was overhauled and dumped in 2002 the

very sound of the word ‘tenure’ still rankled in the memories of those poor souls whose

careers had been blighted. He’d explained to the new boy, Austin, when he joined the

unit: ‘Y’see once upon a time for those lucky to be appointed into CIB3 there was no

tenure to worry about.’

This meant after seven-years service those still standing would not automatically be

moved sideways into uniform. Austin had nodded wisely, as if he understood. He didn’t.

‘The tenure system was dreamed up somewhere on the eighth floor of the Big House. A

dream factory special.’ Austin got this reference to New Scotland Yard, the dream fac-

tory. HQ was usually thus termed by the rank and file.

Austin wasn’t that impressed: ‘They said at Henley that tenure weeded out dead

wood. Tenure winnowed out the chaff; those good-old-boys the useless semi-literates -

who needed a home-from-home as an escape from the missus and a comfy bar stool to

perch on in the safety of the police club until retirement dawned golden over the hori-

zon. They got shafted by tenure!’

Remembering Austin was being fast-tracked, Cooper suddenly didn’t like where the

conversation was going: ‘There’s a guy still sitting on a park bench reading a newspa-

per.’

Coming back on the line, from across town in control, Austin took the hint and shut

up about his ginger nuts.

© Cenorman | Stock Free Images & Dreamstime Stock Photos

Source: Wikipedia image: This image is from the European Space Agency. It is listed as the LH 95 star forming region of

the Large Magellanic Cloud. The image was taken using the Hubble Space Telescope.

v

http://www.independent.co.uk/news/uk/politics/revealed-the-full-cost-of-the-cull-of-public-

libraries-7988028.html

The True Cost of the Tory Libraries Cull

Exposed By ‘Independent’ Newspaper article ...

150 libraries already lost 225 libraries at risk of closure this year 7.5% library budget cuts this year 2,100 library staff already lost their jobs 150,000 library opening hours already cut 157 mobile libraries shut down or moved to volunteers Book stocks are being reduced

National Short Story Week: 12th to 18th November 2012 (Press Release)

National Short Story Week is only a few months away, and in the run up to it we'd

like to offer a way to be entertained by over two hours of audio stories and support

disadvantaged students get back into education at the same time!

Women Aloud is an audio anthology of short stories written by eleven of the UK's best

loved women's fiction writers. The writers, actors and director/producer of Women

Aloud have donated their time and talents to support this project in aid of The Helena

Kennedy Foundation. In fact, all proceeds from the double CD go to the charity, to

support them in the work that they do.

The Foundation provides financial bursaries, mentoring and support to disadvantaged

students from the further and adult education sectors, enabling them to complete their

studies in higher education and move on successfully into employment.

Help us to reach our target of raising £1000 for the Helena Kennedy Foundation in

time for this year's National Short Story Week. We have a limited number of CDs

available priced at £5.99 (including p+p within the UK).

http://www.nationalshortstoryweek.org.uk/women-aloud.htm

Issue 249

Page 26

New Zealand Poet Laureate

The post of New Zealand Poet Laureate is appointed by the National Library of

New Zealand. The appointed poet has to represent New Zealand's community

of poets, to promote and advocate, and to produce a number of published

works during a two-year tenure as laureate.

History of the award

The Poet Laureate for New Zealand post was not originally appointed by a gov-

ernment agency. The position was established by Te Mata Estate, a winery in

Hawke's Bay, in 1997, to celebrate the winery's centenary. Bill Manhire was

named the first Te Mata Poet Laureate.

In 2007, the National Library of New Zealand took over the appointment of

the Poet Laureate, and appointed the last three Laureates: Michele Leggott,

Cilla McQueen and the incumbent Ian Wedde.

Nomination

The National Library accepts public nominations for the position, as well as

nominations from universities, libraries and creative writing programmes. The

National Librarian of New Zealand then makes the decision following advice

from the Poet Laureate Advisory Council, which currently includes first Laureate

Bill Manhire and Te Mata Estate chair-

man John Buck.

Award

The value of the award granted to the

Poet Laureate is currently NZD$100,000,

of which twenty per cent is retained by

the National Library to cover costs such

as events, promotion, and the Laureate's

tokotoko. A tokotoko is a Māori carved

ceremonial walking stick which is pre-

sented to the Laureate upon their ap-

pointment. The tokotoko is paired with

the matua, or "parent tokotoko" which is retained and displayed by the National

Library to signify their joint guardianship of the award with the Ngāti Kahun-

gunu. The tokotoko are created by Hawkes Bay artist Jacob Scott, with the

matua carved from black maire and containing a poem by the late Hone Tu-

whare, the 1999–2001 Laureate.

Based on the tradition of the Poet Laureate of the United Kingdom receiving a

"butt of sack", the New Zealand Poet Laureate also receives a stipend of wine

from Te Mata Estate.

List of New Zealand Poets Laureate

Bill Manhire (1997–1999) Hone Tuwhare (1999–2001)

Elizabeth Smither (2001–2003) Brian Turner (2003–2005)

Jenny Bornholdt (2005–2007) Michele Leggott (2007–2009)

Cilla McQueen (2009–2011) Ian Wedde (2011–2013)

Hone Tuwhare (http://honetuwhare.org.nz/hone-tuwhare-charitable-trust/)

Hone Tuwhare (21 October 1922 – 16 January 2008) was a

noted New Zealand poet of Māori ancestry. His

work is associated with The Catlins in the Otago

region of New Zealand. The Catlins is a highlight

of the South Island scenic route encompassing

the area between Kaka Point and Fortrose —

with a rural heartland and podocarp forests, rug-

ged coastlines, hidden lakes and stunning wa-

terfalls. The natural landscapes are magical and

the wildlife is extraordinary, all of which feature

in the work of this extraordinary talented poet.

Hone Tuwhare was born in Kaikohe, Northland, into the Nga Puhi tribe (hapu Ngati Korokoro, Ngati Tautahi,

Te Popoto, Uri-o-hau). Following the death of his mother, his family moved to Auckland. Tuwhare spoke Māori

until he was about 9, and his father, an accomplished orator and storyteller, encouraged his son‘s interest in

the written and spoken word, especially in the rhythms and imagery of the Old Testament. Hone attended

primary schools in Avondale, Mangere and Ponsonby. He began a boilermaker apprenticeship with the New

Zealand Railways and took night classes in Mathematics, Trade Drawing and Theory at Seddon Memorial

Technical College in Auckland (1939–41), and Otahuhu College (1941).

In 1939, Tuwhare, encouraged by fellow poet R.A.K. Mason, began to write while working as an apprentice

at the Otahuhu Railway Workshops. In 1956, Tuwhare started writing seriously after resigning from the Com-

munist party. No Ordinary Sun, was published in 1964 to widespread acclaim and subsequently reprinted

ten times over the next thirty years, becoming one of the most successful individual collections of poetry in

New Zealand history. Much of the works' originality resulted from a distinctly Māori perspective. The poems

were easily accessible to a New Zealand readership and noted by their variety and the naturalness which

moved between formal and informal, humour and pathos, intimacy and anger.

During the 1970s Tuwhare became involved in Māori cultural and political initiatives. His international

reputation grew, with invitations to visit China and Germany, which lead to the publication of Was wirklicher

ist als Sterben in 1985. Tuwhare's play, "In the Wilderness Without a Hat", was published in 1991. Three fur-

ther collections of poetry then followed: Short Back and Sideways: Poems & Prose (1992), Deep River Talk

(1993), and Shape-Shifter (1997). In 1999 he was New Zealand's second Te Mata Poet Laureate, the out-

come of which was the publication Piggy-Back Moon (2002).

He moved to Kaka Point in South Otago in 1992. His later poems reflected the scenery of The Catlins area.

Tuwhare was awarded the Robert Burns Fellowship from the University of Otago in 1969 and again in 1974.

He was awarded the University of Auckland Literary Fellowship in 1991. In 1999, he was named New Zea-

land's second Te Mata Poet Laureate. At the end of his two year term he published Piggy Back Moon (2001)

which was shortlisted in the 2002 Montana New Zealand Book Awards. Tuwhare was among ten of New Zea-

land's greatest living artists named as Arts Foundation of New Zealand Icon Artists at a ceremony in 2003.

In 2003, Tuwhare was awarded one of the inaugural Prime Minister's Awards for Literary Achievement for

poetry. The other winners were novelist Janet Frame and historian Michael King. Each recipient received a

cash prize of $60,000 NZD. The awards are awarded to New Zealand writers who have made an outstanding

contribution to the nation's literary and cultural history.

Tuwhare received an honorary Doctor of Literature degree from The University of Auckland in 2005. At the

time of his death in 2008 Hone Tuwhare was described as "New Zealand's most distinguished Maori writer".

In July 2010 The Hone Tuwhare Charitable trust was formed in honour of Hone Tuwhare. Their mission state-

ment is: ―To inspire people through the preservation, promotion, and celebration of Hone‘s legacy

Source material Wikipedia, Nat Library of New Zealand and Hone Tuwhare trust. Image Hone Tuwhare Trust website.

htt

p:/

/ho

net

uw

ha

re.o

rg.n

z/m

ore

-po

ems/

If you are a subscribing email recipient to leave RBW Online is easy just email and say ‘unsubscribe’ and you will be immediately removed from the list. If you have any suggestions for improvement to this service please let us know. You don't have to take an active part to receive this workshop bulletin you can just sit back and enjoy the ride, but if you could send back KUDOS feedback it is greatly appreciated. RBW Privacy Promise: A few simple contact details are all that are required and they will only be used for this bulletin service. RBW promise to:

Only send you details via the newsletter.

To never pass on your details to anyone else.

To always allow recipients to opt-out and unsubscribe at any time.

www.risingbrookwriters.org.uk

To contact RBW please use the website contact box.

PATRON Ian McMillan www.ian-mcmillan.co.uk

Memberships and funders.

Rising Brook Writers strives to be compliant with the requirements of the Data Protection Act. RBW strives for accuracy and

fairness, however, can take no responsibility for any error, misinterpretation or inaccuracy in any message sent by this mode of

publishing. The opinions expressed are not necessarily in accordance with the policy of the charity. E-mails and attachments

sent out by RBW are believed to be free from viruses which might affect computer systems into which they are received or

opened but it is the responsibility of the recipient to ensure that they are virus free. Rising Brook Writers accepts no responsi-

bility for any loss or damage arising in any way from their receipt, opening or use. Environment/ Recycling: Please consider care-

fully if you need to print out any part or all of this message.

To the best of our knowledge and belief all the material included in this publication is free to use in the public domain, or has

been reproduced with permission, and/or source acknowledgement. RBW have researched rights where possible, if anyone’s

copyright is accidentally breached please inform us and we will remove the item with apologies. RBW is a community organisation,

whose aims are purely educational, and is entirely non-profit making. If using material from this collection for educational pur-

poses please be so kind as to acknowledge RBW as the source. Contributors retain the copyright to their own work. Fiction:

names, characters, places and incidents are imaginary or are being used in a fictitious way. Any resemblance to actual people living

or dead is entirely coincidental.

This bulletin is produced by volunteers.

© Rising Brook Writers 2012 — RCN 1117227 A voluntary charitable trust.