Latest news on Three Sheets to the Wind.

**Three Sheets to the Wind** written **by Whittlesey Wordsmiths**

Excitement mounts in Whittlesey as the town’s senior writing group awaits proof copies of their latest outstanding collection of stories and poems.

We can do no better than to show you the back page blurb:

Well, well, well, the Whittlesey Wordsmiths have done it again.

They keep producing such fine work that it would almost be a crime not to publish more. With fabulous poetry and wonderful stories, this latest collection will thrill and surprise, make you gasp and chuckle, sometimes even in the right places, and for the right reasons!

For those readers who have experienced the talent of the group before, you will be delighted to hear the Wordsmiths are back, having added to their number, and for those of you who are new to the collections, you have a real treat in store, and you are very welcome.

You are guaranteed to enjoy it.

“Amazing they are still writing at their age,” Becky, age 12.

“What, again? Really?” Their families.

“You will still keep taking your pills, won’t you?” Their doctors.

“How do you do it?” Other u3a groups.

Want to buy it on Amazon?

Click here to buy it on Amazon.

Coming Soon!

Whittlesey Wordsmiths are working hard to have their latest collection of short stories, poems and limericks, ready for publication in the autumn. There will be one more month of submissions; then the final editing, cover designs to be finished, together with illustrations and title selection. We are working towards a September or October launch in time for our fans to buy copies as Christmas presents or as a special treat for themselves.

These and books from other local authors will be available at Whitt Litt 2

This will be our third annual collection, our fifth if we include last year’s two Christmas collections. We are thinking of offering our three major books as a boxed set (probably without a box though) or possibly all five as a set. We welcome people’s thoughts and suggestions.

**Where the Wild Winds Blow and A Following Wind,** **the first two collections**.

**Jingle Bells and Tinsel Tales and Windy Christmas ( that’ll be the sprouts). Our Christmas collections**

Remembrance

Before it all started “Straight of limb, true of eye, steady and aglow.”

We have posted these two pieces before but they are timely just now, the first was written by Val Fish and is about the poem For the Fallen by Laurence Binyon. The second piece is a poem written by another of our brilliant Whittlesey Wordsmiths TessaThomson.

For the Fallen by Laurence Binyon

Inspiration for ‘For The Fallen’

Laurence Binyon composed his best known poem while sitting on the cliff-top looking out to sea from the dramatic scenery of the north Cornish coastline. A plaque marks the location at Pentire Point, north of Polzeath. However, there is also a small plaque on the East Cliff north of Portreath, further south on the same north Cornwall coast, which also claims to be the place where the poem was written.

The poem was written in mid September 1914, a few weeks after the outbreak of the First World War. During these weeks the British Expeditionary Force had suffered casualties following its first encounter with the Imperial German Army at the Battle of Mons on 23 August, its rearguard action during the retreat from Mons in late August and the Battle of Le Cateau on 26 August, and its participation with the French Army in holding up the Imperial German Army at the First Battle of the Marne between 5 and 9 September 1914.

Laurence said in 1939 that the four lines of the fourth stanza came to him first. These words of the fourth stanza have become especially familiar and famous, having been adopted by the Royal British Legion as an Exhortation for ceremonies of Remembrance to commemorate fallen Servicemen and women.

Laurence Binyon was too old to enlist in the military forces, but he went to work for the Red Cross as a medical orderly in 1916. He lost several close friends and his brother-in-law in the war.

For The Fallen

With proud thanksgiving, a mother for her children,

England mourns for her dead across the sea.

Flesh of her flesh they were, spirit of her spirit,

Fallen in the cause of the free.

Solemn the drums thrill; Death august and royal

Sings sorrow up into immortal spheres,

There is music in the midst of desolation

And a glory that shines upon our tears.

They went with songs to the battle, they were young,

Straight of limb, true of eye, steady and aglow.

They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted;

They fell with their faces to the foe.

They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:

Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.

At the going down of the sun and in the morning

We will remember them.

They mingle not with their laughing comrades again;

They sit no more at familiar tables of home;

They have no lot in our labour of the day-time;

They sleep beyond England’s foam.

But where our desires are and our hopes profound,

Felt as a well-spring that is hidden from sight,

To the innermost heart of their own land they are known

As the stars are known to the Night;

As the stars that shall be bright when we are dust,

Moving in marches upon the heavenly plain;

As the stars that are starry in the time of our darkness,

To the end, to the end, they remain.

Laurence Binyon 1869 – 1943

Postscript

I was privileged to perform on the stage at The Broadway Peterborough in 2014, in the ‘Sing for Life’ ladies’ choir, to raise funds for a new wing at Sue Ryder’s Thorpe Hall Hospice.

On the 100^th Anniversary of the beginning of the First World War, we sang an adaptation of ‘For The Fallen’ by Rowland Lee.

In the final few bars, we were as stunned as the audience as poppies came falling from above onto the stage. It was a moment I’ll always treasure.

Valerie Fish

Lest we Forget

Written by Tessa Thomson

With the annual remembrance commemorations drawing near, Tessa has marked this time of reflection with a poem expressing not only her thoughts but those of most of us.

LEST WE FORGET – NOVEMBER 11TH

We travel in our hordes to see that place

Wherein our loved ones fell without a trace.

Marked and blanketed by stones in white

Covering that great plain, that great site.

Farm hand boys and factory workers

Friends from villages, schools or clubs.

Joined together, left their homeland

To lie in fields, decayed amongst the scrub.

Their voices call out still across that plain

Feet are still heard thundering, inches gained.

Hearts were in their mouths, panting fast

As struggling, reached their enemies at last.

The bodies lay before them in the mud

Mingled with the dirt, the crimson blood.

No time to mourn a brother or a friend

Just pass them by, praying for the end.

Guns that deafened now are stilled

Armies of boys and men were killed.

Some now just memories to their kin

Some carried pain through life like sin

They gave us freedom, free to speak

They made us strong not kept us weak

We live in peace and fear no man

They gave their lives so we just can

Tessa Thomson

Sunrise in the fens with windturbines — **At the going down of the sun and in the morning we will remember them**

We can only have spring after winter the sun can only rise after it has gone down.

Jane’s pictures

**The Vicar from A Sexagenarian from Smithy Fen** **drawn by Jane Pobgee**

Whittlesey Wordsmiths are having a very productive year, two individual members, Tessa Thomson and Valerie Fish have published their own books. Tessa’s book is of poetry and Valerie’s a collection of limericks. Stephen Oliver has had a number of his short stories accepted for publication, nine at the last count. The Wordsmiths are in the process of completing their two Christmas collections carefully gathered together by Cathy Cade. Cathy is not only an ace editor and proof reader but also a prolific writer too, having published three of her own books. She has had great competition success with her short stories and poetry.Whittlesey Wordsmiths have also benefitted from the artistic talent of Jane Pobgee, not only for illustrations in our upcoming collection of children’s Christmas stories but also in Valerie’s and Tessa’s books.

These are a few of Jane’s drawings.

Jane’s drawings have a beautiful simplicity and capture the essence of the poem, limerick or story they accompany perfectly.

Here is just one, from the upcoming children’s Christmas stories.

**This is the Naughty Fairy, from Jan Cunningham’s story by the same name**

Covid 19

We are fortunate to have within our writing group some extremely talented writers and poets, one of our most talented poets is Tessa Thomson.

This is her poem about Covid 19, something that has touched all our lives in some way.

COVID – HOW OUR LIVES CHANGED

Suddenly I’m free to start something new to do.

Suddenly there’s time enough just for me and you.

Suddenly the streets are bare, the thoroughfare is clear

Suddenly we feel the fear and hold our dearest near.

It crawls amongst us night and day forming like a cloud.

Covering great swathes of land, continents in shrouds.

Shifting like the desert sands engulfing all in sight.

Quietly taking young and old fearless in its might.

Lives are lost, hearts are broke, tears seem endless too.

Cloudless days are not enough to see this drama through.

Gathered round our sets at night we see the totals grow.

Watching tales of gallant folk whose lives have been laid low.

Masked and gloved our heros work to stem the tide of loss.

People dying all too soon as if a coin were tossed.

In our sadness, in our grief we care for those at hand.

Helping neighbors, giving now support throughout the land.

Time will come when all will be not normal as before.

For we are changed forever now. For now we know the score.

But in our hearts and with each one together we will know,

That desperate times will see us all put on the greatest show.

Tessa Thomson

There was a young man from…

This post is from the very talented Valerie Fish. Not only is Val a terrific storyteller but she is an absolute star in the world of limericks.

writer working on typewriter in office — Photo by Andrea Piacquadio on Pexels.com

We are fortunate to have in our writing group, the extremely talented, Tessa Thomson, who writes the most beautiful poetry which often induces teary eyes round the table when recited at our monthly meetings…

Then at the other end of the scale, there’s me and my bawdy limericks! Well to be fair, they’re not all like that, although members of the clergy do have a tendency to misbehave…. And there’s a difference between being risqué and downright rude, I would hate to offend anybody.

I have been composing limericks for years, I have hundreds of them, enough for a book, which may be one day I’ll give a try.

What is it about a limerick that I find so attractive? I love that sing-along A A B B A rhyme meter (an anapaestic trimester, I’ve just learnt); I love the challenge of composing something that hopefully will make people smile, and I like to inject something different into my limericks, get that final twist. Sometimes it will take ages to find the right word, not the poshest or the longest, but the right word; it can make all the difference.

Where do my ideas come from? Sometimes I will have a prompt; in my early days, my local radio station ran a weekly limerick competition, incorporating a place in Cambridgeshire.

This was my winning gem:

This is from a while back, when Eastender’s viewing figures were a lot higher than they are nowadays…

At a fancy dress do down in Bury

Maid Marian had a drop too much sherry

It wasn’t young Robin

Who had her heart throbbin

‘Twas Little John who made Marian merry!

I am a regular contributor to the Daily Mail, where it pays (actually it doesn’t!) to be topical.

After Phil’s Christmas cracker with Mel

She decided to kiss and tell

To her best mate Lisa

Who gunned down the geezer

In a classic crime passionelle

And a couple more with a soupcon of Francais.

Late for school, couldn’t get out of bed

I’ve been summoned to see the head

In a fait accompli

No detention for me

Sir’s been given the sack instead

The wife got wind of our affair

When she came across a blonde hair

In the marital bed

(She’s a flaming redhead)

It’s au revoir to the au pair

My poor hubby doesn’t always fare well, I hope he realises it’s ‘what I call’ poetic licence…

It was all planned, a cruise round the Med

Now thanks to Covid 19, instead

I’m stuck home on my tod

Whist hubby, the daft sod

Is self-isolating in the shed

Last night I dreamt of the Azores
Palm trees, clear blue seas, sun-kissed shores
Sadly paradise
Was lost in a trice

Woken by hubby’s thundering snores

Here are those naughty men of the cloth….

With his sermon about to begin

The priest had to suppress a huge grin

Cos just minutes ago

Out the back with a pro

He’d committed a cardinal sin

Tired of living a life of vice

She went to her priest for advice

‘You must renounce your sin’

He said with a grin

‘But one last performance would be nice’.

Forgive me, father, I concede

I have sinned in word thought and deed

With Sister Theresa,

She begged me to please her

The poor girl was in desperate need

Followed by a few random risques…

The best man was proposing a toast

But he just couldn’t help but boast

‘Today’s stunning bride’

He drunkenly cried

‘Was yesterday’s notch on my bedpost!’

I just couldn’t believe my eyes

I have never seen such a size

There was no topping

Her melons, so whopping,

She waltzed off with ‘Best In Class’ prize

Under the boardwalk of Brighton pier

A drunken encounter cost me dear

I gave him my all

Up against the wall

The little’ n’s due early next year

Said the dentist, clutching his drill,

‘Now just open wide and sit still,

First a tiny prick,

That should do the trick,

You won’t feel a thing – but I will!’

I’ll finish with a nice clean one for all you animal lovers out there, I know we’ve got at least two here in Whittlesey Wordsmiths.

Lay quivering in his bed

Blankets pulled over his head

‘Whizz bang and pop,

Please make them stop

I’m waiting for walkies’ he said

I hope you have enjoyed this small selection of my work, and in these troubled times have put a smile on your face.

A link to Tessa’s blog:

https://tessathomsonpoetry.wordpress.com/page/1/?wref=bif

Valerie Fish

POETRY PLEASE

This post is another about favourite poems, Jan Cunningham shares some of her favourites and a fond memory.

My go to Poet (ess? who knows these days) is Pam Ayres.

When the black dog visits, when I wished I’d never got up that day, when everything goes wrong, when I keep dropping things to the point I’m screaming —-sitting down and reading a few of her poems soon has me smiling, then giggling, often laughing out loud and I’m cured—- for now.

Her poems are down to earth, about the every day, the small things in life, she is observant, witty and poignant. I cannot choose just a single poem, so I’ve picked two which I think demonstrates her range:

CASHED AT THE CASH POINT

My Grannie was coshed at the cash point

She had only just entered her pin

When out came the dosh

And down came the cosh!

But Gran, not a gal to give in …

Turned round and kneed her attacker,

Saying,” Buster, you’re making me nervous!”

The machine on the wall,

Having witnessed it all,

Said: “Thank you for using our service”.

7Am Procession

Poor old babies, row on row,

In the day care joint they go,

Strangers tend them, fill their tummies,

Tuck them in instead of mummies.

There is one particular poem, whilst not being a favourite, haunted me for years because of the childhood memory it evoked and because I could only remember the first four lines. This poem my Dad would recite to me when he was shaving. I would curl up in his big armchair with wooden arms and he would have his shaving mug on the mantle piece above the black lead stove and looking in the half moon mirror would lather his face and begin reciting:

The Sands of Dee

By Charles Kingsley

O Mary, go and call the cattle home,

And call the cattle home

and call the cattle home

Across the sands of Dee

The western wind was wild and dark with foam,

And all alone went she.

The western tide crept up along the sand,

And o’er and o’er the sand

And round and round the sand,

As far as eye could see,

The rolling mist came down and hid the land:

And never home came she.

‘O is it weed, or fish, or floating hair –

A tress of golden hair

A drowned maiden’s hair

Above the nets at sea?

Was never salmon yet that shone so fair

Among the stakes of Dee.

They row’d her in across the rolling foam,

The cruel crawling foam,

The cruel hungry foam,

To her grave beside the sea,

But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home,

Across the sands of Dee,

I sat mesmerised.

Jan Cunningham

Favourite Poems

A month or so back members of the Wordsmiths shared their favourite poems with the group. As an occasional feature we will publish their individual pieces, this one is by Val Chapman.

Not so much a song but more a poem

There wasn’t one particular poem that I could claim to be a favourite, so I decided to do a bit of research and still couldn’t come up with one that I enjoyed above all others.

It was when I was singing along to myself, as I do, that it occurred to me that songs were, for the most part, poems, set to music.

As I am one of those boring people who like their poetry to rhyme, otherwise it’s prose, this naturally opened up a lot more availability, which I am not altogether sure was a good thing, as I am hopeless at making decisions.

However, these two struck a chord (if you pardon the pun) for different reasons.

“It would never have worked,” I like as it seems to be taking the reader down one path, then veering off down another unexpected one, and finally, down yet another.

“Love song,” I can barely get through without a lump in my throat. I am sure this resonates with so many of our, though perhaps more so, the previous generations when feelings were often hard to express.

— Just a quick note, I don’t know whether it is just a northern expression, but the words “I was tight” indicates a somewhat over-enjoyment of an alcoholic nature! —–

This one in particular came as a bit of a surprise, as they were both written by the same very talented writer, known more for her humour, and this poem is an unexpected offering from her I think.

They were written in 1978 (love song)

1987 (It would never have worked)

By the wonderful Victoria Wood.

Victoria Wood (Photo Credit Wikipedia)

IT WOULD NEVER HAVE WORKED

It’s over,

We missed the bus,

Nice idea, but not for us,

We didn’t click, let’s make it quick and say goodbye,

Don’t hold my hand,

And don’t demand a reason why.

No loving looks, no fond regards,

Tonight was always on the cards.

I wanted champagne and roses, ’cause that’s the way I am,

You gave me vimto,

Tinned carrots,

And spam.

I wanted love to come and knock our blocks off,

But even Venus takes her cards and clocks off.

Your idea of foreplay was to take your socks off.

Things would never have worked

Rapport is a thing you just can’t manufacture,

You had your pin up girl, I couldn’t match her,

I didn’t want to, it was Margaret Thatcher.

Things would never have worked.

I wanted moonlight, romance and all that silly tosh,

You wanted gerbils,

A whippet,

A wash.

I wanted love songs but you wouldn’t write them,

My earlobe nibbled, but you wouldn’t bite them,

You’d only fart and then attempt to light them,

Things would never have worked.

We’re not compatible, let’s not get blue here,

At least we see each other’s point of view dear,

I like big, hunky men and so do you dear,

Things would never have worked.

LOVE SONG

Made your breakfast this morning,

Like any old day,

Then I remembered and I threw it away

I found an old photo,

In a kitchen drawer.

You by the seaside, during the war.

You were laughing at something,

With the wind in your hair,

You were ever so slim then, and your hair was still fair.

And I wanted to kiss you,

But you always laughed,

And I wanted to tell you,

But I felt daft.

Still, we got married,

I was tight,

We both got embarrassed, played rummy all night

I remember the baby, and it’s sticky out ears,

But I can’t single out things,

Over the years.

On Woman’s surgical, sat by your bed,

I knew that I loved you,

But I never said.

I brought you Black Magic,

And they said you’d died,

I had a cup of tea there,

Came home and cried.

Got to go back to the hospital to collect your things,

Your nightie, your glasses, your wedding ring

Made your breakfast this morning,

Like any old day,

Then I remembered and I threw it away.

Thank you Val, I find that every time I read Love Song I get something in my eyes.

Favourite poems

hunts cyclists 1 — Before it all started “Straight of limb, true of eye, steady and aglow.”

As an excercise our U3A writing group members each wrote a short piece about their favourite poems and included the poem or poems in the piece. Over the following months we will be publishing the contributions on this blog.

The first piece in this series is by Val Fish, it seems a strange time of the year to use this example but we are approaching spring, a time of renewal, new growth and the hope for better things. We can only have spring after winter the sun can only rise after it has gone down.

For the Fallen by Laurence Binyon

Inspiration for ‘For The Fallen’

Laurence Binyon was too old to enlist in the military forces, but he went to work for the Red Cross as a medical orderly in 1916. He lost several close friends and his brother-in-law in the war.

For The Fallen

With proud thanksgiving, a mother for her children,

England mourns for her dead across the sea.

Flesh of her flesh they were, spirit of her spirit,

Fallen in the cause of the free.

Solemn the drums thrill; Death august and royal

Sings sorrow up into immortal spheres,

There is music in the midst of desolation

And a glory that shines upon our tears.

They went with songs to the battle, they were young,

Straight of limb, true of eye, steady and aglow.

They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted;

They fell with their faces to the foe.

They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:

Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.

At the going down of the sun and in the morning

We will remember them.

They mingle not with their laughing comrades again;

They sit no more at familiar tables of home;

They have no lot in our labour of the day-time;

They sleep beyond England’s foam.

But where our desires are and our hopes profound,

Felt as a well-spring that is hidden from sight,

To the innermost heart of their own land they are known

As the stars are known to the Night;

As the stars that shall be bright when we are dust,

Moving in marches upon the heavenly plain;

As the stars that are starry in the time of our darkness,

To the end, to the end, they remain.

Laurence Binyon 1869 – 1943

Postscript

I was privileged to perform on the stage at The Broadway Peterborough in 2014, in the ‘Sing for Life’ ladies’ choir, to raise funds for a new wing at Sue Ryder’s Thorpe Hall Hospice.

On the 100^th Anniversary of the beginning of the First World War, we sang an adaptation of ‘For The Fallen’ by Rowland Lee.

In the final few bars, we were as stunned as the audience as poppies came falling from above onto the stage. It was a moment I’ll always treasure.

Valerie Fish

Inspiration

This piece is by Tessa Thomson, a member of our group who’s poetry is truly outstanding.

Inspiration (noun; the act of inspiring; stimulation by a divinity; a genius, idea or a passion).

A writer finds inspiration everywhere. Putting it down on paper is the difficulty. Sometimes I hear a phrase, maybe a couple of people chatting will say something I can use, or just being out in the garden can give inspiration for a piece of work.

Usually, inspiration comes during waking hours at night. That’s when I remember that I forgot to put the notebook and pen back beside the bed. But then a friend recently said she was frightened of being sent by the well-meaning family into a nursing home. Inspiration!

I’m frightened did I hear you say, of being all alone

Of being sent so far away to someone else’s home

To some grand house to sit around with others of your age

Like gilded birds of paradise inside a gilded cage

Recently I was watching my husband working in the garden, getting it ready for winter. Inspiration!

I’ve cleared all the leaves from the garden,

I’ve planted some bulbs in the beds.

I’ve rescued the tenderest flowers,

And cut off the dead flowering heads.

Our own memories probably provide the best inspiration but can sometimes provide the saddest.

My own poems can be very dark, but they are my stories. In the end, whether it’s a story or a poem, how it’s told and how it touches the individual is what makes good writing. Inspiration is the starting point; it’s what happens next that takes the reader beyond the imagination.

Recently someone wrote in a thank you note to me “our shared love of your daughter will ensure we meet again very soon”. Whilst I found the sentiment unsettling it did provide inspiration.

You say you seek a shared love with someone I hold dear

But how can that be possible; the obstacles are clear

The love I have is borne of pain; of risk and much besides

Of waking nights; of memories; of tears, I always hide.

My love is tough and gentle too but never harsh to bear

It’s that which gives such grace and joy and content to my heir

By this great love, her life is traced from childhood up to now

But you would seek to feel that love; to harness it somehow.

As Samuel Johnson remarked in 1799

What is written without effort is in general read without pleasure

Tessa Thomson