Whittlesey Wordsmiths latest collection is nearing completion.
At our last meeting after a secret ballot we agreed on the title Three Sheets to the Wind for our new book. The title in no way reflects the sobriety or otherwise of any of the members; it says here.
It is an excellent collection of short stories and poetry, as are all our collections, as soon as we have a publication date we will announce it to the world.
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 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.
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
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
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.
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.
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
I would like to pay tribute to Edward Storey, a fellow Whittlesey resident and writer. I am sure many of our followers will be familiar with his books which brought recognition to our Fenland area, capturing the very essence of our history and culture.
I first contacted Edward over ten years ago when I started to write my own autobiography and continued to correspond regularly with him until this September when his health was beginning to fail. During those years he gave me so much support and guidance, encouraging me to develop and expand my writing. This gave me the confidence to set up the Whittlesey U3A Creative Writing Group which has evolved into the Whittlesey Wordsmiths. Last month we published our first book and I had signed and wrapped a copy for Edward before I heard news of his death.
I would like to express gratitude for his inspiration; to Edward, A Fenland legend, who made our dreams a possibility and then a reality.
Wendy Fletcher
This is a link to Edward Storey’s Biography on Wikipedia
Edward Storey Biography Wikipedia
The Photograph was copied from a post on the Poetry in Presteigne website.
http://www.poetryinpresteigne.org/?m=201608
Where the Wild Winds Blow
Whittlesey Wordsmiths are proud to announce the publication and launch of their new book Where the Wild Winds Blow.
It is an eclectic collection of poetry and prose, outstandingly well written and superbly entertaining.
Where the Wild Winds Blow, can be bought through Amazon either in print or as an E-book If you are local to Whittlesey and would rather buy the book directly from the Wordsmiths please click on the “Where the Wild Winds Blow local orders” link to order.
Click here for local orders Where the Wild Winds Blow local orders
Our first editions are arriving on the 22 October.
Click here for Amazon orders Amazon orders
Or contact Wendy by email wendyfletcherwriting@gmail.com
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