Poet's block: a poem in heroic couplets

(This was written in response to a challenge to write a poem in heroic couplets)

Poet’s Block

I stare and stare at sheet of paper, blank

Reflecting that there’s no-one else to thank

Than my good self for giving us this task.

Would it have been too much for me to ask

The friendly folk comprising New Bold Words

To write a piece on buffaloes or birds?

A story that begins, proceeds then ends -

A tale that sets off jauntily and wends

Through pleasant scenes of jollity or love

That feature blessings falling from above -

Maybe, or should a darker theme be sought,

Something that tells of evil persons caught 

In webs that they have woven for themselves.

But snares arise for anyone who delves

Into the world wherein the poet acts

And clouds his fancies, fabliaux and facts

In lines of verse where metre rules supreme

And words must flow according to a scheme

Imposed by wordsmiths in some far-off time

That instruct strictly where must fall the rhyme.

On such occasions brain cells run amuck

And this indeed was where I came unstuck.

One of my roles as leader of this group

Includes suggesting some intriguing hoop

Through which we all, in the ensuing week

Will try to jump, and then arrive to speak

When next we meet, seven days further on,

And each reads out their deathless paragon.

Of course, yours truly has but little choice

Than boldly to join in and lend his voice

In reading out his poetry or prose

And taking praise or brickbats, one of those,

Should his week’s effort meet the bill or not -

No guarantee I’ll always hit the spot.

But this week look at what I’ve gone and done

Said something daft that ruined all the fun.

This guy who reckons he’s quite a thinker

Has come up with an absolute stinker.

“A poem”, he said, with abandon gay

“In couplets heroic, although you may

Write on whatever it is you desire.

We will read them all next week, good or dire.”

So now I must do the task that was set -

No way can I dodge the bullet and let

The side down and fail to do my duty -

Time to produce an object of beauty.

Or, if not that good, at least let the lines

Follow the rulings, the forms and designs

Laid down for this type of poetic verse

If I’m breaking the rules, what could be worse?

But what on God’s earth will furnish my theme?

Can’t think of a thing, prepare for a scream.

Brain circling in ways that look all the more

Like Max performing a test on the floor.

Back in the day, Pope, Lord Byron and friends

Wrote screeds of this stuff, it just never ends.

Did they ever ask, “What now shall I write?”

Was this doubt what kept them up half the night?

No way, which is why I have to admit

This week, I regret, the biter is bit.  

No topic to write on comes to my mind

That’s why the challenge this time is declined.

And that, my dear friends, is all I can say.

I’ll put down my pen and just slip away.

© John Welford

Library Rescue: a ten word challenge

(This piece was a response to a “Ten Word Challenge” set at our local writers’ group. Ten words were selected at random (each one proposed anonymously by members) and the rule was that each word must be used once – and once only – in a piece that could be a story, poem or factual article. The words were: scribble, ukulele, antidote, spice, video, Bertie, gratitude, crude, enormity, libraries)

Library rescue

Given that I have worked in various kinds of library for something like forty years it is perhaps not surprising that I should have taken up, with some enthusiasm, the challenge of helping to rescue one that was in danger of closing.

Several years ago the enormity of the global financial crisis worked its way down to local authorities in the UK who found that they had little choice but to make drastic cuts in spending on the services they provided. Some authorities were quite crude in the way they swung the axe, but Leicestershire followed the line adopted by many others in turning local library provision over to the voluntary sector, at least in terms of staffing. It would be churlish not to express gratitude for at least this commitment to village communities who rely on their library as a hub of local social activity.

My previous experience of library work had been in either academic or industrial libraries, and I had not been a regular user of a public library for a number of years. For me, a public library was a good place to go for leisure reading – for example, during my youth I devoured my local library’s stock of P G Wodehouse books, especially the Blandings Castle and Bertie Wooster stories – but most of my information needs were met by the stock of the library in which I was working at the time.

I was, of course, aware that a public library provided more than just books and periodicals. For many years it has been possible to borrow or hire a music or video tape or disc from a library, and the provision has developed along with the technology.  However, since I first became interested in the business of “library rescue” I have been surprised to discover the range of enterprises that a public library can deliver, either on its own behalf or as a conduit of local enthusiasm.

This became clear to me in 2014 when I investigated what was going on Warwickshire, which was several years ahead of Leicestershire in terms of voluntary library staffing. One library, for example, had gone into partnership with a local dance school and half the space was a properly sprung dance floor with all the library shelving on the other half. Another had opened a commercially viable café that operated both inside and outside library opening hours, the profits from which being ploughed back into the library.

At Newbold Verdon we have continued all the activities that add spice to the lives of many local people, and have entered a firm partnership with the Friends of Newbold Verdon who had always used the library as their base for such things as cinema nights and the popular Knit and Stitch group. If you live in Newbold Verdon there is much you can do at the library as an antidote to boredom – even play the ukulele on a Sunday afternoon!

A public library exists to serve its public, and its management should always keep an open mind on what constitute local needs. With truly local management – as is possible when it is a volunteer-run charitable trust – there should be no problem in keeping a finger firmly on the pulse of the communities served by the library.

That means that the future will not necessarily be the same as the past, and new enterprises can be developed in accordance with local needs. That is why this library – the new name of which is “Our Library @ Newbold Verdon” - is playing host to such ventures as “New Bold Words”, which caters for those who like to scribble for pleasure. We also intend to host Dementia Café sessions to support dementia sufferers and their carers.

What next? Who knows? Whatever it is it will be an exciting future for this particular library.

© John Welford

The Glorious Twelfth: a story

(In the UK the "Glorious Twelfth" is the 12th of August which is the first day of the grouse shooting season - glorious for some but by no means all. But could the term have another origin?)

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A quiet evening at the Boar’s Head Tavern (managed by the redoubtable Mistress Quickly) rarely stayed quiet for long. Sir John Falstaff was always present, and he was often joined by other noted Shakespearean drunks such as Stephano, Macbeth’s porter and Sir Toby Belch, all three of whom had turned up on the night in question. There was little chance of sobriety reigning supreme, but every chance of violence ensuing before chucking-out time.

Tonight’s company was increased by the presence of Iago, who had once remarked on the capacity of the English to hold their drink. He had famously told Cassio that “your Dane, your German and your swag-bellied Hollander are nothing to your English” when it came to what he termed “potting”.

Iago seemed to be there for the sole purpose of testing his theory. There were no Germans or Hollanders, swag-bellied or otherwise, in the company but two English drinkers and two who were non-English. Iago had the perfect opportunity to continue his career as a troublemaker by sowing dissension in the assembled company.

Sir John Falstaff, ever the genial host, offered to buy Iago a pint of Mistress Quickly’s finest ale but Iago turned down his offer. “You must forgive me”, he said, “but I have a very poor head for alcohol.  It only takes one drink to get me under the table”.

“I know what you mean”, said Sir John. “Just one pint has the same effect on me”.

The assembled company stared at him, as this was clearly one of the least true things he had ever said.

“The problem is”, Sir John continued, “I can never remember whether that one pint is the 13^th or the 14^th”.

After the laughter had died down, Iago made his offer. “Let’s find out”, he said. “Let’s just see how many pints you English can take on board. We’ll make it a team challenge – the porter and Stephano against Sir John and Sir Toby. Keep pouring the pints, Mistress Quickly, and let’s see who are the better drinkers.”

“And just who’s going to pay for all this?” asked the landlady. “This lot already have tabs so long that I’ve had to add a charge for all the extra chalk I’ve been using.”

“I can lend them the money”, said a voice from the corner. “At my usual terms of interest, naturally”. Seeing that the voice belonged to Shylock there was nobody who thought that this was a good idea.

“Don’t worry about the cash”, said Iago, “all the expenses are being met by Othello, although he doesn’t know this yet. Line ‘em up, Mistress Quickly, and let’s get started.”

And so that is what she did. Four rows of pints were placed on the bar and the competitors worked their way along. After the first five pints there was nothing to tell between them, with all four maintaining a steady hand and their speech being fully understandable – although in the case of the Glaswegian porter one had to keep in mind that he was not all that understandable to begin with.

However, the sixth pint gave Stephano a few problems, and even Sir Toby Belch was clearly feeling the strain after pint number seven. They struggled to number eight before both Stephano and Sir Toby slid to the floor and a loud snore arose from the latter.

It was now up to Sir John to keep English hopes alive in sole battle against the doughty Scot, but it only took one more pint for the latter to admit defeat, with a suitably obscene Scottish curse.

However, Sir John appeared to be perfectly fit and more than willing to continue his way along the bar, no doubt buoyed by the fact that all the ale was free.

There was a reason for his victory that should perhaps have been appreciated by those present. This was that he had been late arriving at the Boar’s Head that evening, due to an altercation with a man in the street who had called him a fat pig and been flattened by Sir John as a result. The latter had therefore had to explain himself to an officer of the law who had taken a long and detailed statement that occupied a considerable portion of Sir John’s usual drinking time. This had not been the case with Sir Toby, Stephano or the porter, all of whom had knocked back a goodly amount of alcohol before Sir John had managed to get started. Indeed, the discrepancy was so great that none of the other three had been minded to complain because they were already past the point of noticing that the fight was hardly a fair one.

That said, there was every chance that Sir John might have won anyway, given his well-founded reputation for knocking back the booze.

Having won hands down, he then did what could only be described as a lap of honour, with added commentary.

“This is it”, he said, reaching for the next pint. “This is the splendid tenth”. Down it went, soon to be followed by what he termed “the magnificent eleventh”. He then reached for the final glass on the bar, still upright and lucid.

“Ladies and Gentlemen”, he declared. “I toast you all and wish you every joy, with what I can only describe as The Glorious Twelfth”.

© John Welford

Protecting the Princess: A Six Word Challenge

(This is a response to a challenge to write a piece that contains six words supplied by a random word generator, with each word being used exactly twice. The words are: coin, spark, planet, parish, flea, architect)

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Poole Grammar School moved in 1966 from its town site to one on the edge of Canford Heath, near Broadstone. I was one of the cohort of pupils that moved with the school, having already been there for three years.

The official opening took place in October, which was not long after we had started the new term. This was somewhat short notice, caused by the fact that Princess Margaret was scheduled to open the new General Hospital, next to Longfleet Parish Church, and it seemed sensible to get her to do two jobs on the same day. She was therefore invited to perform the opening ceremony at PGS before the place was really ready for a royal visit.

There was nothing wrong with the new building as such, but work on the grounds was not yet complete and there were still workmen on site alongside all the pupils and staff.

I was in 4 Arts, our form master being Arthur Hicks, who was also the Senior History Master. Always known as “Tusker”, for reasons that I never found out, he was highly knowledgeable and was the man who was able to spark an interest in history that has never left me to this day. He did, however, have an unfortunate skin disease that led to him constantly scratching like a dog with a flea. You can imagine the response of a class full of schoolboys.

Our classroom was designated as the History room and was therefore on the Princess’s itinerary as she toured the school. Tusker had set up a small museum at the side of the room that contained a few items that had been found by members of the school’s Archaeology Society, such as a reconstructed medieval pot, a Roman coin and some pieces of ancient preserved timber.

We all stood to attention as the Headmaster, Mr Cleave, escorted Princess Margaret into the room and introduced her to Tusker Hicks. Fortunately he was able to ignore the flea for the duration of their conversation, but we could all see that it was a struggle. My mate Chris Dunton had been stationed alongside the museum display and did his best to interest HRH in what was on show. She was clearly bored beyond measure but made all the right noises, as did Chris.

A few words were had with one or two other boys, but fortunately not with me. She asked Steve Wilton what his career plans were, and he said that he might follow in his father’s footsteps and become an architect. I don’t think he did.

The visitors left for their next port of call and we all returned to Planet Earth.

We were, not unexpectedly, imprisoned in the History room until after the Princess had left the building and so had to rely on the evidence of others for what happened next. This included the unveiling of a plaque in the foyer next to the school’s main entrance. The school’s architect had decided that this was a good place to install a large picture window, although the view it gave was only of the short expanse across to the trees that lined the main road.

As mentioned earlier, there was still work being done on the school grounds, and a number of workmen’s huts were strung in a row in front of the trees. The headmaster was concerned that the Princess might glance through the window and be offended by the vision of nasty wooden huts that could have reminded her that the working class not only existed but was only a few yards away. Some days previously Mr Cleave had asked for ideas for solving the problem and some bright spark came up with the perfect solution of which the Head cordially approved.

The entire Third Form of the school was therefore supplied with the appropriate equipment and sent on to the nearby heath to dig up and cut down as many saplings and branches as they could manage to lug back to the school and place in front of the huts to hide their presence and not cause the royal eye to open wide with horror and shock.

As it happened, HRH had her back to the window the entire time and never once glanced in its direction. That afternoon the Third Form got to work again and replanted all the saplings for which this was possible.

Nobody had thought about maybe setting up a temporary curtain or screen in front of the window. That was clearly far too obvious an answer for Mr Cleave’s ingenious mind. To coin two phrases, one had to wonder what parish he thought he was in and what planet said ecclesiastical district was on?

© John Welford

The Hottest Day: a luc bat

The following poem is a "Luc Bat". This is a Vietnamese verse form in which the lines alternate between six and eight syllables, and each rhyme sounds appears three times - as the final syllable of an 8-syllable line, the final syllable of the following 6-syllable line, and the 6th syllable of the following 8-syllable line. The final syllable of the whole poem must rhyme with the final syllable of the opening line.

The hottest day

It is the hottest day

Much hotter than in May or June

Some might call it a boon

Indeed it’s none too soon because

Summer up to now was

Not like you get in Oz or Spain -

We’ve had our share of rain.

So, to say it again, my friends,

A heatwave makes amends

However soon it ends and yet

It’s worth a tiny bet

There’ll still be cause to fret. Oh yes!

You didn’t need to guess.

More may soon turn to less I fear.

I’ve changed to Summer gear

And just got out the beer although

It is too hot to go

Outside but fine to throw out wide

All windows to provide

A cooling breeze inside the house

Or would be if some louse

Maybe told by his spouse had not

Decided that a lot

Of garden mess and rot could burn

And therefore did not spurn

To light a fire and turn the air

To foul from what was fair

Thus causing me to swear and curse

For little could be worse

Than fumes that then traverse the space

To my room from that place

I call it a disgrace. That fire

Calls forth my deepest ire

I wish it would transpire that he

Who caused this tragedy

Would think again and be a tad

More bound to good than bad.

Oh well, at least I’ve had my say.

© John Welford

A piece of cake

The final one-hour exam paper of my Philosophy degree course was due the next day. Traditionally the examiners sprung a surprise for this paper, for which it was impossible to prepare in advance. The idea was to see just how flexible and logical one’s mind was in tackling a philosophical concept. One year there had been just one line on the question paper, which was: “Is this a question?” One student got full marks by writing: “Yes, if this is an answer”, then going to sleep for the rest of the hour.

I saw one of my lecturers in the college bar that evening. He was gleefully knocking back whiskies while I consoled myself with a long-lasting half pint – not only were funds short but it would not have been a good idea to arrive hung over in the exam room the next morning. He came over to where I was and grinned at me. “You worried about the exam?” he said.

“You bet I am”, I said. “I know it’s only a few marks riding on this, but they could make all the difference”.

“Ah, don’t fret yourself”, the lecturer said. “It’ll be a piece of cake”.

That’s all right for you to say, I thought, you’re not the one who’s going to have to do the exam.

I didn’t sleep well that night. I lay awake for hours, trying to imagine what fiendish trick the Philosophy Department might play on this year’s students. “A piece of cake”, the guy had said. “A piece of cake”. All very well for him …

A vivid dream. I was there in the exam room with my five fellow finalists. The exam tables did not have the usual question papers laid on them as we walked in, but white cloths neatly spread over them. We sat down and the presiding examiner said, “You may remove the cloth on your table”.

Under each cloth was a white china plate, and on each plate was – a piece of cake. That was it. No question paper, just a few sheets for one’s answer and a piece of cake. I noticed that each piece was different – I had a reasonably generous slice of Victoria sponge and I could see that my colleague to the left had Dundee cake and to the right there was a small piece of carrot cake. The other plates contained date and walnut, lemon drizzle and chocolate sponge, some pieces being considerably larger than others.

So that was it. The exam really was a piece of cake, or six pieces to be precise. What can you do with a piece of cake? The obvious thought is to eat it, but surely there was more to it than that. The student with the carrot cake did eat his, and then looked around at the other plates with their more generous portions. Some of us clearly wondered whether we might have preferred a different kind of cake, and gave envious looks towards the other plates. One student stood up and offered the carrot cake student a broken-off piece of their own cake, while two others negotiated a direct swop.

It soon became clear to all of us that there was a lot going on here in terms of the ethics of possession and social behaviour, and maybe questions to do with the theory of knowledge, such as how one can know that one action will be more satisfying than another, or even what the mental processes are in deciding the relative qualities and quantities of different objects without having the means to perform definitive tests. This was a proper philosophy exam after all.

But then I woke up and realised that dreams do not match reality and the mystery exam still had to be faced. The six of us therefore walked into the exam room expecting nothing more than a standard question paper with a particularly nasty surprise or two.

But that was not what happened. There on the tables were six white cloths, just as in my dream. Had the lecturer really been giving me a clue, and the exam was actually a piece of cake? I lifted the cloth and discovered that this was not the case.

The exam was a ham sandwich.

© John Welford

Getting Out: a story

The recent annual cricket match between the Shakespeareans and the Chaucereans was not without its usual features of interest and controversy. Lessons were, however, learned from last year’s encounter, in that the disastrous decision to invite Hamlet to stand as umpire was not repeated. His complete indecision when asked to judge on just about anything had led to the match being slowed to a crawl and half the players falling asleep as he pondered on: “Is he out or is he not out, that is the question”, time after time.

This year’s umpires, Chaucer’s Man of Law and Shakespeare’s Portia, fulfilled their roles admirably, although too many batsmen seemed to think that appealing to the latter to be merciful was going to save their bacon.  Reminders to her that mercy, according to her own words, “droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven, upon the place beneath” only led to their wickets doing the dropping.

The aforementioned Hamlet was supposed to open the batting for the Shakespeareans, but his partner, King Lear, found himself alone at the crease while Hamlet stayed behind in the Pavilion mulling over the wisdom of whether to take part. He was heard muttering: “To bat or not to bat” before delivering a soliloquy to nobody in particular. The Man of Law knew the laws of cricket inside out and invoked the little-used three-minute rule to declare that Hamlet had forfeited his wicket by not turning up.

Apart from the Prince of Denmark, players on both sides managed to find some unusual ways of getting out. The Chaucereans made the mistake of putting the Wife of Bath, who was never the most athletic of cricketers, on to bowl, and her first effort was so slow that the ball failed to reach the batsman, who was Macbeth. Just like Hamlet he felt a soliloquy coming on and strode out to meet the red object with the words: “Is this a cricket ball which I see before me, the seam toward my hand? Come, let me clutch thee.” Unfortunately he did precisely that and was adjudged out “handled the ball”.

Richard III’s innings was short and his defeat was perhaps inevitable. Having been pummelled by lots of short-pitched bowling from unscrupulous Chaucereans such as the Monk and the Friar he decided that his only way of scoring any runs would be by preventing the fielders from getting close to the ball should he ever manage to hit it. When this happened at long last he called out “A horse! A horse! My kingdom for a horse!” and three nags from a neighbouring field responded to his call by leaping on to the pitch and generally getting in the way. Portia and the Man of Law had a long debate over whether this constituted “obstructing the field”. They finally decided that it did and sent Richard on his way back to the Pavilion.

Chaucer’s Knight started his innings well enough, putting up a stout defence to anything that the Shakespearean bowlers could hurl at him. However, when he played a shot that sent the ball towards the covers he got a sudden rush of blood to the head and charged off after it. On reaching the ball he gave it another whack that sent it over the boundary but all to no avail. He was dismissed by Portia for “hitting the ball twice”.

The match might have reached a conclusion had it not been abandoned due to the riot that broke out in the beer tent. Tensions had been growing all day due to the disagreement between Harry Bailey, mine host of the Tabard Inn, Southwark, and Mistress Quickly of the Boar’s Head Tavern. The task of running the beer tent – and collecting the substantial profits - had traditionally been alternated between the two with Harry having the job in odd years and Mistress Quickly running the show in even years. However, Harry had been away on yet another pilgrimage last year so Mistress Quickly had filled the breach. Harry now expected to take his turn, but this was – as Mistress Quickly pointed out – an even year and therefore she had the right to do the job.

An uneasy truce was agreed whereby both innkeepers operated inside the tent, each selling their own beer. However, this led to considerable competition with each claiming that their beer was better than the opposition’s. Mistress Quickly was particularly incensed when Sir John Falstaff bought beer from Harry Bailey rather than herself. Sir John pointed out that he was only sampling the other side’s product so that he could make a fair comparison, but her ladyship regarded this as a form of treachery.

As it happened, most of the beer tent customers followed Sir John’s example, this including a steady stream of dismissed batsmen who sought to drown their sorrows as a way of getting over what they saw as grave injustices. Because the beer on offer at the two stalls was actually exactly the same stuff – due to a crafty supply deal organised by the Pardoner – the customers had to keep buying more from each bar before they could make up their minds which was better. The net result was that far more beer was drunk than was good for anyone – apart, that is, from the two sellers.

Hence the riot. However, as fists flew and chairs were hurled across the tent and cricket field, all the participants took the view that getting out on the field was nothing like as satisfying as getting out of one’s head in the beer tent afterwards.

And next year? Probably a repeat performance.

© John Welford