Haikus and tankas

The writing challenge was to compose a pair of poems on each of six themes, these being:

Theresa May; map reading; making tea; writing a poem; bird song; dog bite.

The poems had to be a haiku and a tanka. A haiku comprises three lines with syllable pattern 5-7-5 and a tanka is a five line poem with a 5-7-5-7-7 pattern. Rhyming is not allowed in either form.

----------------------------------------------------------

Theresa May

A Prime Minister

Should prime all her ministers

Theresa may not

Theresa, P M

Stood in the street and declaimed

About the future

Will she keep her promises?

Or will the future keep her?

Map reading

I once owned a book

Called “The Map That Came to Life”

And it always does

To get where you want

Forget the sat nav device

A spouse with a map

Will take you both to places

That may not even exist

Making tea

Teabags are so cool

But useless for making tea

Until hot and wet

“You’ve made it too strong

And you know I put milk in first”

It all goes to show

Making tea and making war

Can be hard to tell apart

Writing a poem

Rhyme, metre, rhythm

Weave special magic to show

The power of words

Heroic couplets

Iambic pentameters

Flowing, perfect rhymes

When complete the poet gets

Heroic satisfaction

Bird song

The birds’ dawn chorus

Shouts their wish to rise and shine

Hours before you do

The songs of the birds

May have hidden messages

Should you choose to hear

The woodpigeon says to me:

“Take two books with you, you dolt”

Dog bite

When the dog bit me

No way did I remember

My favourite things

A bitten finger

Six trips to the surgery

Stitches and dressings

Waits for nurses and buses

Gave lots of time to read books

--------------------------------

(And an extra tanka for good measure)

In the library

On library shelves

Opportunities await

For curious minds

Imaginations bleeding

Into brand new dimensions



© John Welford

The Parting of the Ways

( For other pieces of creative writing by me, see Stories and Poems: an index to my blogs )

The Parting of the Ways

The track led steeply up the side of the South Downs towards a celebrated viewpoint at the top. Climbing the track were four people – the older couple were the parents of the female half of the younger married pair. The young marrieds did not have a car of their own, so when a parental weekend visit was made it was good to take advantage of the chance to visit a local beauty spot that would otherwise be difficult to reach.

It had been a fine summer’s day up till then, so they were dressed accordingly and had no protection against the sudden heavy shower that fell upon them as they plodded up the track. They were soon completely soaked to the skin, and a debate started as to what to do next.

“That’s it. We’re turning back” said the older man. However, the younger man was not so sure.

“Why?” he said. “What’s the point of sitting in a parked car, soaking wet and uncomfortable, when we might as well carry on up the hill and see what we came to see? We’re not going to get any wetter than we are already”.

“We’re turning back.” repeated the older man, and promptly did so.

The younger man carried on walking up the track, determined not to miss this rare opportunity to see a fine view and convinced that the shower would soon pass and they would not stay wet for long once the stiff warm breeze that blew over the Downs had got to work.

He was the only one of the four who continued to the top. His wife followed her parents back down the track.

As far as the view from the top was concerned, everything turned out just as he had expected. It was a wonderful view, enhanced by a splendid rainbow as the late afternoon Sun caught the retreating shower cloud passing into the distance above the ridge of the Downs. He stayed there for several minutes, completely dry as he had forecast, and he looked forward to telling the other three about what they had missed.

However, when he got back to where the car had been parked it was nowhere to be seen. They had not waited for him to return but had driven off, presumably as some sort of punishment for daring to contradict his in-laws.

He had no choice but to start walking the twelve miles back to his home, and it was therefore well into the evening before he reached his front door.

He had hardly stepped through it before the shouting started. How dare he be so stupid as not to follow the older man’s advice? He was clearly in the wrong, so why did he not accept this? If he was going to be so wrong about not knowing when to turn back in the rain, what other dangers would he attempt to lead their daughter into? Just what sort of husband was he?

He was too tired to argue, but not too tired to say a few things that, in retrospect, were probably better not said. Wounds were opened that were going to be very difficult to close.

As for his wife, she said absolutely nothing. Just like her mother, she faded into the background and let her father do all the talking.

And that was how the marriage proceeded during the months that followed. Whenever the young couple needed to make a decision, she never agreed anything with her husband if she thought that her parents would disapprove. Instead of talking things through with her husband she would get on the phone to see what they thought.

His in-laws were keen to give the young husband plenty of advice about how to put things right. “You need to work at your marriage” they said. But how could he, when every move he made had to be referred back to the court of Mum and Dad? Or - to be more accurate - the court of Dad?

The literal parting of the ways on the downland track was only one stage in the inevitable breakdown and the final parting. As long as the young woman saw herself as a daughter first and a wife second, what other conclusion could there be?

There was a final irony to their separation, when he came home one day to find that she had packed her bags and was ready to call a taxi to take her to the station. She would have gone already, but she didn’t know how to read the railway timetable. When it came down to it, she needed his help before she could leave him and go back to Mum and Dad.

( For other pieces of creative writing by me, see Stories and Poems: an index to my blogs )

© John Welford

A helpful person

(The brief was to write a true story about something that happened to the writer when they were much younger than they are now)

A Helpful Person

When I finished my degree course at Bangor in 1974 I did not have a firm idea as to the career I wanted to follow. Librarianship was something that I was drawn towards, but I did not want to commit myself by going straight to library school as soon as I got my degree.

I took advantage of a scheme that was available for people in my position, which offered a year as a paid pre-qualification assistant at a university library. I therefore soon found myself at one of the largest and most prestigious such libraries in the country, namely that of the University of London.

The library occupies a large proportion of the Senate House, a 1930s Art Deco skyscraper building close to Russell Square and the British Museum. The building also contains the central administrative offices of the University, which is highly relevant to the story that follows.

My placement as a “student assistant librarian” involved spending time in a number of different departments so that I could get a good idea of the various things that a university library did. One such department was the main Reference reading room, in which the chief task was pointing students and staff towards the resources needed for answering specific questions. I have always enjoyed this aspect of library work, involving as it does a certain amount of detective activity in finding information derived from all sorts of places.

During quiet times in the Reference section I was asked to tackle the various puzzles that came our way in the post, often from overseas students and academics. The worldwide reputation of the University made it a target for all sorts of enquiry, some of which took the form of letters expecting us to write half of a student’s PhD thesis for them!

Some of the letters were due to the existence of a publishing firm that called itself the University of London Press, despite not having any formal connection with the University.  It was not a difficult matter to find out if the query related to something published by this company or by the University’s actual publishing arm, which was called something completely different! Incidentally, the ULP was eventually bought by the University of London, so this problem no longer arises.

I remember on one occasion finding a letter addressed to the “State University of London” that should have gone to the State University of Leiden in the Netherlands!

I must have been quite good at this particular job, because the librarians asked me to carry on doing it for an hour a day after I was supposed to have moved on to another department. That was why I found myself, one fine morning, sitting at a desk in the Reading Room with a bank of phones in front of me and a pile of queries to sort out.

One of these related to the fact that the University was – at that time – one of the organisations that set school exams at GCE O- and A-level. My own school qualification certificates were almost all issued by London University. The query was from someone who wanted to buy a set of past papers in a particular subject.

I therefore picked up the phone to call the Publications Department, which lurked somewhere else in that vast building, and so began an extraordinary episode of telephonic pass the parcel.

The first person I called was quite sure that they could not help, but – if I waited a moment – they would put me through to someone who could. That was OK by me, but the second person was also apparently not the one I wanted, and neither was the third.

The fourth person reckoned that this was a matter for the School Exams Department, so off I went again. The same happened in this department as in the previous one, with my call being passed around like a hand grenade with the pin already removed.

Eventually I spoke to someone who had every sympathy with my dilemma, although she did not have the answer I needed.

“Mind you”, she said, “When I get a question I can’t answer I usually try someone who nearly always comes up trumps. Wait a second and I’ll put you through.”

I waited a second. Another phone on my desk started ringing. I picked it up. “Hello”, I said.

I was talking to myself.

© John Welford

Volunteering the Dark: a story

(This story was written in response to a challenge to write something with a title created by selecting random verbs and nouns. The three titles on offer were "Volunteering the Dark", "Feeding the Cottage" and "Running the Zoo".)

Volunteering the Dark

Conversations in the afterlife tend to be a mixture of “if onlys” and “wasn’t I greats?” That is certainly the case when Richard III and Henry V get chatting, as in the instance related here.

Richard was bemoaning his fate, as he had done ever since his despatch at the Battle of Bosworth in 1485.

“And the ignominy – the disgrace – of having my remains dug out of a council car park in Leicester. A council car park!”

“To be fair”, said Henry, “it wasn’t always a council car park, on the grounds that for most of your centuries of incarceration there weren’t any cars.”

“That’s true”, said Richard.

“It was probably a council horse and cart park before then”, Henry offered, although this didn’t seem to do much to calm Richard’s mood.

“And look at you”, the latter said, “buried in a magnificent tomb in Westminster Abbey, alongside all the great and the good. That’s where I should be. Nothing wrong with Leicester Cathedral, of course, but it’s not Westminster Abbey.”

“On the other hand,” said Henry, “my mortal remains have to share the same building as your old sparring partner Henry VII. God – how he goes on and on about getting the better of you. You’re better off where you are, I can tell you.”

“And another thing,” said Henry, “When his son Henry VIII came along, some vandal stole the head of my effigy. If only you could have won your battle, I’d still be in one piece.”

“I would love to have won my battle”, said Richard. “Just like you did at Agincourt.”

“Do you want to know why you lost and I won?” asked Henry. “There’s one simple answer to that.”

“Which is?”

“Intelligence”, said Henry. “Something I had and you didn’t”.

“There’s no need to be insulting about it” said Richard.

“Oh, don’t take it the wrong way, “said Henry. “I’m not being personal. I meant military intelligence.”

“Oh that”, said Richard. “What do you mean, exactly?”

“I knew what was going on before my battle started and you didn’t. That’s because I sent out spies to get me the information about what I was up against.”

“So did I”, said Richard.

“And how many came back alive?” asked Henry.

“In round numbers?”

“Round numbers”.

“In round numbers”, said Richard, “approximately none.”

“Exactly”, said Henry. “None. So you hadn’t a clue what your enemy was up to. And you knew even less about what side your supposed allies were on, either.”

“Point taken”, said Richard.

“Your main problem”, said Henry, “was the way you recruited your spies. Presumably you asked for volunteers?”

“Of course”, said Richard.

“And how many came forward?”

“In round numbers?” asked Richard.

“Oh, not that one again”, said Henry. “You mean none, don’t you?”

“Indeed”, said Richard.

“So presumably you tried the line that I did, and every leader of men has done from time immemorial?”

“You mean”, said Richard, “I want three volunteers – you, you and you”.

“Precisely”, said Henry.

“I’ve always wondered why we bother asking for volunteers at all”, said Richard. “Why don’t we just grab the first three idiots we find and tell ‘em what to do?”

“It’s so that we can tell their widows that they died heroically rather than just as cannon fodder”, said Henry.

“Oh yes”, said Richard. “I’d forgotten that.”

“But”, he went on, “that doesn’t explain why your volunteers succeeded and mine did not.”

“Describe the men you sent as spies”, said Henry.

“Oh”, said Richard. “They were fine upstanding young men, dressed in bright tunics that showed they were proud ambassadors of their king, ready to do their duty to their rightful monarch.”

“That’s where you went wrong”, said Henry. “My volunteers were nothing like that”.

“How so?” asked Richard.

“I sent my men out at night”, said Henry. “I made them blacken their faces with mud – there was plenty of that at Agincourt – and dress in dark costumes. Nobody saw them as they approached the enemy camp and they were able to take as long as they needed to make a full assessment of the French forces before slipping away and reporting back to me. Your spies, on the other hand, would have been spotted a mile away and promptly despatched. Do you now see why I won and you didn’t?”

“I’m beginning to”, said Richard.

“You see”, said Henry, “when you volunteer your spies the secret lies not in volunteering the bright young things in your army but in volunteering the dark”.

© John Welford

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?)

********************************************************

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