Doncopolitan: Church View Writer's Anthology

Page 1 ­ Introduction by Ray Hearne 2 ­ Are you going to read my letters? by Mick Jenkinson 3 ­ Birds by Lynne Harrison 4 ­ Library by Christine Copeman 5 ­ Have I Got Gnus For You by Phil Sheppard 6 ­ Rebirth by Dee Ashurst 7 ­ Burn Back by Miriam Harrison 9 ­ More Light by Ray Hearne 10 ­ The Green Man by Miriam Harrison 12 – Habemus ferrum by Warren Draper 13 ­ Cage by Linda Jones 14 ­ Menagerie of Imagination by Michael H­Lewis 15 – No private information by Mick Jenkinson 16 – Beastly Machines by Diane Rout 17 ­ Lines inspired by the Terry Chipp Exhibition by Lynne Harrison 18 ­ The Incredible House on the Hill by Phil Sheppard 20 ­ Mosquito’s defence. by Linda Jones 22 ­ Past Brodsworth (For Terry Chipp) by Mick Jenkinson 23 – Cutting Out Books by Phil Sheppard 24 ­ Anthracite under the Skin by Michael H­Lewis 25 ­ Pan Emergent: An Ode to Wood Smoke (& The Telling) by Warren Draper 26 – Hooked by Ray Hearne 27 – There's A Whisper by Linda Jones 28 ­ Wild Mountain Thyme by Ray Hearne 30 ­ Credits

The Church View Writers’ Group was conceived in summer 2012 out of discussions between Doncaster Central Development Trust, Signposts writing project, and some visual artists from the New Fringe who felt that Doncaster’s latest cultural renaissance needed the addition of a literary thread to help pull a developing vision together more thoroughly.

‘Signposts’ has now been reborn as ‘Writing Yorkshire’ and the group, which established itself in autumn 2012 has taken firm root. We have twenty members in total, coming from all corners of the borough, to meet on a monthly basis.

Usually there are ten to a dozen of us around the table, reading out our work and trying to improve our own sense of what makes good writing and how we might ourselves get nearer to it.

People bring along their poems and stories of every kind and complexion.

Occasionally we devise a ‘live writing’ session where we challenge ourselves to write on the spot on some randomly agreed subject. Intimidating but strangely exhilarating, if you’re that sort!

And we have room for others. For you if you fancy putting into written words that tale or that experience that needs recording. Or if you just want to hear the latest in what’s happening in poetry, story­telling, spoken word and sometimes even song, in this bit of the of the world.

Here’s where we meet. The one hundred years old, sumptuously refurnished ground floor of the Church View building.

If you want to know more contact Ray Hearne on 07903241947. Or email ray@nomasters.co.uk Ray Hearne 23/10/2013

Are you going to read my letters?

Are you going to read my letters

Save them, keep them close to your heart?

Will they mean as much at their journey’s end

As the significance I struggle to give them at the start?

Would you snatch them off the mat Sneak off to read them in the loo?

The better to remain undisturbed

I have an idea that is what true lovers would do?

Will you hold them to your face Seek out remnant traces of me?

Like the scent of ambered perfume I can

Conjure by closing my eyes, it’s your image I see Where were we with each other?

Is it ‘my sweet love’ or ‘best regards’?

There’s a message to be concluded here

Can a complicit glance be contained in ordinary words?

And so, imbued with hope and dreams I drop them in the pillar box

Will any of that charm remain intact

At their journey’s end when they arrive in your letterbox?

Mick Jenkinson

Birds

Our feathered friends of all colours and sizes Parenthood, nurturing, they use all devices

Their beauty, flight and construction of nest

Would challenge us humans if put to THAT test Birds are our winged amis, both clean and clever Instinct and know­how inspires them forever Some flightless ones are Emperors or Kings

Procreation and survival, are their life’s main things Have respect for our chums in the sky

Sing in the mornings, hunt, live and die

Nature is wonderful, birds teach us a lot

Eggs hatch, some feed us, coq au vin or omelette

Lynne Harrison

Library

Such a fusty dusty smell but I am in my element. I only moved in about two weeks ago ­ never been disturbed.

I know every nook, crevice and splinter and I have been intrigued by the knots in the old wooden shelving and little worm holes.

The persistent ticking of the clock, the echo of the heavy wooden doors with the resounding sound of the broad metal latch dropping took a while to get used to.

It is eerily quiet this 1950’s building considering how many people visit, hushed voices interrupted by someone of authority who takes it upon themselves to stamp on every book that disappears and re­appears on the shelves below.

As long as this authoritarian does not get a ladder up to my abode I will be fine, a flick of a duster and my web will be destroyed.

Christine Copeman

Have I Got Gnus For You The gnu In a canoe Said "I love you".

Gnu Number two Said "Shoo!"

The gnu Felt blue.

Phil Sheppard

Rebirth?

Long gone is the fear of 'Old Nick' appearing over your vain shoulder as you sit in front of the mirror testing the fluttering false eyelashes and bright green lipstick.

Now you can sit and do nothing for as long as you like, alone and peacefully knowing that the devil won't 'make use of idle hands'.

You can go to bed long after eight o’clock with no concerns about Wee Willie Winky shouting through the letter box.

You can jump straight into your warm bed without having to firstly kneel on the rabbit ­skin rug with "Hands together eyes closed" shivering your way through those 'God bless everybodys'.

You can listen to the Sunday afternoon Salvation Army band on your own without having to “Stop fidgiting and sing up".

You can enjoy your porridge with a thick layer of sugar as well as treacle on top; pick Yorkshire puddings up with your fingers; eat with your elbows on the table and peg your clothes on the line with more than two pegs on each item if you want to.

You can happily live your life on your own and enjoy the contentment. . . but I'd love her ghost to visit me sometimes!

Dee Ashurst

Burn Back

Sharp focused through the shard Of shattered glass, A little scorching burn Caused the soft peat loam To smoulder with resentment At being used as mere kindling For the holocaust to come.

Ignition spark to withered Parched, tinder dry, Snuff brown bracken, Gathers into a searing sheet of wild ruin, Which races and rages足 Sweeping away the old history Of the hillside足 With ruthless devastation And incandescent purity.

Devouring the redundant Overgrown, useless choking Debris Of past seasons, Into Heaps of blackened ash.

But, Sieving through the embers That lie in shifting, sifting Drifts, Fragile as scattered gossamer, The tide turning wind sighs As it gently caresses The scorched earth, Its breath carrying The pungent green perfume That scents of new growth.

Then feel the spirit stirring, Surging again with Such eager singing need To be reborn, Renewed.

To inhabit the fire freed Space.

Seizing its moment To burst through And live.

Miriam Harrison

More Light Ten or eleven I’d have been Every night we played out on the streets Up, down and back on our push­bikes Full of victory tales and defeats The sun must have been slowly sinking We paid no attention or gorm When a bobby stepped into our vision Like a beekeeper into the swarm

‘You’ve got no lights on your bikes lads It’s half past eight, and it’s dark I shall have to report you, I’m sorry’ His bite rankled worse than his bark

He went through our names and addresses And wrote them all down in his book Then he left us to stew in our juices Walked off without even a look We werried and fretted and sweated What would my dad say and do?

I’d churned myself into a tackin’ When some headlights bloomed into view A works van stopped by the causey My dad was prostrate in the back The trench had collapsed and a boulder Had fractured his knee with a crack

What happened between us and the bobby Was something or nothing and gone And we never received any summons The bugger was having us on.

Ray Hearne

The Green Man Older than time,

The Green Man stares out through stag wild eyes, Feral, free, full of the watchful knowing Of his wicker­woven world,

And the cycles of his dominion.

Verdant shooting fronds of fecund green Form and frame his sacred space,

Bursting forth from his tomb, his womb Cloaked in dank, decaying vegetation

That cradled and nourished his dark hibernation, The guardian of the green world awakes.

Nature’s promise renewed.

He sheltered me as if I had true worth,

Treasured me

Protected me, under the all­embracing canopy Of his love.

A weaveworld of whispering leaves Where I, like the parasitic mistletoe Idly passed by some careless bird, Knitted and entwined myself

With urgent, needy greediness,

Cupping into his barky shield of skin,

Where the pulsing green vein of rising sap Fed and sustained me as he held me safe, My pale smoothness pleasing him.

So we intertwined, warped and wefted

Weaving and leaving our unique pattern On the loom of life.

We followed the seasons as naturally as breathing,

The joyful exuberance of our springtime promise, Pledging our lives in careless heedlessness.

Summer's extravagant, glorious excesses Of blossom laden branches

Coyly hiding new life secrets beneath

The pretty, frilly flirtiness of their ruffled skirts.

The abundant autumn came bouncing With rich ripened fruitfulness, But

Your stag eyes were now dark and moist,

Reflecting the reservoir of ancient waters,

For the harvest is in, the leaves have fallen And nature waits for you.

For her eternal cycle, innately wise, cannot be broken, So you plunge, descend, Embedded deep

Into your winter’s grave,

Reconnecting you with the primal essence of your source, Lie fallow and regenerate again in the deep earth magic, Dying to be born again.

But as the world mourns its hunter gatherer lord Your leafless tree

Standing stark as a crucifix

Against the brooding backdrop of the sky, Hosts the bright beaked black bird, Keeper of the gate,

And a bush of burgeoning mistletoe, White, waxen berries,

Pearly in the misty dawn, Shine on to greet again

The once and future King.

Miriam Harrison

Habemus ferrum Of former world and future, The crimson in the vein,

Celestial corpse reborn in blood, Destined to die again.

Warren Draper

Cage Threatening grey skies the mountainous clouds bloom and spread. Still there’s no relief from the sultry heat.

Trapped in my darkened room I can only wait. From my window I despair at the pulsing rain drilling patterns on the dry earth below. Water gushes over road and path, a pond now where only a few minutes ago a child laughed and played.

Flashes of blue so fast they deceive the eye... until the booms of thunder roll across the sky echoing and echoing... A river cascades down the hill ebbing and flowing over kerb and grass, forming an instant barricade. Frustrated my fingers itch to take up their work. No light no machine, all life has ceased.

Except...

Astonished I stare up through the teeming rain, to see tiny bodies darting and swooping, climbing higher and higher. The sky above the house is now a melee of wings and tails, weaving in and out, as though the thunder and flashing strikes were of no consequence!

The skies are truly theirs for the taking.

And I caught in my brick and glass cage, with my nose pressed firmly to the pane can only watch and wonder.

Linda Jones

Menagerie of Imagination

Bolted, Wired and welded.

Moulded, Manipulated and melded.

Discarded, Ditched, tossed away everyday items.

One Citizen’s rubbish another’s riches.

Kinetic, Metaphysical, Metamorphic, Mechanical Menagerie.

Michael H­Lewis

No private information

Unwarranted government surveillance, Said Sir Tim Berners Lee, Is an intrusion on our basic rights; A threat to our democracy.

They’re checking your digital footprint On Menworth Hill and GCHQ. You always were the private type, But oh, the stuff they know about you!

Don’t confuse the needle with the haystack.

You have nothing to hide, no need to watch your back.

Big brother’s little brother has a message that’s clear: You don’t need to know that he’s already here.

Phone, text, search or chat; Each digital interaction Collected, collated, searched and stored To the intense satisfaction Of the gravitational pull for the clear security justification to achieve total surveillance: there is no private information.

Your emails are in a file with a graph of What you like to buy, your taste, your style.

On your solitary walks, your meditation, The GPS has your location.

So don’t get caught where you did not ought, Or keep inappropriate political views; Share any inconvenient truth Or be found wearing dead man’s shoes All of the signals all of the time, In 2008 was the challenge, the bet The implications grow ever more profound Now the spooks have mastered the internet Michael Jenkinson October 2013

BEASTLY MACHINES "This is a beastly machine," she cried, slamming her fist down on the table.

"One minute it works, the next........well ya know wot I mean."

She turned to her husband who was busy reading the newspaper.

"Are you listening to me?" she snapped, ready to throw something at him if he kept on ignoring her.

"When are you gonna fix it?"

All she got in reply was a grunt and a rustling of paper. For a couple of minutes all that was heard was tap tap, click click, then, "Wot the hell is wrong with this thing!"

Calmly but with trepdition he asked, "Have you changed the batteries?"

He didn't need to see to know the look she was directing at the back of his head. The clicking and tapping began again.

He was looking forward to a calm and relaxing evening in front of the telly after his busy day at work. As he stepped into the hallway, his wife was coming through the kitchen door.

"That hoover is a beastly machine," she complained, "it just conked out halfway doin' the vacuumin'. You'll have to fix it."

Sighing, he asked, "Did you empty it first?"

The flat look she gave him sent him scurrying up the stairs.

He was enjoying his meal in peace and quiet until his wife piped up, "That washer is a beastly machine. I only got half the bedding done before it packed up. You're gonna be busy this weekend fixing that."

"Did you shut the door prop’ly?" he asked.

A disgusted tut was all the answer he got as she collected the dinner plates and headed into the kitchen.

He was rivetted to the evening sports when his wife came through into the lounge. She plonked herself down on the settee sighing, "This is a beastly machine. I've tried downloadin songs onto it but it won't have it."

"Did you use the right connecting wire?" he asked.

Another sigh and a louder tut greeted his question. She headed out the room into the study.

That weekend as he ate his breakfast wondering what to fix first, he had a brainwave. A few hours later back at home he stood in the middle of the lounge holding a remote control. As his wife stepped into the room he clicked a button on the remote.

"She does everything you could ever want doing." he grinned, "No batteries to change, no fiddly wires, repairs herself. Now that is wot I call a BEASTLY MACHINE." Diane Rout

Lines inspired by the Terry Chipp Exhibition Brevon Art

1 October 2013 Faces in places

Spirits to oversee Ward off evil

“Squint” and see Lamplight, sunlight, moonlight shines

Night and darkness hide, outline defines

Boats may be boring in shadow and shade Sunlight with hew, fire and glory invade Blue is cold

There’s warmth in gold Red is warm

But ALL have charm Jigsaws, shapes, spaghetti junctions and mazes The Dancers move and rest ‘tho’ still Knots and twines are drawn but real Mixed emotions one can feel

Moonlight casts its silvery beam On the field and lonely barn

Clumps of leaves form a dark cloud

The chill of night becomes a shroud Lynne Harrison

The Incredible House on the Hill Up on a hill Surrounded by water Lives a man and his wife And his son and his daughter

The house he built Is all they need To eat, to drink, to love, to live To live the lives they lead The roof gathers heat From the sun and its light That keeps the house warm Through the cold of the night

And for their morning showers The sun comes out again To heat up all the water That’s collected from the rain Pipes twist and turn Collecting all the air To power up the vacuum And dry the daughter’s hair

On the hillside eating grass Is a chicken and a cow And a horse that’s always ready To pull the farmyard plough

To plough the earth and soil On the side of the hill For the vegetables they grow there And the corn for the windmill

The windmill makes the flour To make the daily bread The cow’s milk makes the butter They grow fruit to make the spread

Wind turns turbines And the cogs in­between That put the shave in his shaver The wash in the washing machine And the washing machine’s water Doesn’t go to waste It’s used on the vegetables (It doesn’t change the taste!)

And when it’s time for bed again Again here comes the night The sun’s power is used again, again Again they use its light The man looks out his window At the sea, the stars, the sky He cannot help but wonder Wonder why, why, why, why, why...

Why did they not listen?

Why did they not see?

Why did they not listen?

To what he said would be?

Up on a hill Surrounded by water Lives a man and his wife And his son and his daughter

Phil Sheppard

Mosquito’s defence.

It was in courtroom three that the trial resumed The centaur crying order, from the bench, ‘Wave that tool at me again young cow It’ll be thistle stew for your lunch.’

‘But Centaur Sir,’ the pig lawyer replied ‘Our case has gone array,

That pesky villain bit my wings So now I cannot fly!

Without young dog alive to tell his tale The case it will not stand

And both Gnu’s in canoe have fled I fear defeat is at hand.’

Enough excuse.’ The Centaur exclaimed.

‘Bring forth the villain to me.

Mosquito, I ask you one more time

Explain this sickness if you please.’

‘Now Centaur what crime can I possibly have done When all I did was to eat

The tiniest bite a lick with a suck?

Really it is not clear to me what you seek.’

‘What defence can you offer your client Thrush?’

Roars the centaur, his horn all aflame.

‘Why none,’ he replies from his motorised chair, ‘His whole family are doing the same.’

‘So your guilt you admit then the sentence is clear.

Honey Bee will declare to the court now.’

‘To be buzzed straight from here and squashed under hoof, With immediate effect by the cow.’

From the ceiling the pig takes a bow to the court

While the centaur cries ‘And how high the score?’

Oh sir that was only case one hundred and seven

Left with nine trillion seven million one hundred and four.

Linda Jones

Past Brodsworth (For Terry Chipp) It starts with a tightening of the throat Prickling of the skin of my scalp And the hairs tangibly on end Along the back of my arms and neck I am re­living with sensory overload My Gran tugging at my coat Pulling me against the wind Along the Roman Ridge

Before the railways marked the land Before the mines reconstructed our domain Go back and back as far as you dare To see what then was there Through famine, plague and flood Through affluence and plenty Incursion and invasion The slow collecting together of what we are

This is where it began Where they paused and they observed The crossing of the river and the lie of the land And they put down tentative roots Fashioned shelter and protection Brought their children, gods and animals Into this valley That we now call home

I must have looked so very confused But she was patient and persistent “Look out past Brodsworth towards those moors Along the lines of those trees The ebb and swell of that ancient terrain You will see traces and remains of what made us In the light down the valley, the air above the fields And the prints of your shoes” Mick Jenkinson

Cutting Out Books

Phil Sheppard

Anthracite under the Skin Blast from the Scary past.

How long could it last?

Bland yet filling cake.

Stork topping, no sugar to bake.

An emotional reminder in Village.

Remembrances of 80`s Rape n Pillage.

Soup Kitchen lasses said it all.

Glee club comeback, curtain call.

A joy, a pleasure to recall.

Rachel`s performance, Massive! Yet small.

Brought back thoughts of Relatives’ plight.

Strife, Hunger, Cold, yet shoulder to shoulder in the Fight.

Injustice and Destruction, the name of the game.

Back in power, nothing’s changed, policies causing pain.

Play of days of old, about Yorkshire folk.

Blood sweat and tears, Industrial chime smoke.

Coal! Under the skin, in lung, vein and blood.

A river of Anger n Hate still runs, So it should.

Michael H­Lewis

Pan Emergent: An Ode to Wood Smoke (& The Telling) There are some truths which can only be glimpsed by firelight.

Shadows hold the secret of the void.

Tungsten, Halogen, Neon, Reveal nothing of the darkness; She must be embraced in order to be understood. / Through the smoke, and embers, and the sting of burning green ash I see him.

Goat. God. Man. His odour is my fear; midwife to my prayers: “Oh Prophet of the pastures. Prince of Arcadia. Lord of the lingam.

Hairy, hoary, horny, piper at the gate.

Deliver us from these crowded places, and return to us your sweet ahuman dreams.”

Warren Draper

Hooked Pulling on the woolly rope of a flying­boat ride I am rolling the penny of childhood memory back To the Crown field, to the fair at Whitsuntide Sky is a treasure chest in the night’s black Heaven is onions frying on an outdoor pan Blending in the stench of generator fumes And I’m flying higher than I’ll ever think I can The petalled earth beneath the moment blooms

Upside down above a waltzer car Seeing what I’d have seen if I had looked Somewhere between the Jockey* and the Star* That duck I’ll always miss, I’ve gone and hooked *Two pubs in Rawmarsh near the Crown field where we lived in our caravan!

Ray Hearne

There’s A Whisper There’s a whisper on the wind, things can change.

Road encircling, life improving: freedom found?

Tarmac black the lines in rude monotony range,

Toward the myriad concrete isles cut wholly round.

Without a thought the shop in mindless haste exchanged, Speeding past the busy street tyres used to pound.

There’s a whisper on the wind, things might change.

Road encircling life improving: freedom found?

Childish chalk the art on footpath’s new found slate,

Absent fumes, a prize in boundless measure applauds.

Soaring price a hope of cold pecuniary fate,

A landlord’s venture; first time buyer can ill afford.

There’s a whisper on the wind, things will change, Road encircling life improving: freedom found?

Lingering drink no fractious warden to berate,

New found choice the gift in empty bays renewed.

Boarded shops in dole­full silence stand and wait,

Watch the lines to tarmac black and market queue.

There’s a whisper on the wind things have changed.

Road encircling life improving: freedom found?

Linda Jones

Wild Mountain Thyme Outside my granny’s cottage On the Waterford Road I’m introduced to Patty’s Husband, Uncle Sean Tall, lean and brooding ‘An awful quiet fellah’ With a look of the cocksure cowboy The good one who saves the day A hedgerow of hair topping That skelped back and sides Leather jacket hanging open And hands wide as my eyes Hands a tomcat could inhabit Huge enough to hoist Up a bewildered nephew Into bird­merry air With a step, a swoop and a yank I’m lifted in flight To the chesty­nasal honk Of his mighty delight And everything in me’s acrackle The seamless squeal of the long Moment not even fraying When Patty says ‘Sean, that’s enough’ And abruptly in the way I’ve learned since That a song needs to feel Its own feet, I am Grounded abruptly again

And grown up attention restored To the matter in focus Sean’s celebrated motor­bike Motionless there on its stand Maverick handlebars aslant Cylinder, gasket or piston ring Something or other has conked And he needs it at home to fix We watch as his mate with a tractor Arrives; they hook up a trailer And Sean single­handedly Heaves the bike on to the back ‘You’re a big strong man Uncle Sean’ I’m reckoned to have said.

When I sang at your grave­side Sean I was twining that very same thread.

Ray Hearne

Signposts (Writing Yorkshire) Doncaster Central Development Trust Doncopolitan Special Thanks to: Warren Draper Ray Hearne Michael Hinks­Lewis

Copyright Š: each writer featured in this anthology asserts their right to be identified as the author of their own work in accordance with the

Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. Anyone seeking to reproduce works featured in this anthology (in full or in part) should seek the permission of each relevant author.