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To Betsie et al - Writers Forum

RogRog
edited August 2005 in - Writing Tales

Comments

  • Hi Betsie
    Remember the sonnet in WF a year ago? Well - just did it again. See Sept issue page 61. Also if you're anywhere near Symphony Hall B'ham, pick up a copy of the Summer 2005 Diary and turn to page 11.
    Best regards,
    Rog
  • Congratulations Rog - well done.  I'll also get a copy of that leaflet you mention and will also look out for your masterpiece in the mag.  Again, many many congratulations you are a Mastersoneteer.
  • Hi Rog - acquired the Symphony Hall leaflet - found page 11.  You really wowed me.  Love the line 'Or lingered till the last five-minute call.'  It really gave me a sense of that expectant buzz before the sudden silence when a concert is about to begin.  I also love the quirky ending -the implied and literal 'high note'.  Well that's how I undstood it - is that what you intended.  I'm also intrigued now - are you a musician?  And do you like Schubert?  It's a lovely poem.
  • Hi Betsie – Thanks for your comments.

    The story is true and the pieces of music referred to were the ones actually played on the night about four years ago. While the orchestra continued playing, the lead violin swapped his instrument with the soloist (an American whose name escapes me) restrung his violin, tuned it and then swapped back again.
    Yes the ending was intended to convey the high.
    Just one small typo error, by the way: the first line of the second quatrain should have included the letter ‘a’ but although I chased it, it was too late to correct.
    “Three works by Brahms – a classic night of nights”
    (I’m a stickler for iambic pentameter)

    Don’t play an instrument myself but love music and yes I like Schubert. Again, attended a Great C Major concert at BSH some time ago. I marvel at the way the orchestra and particularly the violins can keep up such a frantic pace towards the end.
    Love the opening – gives no clue as to what’s to come.   

    I’ve written quite a few sonnets about music but my favourite “And this is my beloved” features Borodin.
  • I've written in the missing 'a'.  That's better.  Your iambic pentameter is perfect.  Did you watch the Proms concert last Saturday evening? - Mahler.  It was excellent.
  • No – didn’t see that Proms concert – but here’s a nice link to ponder:

    Mahler, Death in Venice, Dirk Bogarde:
    Although I didn’t know at the time, DB did his basic training at Catterick Camp in the early nineteen forties before going into photo reconnaissance. I was about three years old then (whoops!)and lived in married quarters there in Le Cateau Lines.
    Dad was in the Signals. During the invasion scare in 39/40, just before he met Mum, he was on cliff patrol at Filey in Yorkshire. Mum, a Filey girl, was selling poppies for the British Legion and asked if he’d like to buy one. Dad said “Yes, if you’ll meet me at the pictures tonight.”
    They were married six weeks later and I arrived one year after that.
    Mahler; Dirk Bogarde; Catterick; a poppy. Must be a story there somewhere!

    I go in phases with classical music. Have always loved Bruckner’s 4th Symphony and Rachmaninov’s 2nd.  The third movement of the latter is probably the most romantic music I’ve ever heard. Beats poetry by a mile.
    How about you?
    "New York in June”?
  • No – didn’t see that Proms concert – but here’s a nice link to ponder:

    Mahler, Death in Venice, Dirk Bogarde:
    Although I didn’t know at the time, DB did his basic training at Catterick Camp in the early nineteen forties before going into photo reconnaissance. I was about three years old then (whoops!)and lived in married quarters there in Le Cateau Lines.
    Dad was in the Signals. During the invasion scare in 39/40, just before he met Mum, he was on cliff patrol at Filey in Yorkshire. Mum, a Filey girl, was selling poppies for the British Legion and asked if he’d like to buy one. Dad said “Yes, if you’ll meet me at the pictures tonight.”
    They were married six weeks later and I arrived one year after that.
    Mahler; Dirk Bogarde; Catterick; a poppy. Must be a story there somewhere!

    I go in phases with classical music. Have always loved Bruckner’s 4th Symphony and Rachmaninov’s 2nd.  The third movement of the latter is probably the most romantic music I’ve ever heard. Beats poetry by a mile.
    How about you?
    "New York in June”?
  • Whoops! again - The first repeat of the foregoing is what's known, among we members of the writing fraternity, as an encore! 
  • Your parents must have been true romantics - what a lovely story.  I conjured all sorts of images - your Dad racing across the cliff top to meet your Mum as the violins soared...  Have you been to Catterick?  North Yorkshire is lovely - very Heathcliffe and Kathy with trees bending to the wind. 

    I've written in the missing 'a' of your poem - your iambic pentameter is perfect.

    New York in June? - can't get my fill.

    I know what you mean about 'going in phases' - sometimes it's what you hear and when you hear it and whether or not it 'strikes a chord' (no pun intended).  One of my favourites is Schubert's Trout Quintet (can't think of its' proper no and title).  I'm also very fond of piano music - all the greats from Chopin, Rachmaninov to Scott Joplin.  I'll be hunting down your new winning sonnet and look forward to reading it.
  • Yes - Went back to Catterick about ten years ago. The terrace of married quarters we lived in was still there. Mixed feelings – sweet echoes. Warm NAAFI doughnuts in brown paper bags were the best in the world.

    I’m mad about good books – When a storm is due.
  • Moonlight and motor trips
    I like potatoe chips
    How about you?
  • Moonlit chips ate on motor trips,
    Give-away greasy lips furnish the clue
    But I like them, and so do you.
  • By the way Betsie
    Do you think Robbie Williams or Jeffrey Archer might be interested in this?
    All it needs is some music. Any ideas?

    I’m stuck with writer’s block, how about you?
    Struggling around the clock, how about you?
    Words that came thick and fast are long overdue
    How long does zero take? Maybe I need a break, how about you?

    I’d like the Booker Prize and the acclaim.
    God, how I fantasise, yearning for fame.
    Maybe blockbusters aren’t my style; still I can force a smile while I feel blue
    And keep writing, how about you?

    How many plots are there I could adapt?
    My ideas cupboard’s bare, blank future mapped.
    OK. I’ll have to count to ten. Boot up or grab a pen, start something new.
    First para! Wow! How about you? 
    .
  • That's brilliant.  It would have done for the Two Ronnies show - the bit where they did a song with a wonderful play on words.
    By the way, I have your new winning sonnet - it is so clever and the use of the [] gives it strength and context.  I thought etcetera and plethora a clever rhyme. 
    Do you always write in Shakespearean Sonnet form?
  • Thanks again Betsie,

    Yes I always write poetry in Shakespearean sonnet format. I find it a very naturally flowing rhythm and that’s why I stick rigidly (but naturally) to the structure. It’s only when words are forced to fit the meter that it sounds artificial. In my early poetry days I tried a rhyming dictionary (Dylan Thomas used one) but it was never of any help and not necessary. The English language is so rich in choice of word and nuance that poets have an incomparable treasure chest at their disposal.
    I’ve read that Will often used this pattern in his plays because it helped actors to remember their lines.
    “A horse, a horse, a horse for my kingdom.” doesn’t have the same resonance as “A horse, a horse, my kingdom for a horse.”  (Same words - same meaning but iambic)

    Problem is that “Shakespearean sonnet” has an archaic ring to most people but modern language fits it perfectly.
    Eg “The navigator's reconnoitring led.” Or
    “In sweat-stained khaki shirt and denim jeans.”

    I’ve even translated some of my short stories into sonnets and still marvel at the fact that they can be completely contained in fourteen lines of verse.
    Made me laugh a few years ago when I went to see the movie Cyrano de Bergerac. There’s a scene, I think in a bakery, where poets meet and one of the characters is counting ten syllables on his fingers.
    I wanted to shout out, “Hey! I do that!”
    .
  • I thought that's what fingers were for - one set of hands - the perfect abacus for iambic pentameter.  I tapped out your new sonnet on my desk before declaring it 'perfik'. 
  • I agree that modern language sounds great in iambic pentameter. Sticking to the form makes you find the 'right' word rather than opting for the first thing that comes into your head head.  I think 14 lines is a very accessible length for today's readers and as you say, the rhythm of the thing helps you remember it.

    What are you working on now?  I have to gear myself up to prepare stuff for a course I'm tutoring in early September - it's reminiscence writing for retired people.  A three-day residential at a college nearby.
  • I’m always working on the next something. Just had a one hour radio play turned down by Radio 4. (I still think it’s a unique story line and pretty good if I say so myself) Sonnets happen fairly frequently – may be something to do with biting my nails - all ten of them!
    Currently working on turning a short story into a novel.
    I’ve also done a couple of “informative and entertaining workshops” on sonnet writing. 
    As for reminiscence writing for retired people – maybe this will strike a chord?

    When.

    Remember crawling round upon your knees
    Or listening to a “Once upon a time”?
    When cauliflower florets looked like trees
    And mashed potato - mountains peas could climb?

    When rounders could be played out in the street
    And mum wore pinnies over flowered frocks.
    When lino chilled the soles of your bare feet
    Unless you slid across it in your socks.

    When bath night was a battle to be waged,
    For en-suite meant tin baths hung on brick walls.
    Front rooms for couples - only when engaged -
    Or after funerals when the vicar calls.

    When Dad was young and kissed Mum tenderly,
    Remember? That was love - and you were three.
    .
     
  • Aah - that's lovely.  Has it been published?  Send it to Yours magazine.

    Sorry about the radio play - I've only written one and it was rejected by BBC.  I've also had a TV sit-com rejected.  So don't think my talents lie in that direction.  I do find the radio play genre interesting and like to listen to them.

    Thought this might amuse:  written when I was learning to play the piano (in my forties) and had to turn up for my Grade 1 exam with the five year olds.

    STRIFE BEGINS AT FORTE


    Not being the type that's sporty,
    Not too highbrow, nor too haughty,
    I'm learning' pianoforte - drat the scales,
    But my battering of the ivories
    Is shattering to Clive, he is
    My much tormented tutor - hear his wails!

    When playing pizzicato
    I confuse it with legato,
    And my grandioso tends to be quite small,
    I can't do a tremolando
    D'ye think he'll smack me hand?- oh!
    Before I drive us both right up the wall.

    I'm sure he feels quite weary
    When he's teaching me the theory,
    Dreary demisemiquavers won't behave,
    They don't fit the acciaccatura
    And cause a big furore,
    Poor Chopin's turning over in his grave.

    Just a middle-aged beginner
    And a great harmonic sinner
    Hubby's dinner's never done when he gets home,
    As I thump the old 'pianner'
    In my unmelodic manner,
    Neighbour's bangin' on the wall's my metronome.

    Though I send them all quite frantic
    I intend to be pedantic...
    Continuing this antic just the same,
    While husband, son and daughter
    Might threaten me with slaughter,
    I’ll regale them with my 'music' - what a shame!

    One day my great cacophony
    May turn into a symphony,
    By Jiminy! I think that pigs might fly,
    So, whilst I'm still a duffer,
    The world will have to suffer,
    But, I'll get the hang of it before I die!
  • Tremolando –
    Smack me hand?- oh!
    Excellento!

    Baa!

    I’ve practised all my scales regularly
    And Mum and Dad think I should get first grade.
    The other kids aren’t half as good as me
    I’m feeling good. I’m sure I’ve got it made.

    I enter the examination hall,
    So nervous - feel my stomach start to churn
    But then hear the adjudicator call,
    “Oh, Betsie. You’re on next. Yes, it’s your turn!”

    Like all the other kids, I look around
    To see if Betsie poses any threat.
    We’re gob-smacked – Pins dropped crash, there ain’t a sound.     
    The shock is worse than any we’ve had yet!

    We know that we are going to be fleeced. 
    We’re only five - she’s forte-plus at least!
    .
  • My eyebrows rise
    In quick surprise
    You write a rhyme
    In double quick time
    In minutes since I clicked 'submit'
    You responded with the sharpest wit!
  • I hasten to add - please don't be impressed by the piano lessons, I never did make it to the concert stage.  My grandchildren considered me something of a Paderewski - when they were small I could bang out a Postman Pat ditty for them to sing to and something that sounded like 'Away in a Manger' at Christmas.
  • May I join in? I read your poem in WF and was very amused by it. Well done!
  • Thanks, Stan
    .
  • Hi Stan - welcome
  • Thanks Betsie for the welcome. I've not been on Talkback for a few days, so have only just read your welcome. We went to the supermarket today. I didn't nick anyone's trolley nor put anything into someone else's trolley nor did Maureen forget the shopping list. OOOPS - nothing to do with Rog's poem.
  • Worse things can happen in supermarkets, Stan – and sometimes  ---

    Clang went the trolleys

    She'd gone - the note was brief and to the point;
    Said little that he hadn't heard before.
    Their bank account had changed - no longer joint -
    So what? He'd got enough - why keep the score?

    An opened can - half full of yesterday's
    Attempt at "I can manage very well."
    An empty freezer full of empty trays
    Whose space the supermarket's shelves could swell.

    He bumped into a lady - rather chic;
    Their trolleys tangled; he apologised.
    "Where are the meals for one?" he dared to speak.
    "Just follow me," she charmingly replied.

    Convenience foods are purchased by those who
    May live alone, but who knows? ... "Tea for two?"
    .
  • Ooh Rog - did you really?  Do tell.
  • Naah – Trolley got a puncture (Tesco’s) – Lost her in the crowd – Beans on toast -- for one.
    .
  • Sighs with disappointment - just about to get my violin out
  • Why?
    I thought a string had snapped.
    .
  • What a fiddle - meet a lady in the supermarket then lose her across a crowded shop. My heart bleeds for you, Rog. Buy yourself a new tin opener.
  • Well, the fiddle is another story Stan, and dunno about the tin opener.

    As for the lady: sadly these things happen but my temporarily thwarted quest continues.
    She’s out there somewhere and one day, in a heart stopping moment of mutual recognition, our trolleys will once again press urgently against each other and our castors lock together as one. Until then, and between introspective sonnets and short stories rewrites, I dine alone by the guttering flame of a single candle on 500g chill-packs of anything with a microwave cooking time of around eight minutes, and washed down with a warm Sicilian red.
    And then maybe, to drink to the end of this brief episode, I’ll have one for the lady and one more for the road.
    .
  • I can just see it Rog - the familiar rattle of trolleys - you will have the trolley that always veers sideway and two hearts will collide by the cornflakes.  You'll be locked together all along the aisle reluctant to grapple free.  As you shuffle through the checkout, the dinners-for-one speaking volumes, she'll say, waving her dinner-for-one aloft, "is there room for two in your microwave?".  I can't wait... Stan, Stan,  let's get our violins ready.
  • Wow! Betsie
    But first of all let’s forget the violins (Sorry Stan) – It reminds me too much of duelling banjos.

    Grapple free? – I’m familiar with sugar free and salt free but grapple? That’s a new one. Is it a cross between a grape and an apple?
    I like the word “aisle” Sets me a-quiver. (By the way – I always cry at weddings)
    A thought strikes me – Wouldn’t it be a good idea to combine our shopping purchases and put them in my trolley? You know - Buy one get one free?
    I’d get double point and wouldn’t my financial acumen impress her?
  • Beware the buy one get one free offers - they call them BOGOF and that does not augur well does it?
  • Why not Betsie, as long as bewitched osculating gentlemen ogle females?

    Anyway – Next Friday evening down at Tesco (Dinners for one aisle), I’m gonna give it my best shot. The dark grey, non-iron, open necked Pacino shirt and chest wig, Blue Harbour cream jacket/red carnation combo, Banderas black corduroys, Cuban heels and to top it all off, the Russel Crowe Manhattan (wind tunnel tested to 140mph)
    It’ll be easy enough for her to recognise me, though, because I’ll be carrying (nonchalantly) the September issue of Writer’s Forum (opened at page 61), the Birmingham Symphony Hall Summer Diary opened at page 11, the letter from Melvyn Bragg (Mel to his pals), and the rejection letter from Harper Collins which thanked me for my A-Z synopsis but then stated (quite curtly I thought) that they already have several dictionaries in their portfolio.
    .   
  • Hi Rog - you made me laugh out loud.  You also made me rush to the other room to lug my big fat trusty dictionary to my desk to discover the meaning of osculating (one for my notebook).  Have to confess to not knowing what a Russell Crowe Manhattan is (???)  Loved the allusion to Blue Harbour.  I bow in reverence if you have actually touched a piece of paper handled by Melvyn Bragg - I can boast a friend who had a letter from Malcolm Bradbury and also shook hands and exchanged a word with Seamus Heaney.  (not at the same time).  Well let's look forward to Friday then - looks like you'll be well turned out and definitely not chav.  You'll be the smartest trollier in Tesco.  Oh, by the way, I've another claim to fame in addition to the Malcolm Bradbury Friend - I once typed a TV script for a writer.  The drama was eventually on telly but when the credits went up it mentioned the actors, the producer, the director, the costumes, the sandwich maker, old Uncle Tom Cobly but not the typist.  In the process of all this I had to telephone Anthony Andrews' house to ask where he would like his copy of the script sending (he had the star role).  So I've spoken to a person who Anthony Andrews has working in his house or office.  Hope you're enjoying this lovely weather.  You might put some candles on the patio if it holds out until Friday.
  • Hi, Betsie - Of course you were mentioned – You were the “gaffer”.

    Strictly between you and me, of course, the Manhattan is a toupee.

    I posted one of my sonnet booklets to Melvyn at the South Bank Show address back in 2002. This was prompted by his Radio 4 series on the development of the English language. The series spent some time on the Vikings’ contribution to the foregoing. My book of 21 sonnets included one called “… and pillage.”
    He sent me a very nice letter back which made it obvious he had actually read them all.
    Weather’s great. Got some candles. What’s a patio?
    .
  • Patio is:

    Paved
    Area
    That
    Incites
    Osculation
  • If it's not raining, of course.
  • Haven't a clue.  What shall we talk about now?
  • Hands up all those who would like to know more about this chap Alf Resco.
    He could have an interesting 'profile' as they say on Talkback.
  • Alf Resco the Patio Kid.  Do tell Grandpa.
  • Yes, Grandpa, I am all ears. Good to see you Grandpa once again. Are you keeping well? We've had a few power cuts recently. And of-course the torch has a dead battery and we can't remember where we put the candles and matches. The sun has been lovely today.
  • Hello Betsie & Stan

    If Alf Resco is AKA The Patio Kid, who is Alf Alfa?

    As to my general medical condition Stan, between the aches, pains, and other distractions, I'm fine!

    I'm nearing the completion of an interesting project -- an aid to the solving of SUDOKU puzzles. It's not a computer program, it's a pencil and paper system that organises the solving process.

    A book of puzzles published by The Times includes puzzles graded as Easy, Mild, Difficult, and finally Fiendish.

    What better test than to tackle the last example, presumably the most Fiendish puzzle in the book?

    Suffice to note at this stage that the system worked and the solution duly emerged.

    Incidentally, according to the maths boffins, there are 6,670,903,752,021,072,936,760 different versions of the SUDOKU puzzle.

    Solving one per day will take 18,263,939,088,353,362,441 years and six months -- give or take a few lunch breaks.

    There's one for the next quiz!

    Grandpa
  • Grandpa, I don't expect to live 18,263,939,088,353,362,441 years and six months!!! 
  • I can't even say that number Grandpa - what is it in words?
  • Oh good, Dora has not come ho,ho,ho -ing in this posting. Whew!
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