another blood red sunset
another golden dawn
another terrible beauty’s born
like eggs on croutons
in their scrambled order
on which the foie gras melts within a truffled border
another year has been and done and gawn
as sun melts footsteps on the frost-white lawn
what can I say, whose stumbling feet
at January’s meet,
tap-danced new skills
to tunes from Madeline M., John A., and Gary Bills.
Did the Mantuan’s hearthside echo so to pipers sweet?
November: Daljit on crutches, blame the 5-a-side,
stood then sat, bravely sat then stood to read;
and read he did and could and how, and left us pleased,
broadened, enhanced , educated.
straight March answers; no too sweet and sticky fudge
with Ruth Padel as open competition judge.
The chosen read, she read and we
lay back enjoyably.
In Feb. an osier, Anna Smaill, slendered from Nieuwe Zee
yes, whispered in the wind from the antipodes
like candied cloudlets tracery her verse,
or waiting windows, if stainless wire thread made
before the obscurantists filled it full of glass.
July ‘the outdoors’, nem con, was aborted.
Like last year, general apologia, still not ‘sorted’.
Speaking at the AGM Anne Stewart
introduced, then answered questions re, her website
the revolutionary, useful , Poetry Peoples’ Front; that’s the puff -
check it out @ www.poetrypf
April: Clive Wilmer told us of his friend Thom Gunn.
Read letters, shared opinions.
Read Thom’s poems.
You get one chance to share our programmes,
as the midnight bell, the moth’s blundering kiss,
startling, moving, – pass.
May: M.P. (more than K.P. an exemplar of the English gentry) (English Cricket Captain)
penetrates
oh! Royal Tunbridge Wells
to be our Folio’s judge of each members’ entry.
Which top cat’s neck was hung with silver bells?
Our Chairman’s with a left and right; quality tells.
At Christmas, well very nearly,
we had a party
c/o Mary;
thank you kindly.
June -
John Fuller closed the season.
Brought advance copies of his new one.
Was ever better poet nicer man?
Or nicer poet better than?
Quality sells;
he broke our record for book sales.
Mind you, when was the sales girl
so beautiful.
September, and the clouds parted
a sun in patches day
to get our season started
with Mary MacRae
who beautifully read of tears
at a trial for murder
and how mysterious
on the marsh was the great stag of
Workshops, monthly, as usual
at various generous addresses
or as unusual, unpredictable
as your or my second guess is;
the gainers read and listen, mark
and inwardly digest -
each month their new work
spurning good for better and – Excelsior! - best
Reports
have reached me of the Writers’ Week retreat.
No litigation this year. No ambulance. No dawn raid.
No mass arrests. No fire brigade.
Just reading , writing, dinners, workshops, walks.
I’ve nothing more to say, sounds really dull.
My thanks to all at home
and those far-flung
to those who can
and those who cannot come
to those who catch the echoes
and those who make the noise
all helpers, hosts, hostesses
and Oli, whose courtesy
presents this to your eye,
Lucinda for the comp.
to the committee and its officers
and in his pomp
this year our Chairman, Clive
and may the K&SPS for ever thrive.