Words to tunes, by C. F. Sharpe

(In all these, I often choose words largely for their sound)

Lullaby for a friend's baby (Tune: Brahms's "Lullaby")

"Little Daisy, my darling, sleep soft on your pillow

With a smile on your face, not a tear in your eye.

And when dawn tips the sky, I shall be by your side.

And when dawn tips the sky, I shall be by your side."

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Pilgrimage (Tune: Schubert's "Trout")

"I hear the brooklet gushing, from its rocky fountain near

And down the valley rushing, so fresh and wondrous clear.

I know not what came o'er me, or who the counsel gave,

But I must hasten onwards, all with my pilgrim's stave."

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Homage to Rupert Brooke (Tune: prelude to Act 3 of "Carmen", by Bizet)

"The boy who sang by Granta's stream

Of spires and fenland, tears and laughter in the morning

Taken by a wider dream

Out eastward sees the rising sun of early dawning

Hears a voice calling loudly now for songs of war and duty

Beauty

Youth and honour lie in Flanders field

And by the banks of Somme and Yser seek for fame

A sword to draw, a lance to wield

A shield to bear the man who dies to win a name

So hear him sing: Now may God be thanked, who matched us with his hour

Power

Loud rejoicing as the boat sails away

To sunbaked islands, seas that once were dark as wine

Where heroes fought a burning day

And deeds as brightly as the Hellene sun would shine

And so he goes, seeking Ilium's walls and Hector's martial story 

For the

 

Boy who sang by Granta's Stream 

In storm and glory to the war 

Is gone"

(Footnote: Rupert Brooke, the beautiful heart-throb poet of the early 1910s, hailed the outbreak of the First World War and volunteered for the Gallipoli campaign of 1915. From his classical education, he would have known that Gallipoli could be seen from the ramparts of Troy. The imagery of this poem is deliberately archaic, because Brooke had no idea what the war would be like - but, the, neither did anyone else)   

Actresses, by John Garland.

Mike came to Pauline's flat and said, "Well, the production's finished, so I'm returning these things of yours I borrowed for it. Did you see the play? Did you like it?"
    "Yes, I did see it", Pauline replied, "but now you mention it: no, I didn't like it at all".
    "Oh? And may I ask why not?"
    "Well, for a start; it's hardly a new concept, is it: a shortened version of Macbeth in modern dress. And Phil Duckworth was easily the worst Macbeth I've ever seen: to describe him as wooden would be an understatement. I suppose you had to choose him because he was the only man in the cast capable of remembering his lines. And as for having the three witches as a kind of drug dream under strobe lights: that should have come with a taste warning instead of a health one!"
  "I see. And did it perhaps occur to you that the intention was to show Macbeth as a rather dim soldier who suffered from delusions because of post-traumatic stress, so it was all deliberate?"
   "So you say. But I say Phil's just a rotten actor. Period".
   "Well, I can see there's no point trying to debate the point with you. But what about Samantha Johnson as Lady Macbeth? Wasn't she terrific? She'd never acted before, you know. Talk about undiscovered talent! Now she wants to be a professional actress; full-time!"
   "And that's another thing. What on earth possessed you to depict Lady Macbeth as some kind of tarty teenager? It wasn't even funny!"
    "Why shouldn't she be a teenager? There's nothing in the play to say how old she is. And Shakespeare's plays are full of teenagers. Look at Romeo and Juliet; and for that matter, Richard III and Anne Nevill in their first scene. So why not Lady Macbeth too? And Sam played the part so well!"
    "Look, Mike; I've known Sam Johnson for a lot longer that you have, and I can tell you, she's nothing more than a common little scrubber. So for her to play a tarty teenager wasn't acting at all: she just had to behave naturally! As a matter of fact, I can see her as a professional actress: on porn videos for sale on the internet; that'd be just her style. And I know perfectly well why you picked her for the part. You've always fancied her, haven't you? and you thought selecting her for the leading part would increase your chances: the old casting couch, of course. Well? Did your cunning plan succeed?"
   Mike stood up to go. "And I know perfectly well why you're being so rude", he said."You're angry because when I asked you if you wanted to help with the production, you said no. Either you were just too idle, or more likely you chickened out. Now I've had to work bloody hard on it, but I've achieved something - and I can tell you, a lot of people liked the play, for all your sneering - and you've achieved nothing. You're jealous!"
    "I wouldn't have wanted to be associated with rubbish like that, thank you very much!"
    Mike snorted and left the room noisily.


The next visitor was Sam Johnson. Instead of her normal scruffy jeans, she was wearing a new dress in what looked like an expensive Designer style. How on earth could Sam have afforded that, Pauline wondered.
   "Hiya!" said Sam in her usual slovenly voice, "I was packin' up my stuff an' I found I'd got these CDs an' fings belongin' to you, so I fought I'd better bring 'em back before I left".
   "I like the dress", said Pauline.
   "Nice, innit?  This guy: he saw me in the play, an' he giv me this dress!"     
   "Are you going away? with him?"
  "Yeah! He's a film director, an' he wants me ter come down ter London ter work for him. Short stuff to start wiv. Adverts; fings like that."

    Pauline thought any comment on her part would be superfluous. 

Taking a Photograph, by C. R. T.

 Our new vicar had asked me to take some photos of the church in a neighbouring village, so I walked there on a path through the woods one very hot afternoon.

   The church was small and built of red sandstone, which was somewhat decayed in the tower which stood at the western end. I stood in the churchyard to the south to take my pictures, but found the view was interrupted by a number of ancient gravestones. One of them, facing the south-west corner, was the size and shape of a cabin trunk and covered in moss; its inscription left quite illegible. I climbed on top for a better view of the church, saying to the unknown occpant as I did so, "Please excuse me for this indignity; the vicar asked me to do it. I promise to say a prayer and put some money in the collection-box when I'm done!"

  I took several pictures from this position before dismounting and walking to the church door. I noticed high up on either side of the entrance two peculiar faces carved in the crumbling red stone. The right hand one was clearly a cat, grinning, but the one on the left, being somewhat decayed, was so grotesque as to be neither clearly human or demonic. It had its mouth open in a snarl, revealing a scattering of teeth. I took a photograph of it, and made a mental note to ask the vicar about it, before entering the church.

   Inside it was rather dark, but I couldn't see any way of switching on lights. There was a rather heavy rood screen, beyond which was an altar with no cross on it. The silence was absolute. I attempted to take a photograph, but my camera was dead. The battery must have expired, and I had forgotten to bring a spare. Damn!

  For no good reason, I felt increasingly uneasy. In consequence I muttered even the most perfunctory prayer before retreating, and on failing to find any collection box for my promised offering fled the building in a somewhat ignominious manner. I took one glance backwards as I walked out through the churchyard. The cat was still grinning at me; not, I thought, in a very friendly fashion. 

   As I passed through the gate I heard a bell toll, to sound the hour, I supposed; and an unpleasing sound it was; less a deep tone than something resembling an old saucepan being struck with a ladle.

   My uneasiness persisted in my journey home through the woods. I kept glancing back to see if anything was following me, though I never saw anything, nor did I meet a single person, and I was glad to reach home intact.

   That night I dreamed that a hooded and shrouded figure was standing beside my bed and leaning over me. I could not tell whether it was a man, a woman, or some creature that was entirely unhuman. I dreaded that the figure might throw back its hood, revealing the grotesque face I had seen on the church, opening its mouth wide and grinning with anticipation of a bite. In a cold sweat of fear I woke up and sat bolt upright.

   "It's not my fault!" I exclaimed out loud. " I didn't mean to insult you! The vicar asked me to take a photo! It was the only way I could do it!"

Turning the Dial, by Brian Bilston

It's not my fault, by Peter Morford

A message found on Mr Gould’s smart phone.

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

Dad,

I know you’ll be surprised to receive this attachment as we never write to each other. Since Mother divorced you there seemed to be nothing to say. So I’ll say it anyway.

I heard through the grapevine that you are moving to an open prison and release is imminent.

Don’t come back.

You may not know that Mum married a coach driver – yes, the one who drove us on a tour of the Dolomites in 2017. George is a decent man. He will never be rich.

Thanks to you, Molly and I were privileged kids. Private schools prepared us for University and great careers. We had summer holidays in exotic places and ski resorts at Christmas. Home was always full of guests, friends and clients. We had a paddock for Molly’s horses, swimming pool and a fleet of cars. We lived the life.

To celebrate my A Level results we four plus Molly’s boyfriend and my girl were off  to Sri Lanka. First class of course. After that I would start my studies towards an MBA at Harvard. And then? I expected something powerful in business and politics.

Three weeks later, sated by the sunshine, sights and smells of that beautiful island, we landed in the dark at Heath Row, tired and happy. We cleared customs and Immigration and headed for the exit. We could see our hotel limo waiting for us and the courier’s sign with our name on it.

Standing right by the exit were four policemen, line abreast. One officer stepped towards us.

“Mr. Gould, Mr Jeremy Gould?”

“Yes.”

“You are under arrest. Come with us please. The rest of your party can go.”

You were handcuffed and thrust into the car and driven away. You know the rest. A few weeks awaiting your trial. Then the trial itself when your finance and investment company was revealed to be a fraud. Investors had lost millions. You were damned by the contents of your phones and computers, revealing money laundering, embezzlement and tax evasion. You were sentence to ten years. Your assets would be seized and our nightmare had begun.

What assets? Our elegant house was mortgaged for more than its market value. All the cars are leased. Your only asset was a few thousands in the bank. Your company would be worthless. Where was the alleged £35m which the court decided you had stolen?

Mother, Molly and I were, crammed into a 7 th floor flat in - but you don’t need to know where. I lost my place at Harvard. At eighteen I had to find a job and use my computer skills. Mother applied for a nursing post. Molly moved to a nearby Comprehensive school.

And what am I doing now, six years after your conviction? I suppose you’d call me a computer hacker working for the Police. I’ll find out where you have hidden “your” money.

Traitor, am I? It’s not my fault.

Ever-Green Palace, by Bethany Rivers

 

I travelled the desert of hunger for a hundred years

thirsting for the goodness and discernment

I thought I did not have.  But I followed the call

 

of the wild geese who announced my place

in the family of things, over and over, until

I had no choice but to listen.  Following their call,

 

I came upon the Ever-Green Palace, feathered walls of leaves,

blackbirds and wrens nesting, steps and streams of light

along the central aisle.  The way opened out

 

like a Tibetan Monastery – the symmetry of grass and trees,

a prayer of stillness, in every blade, every leaf,

singing the smallness and the greatness

 

of creation, the same as every breath I take,

with every step I come nearer and nearer to the throne

grown especially for me, and so I finally understand

 

it is time for the corona of spring

to embrace and bless me, an offering from the hands

of our beloved Persephone.

The labours of Hercules in Shropshire, by Peter Shilston

 .Many thousands of years ago, before half of Britain was covered in ice, the River Severn flowed north, into the Dee estuary. But then the ice came, and when it at last retreated, the god Zeus spoke to Hercules and said, “It is my desire that the Severn should now flow southwards. Take your club and beat out a new channel for the river”.

Hercules took his club and began his labour at the northern end of the new river-bed. But the god of the northern marshes, fearing that his wetlands would be drained, sent out his reed-girls to distract Hercules. And the reed-girls said, “Leave your work, Hercules, and come with us, and we will show you pleasures beyond imagining!” But Hercules answered, “Go away! Come back when I’ve finished!” and he continued with his work. But he was thinking so much about the beauty of the reed-girls that he beat out his channel shallower than he intended, so some of the wetlands survive to this day.

As Hercules worked further southwards, the river god, annoyed that he had not been consulted, sent river-nymphs to distract Hercules. The river-nymphs danced round Hercules and sang, “Leave your work, Hercules, and come with us, and we will show you pleasures beyond imagining!” But Hercules answered, “Go away! Come back when I’ve finished!” But he was so confused by the nymphs dancing in circles around him that he lost all sense of direction, and the course of the river-bed he was beating out, through where Shrewsbury now stands, instead of being a straight line, now ran in great loops and meanders.

Hercules now reached a line of hills and began to beat a passage through them. But the god of the hills, foreseeing that men would come and cut down his trees to fire their furnaces, and blacken his rocks with their smoke, sent woodland dryads to distract Hercules. The dryads sang, “Leave your work, Hercules, and come with us, and we will show you pleasures beyond imagining!” But Hercules answered, “Go away! Comeback when I’ve finished!” But he was so eager to sample the pleasures that the dryads had promised that he stopped he work early, so that the Ironbridge Gorge was narrower than intended, and it remains a place of fast-flowing and dangerous waters to this day.

At last Hercules finished his labours, and the Severn now flowed southwards in a new path. And Hercules went and sat down to rest in the Quarry gardens, and he called out, “Ho! Reed-girls and water-nymphs and tree-dryads! I’m finished at last! Where are the pleasures beyond imagining that you promised me?” But there was no answer, for they had all gone away. And Hercules smashed his club on the ground in frustration, causing a great pit which is now the Dingle gardens. But eventually he fell asleep, exhausted by his labours.

The god of the River Severn saw him asleep and thought, “Now I’ll have my revenge! Reject the pleasures offered by my water-nymphs, did he? Not to mention the reed-girls and dryads too! I’ll cast a spell on him so that he’ll never be able to enjoy such pleasures again!” And he cast the spell, but Hercules did not realize it till he awoke.

Men later came and erected a statue of Hercules in the Quarry gardens. The river-god was already angry because, thanks to the labours of Hercules, he now faced a very long and weary route to the sea; and this made him angrier still. His anger continues to this day; and every few years he sends down a flood, which often fills the Quarry gardens and surrounds the statue of Hercules, but he has never yet managed to topple it. And if you go to the Quarry gardens today, you can still see Hercules, with his lion-skin and mighty club and his gigantic muscles – but if you look closely you will notice that, thanks to the river-god’s curse, he is obliged to wear an improbably tiny fig-leaf.

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