Gang Warfare

Jennospot 120 Gang Warfare

There are four gangs in moi village o' Widdlin'ton, an' there’s anuvver real rough one at the edge of town nearby. Some of the kids from that last one come ter moi school wot c’n make fings a bit difficult at toimes.

Any’ow, because of these different gangs, each one wot n’as it’s own rules about girls joinin’ ‘em, there were a kind o’ war started. There’s even some wot say as ow it were all moi fault jus’ because Oi got a soapbox cart wot is named after Emmeline Pankhurst, wot is a calumny ‘cos Oi didn’t ‘ave nuffink ter do wiv it wotsoever; well, ardly nuffink any’ow.

If’n yew want proof o’ that, yew c’d do worse than read wot Peter St John wrote about it. It’s in abook called “Gang Warfare” an’ it’s jus’ come out all new in paperback from SilverWood books. Oi know it’s true, ‘cos it were me wot told PStJ all about it. Even so , I ‘ad ter keep correctin’ im ovverwise ‘ee’d ‘ave gone all off the rails wiv the specially dramatic bits, loike the firewood ambush, the battle wiv Mrs Jay, the barney at the Spitfire drive, and the big air-raid.

Any'ow, “Gang Warfare” is out an' rampagin' around. Leastways, if'n it ain't rampagin', it jolly well ought ter be, 'cos it ain't ev'ry day when yew get a whole lot o' village gangs fightin’ tergevver under one cover, so ter speak. Cripes, there's enough rough stuff goin' on where they're separated inter their diff'rent territories, never moind when they're squashed tergevver in a little book. Not only that, it’s me on the cover, wot ought ter be worf somefink at any rate. There’s lots of ovver coloured pictures an all.

An cripes, ‘ow c’n it be moi fault if some of the people in the village don't get along. People are jus' loike that: They're perfec'ly able not ter loike one anovver fer no good reason at all. But when yew fink that in Widdlin'ton there are lots o' real good reasons fer not getting' along― well wot c'n yew expect…?

O' 'corse Oi get on pretty good wiv most ev'rybody, 'cept "Slug" Snaylor natch, an' that there Heebie Jeebie Phoebe at the Post Office. Yew can't count Bill Bates, wot 'elps 'is dad at the butchers, Oi mean, 'ee's jus' plain thick, an' 'is two off-siders are pretty much non compos mentis an' all. Oi ain't a-goin' ter mention J.J. 'cos 'ee's moi gang leader in the Pepper Mill Lane, but Oi reckon as 'ow fings would be better between us if'n 'ee 'ad a bit more respect fer girls, 'specially fer girls loike me. Any'ow, Oi reckon as 'ow Oi've made moi point, 'cos Oi'm real easy ter get on wiv if'n yew treat me roight. See wot Oi mean…?

Any'ow, if'n yew'd loike ter know a bit more about all that, yew c'd take a look at "Gang Warfare” wot wouldn’t ‘ave come out at all if’n it weren’t fer me (even though P St J 'as put 'is name on the cover).

Luv from Jenno…

http://www.peterstjohn.net/

Can You Cast Spells?

Jennospot 119  Can You Cast Spells?

Translated from a poem by Anne-Lise Brugger Grataloup, inspired by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry.

Tell me…

Can you cast spells:

The art of wonder,

The art of dwelling outside time

In space beyond limit?

Tell me…

Can you cast spells?

Are you, my misguided contemporaries,

Like me condemned

To run…ever breathless?

Oedipus has guessed aright,

The enigma is resolved

And man explained.

Agreed, say the myths

Now he must prove himself.

But tell me…

Can you cast spells?

Then suppose we dream…

Of leaping walls,

Dancing with the wind;

Flying arm in arm with angels;

Becoming herbs and flowers in fields

Rocked by dewy breezes.

Open your eyes

To moonless nights:

Recognise the star which shines for us

And laugh

In memory of the sand,

In memory of a well.

In the bright sky of our hopes

A little prince tends

His rose,

Lovely in its silk

Which dares

Declare a useless faith in seeming thorns

And worries for

The caterpillar

Becoming butterfly.

Tell me…

Can you cast spells,

The art of wonder

The art of a sheep inside a box

And of a serpent hat?

Then…

Suppose we go

To the desert's heart

Where gleams

Wild

The source.

Let's drink its limpid

Drunkenness

Let's fill our flasks

And go on…

Magic, art, and wonder

For our friends.

Tell me…

Can you cast spells?

Wiv luv from Jenno.

Oi 'ope yew loike it….

My Village

Welcome to the SilverWood Books Blog Hop!

A few of our authors have come together to share a variety of articles and items of interest on their blogs for your enjoyment. There are some lovely giveaway prizes, and - to stay in keeping with the Spring and rebirth theme at this time of year - some colourful Easter eggs. Feel free to collect the eggs, and use them where you like. They were drawn by SilverWood author Peter St John who writes the ‘Gang’ series about a boy who was evacuated to a village in East Anglia during WWII. Meet Peter and his characters on the Blog Hop, along with a host of eggcellent SilverWood authors. ;-)

Have fun!

Helen Hart

Publishing Director

SilverWood Books

Jennospot 118  Moi Village

Moi village o' Widdlin'ton ain't a big an' important place, 'cept fer them wot live there, o' 'corse, wot don't mean that there ain't no visitors from toime ter toime. Any'ow, a real noice lady from Pennsyvania, wot's in the United States o' America, come by recently an' she were kind enough ter write a piece about it (even although she din't say nuffink about me) but she did say somefink about a "Boy". Well, it jus' so 'appens that that "Boy" lives jus' in the back o' me, be'ind moi chicken run, an' cripes, Oi know all the trouble 'ee 'as wiv gangs, an' wiv 'is aunt an' all. This American lady's name is Katherine Ashe, http://wwwlongview.blogspot.com/ an' she writes super novels about English 'istory, so she really knows wot she's talkin' about. Any'ow, this is wot she wrote about the "Gang Territory" in Widdlin'ton:

"World War II and the bombing of London brought about the displacement of multitudes of children. We see photos of them, wan, frightened as they’re herded onto trains bound for the safer countryside or they’re led away by the firm grip of strangers’ hands. But what happened to them after that, when they arrived at their unfamiliar destinations?

Peter St. John’s autobiographically inspired story of a boy from a destroyed London orphanage gives us an insight. An insight not only into the new hazards such children faced, but into the noble code of boyhood, a code that forbade complaining when one was abused and that produced a degree of self-reliance that would serve well in later years – provided the noble spirited little lad survived.

As in a medieval romance, the hero’s name is never revealed to the reader. We will call him Boy. Boy arrives in the rural village of Widdlington which is scant of indoor plumbing but rich in gangs of children. Every street has its own gang who guard their territory from intruders. And an intruder is any other child who does not live on that street. This of course makes life exceedingly difficult for Boy, whose aunt and guardian seems oblivious to the juvenile culture surrounding her, for she makes a habit of sending him on errands where his very life depends upon his ingenuity in getting to his goal and back home again unobserved.

There may be individuals as completely lacking in humane feeling as this aunt, so completely focused on a sense of being put upon, so resentful of a young boy, and so determined to gain every instant of advantage from the unwanted presence of a child, as to resemble a slave driver with a savage tongue in place of whip. When the aunt seems to relent at sight of the boy’s injuries one senses that self-protection, not pity, is her foremost, driving motive: fear of being discovered as the abuser she is. Why is she so cramped and mean of spirit? Seen from the viewpoint of Boy, we never learn.

But if the aunt makes his new home hellish, the principal local bully, known as Slug, turns the entire outside world into a trial of strategy for Boy as he must navigate from place to place nearly always under the threat of severe bodily harm if he loses his focus of attention for a moment. St. John sets up hazards and triumphs that make the plot predictable but that also create suspense – and a certain admiration in the reader as we know what must be coming but well drawn intervening events keep forestalling the inevitable.

Widdlington is peopled with kindly folk as well as brutes: from teachers to parents to children – mostly girls – and the local derelict known as Dummy. Many speak in dialect although, thank heaven, Boy does not. As yet another “Oi” for “I” is uttered, the words of Henry Higgins spring to mind: “Why can’t the English teach their children how to speak?” Walter Scott loved writing in dialects too, so St. John is in illustrious company.

The issue of bullying is as timely now as ever and St. John’s exploration of the ways in which children cope: isolatedly, determinedly, with fear and bravery, is as resonant in Gang Territory as in Huckleberry Fin, and as a salutary reminder of obtuse adult perceptions and the complexity of the world of childhood."

 

It's me, Jenno, wot put in the pictures of Widdlin'ton 'cos Oi thought yew'd loike ter see a bit o' moi village, so if'n yew don't loike 'em don't yew go a-blamin' the noice American lady. An' if p'raps yew'd loike a few more, yew c'd go ter http://www.peterstjohn.net/index

 By the way, the American lady reckons as 'ow a lot of us in Widdlin'ton speak wiv a dialect. Well Oi don't want ter be impolite, but ter moi ears its them Americans wot speak wiv a dialect. Any'ow, when Oi want, Oi c'n speak posh English just as well as Oi can proper English, only if'n Oi did it wiv moi gang around, they'd fink Oi gone all superior on 'em, an' they'd chuck me out. So Oi mostly don't do it. Oi'm glad ter 'ave cleared up that little point.

'Ave yerselves a real 'appy Easter.

Wiv luv from Jenno an' PStJ...

And there are a host of other exciting and interesting articles – hop forward to the next SilverWood Author for more interesting articles, some colourful Easter eggs to collect, and a few Giveaway Prizes:

·          Anna Belfrage : Is Freezing in a Garret a Prerequisite?

·        Lucienne Boyce : The Female Writer's Apology.

·        Isabel Burt : Friday Fruitfulness - Flees for the Easter Hop...

·        Caz Greenham : Springtime and Hanging Baskets.

·        Edward Hancox : Seaweed and Cocoa.

·        Matlock the Hare : Pig-padding the Self-published Highway...

·        Helen Hollick : Let us Talk of Many Things - Fictional Reality.

·        Alison Morton : Roma Nova - How the Romans Celebrated Spring.

·        John Rigg : Television Lines. - Television Lines.

·        Peter St John : Jenno Presents - My Village.

·        Michael Wills : A Doomed Army.

·        Debbie Young : Young By Nature - The Alchemy of Chocolate.

·        Helen Hart : SilverWood Books Spring Blog Hop.

And here is your Easter Egg to collect - there are six in all scattered throughout the Blog Hop - collect them all and feel free to use them on your own Blog or Facebook - or wherever you like!

 

PStJ's Birfday

Jennospot 117  PStJ's Birfday

It's PStJ's birfday, an' the members of the "La Forge" Lit'ry Group took 'im out ter dinner. It weren't 'alf a barney. Well cripes, yew c'n tell can't yew, when Sally recited a poem wot she 'ad writ fer the occasion. An' 'ere it is, jus' fer fun. Well that's wot birfday parties are for, aint it? An' because o' that Oi ain't a-goin' ter try ter correct Sally's spellin' an' stuff; after all, that's wot the Lit'ry group is for, if'n yew see wot Oi mean…

Peter's Birthday

There once was a writer called Peter

Who liked poems with rhyme and with metre,

So at moments like this

Ginny fills him with bliss

And he's sure that no one can beat her.

A poem from Karin will move us,

And Rosalind's novel improve us,

Jules teases our brains,

Lesley writes of Great Danes ― (well poodles actually)

Peter's gang, of wartime manoeuvres.

Martha's family history's forthcoming,

Emanita to stage fame succumbing;

There's Leslie and Sanda

On Peter's veranda;

In her cradle is Amandine humming?

So the writers who meet at La Forge

Are meeting tonight just to gorge,

Celebrate a great day

When we all want to say:

Eat, drink and be merry ― just splurge. (Splorge?)

And let's raise a glass to toast Peter's

Birthday this year ― and repeaters.

Our thanks to our host

Who gives us the most

Of his time ― and his hospitality, and we'll make that rhyme another time…

'Appy birfday Peter, wiv love from Jenno... 


Cripes, Ginny 'as added anovver verse:
 

There’s someone left out of this tally

And that is our talented Sally

Her humorous verses

Delight and enchant us

Around Sally we “Forgers” all rally.

Thank yew, Ginny...

Ain't It Wunnerful?

Jennospot 116  Ain't It Wunnerful?

Cripes, ain't it wunnerful? There ain't no doubt about it. An' it don't matter wevver it's somefink wots jus' come new, or wevver it's over someone or somefink wot yew've known ever since the cows 'ave come 'ome an' been milked. There ain't nuffink really wot's better; leastways, Oi ain't found out yet wot it could be. Yeah, that's roight… Oi'm talkin' about love

Love is all about carin', an' sharin', an' about bein' there jus' a-grinnin' an' a-bearin'-up when fings don't go the way they oughtter. It's about bein' able ter say wot yew really fink, quite darin' like really, 'cos yew know that the person wot's listenin' wot get shirty at yew. An' it's about calmin' fings down when somebody starts bangin' around an' gettin' a bit 'ot under the collar. Cripes, love is getting out the cups, an' brewin' some tea, when somebody's feelin' a bit down; an' Oi don't mean when it's yew wot's down.

Love is when yew turn yerself inside-out an' upside down ter get over a problem wot somebody's 'aving, when it ain't really yer problem. 'Cos love c'n always make a way ter find the best in any kind o' situation.

Love is finkin' of ovvers, when yew'd rather fink of yerself. It's givin' out a smile, even when yew don't feel much loike smilin'.

Love makes a diff'rence ter somebody's day, if'n yew see wot Oi mean.

So 'ave yerself an 'appy day,

Wiv luv from Jenno

 

Moi Village o' Widdlin'ton

Jennospot 115  Widdlington

The village o' Widdlin'ton, where Oi live, is a noice little place; that is, if'n yew don't take too much notice of some of the people wot live there.

It's got a church, a chapel, a post office, a parish 'all, two pubs, a garage (wot ain't open 'cos of the war) an' six shops. The post office is run by Phoebe's muvver, but Phoebe an' me don't get along, so Oi ain't goin' ter show yew 'er picture.

The biggest shop in Widdlin'ton is Mr Hibberd's General Store. Mr Hibberd is a corporal in the 'Ome Guard, wot takes up a good bit of 'is toime nowadays, so 'is shop isn't always open. Still an' all, 'ee's mostly real obligin', 'cept that 'ee's always puttin' 'is spectacles down someplace where 'ee can't find 'em again. 'Ee don't see too good wivvout 'em.

There's over fings too, loike the Mill by the river, an' the Manor wot stands in a big private park. The Mill ain't workin' no more; not since the top bit got burned out jus' before the war, but there's a good swimmin' place just downstream of it.

Oi ought ter mention that there's two schools. Oi go ter one of 'em, wiv moi bruvver. The ovver one's fer the older kids, so Oi ain't goin' ter say nuffink more about it, not 'ere any'ow.

One of the pubs is called the Cock Inn. It's got a picture of a red rooster 'anging from a post by the front door. Whenever "Dummy" gets ter earn a shillin' or two, 'ee goes off ter The Cock, an' when 'ee comes out again, 'ee sometimes gets ter singin' an' shoutin' in The Street, wot gets 'im shut in the lock up fer a while.

The church is real old. It's called St Marys. There's a statue of 'er in a niche over the main porch. Yew wouldn't know it were 'er, 'cept that she's got a baby in 'er arms, cos she's been standin' up there so long, she's all worn away from the weather. Still an' all, she's the only one wot ain't lost 'er 'ead. 'cos there's lots o' ovver statues in various places around the church, but not one of 'em as got an 'ead. They say as 'ow it were Oliver Cromwell wot knocked their 'eads off four 'undred years ago, but wot 'ee 'ad against statues Oi dunno; after all, they're statues of saints, wot is more'n could be said of some o' them folk wot live in the village.

Any'ow, if'n yew'd loike ter know more about moi village, yew c'd always take a look at: http://www.peterstjohn.net/index_18.htm an' then yew c'd start clickin' around on the map. If'n yew want, that is. Yew c'd even come an' visit, but that'd take a bit more organising…

Mountain Train

Jennospot 114  Mountain Train

By special request, Oi've been asked ter put a poem up on moi blog; so 'ere it is: It's by Peter St John. Oi 'ope yew loike it. Any'ow there's a noice picture...

Mountain Train

Chuffing upward from the plain

Skyward climbs the charm-like train;

Pinion tic tac on the rack.

Watch-like, clock-like, mounts the track;

Mountain goat with iron wheels;

Rounding bends with squeaks and squeals;

Tunnelling the buttress through:

Just another cheese to chew.

The valley seems a toy-town place

Seen from heaven's peer-down space.

Droll-doll chalets, sprinkled sparse,

Spick upon the cow-cud grass.

Tie by tie, the rails astride,

Ladder up the mountain side;

Thinly-lean, a two-pronged harrow,

Swissly-clean and spindly-narrow,

Parallel they never meet

Except... up in the sky, to greet

A Gruyère moon; looming there

In the crystal Swiss-wine air.

Or at the sun, join in one,

Fusing from a switchback run

 On an undulating way.

Pop-stop eardrums feel the rise;

We ride together to the skies.

No more trees; they're left behind...

High, the wind is too unkind.

Squeezing on a freezing bridge;

Ease along a heart-stop ridge;

Where peaks in this vicinity

Point us to infinity.

Down below all nods and plods:

At Heaven's portal we are gods.

And god-like, one would higher go;

Higher than the peaks and snow.

But... down one must towards the dust,

In wonder-lusting train unjust.

Entrusting Hope to justify

The return ticket from the sky.

The single strand now splits in two;

Divides One into me and you.

Down we rumble, charnel bundle...

Mindful as we earthwards trundle

Of rapture; but euphoria fails...

Fading on descending rails.

Below the air is thick.