October 2013 RCLAS Wordplay at work newsletter by RCLAS

Coming upâ&#x20AC;Ś

Our first AGM is scheduled for November 2, 2013.

AGM

Elections

SAVE THE DATE

November 2, 2013 Saturday Afternoon Starting at 2pm

Schmooze Time

Meet & Mingle

RCLAS First Annual General Meeting

Keynote Speaker

Self - Directed Open Mic

New Westminster Public Library 716 6th Avenue, New Westminster

AGM November 2, 2013 Keynote Speaker Alan Twigg

has written sixteen books and produced six television documentaries, dozens of award ceremonies and literary events, two university symposia and a music CD for poet and activist Bud Osborn. He is the publisher/owner of B.C. BookWorld, Canada’s largest circulation independent publication about books, founded in 1987, and he founded and manages a public service reference site for and about more than 10,000 B.C. authors. In 2000 he became the first recipient of the Gray Campbell Distinguished Service Award for outstanding contributions to literature and publishing in British Columbia. He previously received the first and only ABPBC Media Award in 1988. In 2007, he became the second recipient of the Jack and Doris Shadbolt Fellowship in the Humanities at Simon Fraser University “to recognize and support leaders in the humanities who are not necessarily part of the academy,” and he also became the first Writer in Residence at the George Price Centre for Peace in Belize. He co-founded the B.C. Book Prizes and the George Ryga Award for Social Awareness. He founded the VanCity Women’s Book Prize and the George Woodcock Lifetime Achievement Award [www.georgewoodcock.com]. He was also involved in the founding of Jessie Richardson Theatre Awards, when he was theatre critic for Georgia Straight, and he served on the founding board of the Canadian Centre for Studies in Publishing. His third book, Vancouver & Its Writers, the first of five volumes on B.C. literary history, was shortlisted for the Hubert Evans Non-Fiction Prize in 1987. First Invaders was shortlisted for the same award in 2005. That year he won First Prize in the Lush Creative Non-Fiction contest, sponsored bysubTerrain magazine and his award-winning entry about the death of his father was re-published in the Utne Reader. In 2011, he received the Mayor’s Arts Award for Literary Arts in Vancouver. He was an editorial page columnist for The Province from 1995 to 1998. For five years in the 1990s he coordinated shipments of nursing supplies to Belize with the assistance of DHL. In 1999 he initiated a fundraising campaign for the BC Civil Liberties Association Defence Fund. He is currently on the Board of Trustees for the Vancouver Public Library, appointed by city council to serve a two-year term. As a freelancer, he has contributed to various publications such as Quill & Quire, Georgia Straight, Globe & Mail, Toronto Star, Ottawa Citizen, Lived Experience, Macleans, Pacific Northwest Review of Books, etc. He has hosted a CBC television series and can be heard on CBC radio’s North by Northwest program in a segment called Turning Up The Volumes. His book about soccer was adapted for global distribution by Reader’s Digest and he recently contributed the introduction to a new biographical study of Chekhov.

View Calendar and Bios at www.poeticjustice.ca

HERITAGE GRILL, BACKROOM 3-5 pm Sunday Afternoons—three features and open mic 447 Columbia St, New Westminster, near Columbia Station CO-FOUNDER & BOOKING MANAGER—Franci Louann flouann@telus.net Website & Facebook Manager, Photographer—Janet Kvammen janetkvammen@rclas.com

October 6 Sunday 3-5pm Poetic Justice Featuring Candice James/ Deborah Kelly/ Sylvia Taylor Host Kyle Hawke October 13 NO Poetic Justice Thanksgiving Weekend Alternative http://www.renaissancebookstore.com/our-next-open-mic-oct-132013featuring-david-burnell-more-info-to-come/ October 20 Sunday 3-5pm Poetic Justice Featuring Franci Louann/ Darrel Shee/ Janene White Host Eva Waldauf October 27 Poetic Justice Halloween – “Poets Wanted: Dead Or Alive” Co-Hosts Deborah Kelly and Janet Kvammen with extended Open Mic featuring your own dark, eerie, spooky, mysterious poetry OR a Dead Poet of your choice. Costume contest with prizes and Halloween fun.

Nightly Encounter © David Blinkhorn

Susan is a plain woman. Easily forgotten, she sits at the bar as she does each night. Pale skinned and wispy, she waits for him, her delicate hands folded over each other, thumb of the right stroking, comforting the outside of her left index finger. Each night, it’s the same. She orders another crantini, sips it, and fidgets with the stir stick. With her eyes darting back and forth across the room looking for him, she is oblivious to the crammed bar, patrons gathering for the nightly fireworks that will follow. Susan lingers alone with heart cracking with each beat, hope dying with each breath. At 11:12 p.m., as it is every night, Peter, with his flowing shoulder length hair and his romance novel good looks, appears from nowhere and strolls across the bar to the stool next to his sweetheart. He reaches to kiss her on the cheek. She turns away. “You’re late.” He smiles. “You know that I have a lot of work these days, my darling.” “Yes. But you should have called. I’ve been nursing my damn drinks for over two hours.” She looks down at her third crantini. “Was she with you?” Peter rolls his eyes. “Of course. She’s the boss and it’s her baby.” “Were John and Sandra there?”

“He’s in Toronto and Sandra had to get home for her kids.” “So it was just the two of you.” Susan pauses and looks into his eyes. Her baseless suspicions blind her.” “You know the project has to be completed by the end of the month.” Susan shakes her head. “But that’s five nights in a row.” Her skin flushes. “I can smell her on you.” Her cold, angry eyes pierce through him. She begins to sob; barely audible above the murmurs of the bar. “You’re drunk.” Peter looks around the bar. “And making a scene. I won’t let you do this again. Let’s go.” He places his hand on her shoulder. “I’m taking you home.” She pulls away, shoulders tightened. His hand falls to his side. “I’m not going anywhere with you. You’re having an affair with her. I can tell. You son of a bitch, I’m no fool. Don’t lie any more about it, Peter.” “How would… how could you think that? There’s only you.” Peter reaches out to his love again. “I’ve done nothing to make you think—” Susan picks up her drink and throws its contents towards Peter’s face. The liquid splashes on the floor. “Tell that to your whore.” “Great,” he says bringing a napkin up to his face. “You’re crazy.” “You can thank yourself for that.” Susan slides off the bar stool and moves towards the door like a gust of wind. She can no longer tolerate the pain of his lies.

“Wait, Susan. You’re wrong. I love...” With out-stretched hands, Peter reaches one final time for his wife, hoping for unneeded forgiveness, and disappears into the night air of the street. The bar patrons sit silent uncertain about the events. “Holy shit,” one pipes in. “That happens every night?” he asks the barkeeper. “Every night. Like clockwork,” the barkeeper says as he dries the beer glass in his hand. “They’re like two familiar friends now. Doesn’t bother me anymore. Poor thing though. So uncertain of his love that she relives it every night. ” “Why here every night?” asks another patron. “It all ended out on the street that night about two years ago. A screech of tires. When I got outside they were there: tangled limbs captured in their final lovers’ embrace.”

--------------------------------------------------------

Nightly Encounter Copyright David Blinkhorn

Janet Kvammen Photography

Book Launch Emails from India: Women Write Home Sunday Oct. 6: Vancouver BC 7:30 p.m., CafĂŠ Deux Soleils

Seraphim Editions introduces the voices of 27 women who have travelled to India and written on their experiences (non-fiction) edited by Janis Harper This book features many talented writers INCLUDING RCLAS members, Renee Saklikar and K Lorraine Kiidumae ***$1 per book is donated by Seraphim Editions to World Literacy Canada, a non-profit organization that promotes literacy among women in India. - http://www.amazon.com/Emails-From-India-Women-Write/dp/1927079217 - http://www.thebookband.com/bookshop/essays/emails-from-india-women-write-home

Excerpt from The Girl in the Grey Dress By K. Lorraine Kiidumae

...I am sitting next to the window and the bus has stopped at a red light at the corner. Helen and I have resumed a previous conversation about the feud going on in her family over her wealthy fatherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s estate. One of her sisters wants all twelve of the demitasse sets that her parents had collected

over the years. Helen was saying how she doesn’t care, but her other sister does, and is starting to come around by negotiating to do a swap for three of the coveted demitasse sets, in exchange for some plates from her mother’s Lenox Rose China set. I feel a presence out the window, and suddenly become aware of a girl standing on the street corner. Something about her look, and the cut of her hair, reminds me of myself at her age, which I guess to be about twelve, so I smile at her, but she doesn’t notice me. She is wearing a grey dress that isn’t buttoned up fully in the back, and looks several sizes too big for her. As is the fashion in India, the grey dress hangs over top of a skirt, this one with a pink-green-white checkered pattern. Both the dress and the skirt look well worn. I wonder what she is doing there. She looks up and sees me watching her and smiles, then ducks under a makeshift tent. I feel disappointed that she has left and hope I haven’t been rude in staring, but when she comes back out I can see that she has combed her hair for me, and slipped a pair of thongs onto her previously bare feet.

There is an older man crouched on the ground next to her, and a pile of pots is attached to a cord and tied to the fence behind them. I realize he must be her father and that they must live there. I am overtaken with emotion, but it isn’t pity, it is some sort of a profound inner reckoning of the reality of her situation...

Darkness Holds The Way © Deborah L. Kelly

In this place of freedom where I Am to open every door. I hear not the chorus of darkness nor the gentle knock beneath the floor. The lights have dimmed and the shadows move, slithering along the floor along the cracks and grooves. Dusk has long retreated and velvet darkness holds the way … For spooks, and goblins, witches galore walk the streets ‘til the light of day. Ever in the shadow, you smell decay just outside your door, but you’re so afraid to answer it, that gentle knocking underneath the floor. The floor boards creak the walls they groan. They speak a language, all their own. Don’t touch, don’t touch, beware, go away, there are demons all around. Shhhhhh; quiet, they cannot see unless they hear your sound. Your skin starts to shiver and goosebumps rise and fall. You can see a shadow coming, climbing over misted walls. The garden lies in a jumble, flowers wither, plants start to die. They are trapped within the darkness, sunshine’s needed to survive. Spooks and energies all around me, in circles they walk my path

hoping they can reach me, block my ability to pass. I left the darkened garden and went to knock upon the door. I opened it up and looked inside; that gentle knocking beneath the floor. What is it that lies buried here beneath the floorboards of ancient doom? I do not care, and don’t want to see what’s hiding underneath that room. I turned to run, to leave this place and much to my chagrin, I ran head on into evil’s arms, the darkness sucked me in. Please help me leave this harrowed place, fly me up towards the moon – I wake up startled, but warm and safe under the quilts in my own bedroom. On, than the Lord, a horrible dream wall all it ended up to be. But somehow, somewhere deep inside I feel it followed me. Perhaps I carried, unknowingly, this shadow from the land of dreams. How do I send it back to Hell? I can hear those wailing screams. Tap your heels three times and say, “Back to hell, back to hell, you go on this day …” Now I’m back in Kansas and I’m wide awake.

-------------------------------------------------------Copyright Deborah Kelly

NORMAL PERSON

ÂŠ Robert "Max Tell" Stelmach

I'm a very normal person, With a very normal look; But I make myself quite different, With the recipes I cook.

I dip my finger to the nail, A tingly burn, a freeze. My eyes turn in with a little spin. I cross my legs then sneeze.

The recipes I cook Make me anything I choose. The thing I choose most often Is a witch that doesn't snooze.

Au choo! Oh, gosh! I'm wicked! Moles spout upon my nose. Little ugly wrinkles Grace forehead down to toes.

First, I take a bucket. I put it on the fire. I spoon in boyzzy butter, Then add a two ply tire.

I ride my vacuum cleaner. Jet propelled, I'm fast. In all the witchie races, I win. It's a blast.

I dump in tons of acid rain, Exhaust fumes from a truck, The liver of a tiny toad, A rabbit's foot for luck.

I've turned this boy to butter. He's the boyzzy butter one Who's made this potion perfect. Won't you try a buttered bun?

I stir in pan fried viper's lips -The upper lip is best -Whipped with seven deviled eggs, Stolen from a nest.

I'm horrid, mean, and vicious. I scream, squeal, and whale. I've stuffed a pinky piggy Into its piggy's tail.

A pinch of tasty fingers Snipped from off an ant, In they go with spiders And a poison ivy plant.

I love it, when I'm evil. It's always worth the flack. I also like the normal me, Whenever I bring me back.

It double-bubble boils, Turns milky then turns black. I drip a tiny drop of it Upon a snoozing rat.

My potion is the rarest For changing back to me. Oh, No! It's gone! I've lost it: My normal recipe.

That rat turns red, then greenish. It spins upon its head. It rolls upon its back then Poof! It's one big blob of lead.

I'm stuck like this, all witchie. This evil means to stay, These wrinkles, mine forever, Forever and a day.

My potion now is perfect. A witch's brew -- superb. The next step in the process Is not a magic word.

Make this nightmare over. What a horrid place to be: To be inside a witch's skin, The witch inside of me-e-e-e-e-e.

-------------------------------------------------------ÂŠ Robert "Max Tell" Stelmach http://maxtell.ca/

Little Freddy

Hilda hummed as she poked around in her garden, no plan, just pulling a few weeds and deadheading some flowers. She could almost smell the morning dew starting to evaporate, promising a clear and splendid day. As she expected, there weren’t many people around this early on a Saturday morning. Just some crows calling and a few cars off in the distance. She turned and noticed the taciturn little boy from the new family next door creeping across her lawn. He stopped and with obvious satisfaction picked up a big night crawler. ‘What a delightful little child, fascinated by nature’ thought Hilda. A retired teacher, she still enjoyed observing a child with a passion for knowledge. way.

“Good morning, Freddy, isn’t it?” she greeted the youngster as he glanced her

Freddy sidled towards her, avoiding eye contact. He pocketed his worm and stood silently as Hilda resumed her tuneless humming. Sometimes children could be like wild animals, you just need to let them take their own time about making friends. With any luck he would remember to remove the worm before his shorts hit the laundry. Then again, the mother of an inquisitive little boy was no doubt used to finding all manner of things in his pockets. Hilda picked a couple of aphids off a rose leaf and squished them against the concrete step. “Gosh darned things!” Freddy scurried over to the walk and gently laid his down the worm. He watched his find curl and writhe for a moment then with impassive eyes on Hilda he carefully stepped on and crushed it. Hilda applied her well-worn teacher’s face. “I squished those bugs because they were killing my rose bush. I don’t think that worm was going to harm anyone,” she calmly commented to her plants. “What do you think?” Freddy studied her for a few moments then said “It’s all pink inside. Not grey.” “That’s interesting, dear. Did you think it might be grey?” “I seen worm’s insides grey before. In the microwave.”

Hilda’s hum missed a few beats. Freddy quickly looked away and shuffled towards her flower garden. She turned her attention to the irises, cutting a few choice stalks to bring inside. “Do you like pretty flowers, Freddy?” “Uh-huh. I guess.” “So do I, that’s why I grow them and take care of them.” “If they’re pretty and you like them how come you cut their heads off?” Oh the enchanting perspective of a young child! “Well, that’s because I like to enjoy them in the house. Would you like to take some pretty flowers in to your Mommy?” Freddy looked away without answering. Hilda’s Siamese cat came winding through the garden with a yowling hello. Her sapphire eyes appraised Freddy as she rubbed around Hilda’s ankles. “Have you met Flora?” she asked. Freddy stared at the cat. Hilda’s hum trailed off as he lifted his empty eyes to hers and said “She’s pretty and I like her.” --------------------------------------------------------

’

Crying Souls

Lurking, lurking mist creeping around headstones Moistened soil covering decaying bones Lurking, lurking mist. Swirling, swirling through crevasses and crosses Zephyrs brush across thick green mosses Swirling, swirling zephyrs. Hanging, hanging moist vines drape from trees Rhythmic swaying with the breeze Hanging, hanging vines. Chiming, chiming town clock strikes midnight Eeriness overcomes this old graveyard site Chiming, chiming clock. Rising, rising souls begin their nightly journey Trapped within these boundaries for eternity Rising, rising souls. Glowing, glowing contorted bodies can be seen Silvery moonlight enhances the gothic scene Glowing, glowing bodies. Floating, floating ghostly figures ‘n mournful cries Skeletal, decaying flesh, sunken eyes Floating, floating ghosts. Screaming, screaming voices reliving never-ending pain Blood upon blood washed away with rain Screaming, screaming voices. Returning, returning slowly toward their eternal grave Forever to remain Satan’s slave Returning, returning to Satan. Approaching, approaching dawn brings forth new life Releasing serenity instead of ghoulish strife Approaching, approaching dawn. -------------------------------------------------------David J Delaney. Internationally published Australian Poet. Hear his poem, Night Mistress here http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D9Wuw5RlmRI

Shadow People

Shadow people – I did not believe in them. They were hallucinations, illusions, or so I believed until I saw them. Driving home at eleven o’clock at night, I glimpsed three figures standing at the side of the road. When I looked directly at them they disappeared. Although I saw them for only a split second, I had a distinct impression of a heavy-set man, a teenaged boy and a young woman. I dismissed it as an illusion brought on by fatigue. But I saw them again and again – those featureless forms of dark grey mist. Each night their appeared further along the road, closer to my driveway. It was disconcerting at first, then down right frightening. Soon I was driving a mile out of my way to approach my home from the other direction. I have had to quit my job; I dare not go in or out at night. They are always there at the end of my driveway. --------------------------------------------------------

Where are the poems? Focusing on found poems, list poems, erasure poems—for starters… Join Jonina Kirton & Franci Louann for Two Poetry Workshops prize-winning poets / experienced workshop leaders October 12 & 26, 2013 ~ 10 till noon, The Common Room at 700 Park Crescent, New Westminster Sliding scale…$10-15 includes refreshments

To register please contact: flouann@telus.net or joninakirton@msn.com

Jonina Kirton is a rapidly emerging ‘accidental’ poet. Poetry found Jonina in 2006, when she was accepted into the poetry stream at the Simon Fraser University’s Writer’s Studio. Betsy Warland and Ingrid Rose have been among her most cherished mentors. Jonina’s poetry has been published in a number of anthologies and literary journals, in print and on-line. This year she won first prize and two honourable mentions in the Royal City Literary Arts Society’s Write-On contest and was a finalist in the Burnaby Writing Contest. Her first collection of poetry, ink as blood ~ page as bone, is currently being read by the editorial team at a reputable publisher who shall remain unnamed at this time.

Franci Louann (Workman) has been published since high school. In the 70’s she had five poems in Dorothy Livesay’s Woman’s Eye, 12 BC poets. She has been studying the craft since, lately with Liz Bachinsky at Douglas College, receiving an A+ despite freestyle tendencies. Lipstick Press published her Beach Cardiology (poetry) in 2010. Franci has prepared manuscripts for her own Horse of Course Press since 2006. Leaf Press, Fourfront Editions/Quattro, Silver Bow, Vivalogue and Lipstick Press have recently included Franci’s poems. She is a co-founder and booking manager for Poetic Justice in New Westminster. (www.poeticjustice.ca)

Facebook https://www.facebook.com/events/220275841471397/?fref=ts

Volunteers Needed

Royal City Literary Arts Society (RCLAS) is looking for a volunteer Events Listing Co-ordinator. If you are interested in this exciting position, please email the RCLAS secretary at secretary@rclas.com It is a wonderful opportunity to work with a great group of individuals. We are a rapidly growing and dynamic International Literary Arts Society.   

Are you “on the scene”? Active on Facebook and twitter? Perhaps a writer yourself?

We would LOVE to have you on our team! Our aim is to post a weekly events listing to all our members.

AGM Door Person Needed We require a RCLAS member or two to volunteer to greet guests, verify and sign-in members at our First Annual RCLAS AGM scheduled for Saturday November 2, 2pm , New Westminster Public Library.

Please email Janet Kvammen janetkvammen@rclas.com if you wish to volunteer.

The main street of the small town was shut down. Barred windows protected the small shops. Stepping off the curb to cross the street, madam felt the hairs on her neck raise and goose bumps on her arms. “Excuse me,” she quivered, keeping her head down. “Don’t mention it. I think it was me who bumped into you,” responded the man with a deep voice, wearing an oversized coat. She got a glimpse of a scar on his right cheek, and ran down the street to her duplex. At least it’s town streets and not the thick bush of my youth. Lights and traffic will save me. She could hear footsteps, as she unlocked the door. She turned to see and demanded, “What do you want? Why do you follow me?” He turned to walk away and she yelled,“ I am telephoning the police! Leave me alone!” Darkness filled every corner of the room as she felt for the light switch. Her small dog barked. “Sh, puppy, sh.” Someone was at her door, ringing the doorbell. She peeked through the blinds and now he was pounding with fists. Who could this be…the man in the big coat left...or did he? She crawled to the kitchen, and grabbed a butcher knife. Tears filled her eyes with memories of past footsteps in the night and running through the thick bush. “Come here pup, soon the sun will rise and the night man will disappear.” The two huddled in the corner of the kitchen. Madam dozed off and woke to the daylight peeking through the blinds .She got up, unlocked the door, and opened it. “Be gone, the streets can see you and so can I,” as she shook her fist at him. “Don’t follow me home again. I’ve changed the locks to my brain.” He turned and faded into the morning horizon, and she knew she was safe from this memory forever. -------------------------------------------------------Copyright: Dianne Tchir

Witches In Ditches

ÂŠ Robert "Max Tell" Stelmach A video link to Maxâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s version of Robin Moore's story The Werewoman as performed in Bogota, Colombia a couple of years ago: http://youtu.be/zviT3AZLfqU Witches in ditches Put me in stitches. Witches with twitches

Witches in ditches Give me the itches. Put me in stitches. Witches with twitches Give me the itches. But witches in sneakers, With pretty blue But witches in peepers, sneakers, With pretty blue peepers, Not witches in black Not witches in black With pointy bat hats, With pointy bat hats,

But But witches white witches inin white That don't fright the night, don't fright are the night, TheseThat witches pacers, All ofwitches them These are acers. pacers, All of them acers.

WILD THINGS

ÂŠ Eileen Kernaghan

out of the midnight forest they follow you home like shadow they live in your walls and rafters in forgotten backs of cupboards you know their shapes but will not name them their shrill cries haunt you you can sing small songs to soothe them make them soft and secret beds to lie in still you will wake in winter dawns to find them crouched upon your pillow their sharp claws unravelling the frayed edges of your dreams -------------------------------------------------------Eileen Kernaghan

http://www.eileenkernaghan.ca/

Bird or beast above the sculptured bust above his chamber door, With such name as `Nevermore.'

(First published in 1845) Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary, Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore, While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door. `'Tis some visitor,' I muttered, `tapping at my chamber door Only this, and nothing more.'Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December, And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor. Eagerly I wished the morrow; - vainly I had sought to borrow From my books surcease of sorrow - sorrow for the lost Lenore For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore Nameless here for evermore. And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain Thrilled me - filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before; So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating `'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; This it is, and nothing more,' `Sir,' said I, `or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore; But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping, And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door, That I scarce was sure I heard you' - here I opened wide the door; Darkness there, and nothing more. Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing, Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before; But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token, And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, `Lenore!' This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, `Lenore!' Merely this and nothing more. Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning, Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before. `Surely,' said I, `surely that is something at my window lattice; Let me see then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore; 'Tis the wind and nothing more!' Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter, In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore. Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he; But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door Perched, and sat, and nothing more. Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling, By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore, `Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,' I said, `art sure no craven. Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the nightly shore Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!' Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.' Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly, Though its answer little meaning - little relevancy bore; For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door -

But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only, That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour. Nothing further then he uttered - not a feather then he fluttered Till I scarcely more than muttered `Other friends have flown before On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before.' Then the bird said, `Nevermore.' Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken, `Doubtless,' said I, `what it utters is its only stock and store, Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful disaster Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore Of "Never-nevermore."' But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling, Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door; Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore Meant in croaking `Nevermore.' This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core; This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er, But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er, She shall press, ah, nevermore! Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor. `Wretch,' I cried, `thy God hath lent thee - by these angels he has sent thee Respite - respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore! Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!' Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.' `Prophet!' said I, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil! Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore, Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted On this home by horror haunted - tell me truly, I implore Is there - is there balm in Gilead? - tell me - tell me, I implore!' Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.' `Prophet!' said I, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil! By that Heaven that bends above us - by that God we both adore Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn, It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels name Lenore?' Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.' `Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!' I shrieked upstarting `Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore! Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken! Leave my loneliness unbroken! - quit the bust above my door! Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!'

flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming, And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor; And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor Shall be lifted - nevermore!

BURNABY WRITERS' SOCIETY NEWS RE:2013 writing contest on the theme of ‘Air’. All winners and finalists are invited to read their entries at their Awards Night on October 15th 2013 at La Fontana Caffe, 101-3701 Hastings Street, Burnaby, BC, starting at 7 pm. For more information and further updates, join BWS on Facebook at https://www.facebook. com/BurnabyWritersSo ciety

It is with pleasure to inform you that “Nostos and Algos” by Manolis Aligizakis , www.ekstasiseditions.com 2012 translated by Lucia Gorea is ready for release in Romania by the Dellart publishers. Congratulations, Manolis!

RCLAS Members Jonina Kirton, Margo Prentice and Janet Kvammen are among the finalists. Congratulations to all the winners! http://burnabywritersnews.bl ogspot.ca/

E-PUBLISHING: WHERE? HOW? HOW MUCH? LOCATION: New Westminster Library, 716 6th Ave, New Westminster DATE: Tuesday October 15, 2013 TIME: 6:30 – 8:30pm Ebook self-publishing has opened the door for writers to come into their own. But can you truly do it all yourself or do you need help, and what will it cost? Join M. A. Demers, author of The Global Indie Author: How anyone can self-publish in the U.S. and worldwide markets, for an overview of the issues and technologies you will encounter when e-publishing on Amazon, Apple, Kobo, and other e-retailers worldwide. Sponsored by the Royal City Literary Arts Society and the Library. Register at 604-527-4667 or secretary@rclas.com

About Us

Membership Application - Annual fee $28 including tax Name______________________________________________________________ Address____________________________________________________________ Telephone(s)________________________________________________________ Email______________________________________________________________ Website____________________________________________________________ Skills/Interests______________________________________________________

Genre(s) of Writing___________________________________________________

Paid by (Please mark one with an “X” Paypal ______

Mail ______

Pay by Paypal on our website www.rclas.com or send cheque or money order to: RCLAS – Royal City Literary Arts Society Box #5 - 720 – Sixth Street, New Westminster, BC V3L 3CFor further information: Phone – 778-714-1772 Email - secretary@rclas.com

October 2013

Wordplay at work

ISSN 2291-4269

Membership Application - Annual fee $28 including tax Pay by Paypal on our website www.rclas.com or send cheque or money order to:

RCLAS – Royal City Literary Arts Society Box #5 - 720 – Sixth Street, New Westminster, BC V3L 3C5 For further information: Phone – 778-714-1772 Email – secretary@rclas.com

FEEDBACK & NEWSLETTER SUBMISSIONS Drop me us a line RCLAS Director/ Newsletter Editor/Design janetkvammen@rclas.com

Submissions - RCLAS Members Only Please Autumn/Remembrance Day/Winter/Christmas Poems & Stories & Songs are welcome for submission for possible publication in an upcoming newsletter. To RCLAS Members: Please send us your latest news, feedback on our newsletter and any ideas/suggestions you may have for us!