Competition Tessa Castro

In competition 200, you were invited to write a poem with the title ‘Limit: Two Tons’. Speed, cricket, weight limits on bridges and in lifts were the main categories of tonnage, with a couple of considerations of Noah’s Ark. Among entries good enough to publish were those from Alder Ellis, Judith Caulfield, Katie Mallett, Mae Scanlan, G M Southgate, L M Williams, Stephen Wathen and Andrew Bamji. Commiserations to them and congratulations to those printed below, each of whom wins £25, with the bonus prize of a Chambers Biographical Dictionary with tons of lives going to Rob Stuart’s larger than life creation. Weigh a ton, and look it too: there’s

simply no disguising The puckered rolls of adipose I’ve got

from gourmandising. There’s very little I would deem

unsavoury or icky; If carbon-based, I’ll chug it down; I’m

really not too picky. This predilection grieves my wife – I

struggle to appease her When I’ve been collared crunching chips

directly from the freezer, Partaking of a sausage roll that’s feculent

and stinking Or drinking cooking oil (or something

else not meant for drinking.) She’ll wring her hands, comparing my

addiction to a junkie’s, But truth be told, I genuinely couldn’t

give a monkey’s. I’ll turn and walk away from her the

moment she starts bitching And pluck a goldfish from the bowl to

swallow, live and twitching. I’ll fill my tum with anything from fat

balls to polenta, From steak and kidney pudding to a blob

of rat placenta, From KFC and egg-fried rice to acorns,

leaves and catkins, But if I ever reach two tons, I’m going on

the Atkins.

Rob Stuart He walked out to the wicket, His aim to score two tons, Which in the game of cricket Denotes two hundred runs. No affable team player, He always walked alone, A miserable stayer Completely ‘in the zone’. He wasn’t entertaining. He didn’t do it fast. The tedium was draining As decades, aeons passed. Though others felt dejected If the other side had won, He wasn’t much affected When he’d got his double ton.

Basil Ransome-davies ‘How much do you love me?’ Grandma

would enquire Before rewarding me with some surprise. ‘Two tons,’ I’d say to set her heart on fire And see a smile that started in her eyes. On my last visit, when her eyes were mist, Her glance still asked what I identified; And as I bent beside her bed and kissed Her thinning hair, my wordless lips replied. I opened out my arms to let her know The width of all my love, its weight and

might, And in her eyes that old familiar glow Came back for just a moment of delight. A few days later, saying my goodbye, I thought of my unswerving adoration, And knew the love wrapped up in my reply, ‘Two tons,’ had no such foolish limitation.

Frank Mcdonald I’d loaded hay before. I knew the weight, wore leather gloves to stop bale-string cutting the palms, was used to the up-swing and dump, left air spaces in the hope that the whole blasted barnful would not combust through sheer malevolence. The roof, once thatched but now corrugated iron, was roasting hot. Sweat stung my eyes. The shirt stuck to

my back. I’d have left this until the morning when it would have been cooler, but the farmer wanted his trailer back. A mug’s game, raising calves. Worse than teenagers, currently sprawled in the

house, laughing at The Good Life on TV. Alison Prince