Competition Tessa Castro

IN COMPETITION No 221 you were invited to write a poem called Treasure. I was delighted not to find any entries on Stephen Fry, though Katie Mallett sent a good poem on Jimmy Savile. The entries were excellent and varied, with Alan Mcloughlin’s detectorist following Betjeman, John Whitworth’s pirate praising parrots (‘So much better than a hamster or a hen’), Sylvia Fairley’s skivvy treasure rebelling, Fay Dickinson’s young narrator deflated at a beach emerald being called sea-polished glass and David Silverman’s email recipient deleting a genuine fortune. So commiserations to these and others and congratulations to those printed below, each surprising and each winning £25, with the treasurable bonus prize of a Chambers Biographical Dictionary going to Sylvia Smith.

My garden is a wondrous place, Its secrets known to me alone. There, buried deep, are scraps of lace, A handkerchief, a whitened bone,

A lady’s bra, a pair of tights, The trophies from my nameless crimes Dispersed among a dozen sites, Fond memories of wicked times.

Some knickers, carefully interred, A leather shoe, still shiny red, And best of all, now green and furred, A slice or two of mouldy bread.

I’ll sometimes dig my trophies up To re-awaken furtive pleasure From my crimes when just a pup - Now, that’s what dogs call ‘buried treasure’! Sylvia Smith

Seek not treasure in the worldly mart, Nor buy and sell illusory bonds and shares; Nor, striving, be outsmarted by the smart; Nor, greedy, grow engorged on bulls and bears. Seek not treasure in the maiden’s eye, The lightsome laughter, and the tender hand; So soon they dim and tarnish. Neither try To venture forth in property or land; No human intellect will ever know Why markets so exalted and so high So cruelly drop. My young friend: only go And treasure seek in Nature’s peace, and in thy — I’m sorry, I’m a hypocrite Giving you this moral sh--. Those paths where I say, Venture not: I failed in all the bloody lot. Roger Rengold

I have it still, the trophy we all bought To celebrate our exit from probation, Then, legalised for use on those we taught, It dignified us, gowned for our new station.

That tawse, a genuine Lochgelly one, Always for me was just a warning prop But yet a treasure, second then to none, A reassurance keeping me on top.

It lost its value years ago and lies Coiled in a corner of a bottom drawer I keep it for I know it justifies Some functions that were honoured heretofore.

Long outlawed, I revealed it once or twice To illustrate to rowdy kids round here How different, how painless, even nice A pupil’s life is now. It earned a jeer. Gillian Ewing

She came to me across the room With smile to lift the darkest gloom We laughed and joked, we had a chat, We ended up in her small flat. What sensual delights, what pleasure, She called me “Love”, I called her “Treasure”.

Alas the rent was in arrears, She says she’s ill, she’s full of fears. Sometimes the tears would never stop, She needs this most expensive op; Then to recuperate and rest She says “abroad” would be the best.

I gave her much, could not refuse, It was of course a hoax, a ruse. I’m wary now, much more defensive, These treasures can be most expensive. David Jeans

Competition No 223 Tennyson, Larkin and Dylan have all had a go at windows. Now’s your chance, please, with a poem called The Window. Maximum 16 lines. Entries, by post ( The Oldie, Moray House, 23/31 Great Titchfield Street, London W1W 7PA) or e-mail (comps@theoldie.co.uk - don’t forget to include your postal address), to ‘Competition No 223’ by 7th December.