Competition Tessa Castro

IN COMPETITION No 223 you were invited to write a poem called The Window. Katie Mallett, through a detail noticed – that ‘the dustbin lid / Was not quite on’ – constructed a narrative of regret and loss. Adrian Fry’s cheery rhyme celebrated stepping out of a 19th-storey window ‘into a field of blue sky’. Commiserations to them and congratulations to those printed below, each of whom wins £25, with the bonus prize of a Chambers Biographical Dictionary going to a rather alarming Basil Ransome-davies.

This is the night-time play of light and

shade And mine’s the role of Master of the Dark, He who’s saluted by the cavalcade, The Dream-invader, the Heresiarch.

I now control whatever is in sight, A demiurge abducting with my stare The shifting shadows of the town at night, The wayward headlamp beams, the

shopfronts’ glare.

My penthouse window’s scope means

I own all Its tender, sleeping souls. I strut and pose, An ocular dictator, walking tall. As sudden as a stroke the feeling goes.

My hopeless face regards me in the pane, A chiaroscuro portrait, strange but true, Showing what Nietzsche didn’t quite

explain: Look through the window and it sees

through you. Basil Ransome-davies

I’ve pulled up a chair to the window and

got out my knitting ’Cos I like to be doing things. But my

poor feet! Why I can’t even get a stocking on, so I’m

just sitting Looking down on the street.

Ah! There’s nice Mister Fortescue. Is that

a handbag he’s carrying? And isn’t that Jennifer Routledge

pushing young Ben? In my humble opinion she ought to be

thinking of marrying Now she’s pregnant again.

That chap with a beard is the image of

dear Uncle Stanley. And such a nice woman he’s with. She’s

quite my sort. What a pity she’s fat, but she’s pretty, and

he’s very manly Though a little bit short.

Maybe God from a window in heaven

looks down at his creatures Seeing some of them prosper but lots

left behind. Has he given us bodies and brains just to

teach us To be thoughtful and kind? Christopher Mason

I’ll teach you how to count from one to ten According to Bill Gates. Now, take your pen: It starts with 1, 2, 3, then 95 And 98, 2000, then ME – No wonder that one didn’t long survive! A silly kind of number, I agree, Though other versions, too, were just

as strange; You’re puzzled by NT, XP and Vista Because they’re not within numeric range? Well, Microsoft says, ‘We know better,

Mister!’ Thereafter, things became more orthodox With Windows 7, horrid Windows 8; But then, instead of pulling up their socks, They skipped to Windows 10, which we

all hate. That’s how Bill counts to ten, as we have

seen, Though curiously, the total makes thirteen. Sylvia Smith

Through the window of my boyhood There was promise in the sun, Every cloud was lined with silver, Every future race was won And the mountains in the distance Were the peaks that I would scale, And the flow of years was endless And my boyhood couldn’t fail. Through the window by my bedside There is darkness and no stars; The once perfect rhymes are hazy And there’s just a wisp of years. And the past, a darkened garden Where the plants are under snow, Is a place I long to visit But I can’t remember how. Frank Mcdonald

Competition No 225 A poem called Common Sense, please. Maximum 16 lines. Entries, by post (The Oldie, Moray House, 23/31 Great Titchfield Street, London W1W 7PA) or email (comps@theoldie.co.uk – don’t forget to include your postal address) to ‘Competition No 225’ by 1st February.