Competition

TESSA CASTRO

IN COMPETITION No 226 you were invited to write a poem called The Toast. There was quite a bit of recherche des toasts perdus, with toasting forks like the Devil’s trident, and a rival tendency for dramatic wedding speeches. Robert Shechter sent a lilting boast of his toastmaking abilities. Dorothy Pope toasted a musical prodigy; Ed Williams contrived an acrostic epithalamium, spelling out ‘Epithalamium’. Commiseration to these and congratulations to those below, each of whom wins £25, with the bonus prize of a Chambers Biographical Dictionary toasting the success of Bill Holloway.

Immature poets imitate; mature poets steal – T S Eliot

Let us now toast those who steal Away from conflict, when they feel They’d only make a matter worse, ’n’ Wish no ill to God or person.

Raise glasses, hats, to those who lie Under the yoke of tyranny, And cry not out, nor think they must, Since tyrants all must come to dust.

And blessings upon those who kill Time writing poetry like Will: Or, if they’d rather, purple prose, Channelling Edgar Allan Poe’s –

For imitation of those dear To us is flattery sincere. As I began this meisterspiel, Let us now toast those who steal! Bill Holloway

Returning home to Rouen after weeks Of travelling extensively abroad, I found the town infested with

strange reeks, And seething with a jubilating horde. I struggled on towards the market place Where my apartment stood, and where

my wife Would greet me with her pretty

smiling face, And I’d resume, I hoped, my quiet life – But not just yet, it seemed. The noisy

crowd Of strangers, urchins playing raucous

games, And over all, an evil-smelling cloud… ‘What’s going on today? What are

those flames,’ I asked a soldier standing at his post, ‘That pall of smoke that makes the sky

so dark? And what’s that smell of burning? Is

it toast?’ ‘Why, bless you, sir – that’s poor young

Joan of Arc.’ Sylvia Smith

The toaster pings. The toast pops out. I greet it with a hearty shout. I timed it right, I hope and pray. Burnt toast would voodoo the whole day.

I scrutinise it with a frown. Is it the perfect shade of brown? It is, it is. And crisp as well. I am the Toastmeister from Hell.

I file the slices in the rack, A vintage piece of bric-à-brac. The table is sedately laid With butter, jam and marmalade.

Yet all things slump to dull defeat. The first triangle is a treat, Those at the back are stiff and cold. This morning ritual does get old. Basil Ransome-davies

The waiter’s all attention, fills each glass then leaves us, grouped, to raise our

vino To – ? A pause. A scramble for some words

to pass the moment on, but now we’re

struggling. Who? or what? or when? Departed friends? –

not now; we did that at the funerals. To Us? Too cosy and self-satisfied somehow; we’re not like that. Not ones to make

a fuss but knowing the next topic is our ops in gory detail, any toast to health would be a tad ironic; vino slops untasted, warming. No one mentions

Wealth. So it’s The Future! – yes, we all suppose, despite our years, we still have one

of those. D A Prince

COMPETITION No 228 Civilisations have been all the rage on television, so please write a poem called Civilisation about one of them, modern or historical. 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 228’ by 26th April.