TESSA CASTRO
IN COMPETITION No 230 you were asked to write a poem called Stirring, in any sense. Diane Cutler, in imitation of T S Eliot, regretted stirrers made of plastic, discarded ‘till little guppies eat it and they drown’. Katie Mallett was stirred by pomp and circumstance, Dorothy Pope by violins in Schindler’s List. Bill Greenwell wove a jolly tale of adulterous deceit. 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 Sheila Barksdale, who wrote in an unusual genre: a riddle. If you don’t get it by line twelve, you’re easily beaten.
Where golden suns are banished from
a bay, I ride a glassy swell of silver seas; No ship am I, nor living thing at play – Yet see me voyage round with airy ease. You’ll see a maelstrom move as I
grow bold, You’ll see rough magic in my restless chore; As foamy waves escape my iron hold, I drag them back and then they raise
up more. To finish up my work (wizardry so
strange!), I sink in snowdrifts, silencing my clang, Until at last, upon an oven range Lie rows of stiff’ned nests of fine meringue. Let laughter’s breeze now fill my
stern-ribbed frame As human thoughts whirl round to guess
my name. Sheila Barksdale
You can cause lots of grief not by
retailing lies But pronouncing the truth when
occasions arise At which candour would shock, or
accentuate strife, Or poison for ever a decent man’s life.
I play the rough diamond, the gauche
country boy, My artless demeanour the ultimate ploy For planting suspicions, distributing
blame And ruining friendships. Yes, mischief’s
my game.
I play Scrabble and Go and Canasta
and chess And I win more than lose, but I couldn’t
care less. For cruel satisfaction shit-stirring’s the best, The zero-sum contest that beats all the rest.
Just why does it grab me? The thrill
of deceit, The hypocrite’s envy, the pride of
the cheat. I’m the virus by which disaffection is
spread, A sepulchre white as the bones of the dead. Basil Ransome-davies
Something is stirring deep inside, It overwhelms me like a tide, An urge that cannot be denied, Not something I can hope to hide. I can’t suppress it though I’ve tried. I’m so churned up, I’m all a-dither, I’m burning hot, yet still I shiver. I lift my pen, my fingers quiver. Is it my brain, my heart, my liver? My pulse is racing like a river. If I had stuck to chips and fish And hadn’t tried that fancy dish, Whose name I cannot even say, I would not feel so ill today. I praised the food, my words were fake. And now I’ve got a stomach ache. Mary Hodges
‘Not that I know, really…’ she said, coffee drifting a ghost of faint steam from her cup. ‘And she’s not…’ and the sly pause, possibly too long – she, searching for words and
looking up as though the answer might materialise beyond the cappuccino’s foam-creamed
rim – had done its work. She waited. Now, all eyes were on her. ‘I suppose it could be him …’ and in a half-reflection let her spoon work on the froth, stirring the chocolate so thoroughly it disappeared. ‘But soon that stuff he’s done…’ Silent, we contemplate what might or might not be, what’s
left unread. She dropped her spoon. ‘This coffee’s
good,’ she said. D A Prince
COMPETITION No 232 They figure, memorably to me, in Kingsley Amis’s The Old Devils. A poem, please, called Toenails. Maximum sixteen 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 232’ by 16th August. NB Hodder & Stoughton and Bookpoint Ltd will be sent addresses of winners, because they process the prizes.