Competition
IN COMPETITION No 233, you were invited to write a poem called Mending, in any sense. Robert Mcmahon ingeniously used 15 rhymes for ‘mending’, making his way via ‘lending’, ‘spending’ and ‘pretending’ to ‘befriending’ and finally ‘making do and mending’.
Wendy Fermor began jauntily, ‘I have a wooden mushroom, it was made for darning socks’, before contemplating the whole world as a landfill site.
John Whitworth’s narrator was assured by the heart surgeon that he wouldn’t die and it wouldn’t hurt; his concluding couplet was: ‘He seemed a pleasant sort of bloke. / It did hurt and I didn’t croak.’
Commiserations to them and congratulations to those printed below, each of whom wins £25, with the bonus prize of The Chambers Dictionary of Great Quotations going to D Shepherd for a miniature of mended relations.
Nelson was sure the Danes had
had enough; He said, ‘Their fire slackens, they’ve
lost heart. Pray send a message saying we’ll depart When they abandon what we know
is bluff. We must not show a sign of haste. Formal, Due salutations, restrained, businesslike, As every day. The boat crew seamanlike, Smart and well-drilled but no more
than normal.’
The Danish admiral well understood. He said, ‘Lord Nelson asks if further
strife Can justify a further loss of life, And that we’ve fought as men of
honour should, We strike our flags and have the
salvos cease In expectation of a well-earned peace.’ D Shepherd
What is the cloth you are mending,
mending? Parachute silk, my son. It will serve me best as a wedding dress, when your father’s war is done.
When we come out of hiding, hiding, he will rejoice to see I know longer weep, and be glad to keep the promise he made to me.
What is the letter you’re reading, reading, why does it make you cry? All that I’ve read is news of the dead and the dreams of a time gone by.
What are you making of scarlet, scarlet? Fancy dress for a whore. For we have no friend, and there’ll be
no end, no end to your father’s war. Gail White
To mend a china pot, you need Glue, filler, a box of sand Or Plasticine to give support, Sellotape, a steady hand, It matters little if the shards Are not complete or can’t be found, Chips and fissures can be filled, Handles made, new and sound.
When set, the fillings can be smoothed With sandpaper or emery cloth, Painted in to match the rest, Hard edges softened, tapered off. And there’s your pot, repaired and whole, For hours of work a just reward. What a shame a broken heart Cannot be so well restored. Katie Mallett
‘Least said,’ her watchword, ‘soonest mended. Words may wound but cannot heal.’ Her world had been somehow upended, The fragments stored and under seal. Her mind made time and silence blend To harden round the fractured place, Letting nature help it mend In a quiet and sheltered space. Was it heart or trust so broken, A faith unconscionably betrayed? The truth was lost in words unspoken, Speculation left to fade. And was the breakage ever mended? That secret, too, she did not share. Or was it with her own life ended, Since things there are beyond repair? Bill Webster
COMPETITION No 235 In the recent Edward Bawden exhibition at Dulwich Picture Gallery there was a picture of a rowing boat on a slipway. A poem, please, from any angle, called The Empty Boat.
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 235’ by 8th November.