Competition
IN COMPETITION No 261, you were invited to write a poem called Snapping. I was alarmed by the number of poems on domestic violence, good though they were, especially Bill Holloway’s and Peter Davies’s. Meanwhile Daphne Lester’s narrator was snapped by a nasty little terrier, Gillian Broadfield’s enjoyed a funny little dog, white and fluffy. Joe Houlihan was snapped by guilt, Pauline Watson’s thrush and frog vied for a fly. Ted Lane’s dental plate snapped, as did Alan Pentecost’s pea pods and an ulna. Sue Smalley was a snapping turtle. 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 being snapped up by Clive D Brand.
Mother said, below the floorboard, That it was dangerous abroad. Life wasn’t just a piece of cake, For one’s life and death were at stake. Under attack in open space You don’t always survive the chase. A cat’s not difficult to tell, For they give off a special smell. No. Real danger is food left out, With deadly purpose there’s no doubt. It looks so tasty on that raft. To eat, Mum said, would be daft. Peanut butter, biscuits, hard cheese. I wonder if it’s one of these Things Mum called a ‘deadly snapper’? To hell, I couldn’t be happi… Clive D Brand
If only a camera had been on hand To capture scenes from ancient history, We’d witness Socrates with his faithful band Watching him slip from life. The mystery Of pyramid construction might be seen In one fine snap. Caesar would stand in Gaul With humbled Vercingetorix and Queen Cleopatra’s beauty might be viewed by all. We could catch Alexander posing proud Where Persian King Darius was defeated Or, further back, if Paradise allowed, We might see Moses by the sea, elated.
And had three Kings brought cameras with them We’d have a snap of God at Bethlehem. Max Ross
Holding on, coping, doing really, really well, Meticulously made up so nobody can tell; What she’s actually thinking, what’s the thought behind the inking, Why the sullenness and silence, the muted rebel yell?
Lost in school, no energy, no trouble but no spark, Her fingernails, demeanour and her lipstick all too dark.
Home no place of refuge, unable to distract From dwelling on the missing, the fun and friends she lacked, Her search for now, a second’s peace, rubber taut and stretched, released, This poor man’s slice a substitute, a safer, secret act.
The body free to keep the faith, those eyes so haunted, trapped, A momentary pain subdues the constant one, when snapped. Gary Smith
As COVID snarls and worlds collapse, In between my yawns and naps The hours congeal, but now perhaps It’s time to sort out these old snaps. Unposed, unframed, the smiles and tears Of childhood friends down the years Come back to me, those burly chaps And curly girls in woolly caps. But, alas, the past has gaps And blanks like old Victorian maps. I rummage through the Kodak traces Yet cannot match names to faces. Yes, going back in time I find Calm of heart and peace of mind, But then, dear Christ, again one feels Foul COVID snapping at one’s heels. Rob Salamon
COMPETITION No 263 It’s funny the way cats like boxes, or at least sitting inside them. For me the interest is not knowing what’s inside. In any case a poem, please, called Open the Box. Maximum 16 lines. This month we cannot accept any entries by post, I’m afraid, but do send them by e-mail (comps@ theoldie.co.uk – don’t forget to include your own postal address), marked ‘Competition No 263’, by 14th January.