Competition Tessa Castro

In competition No 207 you were kindly invited to write a poem called ‘Manners’, for all of which much thanks.

Barbara Smoker showed the importance of white gloves at an interwar convent school. Mobile phones came in for hard words from Ruth Taylor and Anne Wall. Katie Mallett defended the young from the ghastly ways of the old. Patricia Pentecost told a tale of a horrible murder committed for the overboiling of an egg. Commiserations to them and congratulations to those printed below, each of whom wins £25, with the grateful bonus prize of a Chambers Biographical Dictionary going to Ann Drysdale. I wish that we could hold a conversation without the certainty that it will end in your highlighting with a loud objection some lapse of manners I did not intend but you, unfailingly, will manufacture from any random handful of my speech and then rub into vulnerable corners of parts that other poets cannot reach. Consideration is my guiding tenet in all my interpersonal affairs. I circumnavigate the major pitfalls – the yawning traps that people dig

for bears – but always fall because I never see the little holes where goalposts used

to be. Ann Drysdale Good Angels have good manners And, in their settled places, They warble sweet Hosannas With shining, well-scrubbed faces. Contrariwise, the Devils Are rackety and rude. They smoke and drink at revels, Libidinous and lewd. A Devil’s face is thick with dirt. He never wipes his bum, But capers in a filthy shirt, Like urchins in a slum. So mind you mind your manners, Your Ps and Qs as well, Or Satan’s pet piranhas Will drag you down to Hell. John Whitworth The Queen went, Or was sent, To Morocco, some thirty-five years ago To meet King Hassan II, even though His rule Was cruel. Moreover, autocratic and sublime, He did not pay attention to the time, And kept her waiting, Which was irritating. Queen’s fury at snub declared the

banners Of the British papers, appalled by such

bad manners. Discourtesy Moroccan Is not forgotten. Hassan, a tyrant, was the worst of things: A king who lacked the courtesy of kings. Roger Rengold His manners were superb, the way he held his knife – his politesse; his speech was seemly, ‘if I may? oh, how delightful’ – I confess

the man bewitched me. He held doors open, murmuring ‘the pleasure’s mine,’ in thrall always to protocol, the ‘proper thing’, embroidering each well-turned phrase

he feather-stitched me. He left me, with a courteous smile, observed the rules of etiquette – the essence of refinement while he thanked me, ‘ever in your debt,’

and then he ditched me. Sylvia Fairley

Competition No 209

Use of plastic bags has gone down by billions since we had to pay 5p for each. So a poem, please, entitled ‘The Bag’, in any connection. 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 209’ by Friday 11th November.