Competition Tessa Castro
In competition No 211, you were invited to write a poem on that Danish cosy quality of hygge. From an approximation to a rhyme, we were in for a fair amount of rugger and bugger. Bill Holloway’s companionable angling was a bit too outdoor, and Sylvia Smith’s English version in the London Underground during the Blitz perhaps too exciting. Brian Allgar’s convict narrator found the looked-for hygge missing from his revamped local pub, and Bill Greenwell’s beer, cheddar and lust on the sofa were authentically British. So commiserations to them and congratulations to those printed below, each of whom wins £25, with the bonus prize of a Chambers Biographical Dictionary on its way to Bob Rollett’s hygge snuggery. Turn the lights down low; now snuggle up warm. Close the curtains so tight that the world can’t invade. Chuck more logs on the fire – find the toasting fork. Wear that fluffy wool cardigan Aunt Maisy made. Find a film that’s familiar, where you know what’s next, One that’s gentle and touching with no nasty shocks. Light a sweet-scented candle to perfume the air. Put away those smart slippers – wear huge woolly socks. The crumpets are toasted. Now lashings of butter. To drink… why not cocoa with spoonfuls of sugar? For real inner warmth add some whisky or brandy… You’re nodding off now… Well, that’s real British hygge! Bob Rollett The cheerful women, roasting, boiling, baking, Chopping, laughing, behind the kitchen door; The dog at Grandpa’s feet; the cat asleep; The children playing marbles on the floor. Each smiling face, each happy voice, revealing The gentle, healing touch of family feeling. Busy Grandma clicked her knitting needles; The breeze blew in the scent of newmown grass; Dad brought in the tea tray, Mum the cakes; And so a peaceful autumn day would pass. Such happiness! I never had it. Who did? If you say that you did, you’re deluded. Roger Rengold The heating up, the lighting low,
The Archers on the radio; a takeaway (Deliveroo make it so easy, just for you); a dog or two sprawled on your bed, a glass or three of something red; no one being sniffy when you choose to swap the PG Tips for booze; the front door locked, the curtains drawn, nothing to stir your brain till dawn; entitlement to feeling good, no one to mutter ought or should. The Danish version’s social but that takes more effort than you’ve got. Your solitary confinement, this is close to heaven: a British bliss. D A Prince The Danes have brought their hygge here, For modern life to disappear In favour of what used to be – Not easy prose but poetry. That’s hygge! Make Christmas cards, not email greeting; Burn sawn logs – spurn central heating; Use candles, not electric light To meet the onset of the night. That’s hygge! Serve home-made bread and cakes and pies, Not supermarket merchandise. But wait! This must mean slavery For someone. Who? I guess it’s me. That’s hygge! Barbara Smoker
Competition No 213
Artichokes are enjoying a revival, whether globe or Jerusalem. So a poem on these curious vegetables, of either kind, please. 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 213’ by 3rd March.