Competition
IN COMPETITION No 231 you were invited to write a poem called The Fly. Most flew, a few zipped and a couple rattled over the stones, being one-horse carriages. Rob Stuart sent a concrete poem (left). Commiseration to him. Congratulations to those below; each wins £25, with the bonus of The Chambers Dictionary of Great Quotations going to Norah Mulligan’s artfully artless slice of autobiography.
I think Papa will miss me when I’m gone, Because he loves me, he won’t let me wed; He fears that James cannot provide for me. With my plain looks it seems life’s passed
me by; I long to be a wife. James needs a wife; He’s widowed and alone. He’s not too old. He asked me nervously some months ago, But Pa will not relent. There’s one
way out – ‘We’ll run away,’ I said. I did not jest. ‘Would you do that for me?’ he seemed
surprised. Could he but guess my passion to escape – My mind’s made up. I have to take
my chance. Of course I’m fearful; will he care for me? Perhaps we can dispel each other’s fears And learn to love. Pray God he comes! It’s striking midnight! Do I hear the fly? Norah Mulligan
In the cat’s water dish you lay, a pulled
thread tweaked summarily from the seam of a
cheap top, twiddled absentmindedly between finger
and thumb before being flicked like a bogey into
oblivion. I had to look twice to perceive your
former identity. A fly once, probably. You were spoiling
the fresh surface. Out of the waste-paper basket I whisked
an old tissue and dabbed you off, like a smut from a
toddler’s cheek.
I looked at your broken wires and blew
on them gently, seeing them stir, feeling a swelling
of caring that grew as the tissue sucked off the wet
cold coating that was binding you damply to your
impending end. You reached out each one of your thin six
into a tiptoe and, feet close together, stretched into
yourself like a cat. I held you for twelve in-and-outs of
slowed, shallow breathing till you took off into the blustery
afternoon. Ann Drysdale
The female fly is nearly chaste. She hasn’t any time to waste; Her life’s a span of weeks, not months, And so she copulates just once.
This single tryst is guaranteed To satisfy her every need Because she takes her lover’s juice And stores it up for future use.
When it is time to fertilise, She has no further need of sighs. The stuff for coating every egg She’s got at hand – or filth-drenched leg.
She lays and lays without the aid Ever again of being laid. The system works quite well for flies. The male fly may feel otherwise. Max Gutmann
If, unattended, you should die, You’ll be discovered by some fly Who’ll lay her eggs upon your skin, And then invite her kinfolks in.
They’ll buzz about in umpteen dozens And bring along their aunts and cousins. The eggs they lay beget appalling And gruesome hordes of maggots crawling Throughout your fleshy parts and spaces, Who’ll violate your private places.
These maggots pupate, calm and quiet; And then emerge, a swarming riot Of adult flies who soon depart. A skull and bones is all thou art: If these could talk, this tale they’d tell: ‘Alas, those flies, they knew me well.’ Douglas G Brown
COMPETITION No 233 I’ve just had no end of trouble getting a watch mended. Please write a poem called ‘Mending’ in any sense. 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 233’ by 13th September.