Competition Tessa Castro
IN COMPETITION No 235 you were invited to write a poem called The Empty Boat. In D Shepherd’s case, this came informed with knowledge of Shackleton’s boat (the James Caird), now at Dulwich College. Roger Goldner’s narrator mourned the abduction of the Pussy-cat (like Helen) by the Owl. Commiserations to them, D A Prince, Charles Owen, Robert Mcmahon and John Humphries, and congratulations to those below; each wins £25, with the bonus fully cargoed Chambers Dictionary of Great Quotations going to Tony Harper.
Now we are old and happy to sit still, Do you recall the empty boat we found Down in St Mandrier? It was for sale, A sturdy, heavy-timbered ketch,
gaff-rigged, Not made for weekend racing, tossing spray. This one was made to plough the heavy
swells, To face the white-capped rollers of the seas. We climbed down to the hold. Broad in
the beam, Deep-footed, standing head-room,
storage space Galore, chart table close inside the door. This boat could be a home, bows to
the world, Her solid boom swung out, foresail
unfurled.
We drove back to our flat, our hearts
on song, So fervent was our wish, our need so strong. And yet we let it fail. Our courage failed. Do you sometimes wonder? Were we
wrong? Tony Harper
I was the nervous one, pretending That I knew more than such as he. Big, bluff student full of stories and swashbuckling repartee.
Back was I at my alma mater in the dissecting room and teaching all that I knew of anatomy.
He was big, relaxed and lissom, Knew my indecisiveness, made room For me in his circle, wide as the sea.
Back for the summer term I missed him But soon found out the tragedy. He had tried to cross a lake By rowing boat. The which was found without my boisterous mate. Alan Pentecost My old boat will come back for me at
the end. The bitter stink of the coal-dust in its bilges will carry the lost past like the sly cologne
of a long-ago lover.
Empty and sunken for so long, he will
find it, wring the black water out of its sodden
timbers and come for me with it, showing the
stamp still wet on his Skipper’s ticket.
We will lie, Charon and I, on the roof of
the cabin, the tops of our heads hard against one
another, hands round each other’s wrists holding
the process in a safe grip.
We will breathe, while our busy legs
pedal together, hobnails conjuring sparks from invisible
brickwork, legging our way through the echoing
green darkness of the final tunnel. Ann Drysdale
The Clyde puked rubbish all along the shore, where we would jump and hop over scraps of rope, tyres, seaweed globules, and once, a bag of dead puppies But that day, we found the best of treasures, floating, loosely bobbing in the water, an empty rowing boat We waded in, Jim and I, tugged it ashore,
with all our nine years’ strength, wedged it between the slimy rocks. ‘It’s clinker built,’ Jim said with authority. Two oars, like stiff arms, lay inside. ‘It’s ours now,’ we agreed. I looked out over the crumpling waves
at nothing. Next evening, the news was out. ‘Dear God,’ my mother said, ‘a man
drowned, and just out there.’ Norah Mulligan
COMPETITION No 237 I read of a jam factory with a sideline selling cherry saplings. A poem, please called Grown from a Stone. Maximum 16 lines. Entries, by post (The Oldie, Moray House, 23/31 Great Titchfield Street, London W1W 7PA) or email (comps@theoldie.co.uk – do include your postal address) to ‘Competition No 237’ by 3rd January.