Competition Tessa Castro
IN COMPETITION No 237, you were invited to write a poem with the title Grown from a Stone. From Excalibur to alien space implants your ingenious entries made me wish for several extra columns to print them. Bill Holloway’s narrator told the tale of an albatross coaxed to lay by a decoy egg of stone. Dr Andrew Bamji’s seedlings all perished save for a plastic lemon tree. Katie Mallett contemplated two generations of damsons. Dorothy Pope’s peach wanted for pollination. Commiserations to these and congratulations to those printed below, each of whom wins £25, with the bonus stone in the crown of The Chambers Dictionary of Great Quotations going to Julia Griffin.
Solemn children watch with awe How the mighty dinosaur Vanished from the earth long since Is recovered from its prints. Poundage, diet, movement, scale Re-emerge from rocks and shale, Which the great disastodon Chanced to rest his weight upon. Models, full or partial-sized, Of a life de-fossilised Fill museums and their shops: See the new triceratops! Nose to glass, the solemn child Thrills to see the ancient wild Scientifically regrown From the matrix of a stone. Julia Griffin
When the first green fist of your cotyledon burst like a baby from your endosperm I gave it what it craved to drink and
feed on, foiled the dark love of weevil, thrips
and worm.
I kept you on the windowsill at first, tending you endlessly and smiling smugly not knowing I’d eventually be cursed with something so enormous and so ugly.
You’re on your seventh pot. You upped
your game when you perceived you had me in
your power. I gave you space to grow, a home, a name; you’ve never given me a single flower.
I plan to take you walkies after dark, dig you a shallow grave and set you free. I’ll come and visit you in Brockwell Park, my monstrous green responsibility. Ann Drysdale It was his first. Aged four, he chewed
and ate The cherry’s tender flesh of ginger-red. Its bead-neat pip lay spat upon his plate. ‘Just one – you’ll be a tinker!’ Mother said.
Out by the flower-bed, he examined it And pushed it into darkness, finger-deep, Warm, moist, it snugly lodged, a
pleasing fit, Forgotten soon in play, and then in sleep.
He grew withdrawn – played more and
more alone, Apart, as if he dreamed, or did not hear. He smiled, but now her child seemed
one unknown And made his mother’s heart contract
in fear. Until one night, kissing his head, she saw A fresh green tendril curling from his ear.
It was removed, and he was none
the worse. ‘You are a little tinker,’ said the nurse. Jane Bower
‘But did it fruit?’ you ask, homing
straight in on the heart of the matter. ‘Did you get something worth eating?’ Let the
truth begin: nothing so far, and thus the vinaigrette remains uncalled for, as does fresh-made
toast. My avocado’s gawky, leggy stem’s no good for any Instagramming boast. For that you need the ripest of green
gems while all I’ve got is five leaves on a stick. Better than nothing, though; at least
it grew, the stone pushing up this thin
candle wick to show what tender loving care can do. I’m glad it likes the kitchen windowsill and proves my indoor horticultural skill. D A Prince
COMPETITION No 239 People in art galleries behave very oddly, I find. So a poem, please, called The Exhibition, focusing on pictures or people, or what you will. 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 239’ by 28th February.