Competition
Tessa Castro
IN COMPETITION No 238, you were invited to write a poem called Fine Rain. Congratulations to the winners below, each of whom receives £25, with the refreshing prize of The Chambers Dictionary of Great Quotations going to Alder Ellis of New York.
Umbrellaless he stood, in a fine rain, gazing out over the multitude with a smirk on his face, and in his
teeming brain the old fantasia, inexhaustibly crude.
The rain that rained on everything
out there most indiscriminately, the high and low, the just and unjust, began to soak his hair and trickle over the furrows of his brow.
He stood his ground, impervious to rain, defier of the elements, a man not to be taken lightly. Still, a stain crept down his shirt, like an alluvial fan.
He lifted up his megaphone, and lied and lied to the people, stirring up
their blood. A devil chuckled and an angel sighed and the rain rained with the strange
patience of God. Alder Ellis
On the prom, seagulls squawk, pretty
girl, Sunday walk; New perm, party dress, fine rain, shame
unless… Here’s shelter, ‘Who’s that?’, handsome
boy, wants to chat. ‘My! You’re pretty’, ‘Oh pooh pooh’,
‘Nice dress’, ‘Thank you.’ Town Hall then, Friday night, Barn
Dance?’, ‘All right.’
Oh so happy, wedding dress, ‘Do you?’
‘Oh yes.’ Arm in arm, down the aisle, ‘My Bert’,
all smile; ‘Watch the birdie’, handsome pair, fine
rain, don’t care. Family, girl and boy, much laughter, tears
and joy; Holidays, silly chatter, fine rain, doesn’t
matter. Bouncy castles, yell and shout, ice
creams, worn out.
Tall young man, good degree, proud
mum, PHD; English rose, fine rain, bride’s mother,
more champagne. Hospitals, the big C, ‘Darling Bert.’ RIP.
Shuffling gait now, ‘Can’t complain’, on
the prom, fine rain. Same shelter, choppy sea, ‘It’s been fun.
Lucky me.’ David Jeans
On Barry Island beach we met one day, The sea was grey, the sand a dirty brown. In both our dreams the sun lit up the bay But, truth to tell, the rain was hissing
down. It rained and poured; a look, a smile,
a touch, A damp and fumbled hug, a clumsy kiss. At no time had the old man snored
so much But this was love, umbrella-huddled
bliss. The Bard with such sweet thunder filled
the sky And to his rainbow added one more hue. Barefoot and free, we wandered you and I And coyly pledged forever to be true. And what might happen when such
lovers meet? The pitter-patter soon of tiny feet. Peter Davies
Oh, how I love the gentle rain That falls upon our land The pitter-patter on the roof The pockmarks on the sand
The sheep all dotted on the hill Grown fat on juicy grass Contented cows and gurgling streams, And showers that come then pass
The rain falls gently on my skin It trickles down my back I welcome such a benison And fear its threatened lack
Not for me the endless sun Of Californian plains Give me the joy of the unsure That comes with summer rains Susan Crosfield
COMPETITION No 240 After flu, I was as irritable as a cat being removed from a new-found cardboard box. Please write a poem called Irritation. 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 240’ by 28th March.