Competition
IN COMPETITION No 241, you were invited to write a poem called Change, in any sense. One of Martin Elster’s compositions began in a pretty lively way: ‘I tore out of my egg sac and I ate it.’ Max Ross’s narrator felt a lycanthropic change coming on, and John Oldershaw’s a change of life that proved instead a pregnancy. David Gladwell’s change in the weather came through the influence on Zeus of Morpheus. Commiserations to these and congratulations to those printed below, each of whom wins £25, with the bonus prize of the pleasantly subject-changing Chambers Dictionary of Great Quotations going to Jane Bower.
What do I fear when things are going well? What should I do when clothes are wet, or smell? What will occur no matter what I do? What do I almost always do at Crewe? What should I always carry on my person? What makes life improved, what makes it worsen? What precedes colour, over, hands or gear? What do we welcome, long for, moan at, fear? What should I do my past mistakes to heal? What follows if I marry, move, kill, steal? What do the homeless cry for me to spare? What happens to my mind, my tune, my hair? Or to the subject, record, story, guard? What do some thrive on, others find too hard? These questions exercise my mind, and strange To tell, the answer to them all is Change. Jane Bower
When dams collapsed or buildings caught on fire And I required a suitably discreet Environment in which to change attire, A phone box used to do the job a treat. Although they often stank of puke or piss, You came across them nearly everywhere. In fact, I rather came to bank on this Whenever there was danger in the air. Alas, the switch to cells in recent years Is rendering the format obsolete; Each passing day another disappears, Depriving yet another city street. Unhappy is the modern superhero Who has to use the loo in Caffè Nero. Rob Stuart
I lost all patience with him today – It’s hard to keep my feelings temperate, While knowing all too soon my darling may Forget exactly who I am – the date, The day, the year. Just as a glimmer shines, Relentlessly each beam is slowly dimmed, As, day by day, intelligence declines: His brain furs over, like a pelt untrimmed. My early memories begin to fade, Yet I recall that happiness I owe To him, though now our lives are lived in shade, As his forgetfulness’s shadows grow. Though others only outward ruin see, He’ll still remain my well-beloved to me. Hilary Adam
I have it still. I picked it up again. An underlever with a broken spring. It doesn’t even work. It didn’t then, But what has that to do with anything? When I walked in the room and said, ‘Hello,’ The young intruder’s face went white and slack. ‘Put that stuff down,’ I said, ‘back off – and go.’ He turned and ran. I yelled, ‘And don’t come back!’ But when I picked it up the other night, There was no comfort in the strength of it. I tucked the stock into my shoulder, tight, And found I couldn’t heft the length of it To look along the barrel as before. It didn’t feel like safety any more. Ann Drysdale
COMPETITION No 243 Time for the popular annual bouts rimés. Please use the following rhymes in the order given to write a 14-line poem on a subject of your choice: bats, dream, cream, rats, cats, beam, deem, mats, somewhat, crew, told, sot, hue, gold. Entries, by post (The Oldie, Moray House, 23/31 Great Titchfield Street, London W1W 7PA) or e-mail (comps@theoldie.co.uk – don’t forget to include your postal address), to ‘Competition No 243’ by 20 June.