Competition
IN COMPETITION No 243, you played the annual game of bouts rimés, with rhymes that had been used by Keats in a sonnet beginning: ‘Before he went to live with owls and bats, / Nebuchadnezzar had an ugly dream.’ As Frank Mcdonald remarked in his entry, the effort by Keats ‘cannot be considered as the cream / of compositions’. It wouldn’t have won this competition, against such accomplished contestants. The most troublesome rhyme was ‘somewhat’, but ‘sot’ proved an ignis fatuus too. Commiserations to Matt Quinn and to Elizabeth Horrocks (cricket), Mary Hodges (Hamelin), Stephen Buswell (nightmare), Basil Ransome-davies (heist) and D A Prince (graffiti). Congratulations to those below, each of whom wins £25, the bonus prize of The Chambers Dictionary of Great Quotations caught by Shan Middleton.
Behind the twitching whiskers, are there bats That flicker insubstantial through his dream? Or does he breach a swirling bowl of cream? Perhaps those raging paws are chasing rats.
I love this one-eyed, orange king of cats, For I have seen him tango on a beam. His feline followers, his mates I deem Sharp-sabre’d, battle-ready, spurning mats, Are changeling pirates: he commands, somewhat, The night ship of this random, ragged crew.
Spread careless on his rug, a sober sot The flames that warm him lend a softer hue And firelight turns his ginger into gold. Shan Middleton
Up in the attic, look, two ping-pong bats And other relics jumbled like a dream, Those wrappers from a stint with Wall’s ice-cream, That folder with an article on rats, Flea collars that were worn by long dead cats, A lifebelt dangling from a dusty beam, Dull documents – all ‘hereby’, ‘viz’ and ‘deem’− Scuffed shoes, old carpets, threadbare musty mats, So many cardboard boxes, now somewhat Damp-stained, news photos of a naval crew (Achilles, River Plate, we once were told) Some Bamforth postcards, battle-axe and sot, A child’s cartoon, subject misspelt as ‘Hue’… All junk, alas, no gleam of ebay gold. Jerome Betts
They sleep, these aerial acrobats, while on the wing. I have no doubt they dream of speed. Most birds rejoice in song. Swifts scream their elation. God’s carefree cosmocrats, they fling their untamed requiescats in celeritate in an eye-beam and are gone. In that instant, they redeem all melody they lack
Monochromats see only black and white, more than somewhat deprived of tone. Yet sound and ‘sight accrew to lure’ even for them, when swifts’ untold exhilaration and sheer speed besot the senses, outshine all birds of brighter hue, their scimitar black more gold than gold. Robin Gilbert
Her thorax makes loud clicking noises. Bats become confused, as in a misty dream. While flying mammal sonar is the cream of sound reflection gizmos, just as rats get lost in labyrinths or deafened cats can’t find the mouse, the moth’s shrill babel beam discombobulates the bats, which deem her flesh ambrosial, though she’s foul as mats of mountain goat hair mixed with mould. Somewhat off course, the bats try harder. Yet a crew of millions will not catch this gal. All told, her zzt-zzt-zzt makes quite an addled sot of hunters darting through the Stygian hue of night, intent on finding insect gold. Martin Elster
COMPETITION No 245 A friend has worryingly left a pot plant to be nursed while she’s away. A poem, please, called Green fingers. Maximum 16 lines. Entries, by post (The Oldie, Moray House, 23/31 Great Titchfield Street, London W1W 7PA) or email (comps@theoldie. co.uk – please include your postal address), to ‘Competition No 245’ by 15th August.