TESSA CASTRO
IN COMPETITION No 248, you were invited to write a poem called Dark Pleasures. I learnt a lot from your enjoyable entries. ‘Eros and Thanatos define film noir,’ concluded Basil Ransome-davies at the end of a polished performance. D A Prince advocated the addition of dark chocolate to dark film. Daphne Lester’s narrator killed slugs by midnight; Katie Mallett’s stuck to non-interventionist astronomy. Jane Moth pleaded for natural darkness in a damp, quiet church. Frank Mcdonald remembered the rush of a passenger train that left the night only deeper when it had passed. Commiserations to these and congratulations to those printed below, each of whom wins £25, with the enlightened pleasure of The Chambers Dictionary of Great Quotations bonus prize going to Helga Harman.
I love to sit by the sea, Gales blow like breezes round me; And sitting beside a friend, Sure that our friendship will never end. And I so enjoy Being hugged by my little boy; And cuddling Tiddles, our cat – What joy is that! My daughter reads poetry – Just for me! Then, when daylight fades, Don’t bother to draw the shades; Aggressive looks From others – neighbours or crooks – I neither note nor mind, Because … I’m blind. Helga Harman
Two kisses in the almost dark conferred By you that weren’t a courtesy goodbye,
Though we pretended that they were, occurred (Relived, remembered now, as here I lie) At midnight in that taxi, token sum Of magic on account, with more to come. Dorothy Pope
To walk late at night when deprived of the light Lends a frisson, a tremulous thrill. Nobody around, not a whisper, no sound While the world turns, ineffably still.
Or live to extremes, indulge hedonist dreams: Chaises-longues in magenta moquette; Midnight-blue Ferrari, clutch bag by Bulgari Plus earrings of pure Whitby jet.
Prepare you, she-devils, for seasonal revels: Flaunt fabulous, flirt with finesse; Arouse from its slumbers that niftiest of numbers The l.b.d. – Little Black Dress! Mike Morrison
The clocks go back tonight. The neighbours wail – ‘Arrrgh! Someone’s stealing an hour from the day!’ Where do they think the pilfered minutes go? I see a fat woman with a new lover, Squeezing into an expensive girdle. She likes the way it tightens, drums her fingers On her flat belly, choosing to ignore Its crude displacement of the rest of her. A soft roll spills over the top of it To make a shelf for weary breasts to lean on While cushions settle on her upper thighs. And so the day answers the call for change By gathering-up her declining end And thrusting it into restrictive knickers. The extra flesh will pop out earlier; I’ll grin and poke it with a playful finger. Ann Drysdale
COMPETITION No 250 I find I no longer buy boxes of matches. Please write a poem called Matches, in any sense. Maximum 16 lines. 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 250’ by 2nd January.