Competition
IN COMPETITION No 249, you were invited to write a poem called Sunday, then. Some enjoyed the nostalgia; others didn’t. Christine Acres recalled Sundays when daily showers, Viennetta and central heating hadn’t been invented. ‘Just another hangover headache,’ said Tom Marvin’s narrator; ‘Perhaps I’ll grow up one day.’ D A Prince caught the essence of the ‘stubborn congregation/ Who cling to the older words’ at early-morning service. Commiserations to them and congratulations to those printed below, each of whom wins £25, with the bonus prize of The Chambers Dictionary of Great Quotations going to Peter Hollindale.
Another busy week. It’s fine for you, Waited on hand and foot, without a care. What with the bank, the social services, Weird neighbours: I’ve got trouble everywhere.
At least the lawn’s all right. It worried me, That dark green oblong patch. I didn’t know The fluids could do that, dead giveaway. Took ages for the usual green to grow.
I can’t believe it’s two years since I killed him. Oh look, it’s teatime. His watch must be slow. Nurse! She can’t drink, but I’ve done all the talking. A cuppa’s just the thing before I go.
Till Sunday, then. I love our little chats. My secret’s safe with you through thick and thin; At least I hope so. If you ever wake, Just to make sure, I’ll have to do you in. Peter Hollindale
In 1979, Sundays were boring: Mum slumped in a bar, Dad away whoring, Us left on our own to get up to mischief. By the time I was twelve I’d lost at least six teeth In fights, or when break-ins went horribly wrong; In thrall to the older kids, we just followed along.
It’s 2019, and Sundays are hectic! James has his swimming and Hannah, she skates. Hannah is brilliant but James a bit thick, Playing virtual games with his virtual mates. Nobody knows yet, but I’m really quite sick: I’m going to die soon; such is my fate.
Don’t pity me, nor fear for me – just raise up your cup, For every last word here is entirely made up! Robert Best
How shall I name thee, daughter, child of wonder, Gift of late life, of age, thought never to be? One word alone to sum thee? To tell of lifted light, Of filtering yellow warmth, of pale blue peace, Of pealing bells, of light through pastel glass, Of music through all time, of steady faith, Of inner calm, of centuries’ belief, Of grace that bathes the soul in lemon light And lightness, petalled coolness, ancient stone, Sunlight on stone, clean linen and bare limbs, Coolness within, away from summer heat, Fragrance of Christmas pine and harvest fruit, Of seasons, panes of changing light, of life In rhythm, rest, of prayer and purest peace? What name to give thee, for what word can sum thee, Daughter, child of wonder? Sunday, then. Jane Bower
It’s been almost a year. Soon it will be time to sow Sweet violets on her ashes
Early snowdrops already cling To the splayed feet of the mighty beech That guards the narrow path to the spot
On a sunny hillside where we shall Lie down together someday soon. A soft, insistent breeze will help
Frail, furtive fingers to undo The buttons on my shirt; and we Will laugh, and kiss; make love again –
After a swig or two of vino rosso Basso grado, liberated from the bottle with a hairpin. Bill Holloway
COMPETITION No 251 Instead of shoving them in a bag, a shopkeeper wrapped up some items of stationery for me. Please write a poem called Wrapping Up, 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 251’ by 30th January.
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