Competition

Tessa Castro

IN COMPETITION No 258, you were invited to write a poem called Fruit. It was a fine harvest. Tim Lloyd’s lines depicted a seductive lady banana. Mary Hodges took a different view: ‘My legs are like bananas./my face looks such a mess/ My COVID mask improves it./i’m too fat for my dress.’ Joe Cushnan turned a prune back into a plum with his Mum’s antiwrinkle cream. Hilary Adams pictured bottled fruit in Kilner jars. Dorothy Pope went happily blackberrying and Jon Sims resentfully, angry at the out-of-reach fruit. Commiserations to these and congratulations to those printed below, each of whom wins £25, with the fruity bonus prize of The Chambers Dictionary of Great Quotations going to Con Connell.

As our lives creep towards ripening autumn Our bodies mutate into fruity nightmares. Men, as they age, take the contour of apples And women, it seems, take the outline of pears.

Nature, in planning this unnatural harvest, This metamorphosis of waistline and hips, Delights in the prospect of wreaking such havoc On wardrobe and vanity, buttons and zips.

Minds, once so blossoming, start to seem wilted, Withered, it seems, like the grape on the vine. Skin that once glistened begins to look russet – Could a brisk rubbing soon bring back its shine?

Perhaps we will soon wear numerical icons Showing how we’ve become sharper or sweet, Whether we’re more fit for stewing and baking When once we were tempting and luscious to eat. Con Connell

The durian’s an Asian fruit Of rather dubious repute. Although its flesh is said to taste Of custard or of almond paste With subtle notes of sherry wine, The smell, alas, is less benign; It’s been compared to manky towels, Decaying veg and emptied bowels. Perhaps it really is a treat, But I can’t bring myself to eat A food whose soi-disant perfume Has echoes of the smallest room. Rob Stuart

Two strong policemen harvested the fruit From the big sycamore above the bridge. Someone called from a house across the road To tell them what it was and where it hung.

In the wrong order, flowers followed fruit; Great swathes at first, as strangers came to stuff Cellophane-wrapped concoctions in the crotch Of the dark branch that held him as he died.

One day all traces of the fatal fruit, Soiled ribbons, slug-obliterated cards, Were stuffed in bags by surly young offenders Serving their time on litter-picking duty.

These spinning wings are now the only fruit that dangles from the spreading sycamore. The branch is barren now, but I still see a swinging shadow sometimes when I pass. Ann Drysdale

Monet’s Still Life with Melon shows you fruit Posed for a family photo: clustered grapes, Peaches piled up as if tumbled down a chute, A rich variety of rounded shapes.

Even the sundered melon slices seek Their globular original aspect By dint of strenuous huddling, like a clique Of furtive plotters or a prayerful sect.

The glowing hues of this scenario Are offset by the frigid blue and white Of Delftware and the blank, unfolded snow Of napery, all rendered by north light.

The painter’s ingenuity has caught The made and the organic in a game, A classic exercise in nature morte; A still life full of motion, all the same. Basil Ransome-davies

COMPETITION No 260 For obvious reasons we’ve been distanced one from another recently. A poem, then, please, called Shoulder to Shoulder. Maximum 16 lines. This month we cannot accept any entries by post, I’m afraid, but do send them by e-mail (comps@theoldie. co.uk – don’t forget to include your own postal address), marked ‘Competition No 260’, by 15th October.