TESSA CASTRO
IN COMPETITION No 271, you were invited to write a poem with the title Convenience. It was an inconvenient match between so many good entries and so little space to print the winners. Katie Mallett gave a recognisable account of stopping in for a delivery: ‘And so you pick the time, the week, the day / When this will happen, though deep down you know / From your experience it won’t be so.’ Anthony Young observed that the savings of convenience are always of their time and equipment: ‘The ticket for my flight’s online, / The printer that I need is mine.’ Adrian Fry had a quirkier conceit: ‘Mama can’t use the convenience store, / Convenience being a Sin.’ D A Prince, contemplating the difficulty of preserving valuable architectural details of public lavatories, concluded: ‘Urinals have no value in Art’s eyes, / Although Marcel Duchamp thought otherwise.’ From a station on the Talyllyn Railway, Angela Brown sent a tale of automation and espionage. Commiserations to them and congratulations to those printed below, each of whom wins £25, with the bonus prize of that truly convenient resource The Chambers Dictionary going to Michael R Burch of Tennessee.
Convenience, or Hymn to an Art-omatic Laundromat O, terrible-immaculate All-cleansing godly Laundromat, Where cleanliness is next to Art – A bright Kinkade (bought at Kmart), A Persian rug (made in Taiwan), A Royal Bonn Clock (time zone Guam) – Embrace my ass in cushioned vinyl, Erase all marks: anal, vaginal, Penile, inkspot, red wine, dirt. O, sterilise her skirt, my shirt, My skidmarked briefs, her padded bra; Suds-away in your white maw All filth, the day’s accumulation. Make us pure by INUNDATION. Michael R Burch
My mother lifts the phone down from its niche, Black Bakelite and hostile, clouded and ashine With adults’ breath and adults’ fingering. ‘Now, when Christine’s mummy answers, say, “Would it be convenient for me to come and play?” ’
My small forefinger drags the silver circle round the dial. A purr, a click, I breathe and speak my line. ‘Would it be convenient –’ ‘Hello?’ ‘Would it be conve–’ ‘Hello? Hello?’ ‘Would it be con–’ ‘Anybody there?’ A clatter. Wobble-lipped and face aflame I set the feared receiver on its sprung chrome studs And stand with the squat, silent, numbered thing Designed for my convenience, and watch A single tear plop on its plaited cord And darken its brown cotton covering. Jane Bower
A lifelong life, the normal sort, Resentment of it being cut short. Grim prognosis, months remaining, Slowly, quietly, life force draining. Drugs prescribed to help with pain, Even if they dull the brain. Booked into a hospice bed, Remaining there till safely dead.
Funeral details carefully planned, Quick cremation, all in hand. A chosen spot, his ashes strewn, A pleasant Sunday afternoon. Now the widow, once a wife, Calmly carries on with life. Minimises sentiment, Makes life, like death, convenient. Martin Brown
To get the car out, drive six miles, Load, unload it, park it. I walked to the convenience store, Saved five quid on petrol, Overspent by twenty more. Homewards in the rain – this bladder! – I stopped off at the pub cons (closed), And walked under a handy ladder. I’d bought a ready meal in a pouch, Burned myself in opening it And spilled half on the couch. Wine, surest of expedients, Comes now, praise be, in screw-tops. Cheers! Here’s to convenience! David Shields
COMPETITION No 273 Paper or plastic, saddle or hand – bags outnumber human beings. So a poem, please, called Bags. Maximum 16 lines. We still 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 273’, by 21st October.