The Oldie

TESSA CASTRO

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IN COMPETITIO­N No 272, you were invited to write a poem called The Umbrella. The subject brought out such weird imaginings in many competitor­s that ordinary death seemed mundane. Katie Mallett warned against ‘Hemlocks, brollies to close down / All human hopes and dreams’. Fiona Clark and Max Ross conjured up grandmothe­rs’ umbrellas of mystery. For D A Prince, the broken umbrella metaphor was clear: ‘It’s the same / With love, ending in unexplaine­d despair – / Smashed in some sudden storm or vicious blast / That turns it inside out.’ Con Connell’s lines were of amazing length, hendecamet­ers; Peter Craig’s were in the shape of an umbrella. Commiserat­ions to them and congratula­tions to those printed below, each of whom wins £25, with the bonus prize of The Chambers Dictionary going to Richard Spencer.

Beneath that dazzling, domed Verona sky, In azure blaze of noon, my mistress stepped. ‘To shrift!’ she’d told them, with averted eyes, While on her porcelain skin my shade I stretched.

Into St Peter’s Church she flew, to make A world-without-end promise, hand in his, Forgetful of me now, for her love’s sake, Unsheltere­d, rushing onwards to her bliss.

Long hours I waited in a dusty pew: A witness merely, furled, and stiff, and thin. I heard the thrum of rain, a beat which grew To pounding thunder as they carried in

My Juliet, now ghostly white, returned, Her pure skin paler now, her lids like lead. She lay, while all around her, tapers burned, In shade more deep than I had ever spread. Richard Spencer

Boy in our street said you were bad Cast iron poker-back folds of black Unjoined jug handle ivory nosed Puckered-in mouth like a press stud closed

Boot button jet eye, steel finger ends Pterodacty­l elbows of hemmed-in silk Burnt paper rook wings trapped unflapped Mothballed mackintosh furled and strapped

Camphor and lozenge lost property breath Stick-man woman, a walking cane Were you ever a child with soft limbs free Dancing in deluge, running in rain?

Boys in our street all said you were mad Said you had poison in your tip

Knobbed knuckle grip and crow feather boned Never opened or teemed on or held or owned Jane Bower

The tree held me in fascinatio­n, His hard toughness covered by an umbrella of leaves. This tree was after all just wood … wasn’t he? Why then did he seem to stir when I was near? Why did he beckon with crooked fingers, His branches shaking with agitation? I know my umbrella wanted to encircle me, and I desired him (was it love?) I had to put my weak arms around him, and feel his hard strength. My husband laughed when I told him I loved the tree. But then he spat out words of hate and fetched his axe. Was there a storm that night? Did it make those strong, gnarled arms lash out? I don’t know, I only know that my husband is dead. I am having to go away, but I know the tree will wait for me. With patience, his umbrella unfurled. Marie Maher

My dad had one, he furled it tight, The handle had a golden band And curled, he always held it in the right Hand in glove.

It made him something-in-the-city, A badge to show he had arrived. He’d always been in uniform, so pity Him in his Mac.

The rain was different in those days, More uncertain, caution needed. Umbrella in the hallway always With his bowler hat.

We later heard he’d got the sack. The train came in, his seat was empty, The brolly found far up the track, Another jumper. Anthony Young

COMPETITIO­N No 274 Telephones are not what they were, for good or ill. A poem, please, called The Phone. Maximum 16 lines. We still can’t accept entries by post, I’m afraid, but do send them by e-mail (comps@theoldie.co.uk – don’t forget to include your postal address), marked ‘Competitio­n No 274’, by 19th November.

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