TESSA CASTRO
IN COMPETITION No 278 you were invited to write a poem called Cold Feet. It was a large and accomplished entry. I’d hardly realised how much cold feet punctuated life, and that’s before we get to the metaphorical. Dorothy Pope made her moral touchstone a question from Solzhenitsyn: ‘How can the man who is warm understand / the man who is cold?’ Duncan Darbyshire found a fine phrase in describing another’s feet in bed: ‘They slide through the sheets / and press onto my warm legs /with sadistic innocence.’ Commiserations to them, congratulations to those printed below, each of whom wins £25, with the bonus prize of The Chambers Thesaurus for Catherine Gillemin.
My frozen feet were icebergs in the bed, You’d take them in your loving hands, and laugh – Cold feet, warm heart – it must be true, you said. (I trusted you to shelter me from draughts!)
Sometimes, you cried and swore you’d have to leave – Make this bed, this hearth, your only home; There’d be both blame and rage, then time to grieve, But after all the tears, you’d surely come.
There’d be a splintering of bonds, a stone To shatter your good name, destroy respect, Unfathering your very blood and bone, Unshelt’ring those you’d promised to protect.
Cold feet then – yours, when at last it came – A leaving time which tore us both apart; We clung like drowning souls, you called my name – Your own words proving true about your heart. Catherine Gillemin
I hunker in the wings to play the bear, Wait for my cue, sweat in the prickling fur. The costume’s dense, my feet are cold with fear – The crowds may fail to tremble at my roar.
Recall that grizzled, growling giant, Chained at the stake and red with wounds of war – Old Sackerson, who towers defiant? He’s battled off a thousand dogs or more!
His dreams lie far from hot and naked streets, From snarling teeth and murder in men’s eyes;
The promised end lies only in defeat – To see no hope, nor peace, yet still to rise!
What if Old Sackerson broke free one night, Gazed up at Ursa Major where she soars, Shook off his chains, unleashed his fire and might? My cue! His spirit claims me: I can roar! John Clark
I know their advice is kind and well-meant, The not yet widowed, my friends, all hell-bent On sharing their pearls of wisdom, plus tea, But they don’t understand how it feels to be me. They say I should cancel your Telegraph, Go out for walks, re-learn how to laugh, Clear out your clothes, join a club, get a pet. Can’t they see I’m not ready to let you go yet? There is comfort at home; your presence is there, Your coat on the peg, the indents in your chair. Your aftershave lingers in corners unseen And I still hear your voice on the answer machine. But at night, in the dark, when I feel for your feet, Cold in the folds of the unchanged sheets, It’s their absence that kicks and, although you are dead, I still sleep in my half of our old king-size bed. Vivien Brown
Alas, I know my coward soul too well. Its metaphorical feet go cold Just thinking of the existential hell That’s dentists, needles, flying, growing old. Fear brings the tyranny of icy chill. I feel it from my scalp down to my toes Or so it seems. It’s metaphor, but still I shiver as the trepidation grows. There are no bed-socks that can bring relief – Unlike the pair that warm my literal feet. Summers (to them) are short and far too brief So nine months wrapped in cashmere keeps them sweet. Physical chill is easier to cure. The inner cold’s relentless, sharp and sure. D A Prince
COMPETITION No 280 We seem to spend a lot of life cutting in various ways, so a poem called Cutting, please. Maximum 16 lines. We cannot accept any entries by post, but do send them by e-mail (comps@theoldie.co.uk – don’t forget to include your own postal address), marked ‘Competition No 280’, by 5th May.