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Competition

James Young

Wednesday, 13th August 2008

James Young presents the latest competition

In Competition No. 2557 you were invited to write a poem or a piece of prose with each line or sentence beginning with the letters A S D F G H J K L Z X C V B N M in that order.

I discovered while setting this comp that the longest word you can type using just the QWERTY row of letters on a typewriter is ... ‘typewriter’. No doubt one or two of you will prove me wrong; indeed, there is an even longer word if you allow ‘tripewriter’.... Anyway, where was I? The less tripe I write, the more space there is to showcase your wit and wisdom. In a big and varied entry, commendations go to Adrian Fry for his Laurie Lee, anti-gardening Alan Millard and Basil Ransome-Davies’s Rimbaud. I especially liked the brace of Coleridges; they and the others printed below win £25 while the extra fiver is W.J. Webster’s.

‘As I thought,’ he said, sliding a bony forefinger under the letters. ‘See the pattern here, Watson, where an alphabetical sequence breaks in. Does that not suggest something to you?’
‘Frankly, Holmes, I remain baffled. Good heavens, man, I am no linguist. How am I supposed to interpret such a jumble?’
‘Jumble is not le mot juste, my dear fellow. Knowledge, even the most elementary knowledge, of your language should tell you that. Look how the letters run.’
‘Zigzag would be a better word to my mind,’ I answered, with some asperity. Ximenes would be a gentler inquisitor than my friend in this mood. ‘Can you not simply give me your solution?’
‘Very well. But you will be disappointed with yourself.’
‘No doubt!’
‘May I propose, then, that you consult any typewritist of your acquaintance?’
W.J. Webster

After an absence that kept the world guessing,
Serbia’s criminal’s placed in detention,
Dressed as at Glasto (‘a dinar a blessing’) —
Furry as freaks at a hippy convention.
Gandalf or Dumbledore, alfalfa-bearded,
He’s laid a few hands on the gullible locals,
Judging, perhaps, what his power and fear did —
Killing to cure, wearing moral bi-focals.
Let’s think who could hope that he won’t be
convicted:
Zealots who worked for the vicious old stager?
Xenophobes, maybe, still ‘cleansing’-addicted?
Can’t think of anyone else, I would wager.
Voguishly hirsute, and macrobiotic,
Billed as Dabiç, an alternative teacher —
Now he’s been nicked, let’s define him.
Psychotic.
Murdering bastard who razed Srebrenica.
Bill Greenwell

As I was reading of the Khan
Sweet laudanum took hold of me,
Dissolved my mind, which then began
Fermenting its poetic plan,
Gestating mystery.
Hot fountains, ice and domes of pleasure,
Jewels, incense, honey-dew,
Khan Kubla rich beyond all measure,
Lovely damsels singing true,
Ziggurats, dulcimers and treasure,
Xanadu, my Xanadu!
Conscious again, in search of fame,
Verse upon verse I quickly write,
But then some Porlock person came,
Now memory’s gone, nothing’s the same,
My vision’s vanished quite.
Nicholas Hodgson

‘A miracle,’ he claimed, ‘with caves of ice’
Such was his ‘pleasure dome of rare device’.
‘Down to a sunless sea’ the river ran
From Xanadu, palace of Kubla Khan,
Girdled with walls and towers and fragrant
trees
Heavy with incense. Visions such as these,
Joyous and cloying, filled his opiate dreams.
Kubla had built this ‘dome in air’. It seems
Lines filled the poet’s mind: he was enthralled,
Zealously writing, when, by chance, I called.
Xanadu vanished! Kubla’s realm decayed;
Coleridge lost pleasure dome, the song, the
maid.
Vanished the ‘voices prophesying war’.
Business from Porlock brought me to his door;
Not quite an hour I lingered there and yet
Mine is the blame! I caused him to forget!
Shirley Curran

All the instruments are still,
Silent for the pianist,
Deft in the dramatic skill
Flowing through his supple wrist.
Glissando first assaults the ear
Half with pleasure, half with fear.
Just on that, a theme takes wings,
Keenly piercing every heart,
Lightly taken up by strings;
Zithers even play their part,
Xylophones reply, and soon
Clarinets confirm the tune.
Very soon, the storm that roared
Blows itself out in one great chord.
Numbed and shaken, we are all
Musing in the silent hall.
Paul Griffin

And did the gods in ancient times
See England’s pleasant pastures too?
Did Juno gaze on English lambs
From hills that Winston Churchill knew?
Graces may once have graced a glen
Hallam and Tennyson rambled over;
Jason perhaps with Argo’s men
Killed dragons on the cliffs of Dover.
Leeds may have nurtured Ganymede,
Zeus going there to win his prize;
Xanthus, Achilles’ famous steed,
Could well have witnessed English skies.
Vulcan’s lame feet perhaps had trod
Blake’s pleasant fields in bygone days.
No one, I think, would find it odd
Mars made his mark on English ways.
Frank McDonald

No 2560: Glynders and Glasto
You are invited to describe in verse or prose a visit to Glyndebourne or Glastonbury by an author of your choice (please name your author). Maximum 16 lines or 150 words. Entries to Competition 2560 by 28 August or email jamesy@greenbee.net (no attachments, please).