In Competition No. 2525 you were invited to submit a poem in which the opening of Philip Larkin’s ‘Annus Mirabilis’ was adapted so that ‘two thousand and seven’ was substituted for ‘nineteen sixty-three’ and ‘sexual intercourse’ replaced by whatever you considered appropriate. Many of your entries had a Larkin-esque bleakness and grim humour. Here’s William Danes-Volkov, man of few words: My writing career began/ In two thousand and seven/ And ended.
At the other end of the spectrum Alan Millard’s verse about the joys of retirement was a drop of golden sun, with some nice Larkin references but an effervescent, celebratory tone which contrasts starkly with the mounting fear and despair that seemed to consume the poet from middle age onwards.
The winners, printed below, get £25 each. The bonus fiver goes to David Silverman’s revolutionary Teddy Bears. Happy New Year.
Led astray by his email address, I wrongly attributed the lead limerick in last week’s competition to Bill Leith rather than to Bill Greenwell.
The primary cause of the Teddy Bear Wars
Came late in two thousand and seven,
When bears took the law into their own paws,
Having counted the score of final straws
In toy stores from Dumfries to Devon.
‘We’re exploited breeds, in word and in deed,
For a series of spurious causes:
From making hearts bleed for Children in Need,
To the fads of the fascists who feed off a creed:
Now accede to our pleas and sub-clauses!’
See the pseudo-ursine mercenary might
Led by Paddingtons, Pudseys and Poohs,
As 10,000 teddies marched on through the night,
Bears to the left of them, bears to the right,
Till Sooty addressed them: ‘Bear up for the fight!
But your names, you have nothing to lose!’
David Silverman
The national identity crisis began
In two thousand and seven,
When in HMRC some anonymous man
Created a fraudster’s heaven.
The government dithered but couldn’t defer
To act (it was hurting the pound),
So it called on us all to change who we were —
It was new IDs all round.
New history, birthdate, new number, new name,
Personality choice was the rage.
We loved it — the guilt-ridden, birds of ill-fame,
And those of a certain age.
For teens and mid-lifers self-searching could wait,
Instead they designed a new whole.
And that was the moment I chose to mutate
To The Poet Once Known as Noel.
Noel Petty
Terminal paranoia began
In two thousand and seven,
The wire in the blood that ran
From 9/11.
We’ve learned to spot the phoney friend,
The rabid wolf in lamb’s clothing.
Our visions of utopia end
In fear and loathing.
A worse than Hobbesian world is ours,
Its default mode betrayal,
Where love and justice die and power’s
Rampant to prevail.
Welcome, the imminent abyss.
Welcome, annihilation.
Almost with gratitude, we kiss
Goodbye to salvation.
Basil Ransome-Davies
My special state of grace began
In two thousand and seven.
My voices told me that I ran
Admissions into Heaven.
There were no pearly gates and no
Venerable St Peter,
Only a modest portico
And me as greeter-seater.
I had a simple attitude.
No sinful wretch was banned
Whom life had hurt. The unco’ guid
Were told ‘Talk to the hand’.
They said I was a basket case
And, galvanised by fear
Of higher truths they couldn’t face,
They banged me up in here.
G.M. Davis
Felicitous, unfettered freedom began
In two thousand and seven:
Sixty-five — a retired man
With a pension! What heaven!
Sunday nights — and no need to dread
Monday morning blues
But, after an extra hour in bed,
Do as I choose.
They buck you up, these halcyon days
While those, less blessed
Are turning the treadmill that pays
For you to rest!
No need to fret about Larkin’s ‘Toad’
But, with time to step out
And no one to praise or to goad,
Go larkin’ about!
Alan Millard
Soccer suicides began
In two thousand and seven,
As every devastated fan
Bewailed the shamed eleven.
The goalie ate a poisoned ball,
The players ate their boots.
The manager fared worst of all —
First he endured the hoots
And then he had to face the board
Which promptly set him free
To find some other team abroad
With just his million fee.
Alas, they had to face the truth —
A woeful sight to see
The nation’s disillusioned youth
Hanging from every tree.
Shirley Curran
Competition No 2528: Take Five
You are invited to submit an extract from an imaginary story in Enid Blyton’s Famous Five series written in the style of hard-boiled crime fiction (150 words maximum). Entries to ‘Competition 2528’ by 17 January or email lucy@spectator.co.uk.
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