In Competition No. 2418 you were given certain rhyme-words in a certain order and invited to write a poem accordingly.
The rhymes came from Masefield’s ‘Where They Took Train’ which has a rather unexpected first line, ‘Gomorrah paid so for its holiday’. I hope the old Poet Laureate would be happy rather than horrified at the use his poem is being put to here.
The combination of ‘holiday’, ‘inn’ and ‘sin’ inevitably suggested to many of you the scenario of a dirty weekend, so that I found myself awarding brownie points to those competitors who showed originality, not suggestibility. Mae Scanlan, Brian Murdoch, W.J. Webster and G. McIlraith pleased, but the money (£30 to Michael Swan, £25 to the rest) goes to the palmary winners printed below.
If you like playing bridge on holiday.
Avoid Aunt Jane and Uncle George. They’ll skin
You. Sweet-faced, gentle, wrinkled, grey,
They’re old in many things, including sin.
I saw them in an ancient coaching inn
The other week, advancing on their prey:
‘We thought we’d like a rubber. Are you in?’
The hapless victims nodded — and away
Rattled the wheels that bore them to their fate.
Some two hours later, all their money gone,
They slunk upstairs, while Jane and George, fulfilled,
But not yet sated, went to lie in wait.
Their smiles were peaceful. Their bifocals shone.
In came two bishops. ‘Bridge?’ ‘Why, we’d be thrilled.’
Michael Swan
It was, to tell the truth, no holiday:
My master, mounted on that bag of skin,
Himself emaciated, old and grey,
Seeking to right all wrongs, to scourge all sin.
He caused a mad confusion at the inn
But knights are armed and squires are easier prey,
So when he wouldn’t pay they hauled me in
And blanket-tossed me while he rode away.
Slowly I came to understand my fate,
My dreams all punctured, my illusions gone,
And he, too, saw his mission not fulfilled.
Yet, though my role was just to watch and wait,
From that fogged mind a luminescence shone
And in my peasant spirit something thrilled.
Noel Petty
We travelled to the moon on holiday
Wrapped in a strange,
protective silken skin.
The decor in our rocket-rooms was grey;
We left behind us every earthly sin.
We were not bound for some obnoxious inn
Where bores and pests and loud-mouths always prey,
But spacious suites would welcome travellers in,
And there selenic hours would drift away.
We were the lucky first to whom kind fate
Gifted this cruise. All nervousness was gone.
Our dreams of pioneering now fulfilled,
Expectantly we watched our screens to wait
The signal to step down. As earthlight shone,
Our hearts beat faster and our souls were thrilled.
Frank Mc Donald
Remember Cliff in Summer Holiday?
In those days he had natural, flawless skin,
Though now it’s strangely taut and rather grey.
This cannot be a punishment for sin,
Sex, drugs or boozing at some low-life inn,
Since Cliff has never been temptation’s prey.
Can age alone explain the state he’s in,
As if from some weird planet far away,
Or is it some unhappy stroke of fate
That means his youthful loveliness has gone?
No matter. He is spiritually fulfilled,
And hosts of loyal, mumsy followers wait
To worship him. His clean-cut presence shone
When they were young, and still their hearts are thrilled.
G.M. Davis
I like to go on holiday
In nothing but my skin.
My skin is slack, my hair is grey,
But surely that’s no sin?
I book in at the Nudist Inn
And women are my prey.
I shower, then invite them in;
Not many run away.
The Lord knows why, it must be fate,
But when they’ve come and gone,
I feel fantastically fulfilled.
Pudenda? I can’t wait.
At many things I’ve never shone,
But I’ve kept ladies thrilled.
Basil Ransome-Davies
Her Indian summer holiday
Raised goose bumps on the maiden skin
Of rich Aunt Vi who, old and grey,
Swapped fantasy for actual sin.
She booked herself a Spanish inn,
The sort, she hoped, where men might prey
On rich old maids who ventured in
With cash and love to give away.
Manuel and moonlight sealed her fate;
And ere her first large gin was gone
One fantasy had been fulfilled
While others had not long to wait.
And next day’s sun rose up and shone
On Auntie Vi, tired, broke — but thrilled.
Martin Parker
No. 2421: Miss Mealy-mouth
‘I knew a girl who was so pure/She couldn’t say the word manure.’ So begins a poem entitled ‘The Perfect Lady’. You are invited to continue it for a further 16 lines in any direction. Entries to ‘Competition No. 2421’ by 1 December.
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