In Competition No. 2565 you were invited to submit a poem about the minor irritations of life written in heroic couplets.
Things that bring out the misanthropist in me include ‘comedy’ stickers on cars (e.g., ‘my other car’s a Porsche!’), the over-enthusiastic use of exclamation marks and strangers who say ‘cheer up, love; it may never happen’, which strikes me as a very risky statement. High on yours were poor grammar, impenetrable packaging and anyone who chirrups ‘have a nice day’. And I now know that those who seek to reassure me with claims that no one minds my baby son’s piercing squawks on public transport are lying.
The winners, printed below, get £25 each except Mary Holtby, who gets £30.
What dire distress from trivial causes springs,
What ardent arrows and what subtle stings!
Soon as the vig’rous Sol with piercing ray
Sends idle Morpheus on his moping way,
War is declar’d: we know our foe is bent
On spiteful ruse and cunning harassment.
E’en as we robe his ready archers score:
A vital button tumbles to the floor,
As far from seizure as that fabled Ring
Whose fatal charms both gods and heroes sing.
A point unsheath’d to meet the present need
Belies its ‘safe’ repute and bids us bleed…
The cup that cheers beguiles the tender sip,
Nor fires the soul, but burns the tender lip…
So every hour prolongs the primal hurt,
As spectacles repeatedly desert.
Mary Holtby
Winter with bony Fingers finds each Flaw,
Strangling Prometheus’ gift with bitter Claw.
Deep in the frozen Boiler’s stricken Heart
An ailing Organ craves the Gas Man’s Art.
Death whets his scythe, the Hour Glass waits the
Turn,
With Hours devoured on Phones that Gas may
burn.
Anon a Time’s decreed, a precious Date
This ancient Fire God to resuscitate.
Day dawns: the House lies hushed, e’er Knock or
Bell
Might, muffled, be mistook for Carnival.
But each Step passing, Hope turns to Despair:
The minist’ring Angel is dissolved in Air.
Darkness descends; the Gas Man cometh not,
By Lethe washed, his Purposes forgot.
Time wipes his weary Hands across his Face
And on him calls down Murrain’s foul Disgrace.
D.A. Prince
I’d like to banish menus listing ‘snax’
And charge their scribes a hefty spelling tax.
On checkout signs for items less than ten,
I’d scribble ‘FEWER THAN’ in scarlet pen.
The fools who should of learned the verb to have
Deserve to ‘of’ their heads flushed down the lav.
And reckless txtrs, 2, must B denied
Their sinful goal of casting vowels aside.
Apostrophe’s in plural’s are absurd;
‘Illuminous’ is NOT a real word!
Performers of such errors make me sigh;
Me think its sad there not as smart as I.
Celeste Francis
Unfathomable shrink-wrap, child-proof tubs,
Cryptic receipts, unfilled-in chequebook stubs;
Paperclip daisy-chains, old Post-It notes,
Long-vanished car keys, lost TV remotes;
Newspapers stuffed with tiresome DVDs,
Greengrocer’s misuse of apostrophe’s;
Those dinner guests who crow, ‘Oh, we don’t
drink’,
The AWOL tiepin, stud or missing link;
Mother-in-law’s ‘just right for you’ pullovers,
Doorstep evangelists, jejune Jehovahs;
ParcelFarce lies: ‘we called but you weren’t
there’,
Grim Reaper-issue ear and nostril hair;
BOGOFs, which stands for ‘Buy One Get One
Free’,
‘Have a nice day’? Crass insincerity!
Meter maids beaming seamless schadenfreud’,
People who want to know why I’m annoyed.
Mike Morrison
The shrill-voiced back-seat monologue that
floats
Above the engine roar, with gleeful quotes
Of others’ secrets; then two jangling tones —
Why can’t all owners quieten their phones?
And in my right ear thumps the toneless bass
Of youth with earphones and unshaven face.
Next stop, and holding up the queue and us,
She who can’t find her purse till on the bus
Then wastes more time complaining that it’s
late.
(Details behind become more intimate.)
The pair in front, already both obese,
Unwrap and share some foodstuffs which
release
A rank spiced odour. An ignored child squeals
And kicks my seat. I know just how it feels!
I’m old, so I will suffer this again
Because it’s free — or else I’d choose the train.
Alanna Blake
At 5 a.m. the quietly sleeping calm
Is blasted by a faulty car alarm.
Today’s front man’s that logorrhoeic Scot
Who ties his questions in a Gordian knot.
The paperboy’s amnesia means, once more,
The Daily Star is poking through the door.
No letters yet, of course, it’s far too soon —
The morning post’s delivered after noon.
Outside, beneath a new graffiti scrawl
Three cans, their contents passed against the
wall;
A cyclist, scared of roads, now finds it fun
To use the pavement as a slalom run;
And here’s a wired-up neighbour on the train
Who spills thin jangles from his ears — or brain.
Quite soon someone, somewhere, I know, will
say
The dreaded curse-words ‘Have’ and ‘nice’ and
‘day’.
W.J. Webster
No. 2568: Who do you think they are?
One of the regular compers has expressed a keen interest in meeting his co-competitors, especially those who have been entering and winning for years. I, too, must confess to an intense curiosity as to what lies behind these familiar names. You are invited to submit, in verse (16 lines maximum) or prose (150 words maximum), a profile of the typical Spectator competitor. Entries to ‘Competition 2568’ by 23 October or email lucy@spectator.co.uk.
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