In Competition No 2560 you were invited to describe a visit to Glyndebourne or Glastonbury in the style of an author of your choice. But first a memo from Doctor Johnson re. his recent Competition 2558 (Harmless drudgery) in which he let through a contribution that confused a ‘roadie’ with a ‘groupie’. To the lady who drew his attention to the error, he apologises unreservedly and adds, as is his wont, an explanation for allowing the wrong definition: ‘Ignorance, madam, pure ignorance.’
Back to the current Comp: this was another big field and of a high standard, especially the Glastonbury offerings. Lots of entries were good enough for the winners’ enclosure — would this were larger! — notably Carolyn Beckingham’s William McGonagall, Alana Blake’s Wordsworth, Barry Baldwin’s Kingsley Amis, Mike Morrison’s Emily Dickinson, Paul Griffin’s A.A. Milne, Adrian Fry’s Boris Johnson, and two excellent Henry Jameses from Sid Field and G.M. Davis. The winners, printed below, get £25 each while the extra fiver goes to Brian Murdoch for his hilarious Chaucer.
Whanne that the sumer shoures, lyke Noye’s
fludde,
Turneth fayr fields of tentes to seas of mudde,
And whanne the raine still bucket-wise downfalles,
Thanne longen folke to goon to festivalles,
That they may wel disport themselves withal,
At sexe and drugges, and eke with rockenrol.
So with the yonge squires hied I me,
As whilom Arthur did, to Glastonbury,
To heare and see the famèd mynstrels playe
Upon a stage two thousand yerd awaye.
A wylde wyf ther was, Winehouse yclept,
The whiche did sing, and as she sange she lept,
Just when I came nye to her playing-place,
And so she struck her ellebowe to my face,
That I did falle, and laye ther al forlorn.
Methinks anon I shall try Glyndebourne.
Brian Murdoch/Geoffrey Chaucer
I fancied a weekend of cultureandstuff
With a touch of Wagner, Verdi or Strauss,
So I settled for Glyndebourne (a handsomehouse)
But, not being one to sleep in the rough,
I googledup nearby Ore for a place to stay,
Punched it into the satnav and aimed
For my cultural weekend in Sussex, famed
For being bythesea. Somehow I lost my way
And broke down in the backofbeyond — tough
Luck, I know, but there I was, stuck
At a campsite near Pilton, deep in the muck
Till I found a tent and slept in the buff
Through lightnings of Glastoblast, soaking wet!
Must remember, setting my satnav, to be sure
(Wanting Sussex) I punch in Ore, not Oare
Or I’ll land up drenched, somewhere in Somerset.
Alan Millard/Roger McGough
If you have sunk, with every mud-mad step,
Into a chasm carved out by the rains,
All senses dulled as ditch, putrescent slop
Feculent as a midden where there churns
Some smelted hell invented by strange demons…
If bells awake you, tolling in your ears,
Filling your blistered head with curséd omens,
Omens which bring no sentience, nor pause…
If you have marched your feet through curdling
slime,
To roar applause at brash, untuned guitars,
Their chords as heavy as the inland loam
’Neath calls unholy as unwholesome curs…
My friend, you would not treat a wide-eyed niece
To comic tales of opiates and slurry,
And tell the old lie, of eternal peace
At Glastonbury.
Bill Greenwell/Wilfred Owen
The multitude comes out to play
In Glastonbury’s fields,
As piping tunes draw youth away
And work to pleasure yields.
Guitar strains and exotic scents
Infuse the English air
Where lodgings are bucolic tents
And youthful bodies bare.
What dreams of urgency impel
These gilded girls and boys?
What pagan, Dionysiac spell
Commands their frenzied joys?
No matter. Let them celebrate
While health and strength remain.
Infirmity and death await
As sure as summer rain.
Basil Ransome-Davies/A.E. Housman
I came upon a wondrous sight:
Revellers drinking through the night
And bands and bards and raucous banter
And parties from my Tam o’ Shanter;
As drumbeats roared the strings moved faster,
Auld Nick himself appeared their master,
And chiels that met me raised their glasses,
Amang them hordes o’ bonnie lasses;
On stages laddies played as well
As a’ the orchestras o’ hell,
And through the night the fields were fu’
O’ folk enjoying every brew.
Ah, Rabbie, time won’t let ye bide
At Glastonbury — ye maun ride.
Tae cheers and tears I took the track
As lassies shouted, ‘haste ye back.’
Max Ross/Robert Burns
On attaining a low eminence, I beheld a sight that filled me with wonder. A veritable city of tents lay before me, and a multitude of voices was raised in songs of praise and gladness. I heard the words of a nativity hymn ‘We will rock you’, and divined that I was witnessing a Lovefeast of our brethren. A passing native of that place confirmed that these people spoke much of Love as the conqueror of War, adding that they were ‘at it all the time’. The name of that place, he said, was Glastonbury, and I marvelled that that very centre of witchery and superstition was now become a citadel of goodness and truth. I would fain have joined them, but reminded myself that my task lay not with those already ardent for truth, but with those who remained in darkness; and so I rode on my way rejoicing.
Noel Petty/John Wesley
No 2563: Rhymeless reason
You are invited to write a poem or piece of prose whose lines or sentences end with the following words in any order: wolf, breadth, gulf, sylph, depth, scarce, bilge, film, pint, month, angst, plinth. Max 12 lines or 150 words. Entries to Competition 2563 by September 18 or email jamesy@greenbee.net (no attachments, please).
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