In Competition No. 3329 you were invited to submit a villanelle on a festive theme.
Artistry and variety abounded in a most enjoyable entry. Hats off, everyone, and thank you for your brilliance and versatility over the year. The winners below earn £30. Happy Christmas, one and all.
It seems it was a century ago
That we had dreams of Christmas being white,
When winter kissed our cheeks with flakes of snow.
Magic there was that childhood could bestow
When wonder closed our eyes on Christmas night.
It seems it was a century ago.
Peace and goodwill for everyone would flow
With midnight presents sent for our delight,
When winter kissed our cheeks with flakes of snow.
If Santa laughed a hearty ho, ho, ho
It banished fears and put the world to right.
It seems it was a century ago.
Now when unfriendly breezes coldly blow
We long for times when Christmas stars were bright,
When winter kissed our cheeks with flakes of snow.
To ancient dreamers Father Time says: ‘No’
Removing past surprises from our sight.
It seems it was a century ago
When winter kissed our cheeks with flakes of snow.
Frank McDonald
To welcome in the season of good cheer
we heave a sigh, we’ve seen it all before,
there’s no escape, it happens every year.
Soon cards with robins, snow and red-nosed deer,
from folks that you forgot, drop through the door
to welcome in the season of good cheer.
Outdated Christmas hits assault the ear
in every overcrowded superstore,
there’s no escape, it happens every year.
The annual pantomimes get into gear
with hairy dames and risqué jokes galore
to welcome in the season of good cheer.
Around the baubled Christmas tree appear
the relatives you vowed you would ignore,
there’s no escape, it happens every year.
The goose is getting fat, it’s very clear
we’ll overdose on victuals, booze and more
to welcome in the season of good cheer,
there’s no escape, it happens every year.
Sylvia Fairley
Please help, Nigella, I’ve no egg for nog,
My third bread sauce attempt is down the drain,
I’ve overbaked and charred my chocolate log.
The basted turkey’s not fit for the dog,
My pudding’s flour-paste, boiled for hours in vain,
Please help, Nigella, I’ve no egg for nog.
The kitchen’s thick with smoke, my brain’s a fog,
My hopes have snapped like one last candy cane.
I’ve overbaked and charred my chocolate log.
Why did I start this full-on festive slog?
I’m facedown in a puddle of champagne,
Please help, Nigella, I’ve no egg for nog,
These effing rum balls should go down the bog.
Is it too late for takeout chips, chow mein?
I’ve overbaked and charred my chocolate log.
My goose would make Charles Dickens hit the grog,
You’re my last hope, my saviour from the strain.
Please help, Nigella, I’ve no egg for nog,
I’ve overbaked and charred my chocolate log. Janine Beacham
Street choirs pipe up, the sound of Christmas swells
the profits in the jittery-glittery shops.
The busking bagpipes playing ‘Jingle Bells’
although we smile, teeth gritted, are like knells
rung for the End of Days. The spirit drops.
Street choirs pipe up, the sound of Christmas swells
and ‘Santa Claus is Coming’ … casts its spells
on fraying tempers, and it briefly tops
the busking bagpipes playing ‘Jingle Bells’
until the brass of ‘Hark the Herald’ … tells
its story and each human eardrum pops.
Street choirs pipe up, the sound of Christmas swells
while on a loop the too-familiar gels.
Our brains are drenched with soap, like sodden mops.
The busking bagpipes playing ‘Jingle Bells’
have brought us to this Hell where Christmas dwells
in one reprise, the floppiest of the flops.
Street choirs pipe up, the sound of Christmas swells,
the busking bagpipes play – yes! – ‘Jingle Bells’.
D.A. Prince
John says, ‘In the beginning was the Word.’
He’s not synoptic and it’s rather dry.
At Christmas, Luke’s account is much preferred.
Pure ‘logos’ is the start point of a nerd:
the snuffling congregations wonder why
John says, ‘In the beginning was the Word.’
Mary and Gabriel have just conferred,
and now she shouts, ‘My soul doth magnify!’
At Christmas, Luke’s account is much preferred.
Of course, all the begattery’s absurd:
from snake to manger see them multiply!
John says, ‘In the beginning was the Word.’
Matthew, well-gilded, frankincensed and myrrhed,
has wise men, but no shepherds to draw nigh.
At Christmas, Luke’s account is much preferred.
The bloody straw, and what the oxen heard:
her final yell; his incarnated cry.
John says, ‘In the beginning was the Word.’
At Christmas, Luke’s account is much preferred.
Nick MacKinnon
No. 3332: Into reverse
You are invited to supply, in verse form, a retraction of beliefs previously believed in passionately. Please email entries of up to 16 lines to lucy@spectator.co.uk by midday on 10 January.
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