Jaspistos

Inst

In Competition No. 2405 you were invited to write a poem in praise or dispraise of the month of August. ‘The English winter — ending in July,/ To recommence in August,’ grumbled Byron when he was particularly fed up with the island. On the other hand Day Lewis wrote a delightful poem, ‘A Windy Day in August’:

Dust leaps up, apples thud down,The river’s caught between a smile and a frown…

‘August for the people and their favourite islands’ — today I’m leaving for Andros, which I hope will not prove a people’s favourite. The prizewinners, printed below, get £25 each, barring Alanna Blake, who has £30.

Though August is with us we wither in weather
More near to November than holiday times
And when we would simmer and swelter this summer
Is chilling our bones as in Arctic climes.


For water is everywhere, raining and running
In gutters that gargle as drains overflow,
In mists that are draping the hilltops and dripping
Ice-cold through our clothes as we cower below.


The westerly wind comes in volleys, the valleys
Are foaming and frothing with rivers in spate;
On high moors the heather waves hither and thither
And sodden sheep shrink with their wet wool’s weight.


The peat bogs are muddy and soaking and sucking
Our feet into pools on the rough way-marked path.
We plod through dank bracken, our spirits quite broken,
And heaven contracts to a long hot bath.
Alanna Blake



Augustus Caesar is to blame
For blighting August with his name,
A month which only fools could claim
Has merit to defend it.


Horrendous holidays to bear,
Annoying school kids everywhere
Mad insects flitting through the air,
Oh, autumn! Come and end it!


‘Silly-season’ news reports,
Adolescents quaffing quarts,
Oldies in outdated shorts!
Oh, who can comprehend it?


The sudden rain, the blocked-up drain,
The plumber somewhere out in Spain,
August is a total pain
With nothing to commend it!
Alan Millard



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