North and South

In Competition No. 2963 you were invited to submit a poem about the North or the South or one comparing the two. -Tennyson’s lines ‘bright and fierce and fickle is the South,/And dark and true and tender is the North’ (from ‘The Princess: O Swallow’), which inspired this challenge, produced a wide-ranging and exhilarating entry that took me from the bridge table to North Korea and beyond. The winners earn £25 each. Frank McDonald pockets £30.

In the north there’s a fish with a serious wish
To break out and be queen of the sea,
And she tells all the others we’re sisters and
brothers

Who ought to get wise and be free.
In her lust for control she looks out for a hole
In the barriers keeping her in.
With the power of her mouth she discredits the
south

As she waves a contemptuous fin.
But little she knows of the icebergs and snows
That exist in the oceans outside,
For her hunger to rule turns a fish to a fool
As she waits for a welcoming tide.
If there does come a day when she gets her own
way

Like the people who hunted the snark,
You can bet the poor sole will be swallowed up
whole

When she’s first introduced to a shark.
Frank McDonald

You’ll know when you get there, the vowels go flat;
and people respond ‘Ah know nowt abaht that’.
They speak as they find and don’t find much to like.
The rain’s in your face and you’re blown off your
bike.

It gets darker earlier, the cloud’s always grey
and the food is all fried — and in lard, so they say.
The Angel (the North one) can’t manage to fly.
You watch it for hours. No lift-off, that’s why.

The South’s got no Angel; instead, there’s the pole

that’s spoiled Brighton’s sea front and sucked out
its soul.
There’re too many cars: on a Bank Holiday
they’re bumper to bumper on hell’s motorway.
A house costs a fortune, the trains are on strike;
from London to Brighton it’s quicker to hike.
There’s not much between them; you might find
it best

if life gives you choices to head for the West.
D.A. Prince

If you’re looking for penguins
then cancel your visit
up north. Though the Arctic
is truly exquisite,

with mountainous glaciers
and glorious creatures,
you won’t find a penguin
among its top features.

Although you may think of
the penguin as polar,
the penguin is purely
a South Pole patroller.

So go, find a penguin!
But before you set forth,
be sure that your compass
points south and not north.
Robert Schechter

It’s called ‘The Frozen North’. The term’s ironic;
The seas are rising as the ice is shrinking,
And cities, irreplaceable, iconic,
Like Venice, year by year are drowning, sinking.

‘It’s just a phase,’ say climate-change deniers,
‘The planet’s bound to find its own solution,’
While greedy corporations fund those liars
Whose claims are scientific prostitution.

And further South, they’re killing honey-bees;
Without them, there will be no pollination
Of flowers, vegetables, or fruiting trees;
Our failing crops will lead to mass starvation.

From North to South, our reckless course is certain:
The world is going for a (halli)burton.
Sylvia Smith

He’s got his facts right, has old Hairy.
In September the swallows take wing.
They go sub-Saharan for winter
And only return in the spring.

The South, so the laureate whispers,
Has the sensual, ‘wanton’ appeal
For these annual avian migrants
Of a primitive, sexy ideal.

They party like sailors on shore leave
In the blistering African sun.
While the North suffers blizzards and misery
Their winter’s devoted to fun.

Yet they’ll flock to fly back when commanded
By an impulse they cannot explain
To roost in the darkness of rafters
And start the whole cycle again.
G.M. Davis

They were husband and wife,
True partners for life,
And bridge was their game;
They both felt the same:
That they weren’t at their best
When seated East-West.
It might be superstition
But the North-South position
Dealt so often a hand
For a slam, small or grand.
He was North, in control,
To raise bids was her role,
Little tiffs when they came
Were just par for the game
While, with winning at heart,
They played on, poles apart.
Alanna Blake

No. 2966: right-on rhymes

The BBC once gave ‘Humpty Dumpty’ a more cheerful ending, which got right up the nose of the Campaign Against ­Political ­Correctness. You are invited to filter other nursery rhymes through the PC prism. Please email entries of up to 16 lines to lucy@­spectator.co.uk by midday on 14 September.