Spectator competition: Andrew Marvell’s coy mistress has her say (plus: rock star novelists)

The invitation to step into the shoes of Andrew Marvell’s coy mistress attracted a jumbo entry. Clearly lots of you think it’s high time she had her say. But you weren’t the first to pipe up on her behalf. Marvell’s seductive overtures failed to persuade the Australian (male) poet A.D. Hope. Here’s an extract from his blistering reply, ‘His Coy Mistress to Mr Marvell’, published in 1978:

Had you addressed me in such terms And prattled less of graves and worms, I might, who knows, have warmed to you; But, as things stand, must bid adieu

The contemporary American poet Annie Finch wasn’t having any of it either. Her equally sharp riposte begins: ‘Sir, I am not a bird of prey:/ a Lady does not seize the day.’ Your contributions were funny and satisfyingly inventive — Philip Roe, Nick Grace, Martin John, John O’Byrne and Stanley McDermott III were especially good. The winners, printed below, earn £25 each and Robert Schechter snaffles the extra fiver.

Robert Schechter Were you but Earth’s last-standing man I might agree that life’s short span, Combined with all you’ve rightly said Regarding how we’ll soon be dead, Would be persuasive we should screw. But there are better men than you. No woman likes a man who begs In rhyme to get between her legs. (It seems so desperate, don’t you think? You might just buy a girl a drink). What’s more, the gossips all report That other things than life are short, And I prefer, I must admit, My men to have a tighter fit.

D.A. Prince Andrew, get this: it’s not OK To harass women in this way. The world’s moved on and now disgust Is all you’ll get for public lust. My body’s mine, and so’s my time And not for you to grope in rhyme. You think this attitude is ‘quaint’? Facebook agrees with me: it ain’t.

Now on your track there’s a whole swarm, A veritable Twitter-storm. D’you know your sexist lines will be Online for all eternity? No desert, no remotest cave Can keep you private, nor the grave. And don’t go lab’lling me a prude: Your wormy poem’s — frankly — rude.

Basil Ransome-Davies No bullshitters like poets, Mother said, They’ll lie like thieves to get into your pants. Dressing a horny itch up as romance. The high-flown eloquence leads to the bed.

Yours is a cunning angle, I’ll admit: If I deny you, I deny myself The pleasures hyped by your flamboyant wit To end, intact and shrivelled, on the shelf.

This pretty piece of blackmail you create In playful couplets aims to make me fall For Mr Irresistible, but wait — I may be coy to you, yet not to all.

This lady knows the score. She plays the field. She services the gentry, and they love it. Great wealth affords a more substantial yield Than fanciful erotic thrills; so shove it.

Ray Kelley Had I but time I’d list, brash bard, All reasons for my disregard Of your ‘now let us sport us’ plea. But try these: you’ve insulted me With ‘coy’ (when coyness I despise) And then with ‘mistress’, which implies Yours and yours only is the suit To weigh, since other men are mute. No doubt you found it marvellous fun To pen that crude ‘quaint honour’ pun After the threat of ‘worms that try’ What I’ve preserved and set store by. Your ‘amorous birds’ are ‘birds of prey’; That, sir, is a dead giveaway Of what your loveplay would be like. So here’s my answer: on your bike!

Chris O’Carroll You urge me headlong into bed With warnings that we’ll soon be dead: ‘Dear lady, hurry, lift your skirt Ere we are six feet deep in dirt!’ I wonder, does that seem to you The most propitious way to woo? Do visions of decomposition Arouse most women to coition?

Let love be, rather than rough strife And flight from death, a dance with life. A timeless idyll in the sun Is sweeter than a panting run, For we will never truly taste What we devour in anxious haste. Your morbid, frantic, breathless chase Won’t gain my finest private place.

W.J. Webster ’Tis bold of you, my dear, sweet boy To condescend to call me coy. Might my resistance not be just A parry to your thrusting lust? Why think that conj’ring graveyard worms Will sooner make me come to terms With what you will — and I will not? To know that we must some day rot Is not a thought to make thy bed Appealing to my heart or head. The hurrying chariot that you hear Has Eros as its charioteer Whose instant urges you would slake While planting your triumphant stake; But mine’s a Vestal inner voice That whispers what attends my choice.

Morrissey is the latest rock star to branch out into fiction. Your next challenge is to submit a sample from a novel written by a rock musician of your choosing. Please email entries of up to 150 words to lucy@spectator.co.uk by midday on 14 October.