In Competition 3355 you were invited to write a romantic poem that did its best to gloss over something unlovely. I think I imagined odes to beautiful sewage-filled rivers and so on, but should have phrased the challenge more clearly, since many understandably decided a love poem was in order. Either way there was much to enjoy. Among the paeans of praise were hints at a jarring laugh, huge pimple, jug ears, body odour – and much worse.
I liked Elizabeth Kay’s poem detailing a beloved’s snores but it was disqualified for putting the snoring to the fore (‘The distinctive call of an eider duck/ Plus the sound of an airbed deflating/ Or the distant growl of the M25/ Then the huffing of two hedgehogs mating’). Also deserving of a mention: Lettice Buxton’s account of an incident that revealed Frank’s unsympathetic side; and Sue Pickard’s of romance in the face of bad breath (‘Do not think me aloof when I come to call/ For if I sit far enough away/ I hardly notice your halitosis at all’). The entries below reflect the wide-ranging interpretations and each win £25.
Beloved, it’s not money I desire,
Your cheap sheets are as fine to me as silk,
You warm me so we never need a fire,
We need no cream when I prefer skim milk.
Your frugal ways don’t show in your embraces,
It doesn’t cost us much to stay in bed –
I never cared for living in showplaces,
You need not haggle for a bigger shed.
Your power-saving plans are so inventive,
So dashing, manly, reckless, captivating,
That timer in the shower – so attentive!
It gives me such a frisson when we’re mating.
My darling, ravish me with thrifty passion,
This interlude will be the first of many,
And love is free, it’s not a thing you ration,
So hold me like I am your final penny.
Janine Beacham
Nothing distracts me; your loveliness shines –
Why there’s scarcely a blemish, and hardly a fault:
I gaze at you. Yours is the finest of shrines
To which I am pilgrim, whose grace I exalt.
I can’t keep my eyes from your lips (or your chin –
I’m drawn to it strangely, whenever I stare).
Your beauty, my darling, is all from within.
Your skin is so fine. There’s no need for repair –
Come to me, let me just give you a squeeze,
Moving my fingers. Perfection, my sweetness?
Your black head, of hair! Oh, you’re a tease!
Oh I shall burst! Your beauty’s completeness
Is all but assured. I will never neglect you,
You’re mine, let me minister, like it or not!
Let me come close up, let me inspect you,
Here where we’re one! Let X mark this spot!
Bill Greenwell
Your World War One recruitment agent prays
He finds you well. Your King and Country says
We need you for a dalliance in France.
In gay Paris, you’ll get to chat and dance
With mademoiselles before you reach the Front.
With comrades, in the trenches, you will hunt
For rats, and smack their heads with trenching spades
For hours on end. Then when the daylight fades,
The sky lights up with firework displays.
And if you see a smoky-yellow haze
Advancing on you, don your quirky mask.
You’re fed on top-notch corned beef, though the task
That counts the most is going o’er the top,
To cross a course of obstacles and flop
About in mud, while dodging lead, yet bound
To only serve till Christmas time comes round.
Paul Freeman
Pause awhile in this remote locale,
Where seagulls cry and gannets dip and soar,
To catch a glimpse of Suffolk’s Taj Mahal
Nestling on this shifting shingle shore.
Where samphire, campion and sea-kale grow
Upon a windswept coast, by waves embraced,
All bathers will be cradled in the flow
Of currents, gently warmed by nuclear waste.
Built on well-loved paths where once we roamed
Amidst the salt scent carried on the breeze,
Proudly the concrete structure stands, white-domed,
A pristine palace, where there once were trees.
Within this haven of tranquillity
What lies ahead? The gift of Sizewell C.
Sylvia Fairley
Your soul-conveying eyes hold me in thrall;
My love abounds. If I could speak at all,
I’d praise you, lustrous hair to dainty toes,
The shimmy in those hips, your regal nose,
Even the blush such praise is wont to bring,
The way your presence heightens everything.
I could and should go on, yet I stand mute.
Your so expressive lips, your bottom, cute,
Though seared indelibly upon my loving list,
Unspoken go, since Fate supplies this twist:
Addressing you, I must – I blush for shame –
Frank all my bouquets with your given name.
Gudrun, however, squats ill on the tongue,
Sinking each utterance where it’s begun.
Perhaps I’ll mask with cough or wild applause
The nom d’amour I must say as it’s yours.
Adrian Fry
Your hips sway seductively when you walk,
Your mouth curves up a little when you talk,
Your dreaming eyes are pure pre-Raphaelite,
Your song puts birds to wing in sheer delight.
You tend my needs when ailments lay me low,
Your tears, when fallen, make the flowers grow,
Kindness writes itself upon your features,
And sometimes I see you torture little creatures.
You dance with an elegance that transcends art,
Your charitable work sets you apart,
Your voice compels just like the Sirens’ call,
In short, my love, you truly have it all.
Oh dear, is that a rabbit in your arms?
Just wait and let me speak more of your charms.
Oh lord, please don’t do that creepy humming…
Ugh! Too late. Poor Bright Eyes had it coming.
Joseph Houlihan
No. 3358: Swifties
You are invited to submit a passage in which Gulliver travels to a Taylor Swift concert and recounts his impressions (150 words maximum). Please email entries to competition@spectator.co.uk by midday on 10 July.
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