For Competition 3382 you were invited to write a poem to mark this day, officially the dreariest of the year. (This year, as a few pointed out, it doubles as Inauguration Day. Things can only get better!) Responses ranged from Tracy Davidson’s ‘It’s just a Monday. You’ll be fine’ to Sylvia Fairley’s despairing ‘When will the End of Life bill become law?’ The £25 prizes go to the following.
I never liked the Christmas crowd,
Carolling all and sundry.
A January man, and proud,
My feast day is Blue Monday,
Which I keep rather as a fast,
Doing no holidaying,
I work, like others of the past
Whose debts required paying.
No offices need I perform,
I work all day. Come evening,
I sit home, hopeless, far from warm,
Devout yet unbelieving.
Blue Monday shows life as a swizz,
A doldrum without savour.
I see you know that’s how it is
And keep it likewise, neighbour.
Adrian Fry
The dreary weather, Christmas debt;
those resolutions? – all regret.
You’ve missed by miles each target set.
That’s why it’s ‘blue’.
Your plans for gym’n’jogging shot,
likewise that early-rising slot
to hone your novel’s perfect plot –
all failed by you.
Dry January’s a real mistake –
What’s wrong with drink, for heaven’s sake? –
You need some solace for the ache
from Auld Lang Syne.
This media hype of misery?
Blue Monday’s got no pedigree.
Give it two fingers: we agree.
Uncork some wine.
D.A. Prince
My kingdom for a decent horse!
My life has surely run its course.
Remorse invades me: here’s my soul,
It’s filing for a quick divorce.
The wrapping paper fills the bins,
Soaked in the dregs of flavoured gins –
Begins to feel like asystole,
Unsteady on post-Christmas pins.
The tree’s been tipped, I’ve packed the decs,
And Doom is Imperator Rex –
My specs are rosy-tintless. Bowl
Me no more googlies. It’s a hex,
The New Year letdown, scourge or curse,
That lets the Christmas cheer disperse,
And worse, plays dirty whack-a-mole
With hope. Send me round the hearse!
Bill Greenwell
For I will consider the cat Monday,
For he is a mixture of grumpiness and buggery
After a hairball-hacking big weekend.
For firstly, he knocks over the office coffee pot,
For secondly he pounces upon his mouselike prey,
And nobody escapes his brutishness.
And he sharpens his claws against me,
Using my desk as a litter tray.
For he is an associate of printers and other evils,
Fond of hissing and flea-spreading works,
For he is hated by the overworked and hag-ridden,
And by snarking at him I have found out he spits.
For he is justly maligned.
For the British Mondays are the worst in Europe,
Unless he is a public holiday
In which case I purr in thankfulness.
Janine Beacham
Blue Monday always signalled back-to-school
After the weekend’s free regime of play
What did they teach at school? ‘You will obey’ –
The prison-house of learning’s brutal rule.
One dinnertime I broke out, a rash fool
At large, and found my epiphanic way
To a tabooed half-world jukebox café.
Fats Domino sang ‘Blue Monday’. Fats was ‘cool’.
Now Fats can be revived on global screens:
A charismatic virtual omnipresence
Whose Creole voice, the sound of New Orleans,
Once mellowed the mad hell of adolescence.
Remembering that big black angel means
A reborn touch of youth in my senescence.
Basil Ransome-Davies
A cold coming we had of it,
Through charcoal skies and slush-black nights,
The very dead of winter;
We three wise men – Starmer, Mandelson, Farage –
Travelling from a land of frost and silvery haze
To Washington, where gold adorns the johns
And flags fly blood-red, white and blue.
To honour Him, the orange Lord, Misrule,
To hear his Word, a blur of yellow lies
On this third Monday of this inaugural year.
The faithful cheer – a choir of violet noise –
And wave cerulean banners.
Clamouring in a crush of purple pomp,
Craning for a glimpse of saffron halo.
The day bleeds out in hues of every kind –
And yet they call this Monday blue.
Ralph Goldswain
Shall I compare this to a rotten day?
It is more awful and more terrible.
The sky, the food, my face, my soul – all grey;
The accidie is near unbearable.
Reminders of excess come thick and fast –
An Amex bill lands thudding on the mat;
I stand upon the scales and gaze, aghast,
As numbers merge to say ‘By God you’re FAT.’
‘Blue Monday’ is the third that comes in Jan;
It sees our spirits reach their lowest ebb.
Fight hard, and tell your inner man
‘We’ve only got to make it through to Feb’ –
For Tuesday brings a snowdrop’s brilliant white,
The first great portent of the life, the light.
Tom Adam
No. 3385: It’s a match
You are invited to submit a passage in which one well-known character from literature goes on a date with another (150 words maximum). Please email entries to competition@spectator.co.uk by midday on 29 January.
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