Lucy Vickery

Spectator competition winners: Adlestrop revisited (Yes. I remember Germolene…)

Spectator competition winners: Adlestrop revisited (Yes. I remember Germolene…)
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The latest challenge, to submit a poem beginning ‘Yes. I remember…’, was suggested by a reader who was very taken with Adrian Bailey’s poem ‘First Love’, a clever riff on Edward Thomas’s much-loved ‘Adlestrop’, published recently in this magazine.

The winners, in an entry that provided a bracing blast of new year nostalgia, earn £25 each.

D.A. Prince

Yes, I remember Germolene —

the densely-pink tinned-salmon hue,

its smell, round tin, unwonted gloss

like warm and antiseptic glue.

It soothed each graze from roller skates.

Those tumbles from the playground swings? —

anaesthetised. It smelt of care,

did Germolene. And other things.

One of the family: its strength

was ways to cure and keep us cleaner,

and one imaginary friend

(my sister’s) was called Germolena.

All through the bumps of growing up

its company has meant we thrive as

the not-too-scarred or wound-marked ones

but truly what we are: survivors.

Chris O’Carroll

Yes. I remember Superman,

Originally called Kal-El,

A hero from another world

Who served Earth’s human family well.

Our yellow sun endowed him with

Great strength and speed. Plus, he could fly.

No gun or bomb could injure him.

He beamed a heat ray from each eye.

His native world blew up. Its shards

Became a lethal green debris

That weakened him and pained him with

The spectre of mortality.

We lack his powers, but this truth

He learned is one we also know:

Some fragments from our origin

Will find us everywhere we go.

Robert Schechter

Yes. I remember Whathisname.

His eyes were blue, or maybe brown.

He always wore a cheerful look,

Or was that look a mournful frown?

He used to chatter on non-stop,

But wait . . .was he the silent one?

The time I used to spend with him

Was boring, right? Or was it fun?

I do recall as clear as day

I loaned him twenty quid and he

Never paid me back. But wait.

He might have loaned the quid to me.

How’s he doing? Is he dead?

Does he remember me as well?

Please pass on my fond regards.

Or tell him I said go to hell.

Paul Freeman

Yes. I remember Viking One.

It orbited the planet Mars,

That stepping stone beyond the moon

Which marks our highway to the stars.

The planet’s breathless atmosphere

Stirred up a storm, and from it thrust

Volcanic craters, dodo-dead,

Like rubies in a band of dust.

The orbiter snapped photographs

Of Martian moons, two tiny rocks,

And once the air had cleared, deployed

A landing craft, which took its knocks

To win a plot of soil upon

Another world. Then via a link

Of electronic wizardry

Showed alien skies of salmon pink.

Nicholas Hodgson

Yes. I remember Paddington —

The name. It was the final stop,

That late June day, of the express

From Worcester, via Adlestrop.

Harassed commuters strained to catch

The tannoy cheerfully declare

A platform alteration here,

Another cancellation there.

And on that afternoon of heat

Each person’s temper seemed to fray;

They jostled, pushed, impatient, rude,

Worn down by the oppressive day.

This torrid place was Paddington —

But it did not provoke despair:

The name’s shared with a kinder friend,

A small, polite, well-meaning bear.

Basil Ransome-Davies

Yes, I remember Carry Ons

Their stone predictability,

The stockings and suspender belts,

The deathless pun on ‘infamy’.

Here, innuendo found a home

Admitting any tired cliché,

A non-exclusive policy

That fit the taste of yesterday.

Politically incorrect, although

Less odious than infantile.

The ribaldry was rather tame —

Naughty-naughty, English-style.

The principals may now be ghosts,

But not in cinematic Hell.

‘Ironically’ or otherwise,

Online, complete box sets still sell.

Your next challenge, a nod to the recent film version of Cats, is to submit a poem featuring one of T.S. Eliot’s feline creations getting to grips with the modern world, e.g. Skimble-shanks the Railway Cat rides HS2. Please email entries of up to 16 lines to lucy@spectator.co.uk by midday on 29 January.