Basil Ransome-Davies Winter breathes hope, and not of spring alone. Ergo, my resolution is to be A newborn optimist — no more for me Recrimination, fear or that sour tone Envious lefties put on to disown And scorn our heritage so viciously. Let me commit to Britain, proud and free, Loyal and chin-up, British to the bone. Despite Remainers’ carping I feel sure Of future benefits beyond compare. Our splendid isolation bids to win More profit than belonging could procure. Excessive questioning incites despair; Doubt is the treacherous enemy within.
John Whitworth This is the year I’ll live my dream. I’ll sail a cardboard quinquereme Across the waters of the Humber. I’ll teach a sheep to dance the rumba.
I’ll paint my genitals magenta And be an acid rock presenter. I’ll build an igloo out of piss And live inside the edifice.
I’ll put the hamster through the blender And burn my neighbour’s hacienda To build a pyramid of ash. All this I will not do for cash
But for the kind of modern art That oversets the applecart. So it will come as no surprise When I obtain the Turner Prize.
Bill Greenwell When the nights are filled with storm When the rain assaults the eaves Or when the sun dries up the corn And burns the local stooks and sheaves
When the snowmageddon ploughs Conk out on the carriageways When wind rips off the boughs When caught out by fog or haze
When the crops begin to fail When the rivers burst with mud When we take our broken pails To the standpipes in the flood
And though I may be tempted hard By tabloid fonts that yell together From my lips let there be barred The subject of inclement weather.
Robert Schechter May I, in the coming year, find ways to overcome my fear of living for twelve months once more the same life that I lived before
and feeling I must list my flaws and deal with them in new-made laws to take effect on New Year’s Day. Rather, I resolve to stay
the person I already am while trying not to give a damn it’s not exactly who I’d be if I could choose a different me.
Isn’t life to be enjoyed? And so this year I will avoid all promises that may involve determination or resolve.
Mike Morrison It came to me the other night, My new year resolution: Pursue a pastime recondite, Become a Rosicrucian!
I love the mystique that attends Arcane fraternities, Debunks, refreshingly upends Cliché modernities.
The ancients’ boundless knowledge, Far superior to ours, Was not acquired at college But by studying the stars.
Such were their skills, they could transmute Base metal into gold; Now Bitcoin, suspect substitute, Exerts its stranglehold.
Brian Allgar My New Year resolutions may seem strange, But here they are: there’ll be no pussy-grabbing, No rabid snarling like a dog with mange, No whining and no incoherent blabbing, No spiteful tweets, no tantrums, and no lies, No golfing trips — I’ll buckle down to work, And if my enemies should criticise, I’ll do my utmost not to go berserk; No fictive claims about Obama’s birth; No childish insults hurled at heads of state; I’ll combat climate change to save the Earth, And hope it’s not already far too late.
I’m glad you like my plan… What’s that you say? ‘Gee, thank you, Mr President!’ You chump! You’re quite mistaken. Get this straight, okay? I’m Brian Allgar, not that moron Trump!
Your next challenge is to provide a poem about passports. Please email entries of up to 16 lines to lucy@spectator.co.uk by midday on 17 January.
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