Lucy Vickery

Spectator competition winners: poems inspired by the Shipping Forecast

The call for poems inspired by the Shipping Forecast drew an entry that was funny, poignant and varied, in both content — cricket, adultery, the choppy waters of Brexit — and form (haiku, sonnet, villanelle…). Life-saver, lullaby, poetic reminder of our maritime heritage, the Shipping Forecast celebrated its 150th anniversary this year. Charlotte Green has described it as the nearest she ever came to reading poetry on air; Carol Ann Duffy ended her poem ‘Prayer’ with the lines ‘Darkness outside. Inside, the radio’s prayer —/ Rockall. Malin. Dogger. Finisterre’; and Seamus Heaney wrote a beautiful sonnet, ‘The Shipping Forecast’. Joe Houlihan’s entry — ‘The general synopsis at 1100/ Shopping trip with spouse, new low expected./ Iceland, Tesco, Aldi/ Fare: good’ — brought to mind the clever Shipping Forecast parodies on David Quantick and Daniel Maier’s Radio 4 sketch show One: ‘And now with the time approaching 5 pm/ It’s time for the mid-life crisis forecast…/Forties; restless: three or four./ Marriage: stale; becoming suffocating.’ Other strong performers, only narrowly pipped to the post by the winners below, were Mike Morrison, Ralph Rochester, Alanna Blake and Brian Allgar. Those that made the cut take £30 each. D.A. Prince snaffles the extra fiver.

D.A. Prince Valentia, my sweetest love, Sandettie’s playing jazz above while we let Ardnamurchan point the Scilly way to light a joint. We’re in our Forties so we know how German Bight can spoil the show; to me your Sole Bay spirit’s dearer than both the kingdoms of Utsire.

My love, Valentia, my dear, your Biscay’s now becoming clear; the Cape Wrath of our youth is past and we are Fastnet bound at last. Let trumpets make the Malin ring and Rockall dance and Dogger swing. We’ll Lundy on without a care until we reach our Finisterre.

Bill Greenwell Nicely-spoken palpitations In the early hours of night: Steadily, like incantations: Fisher, Dogger, German Bight.

As the sleepless settle in To the darkness they patrol, As stealthy as a bedouin: Lundy, Fastnet, Shannon, Sole.

A roll, a schoolboy brotherhood, Uttered to the teacher’s liking — Hoping for the comment, ‘Good’: Rockall, Malin, Bailey, Viking.

Perhaps a tribute to the lost, Now their bitter lives are over — Quietly, their graves embossed: Fitzroy, Biscay, Portland, Dover.

Frank McDonald Do not go gentle to the German Bight Rage, rage and rowing keep the sea at bay; Be like a Viking ready for a fight.

And when you leave the sanctuary of Wight, The waves will thunder, menacingly grey. Do not go gentle to the German Bight.

When Fair Isle tempts and even may excite, Beware the sirens singing far away; Be like a Viking ready for a fight.

Go forth to meet the demons of the night And brave gigantic storms where monsters play; Do not go gentle to the German Bight.

There dragons lurk; a thousand perils invite And mariners unwary always pay. Do not go gentle to the German Bight. Be like a Viking ready for a fight.

Basil Ransome-Davies The Skipper sank another rum and stared into       the night. ‘Is this the Hebrides?’ he asked, ‘Or just the       German Bight?’ The First Mate poured himself a tot and       answered, ‘Don’t ask me, For all I know it’s South Utsire or the Irish Sea.’ 

They summoned up the boatswain, who’d been       at the bootleg gin And suggested ‘South-East Iceland’ with a       disrespectful grin, Then fiddled with the radio as though it were a toy. They tipped the numbskull overboard and called       the cabin boy.

The young lad was a simpleton. He stank of       rotgut wine. No flicker of intelligence, of morals not a sign. He mumbled, ‘Dogger Fisher — either that or       Dover Sole’. He went into the briny with a kind of Western roll.

The Captain and his Number One took equal       turns to pour As wicked winds whipped up the waves and       battered Britain’s shore. Both pissed as newts, they slumbered as the ship       went round and round. You don’t need navigation when you don’t care       where you’re bound.

W.J. Webster The ring of odd and yet familiar names Recited in its stately, settled round Beguiles us as a soothing day’s-end sound Whose litany of states and numbers tames Wild elements with words, and neatly frames In measured lines those forces which, unbound, Can render vessels wrecked and sailors drowned As victims that the challenged ocean claims. For those at night who brave the open sea (Not those prepared for sleep in some quiet       place) The forecast, as an overseeing eye, Keeps watch beyond their own vicinity: They’re tuned to catch the hazards that they       face — Not hear some quaint euphonious lullaby.

Dante Gabriel Rossetti, William Carlos Williams and R.S. Thomas all wrote poems entitled ‘January’. If they did it, so can you. Please email (wherever possible) entries of up to 16 lines to lucy@spectator.co.uk by midday on 3 January.

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