In Competition No. 3241, you were invited to submit a spring triolet.
Banjo Paterson, the bard of the bush, had this to say about the triolet in 1894:
Of all the sickly forms of verse, Commend me to the triolet.It makes bad writers somewhat worse: Of all the sickly forms of verse…
But this challenge produced a funny, poignant and thoroughly robust entry full of unforced artistry. The winners take £12.
Now is the time to glorify What will not break the human heart. As Flora’s ethos lights the sky, Now is the time to glorify What’s truthful, suffocate the lie. All wars and tragedies apart, Now is the time to glorify What will not break the human heart. Basil Ransome-Davies
One needs a heart as hard as stone to stand up to the hand of fate. To face the future all alone, one needs a heart as hard as stone. He died in March; I softly moan that his new epithet is ‘late’. One needs a heart as hard as stone to stand up to the hand of fate. Dorothy Pope
The lion and the lamb compete And no one’s certain what to wear We’ll either freeze or wilt from heat. The lion and the lamb compete, One day a trial, the next a treat, In spring we’re neither here nor there. The lion and the lamb compete And no one’s certain what to wear. Alan Millard
This Spring, again, the slugs and snails Are eager for their vernal feast. I’ve baited traps with beers and ales This Spring. Again, the slugs and snails Just lap it up; my method fails To kill a single drunken beast. This Spring, again, the slugs and snails Are eager for their vernal feast. Brian Allgar
Where are the songs of spring this year, The songs of love, rebirth and laughter? We ask each morning, with a tear, Where are the songs of spring this year? Across the world burst buds of fear; We’ll sample peace in the hereafter. Where are the songs of spring this year, The songs of love, rebirth and laughter? Frank McDonald
Spring is surely on the way When darkness bows before the light. People seeing, smile and say, ‘Spring is surely on the way.’ Fresh colours flourish day by day With delicate, pervasive might. Spring is surely on the way When darkness bows before the light. W.J. Webster
Every spring I quite forget that this is just a ritual. The warmth performs its show, and yet every spring I quite forget that spring is how a trap gets set. My folly is habitual. Every spring I quite forget that this is just a ritual. Robert Schechter
‘Shall I compare thee to a Springtime day?’ Well, frankly, Will, I’d rather you did not. It isn’t very flattering to say ‘Shall I compare thee to a Springtime day?’ Just look outside – it’s miserable and grey, And unlike Spring, I like to think I’m hot. ‘Shall I compare thee to a Springtime day?’ Well, frankly, Will, I’d rather you did not. Nicholas Holbrook
The sky would never be as blue as cobalt days of lockdown spring and as the breathless evil grew the sky would never be as blue the lapwings and the turbines knew a twenty/twenty foresight thing the sky would never be as blue as cobalt days of lockdown spring Nick MacKinnon
The celandines defy the cold March breeze With glossy petals glowing in the sun. Gold sprigs the green beneath still leafless trees. The celandines defy the cold March breeze, In sheltered corners tempting early bees. As if to prove that spring has now begun The celandines defy the cold March breeze With glossy petals glowing in the sun. Jerome Betts
When spring arrives we must give thanks For trees that burst to flower and leaf. For crowds of primroses on banks. When spring arrives we must give thanks For nature’s kindness as the ranks Of evil press, its calm relief. When spring arrives we must give thanks For trees that burst to flower and leaf. Katie Mallett
I tried to write a triolet about my love of spring and found I had but this to say: ‘I tried to write a triolet in praise of April, June and May but ended up just blathering “I tried to write a triolet about my love of spring.”’ Roger Slater
No. 3244: worse verse
Bono’s Ukraine-themed poem for St Patrick’s Day has been dubbed ‘the worst poem ever written’. You are invited to submit a poem to mark St George’s Day (not necessarily with a topical theme) that rivals it in awfulness. Email entries (16 lines max.) to lucy@spectator.co.uk by midday on 6 April.
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