Spectator competition winners: taking poetry in new directions

Tennyson’s lines ‘bright and fierce and fickle is the South,/And dark and true and tender is the North’ (from ‘The Princess: O Swallow’) prompted me to ask for poems about either the North or South or one comparing the two. Midlands man John Priestland felt that something was missing:

We know the North is at the top, The South is at the bottom, But isn’t there another part That Lucy has forgotten?

But that didn’t stop the rest of you producing a wide-ranging and exhilarating entry that took me from the bridge table to North Korea and beyond. Impressive contributions from Hamish Wilson, Samantha Skyrme and Ann Drydale were narrowly outflanked by the winners, below, which net their authors £25 each. Frank McDonald pockets £30.

Frank McDonald In the north there’s a fish with a serious wish To break out and be queen of the sea, And she tells all the others we’re sisters and       brothers Who ought to get wise and be free. In her lust for control she looks out for a hole In the barriers keeping her in. With the power of her mouth she discredits the       south As she waves a contemptuous fin. But little she knows of the icebergs and snows That exist in the oceans outside, For her hunger to rule turns a fish to a fool As she waits for a welcoming tide. If there does come a day when she gets her own       way Like the people who hunted the snark, You can bet the poor sole will be swallowed up       whole When she’s first introduced to a shark.

D.A. Prince You’ll know when you get there, the vowels go flat; and people respond ‘Ah know nowt abaht that’. They speak as they find and don’t find much to like. The rain’s in your face and you’re blown off       your bike. It gets darker earlier, the cloud’s always grey and the food is all fried — and in lard, so they say. The Angel (the North one) can’t manage to fly. You watch it for hours. No lift-off, that’s why.

The South’s got no Angel; instead, there’s the pole that’s spoiled Brighton’s sea front and sucked out its soul. There’re too many cars: on a Bank Holiday they’re bumper to bumper on hell’s motorway. A house costs a fortune, the trains are on strike; from London to Brighton it’s quicker to hike. There’s not much between them; you might find       it best if life gives you choices to head for the West.

Robert Schechter If you’re looking for penguins then cancel your visit up north. Though the Arctic is truly exquisite,

with mountainous glaciers and glorious creatures, you won’t find a penguin among its top features.

Although you may think of the penguin as polar, the penguin is purely a South Pole patroller.

So go, find a penguin! But before you set forth, be sure that your compass points south and not north.

Sylvia Smith It’s called ‘The Frozen North’. The term’s       ironic; The seas are rising as the ice is shrinking, And cities, irreplaceable, iconic, Like Venice, year by year are drowning, sinking.

‘It’s just a phase,’ say climate-change deniers, ‘The planet’s bound to find its own solution,’ While greedy corporations fund those liars Whose claims are scientific prostitution.

And further South, they’re killing honey-bees; Without them, there will be no pollination Of flowers, vegetables, or fruiting trees; Our failing crops will lead to mass starvation.

From North to South, our reckless course is       certain: The world is going for a (halli)burton.

G.M. Davis He’s got his facts right, has old Hairy. In September the swallows take wing. They go sub-Saharan for winter And only return in the Spring.

The South, so the laureate whispers, Has the sensual, ‘wanton’ appeal For these annual avian migrants Of a primitive, sexy ideal.

They party like sailors on shore leave In the blistering African sun. While the North suffers blizzards and misery Their winter’s devoted to fun.

Yet they’ll flock to fly back when commanded By an impulse they cannot explain To roost in the darkness of rafters And start the whole cycle again.

Alanna Blake They were husband and wife, True partners for life, And bridge was their game; They both felt the same: That they weren’t at their best When seated East-West. It might be superstition But the North-South position Dealt so often a hand For a slam, small or grand. He was North, in control, To raise bids was her role, Little tiffs when they came Were just par for the game While,with winning at heart, They played on, poles apart.

The BBC once gave ‘Humpty Dumpty’ a more cheerful ending, which got right up the nose of the Campaign Against Political Correctness. Your next challenge is to filter other nursery rhymes through the PC prism. Please email entries of up to 16 lines to lucy@spectator.co.uk by midday on 14 September.