Threesome

In Competition No. 2918 you were invited to submit a poem composed entirely of three-letter words.

‘This is the most difficult comp you have set and has driven me mad!’ said Adrian Fry. It was a nasty assignment, I admit, but it could have been so much worse. Take John Fuller’s wonderful poem ‘The Kiss’: not only is it made up entirely of three-letter words; it also has three words per line in three three-line stanzas.

Given the potentially dispiriting technical nature of the challenge, I was surprised by both the number of entries and the standard (high). There was a lot of skill and wit on show and it was unusually difficult to separate submissions into winners and losers. I very much admired Frank Upton’s translation of Shakespeare’s Sonnet 18 into three-letter words; there was nice work, too, from Chris O’Carroll, Julie Steiner, Bill Greenwell, Sylvia Fairley, John Martin, David Silverman, Max Ross, Gerda Roper and Nicholas Hodgson.

The prize-winners, printed below, are rewarded with a very well deserved £25 apiece. W.J. Webster pockets this week’s extra fiver.

The sea was low, its hue
Now all but dun;
Fog hid the far off bay,
Hid, too, the sun.
The old man sat and saw
The wan day dim;
His eye was dry but all
Was sad for him.
For joy had met its end:
His lot was rue.
The sea hut tea was set
For one, not two.
W.J. Webster

The day Tom Pow saw Liz, his old mum die
Low fog had put its sad arm o’er the sea;
Sad was the dew o’er fen and bog and lea,
Sad was the sun and sad too was the sky.
All saw him sit, all saw how Tom did cry
For her who was his joy. His gem was she.
She was the air for him, his law, his key;
All saw him sob; yes, sob and ask God why.

But who can ask his God for why and how?
Why did our God let Eve sip sin and fun?
God did not aid Tom Pow — it’s not His way —But all saw Tom get ill and beg and bow.
The day Liz met her God Tom got his gun.
And why did God not aid him? Who can say?
Frank McDonald

Gin, pot and sex?
You bet. Why not?
The day was mad
And sad, all rot:
Too wet the sea,
Too wan the sun,

Too hot the air,
Too dim the pun,
Too big the job,
Too far the pub,
Too old the gag,
Too raw the rub.
Too bad, but now
The joy and fun
For two who rut
Can run and run.
Basil Ransome-Davies

Yes, man may own his dog, his car,
But not the sky, the sea, the air;
Men buy and cut ash, elm and yew,
Hew, log and use old oak, box, fir.
Men err: few see and get the cue.

For all are kin but not all win:
Far off, see Leo, yon big cat,
Too old for sex, now let him die,
His day has run, his cub has won —
Can you, can any man say why?

Our day may run, our sun may set
And dye the sky raw red, its hue
Fog hid, dim lit; let sad old age
Cry out ‘Lay off, not yet, not yet!’
Has god now set our due end too?
Alanna Blake

Sob not nor rue
The odd sad day
But aim for joy,
Too few are gay;
Too oft has woe
Her own way had
And men cut low
Are far too sad;
Dab not thy eye
And cry you not,
Ask not for aid
Nor rue thy lot;
The old can ail,
Yea, ail they may,
Aim you for joy
And win the day.
Alan Millard

Big Sal set off for tea,
‘Yes, eat all you can see…’
She did; she was not shy
And tho’ the pie was dry,
The cod was off, but hey!
Our Sal did not say ‘nay’.

The hot pot was too hot
But Big Sal ate the lot.
The pud, too big for one,
She ate; nor did she run,
For she was fat, not fit,
And all she did was sit.

‘The sea…’ (the day was hot),
Her cry ‘I’ll dip, why not?’
Two ton, she was ill met,
The end was sad and wet.
Sylvia Fairley

No 2921: Fictihew

You are invited to submit clerihews for fictional characters. Please email entries (up to three each), wherever possible, to lucy@spectator.co.uk by midday on 21 October.