Competition 3438 was inspired by the 1986 film Clockwise, in which John Cleese is constantly impeded in his attempt to get to the headmasters’ conference to make a speech. ‘It’s not the despair, Laura. I can stand the despair. It’s the hope!’ he wails to a pupil at one point. There were lots of A+ entries, but the £25 voucher prizes go to those below.
Oh what is life if, full of care,
We have no time for bleak despair?
No time for wallowing in gloom,
To tap and scroll our looming doom;
To hail the mounted quaint quartet,
Pale, baleful on their steeds all set,
Apocalyptic cavaliers,
Piaffing through our Vale of Tears?
Abandon Hope unto the end!
Hope’s an imposter, a false friend!
Hope is but a cruel deceit
That robs us of our sorrow sweet.
A poor life this if, duped by Hope
We have no time to moan and mope –
So no, Pandora. Shut that jar!
Your last is but a gift too far.
David Silverman
A total no-brainer, I can’t put it plainer:
You know where you stand with Despair;
She won’t suffer fools, always plays by the rules,
Fair and square,
Whereas Hope is a con, you can ask anyone,
It’s the gig that will see us all out,
No ifs and no buts; it goes straight for the guts,
Have no doubt…
The time’s out of joint, makes me think: what’s the point
Any more, as I ready the rope.
It’s not the despair, I can stand the despair,
It’s the hope.
Mike Morrison
Hope is the thing with feathers
(thanks, Emily, for the thought):
something that flies, that lifts the soul –
a winged, sky-focused sort
of light and airy creature
that nurtures human hearts
and keeps our spirits buoyant,
that welcomes Cupid’s darts.
But Hope is frail, hostage to Chance,
and hard to keep alive
when winter storms and global news
contrive to crush its drive,
keeping it earthbound, struggling
to get up off the mat.
Hope is the thing with feathers
that’s ambushed by the cat.
D.A. Prince
They started with only hope, that’s all,
With no plans, those simple souls.
The old hands said, ‘That’s not enough!
Do Gantt charts, spreadsheets – all that stuff,
And write down all your goals.’
They said, ‘Don’t fret. Hope’s all we need
And with just our hope we shall succeed
The old hands cried, ‘You must have planned.
If you don’t you won’t reach your promised land.
You can’t just rely on hope.’
In their minds, in their hearts,
They had hope, but were unwise men.
They navigated without charts
And they never were seen again.
David Blakey
Hope, the pesky blighter,
That optimistic fiend,
Is perching in my soul again,
With perky feathers preened.
It warbles, ‘Keep your chin up,
Seek castles in the air’ –
I much prefer the ‘Nevermore!’
Of raven-beaked Despair.
Myth’s Grecian twit, Pandora,
Loosed everything but Hope,
That chirpy, cheery, endless sod;
Dear Lord, I cannot cope.
Despair I know and suffer,
It’s brutal, but unchanged,
While Hope, that carrot dangling,
Is driving me deranged.
Janine Beacham
Each Friday when I hear the post –
Spectator time! I bolt my toast
And gulp my tea and start to hope…
I turn the page – it’s not there, nope.
I thought I’d been original,
And funny too, subliminal –
Allusions here, suggestions there,
But writing’s such a strange affair.
I had some wins a while ago,
But nothing since. That hopeful glow
Turned to despair – I’m used to that.
I’d like to scream or kick the cat,
But that’s not me; I’m kind to snails,
I feed the birds and save the whales.
As time goes by I’ve learned to cope,
Despair’s my friend. But not the hope…
Elizabeth Kay
‘Come live with me and be my love,’
I cried in wild elation
To one who was, in truth, above
My mean and lowly station.
‘Live with you? No fear!’ said she,
‘The very thought’s alarming.
Despite your warmth and bonhomie
You’ll never be Prince Charming.’
My hope then turned into despair
Yet with despair I’m coping,
Despair’s a state that I can bear
More easily than hoping.
On sweet despair you can depend,
When life becomes disjointed;
Best hope for nothing then, my friend,
You won’t be disappointed!
Alan Millard
No. 3441: Budding poets
‘The trees are coming into leaf/ Like something almost being said’. It might be a little premature, but you are invited to use the opening line or lines of Larkin’s poem as a starting point for your own (16 lines maximum). Please email entries to competition@spectator.co.uk by 11 March.
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