For Competition 3463 you were invited to submit an acrostic poem in the style of a well-known poet, the first letters of each line spelling out the poet’s name.
Initials were allowed but I disqualified diminutives such as Will and Bill for Wordsworth and McGonagall. In a medium-sized, accomplished entry, Elizabeth Kay, Richard Warren, Bob Newman, J.R. Johnson and Mike Gower stood out. The £25 John Lewis vouchers go to those entries printed below, led by Basil Ransome-Davies’s twist on Empson’s ‘Just a Smack at Auden’.
Shall we cop a plea, guys, eager for a part,
Idle but not free, guys, waiting for a start,
Riding for a spree, guys, on a rubbish cart?
We can’t wait and see, guys,waiting for a start.
I go with the mob, guys, perish books and art.
Let us sack and rob, guys, waiting for a start.
Looking for a job, guys, isn’t worth a fart.
I’d rather be a slob, guys, waiting for a start.
At night I haunt the bars, guys, looking for a tart,
Music’s jazz guitars, guys, waiting for a start.
Emulating stars, guys, Eastwood or Bogart,
Macho man from Mars, guys, waiting for a start.
Perhaps my tale is hoary, guys, as a speech by Spart.
Some of it is gory, guys, waiting for a start,
Or parts are downright whorey, guys, with a golden heart.
Now to sell my story, guys, waiting for a start.
Basil Ransome-Davies
Piss poor, old and getting older,
Heavy from bad grub and booze,
I feel, like some returning soldier,
Left behind to croak the blues.
Inch-thick specs leave me myopic,
Poems dwindle down to stumps,
Lust abides, though it’s entropic,
A beast of two arthritic humps.
Remorse for pleasure left untaken,
Kicks the self just where it hurts.
I’ll swill Scotch with egg and bacon,
Nod in Death and call the Nurse.
Adrian Fry
Another summer passes,
Each lily fades, each rose.
High grass is brittle tinder,
On mournful feet Time goes
Until the annals close.
So runs the human story,
Man’s mettle turned to rust,
And pride lies down with glory
Neglected in the dust.
D.A. Prince
And as a suitor I withdraw,
No yearning now, I feel no more
Desire, your virtue is a fault
Retained within that marble vault –
Enjoying many a buxom maid
With aspirations to get laid
May bring me all that I have missed,
A pleasure that I’ll ne’er resist:
Revelling upon the hay,
Vegetable love’s the way
Embracing yet my five-a-day.
Lady, dost thou understand,
Love is free, can ne’er be banned.
Sylvia Fairley
Mish mash mosh
Ish ash osh
Cauli in the brolly
Holly in the squash
Aunty getting cranky
Every time she spots
Loafers on the sofa
Rattling the pots
Our house is heaving happily
Sitting round the telly
Everybody gobbling
Nuts and sweets and jelly
James Bench-Capon
Joan Hunter Dunn was the girl of my choice,
Oh, how her loveliness shone,
Her heavenly grace and the chime of her voice
Night and day I would marvel upon.
But dream as I might that one day she’d be mine
Engaged we were never to be,
Though I gazed on her face and her movements divine
Joan never once gazed upon me.
Even now, looking back on the Aldershot sun,
My muse in mind’s eye I see,
And imagine myself with Miss J. Hunter Dunn
Nestling here in the Hillman with me.
Alan Millard
Octopi look unappetising
Given which it’s not surprising
Disgust is the emotion that I view them with,
Extreme revulsion being what I chew them with.
No octopus, I’m certain, ever revelled in its killing
Nor agreed to being willing to garlicking and grilling.
And since there are suggestions that all octopi
Show signs of an intelligence to rival you and I
How about we give non-sentient alternatives a try?
Martin Parker
William Topaz’s famed verse does unfold
To pathos that makes one’s blood run cold,
Ode to a tragic 1879 demise,
Passengers suffering a sad surprise,
As a happy New Year they would not see,
Zealous Boreas sending catastrophe,
Most humble poet, whose well-known lay
Commemorates the bridge of the silvery Tay,
Gone down, alas, when the Storm Fiend said
On the Sabbath day, ‘ninety will soon be dead.’
Not to be forgotten for a very long time,
As girders gave way, so he told in rhyme.
‘Good heavens’, the people cried of the Tay,
And he, the Bard of Dundee did say
Loss of life was great, and when people build,
Look to this lesson, so they won’t be killed.
Janine Beacham
No. 3466: Hard times
You are invited to submit a short story with a topical theme written in the style of hardboiled crime fiction. Please email entries (maximum 150 words) to competition@spectator.co.uk by midday on 2 September.
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