For Competition 3439 you were invited to build an undiscovered poem around a phrase lifted from an earlier poet.
The £25 John Lewis vouchers go to the authors of those entries printed below.
Wee, sleekit, cow’rin, tim’rous? Not at all!
For I, William McGonagall
Do tell the tale of the fearsome monster of Loch Ness
Which many attempt to suppress.And many do scoff and more do mock it
But in the taverns and dwellings of fair Drumnadrochit
Among the proud Highlanders are those who profess
To have set their eyes on the elusive creature of Ness.For in the Year of our Lord Five Hundred and Sixty-five
When the blessèd Saint Columba was very much alive,
It is told that he sighted the magical beastie of Ness –
Though the truth of this legend is anyone’s guess.The mystery remains and who shall unlock it?
The gentle, God-fearing villagers of lowly Drumnadrochit?
Whatever the truth of this, nevertheless
Many curious folk will likely flock to the pleasant Loch of Ness.David Silverman (William McGonagall via Robert Burns)
Our engagement is cancelled. You’ve written, ‘Dear John,
You are far from such stuff as dreams are made on.’
Dear Joan Hunter Dunn, your note I’ve received
Has left me quite calm and even relieved.
For this flat-footed poet who’s useless at sport.
Has had many a similar worrying thought
Those Tennis Club doubles! Me banished to base-lines
Am occupied chiefly with meters and rhymes,
While you with a violence belying your sex
Reduce all opponents to floundering wrecks
And me to the same undignified state
As a male praying mantis awaiting its fate
While watched by the cream of the social élite
Of Camberley, Aldershot, Sandhurst and Fleet.
Of daily mixed doubles and warm lemonade
Plus Tennis Club dances my nightmares are made.Martin Parker (John Betjeman via Shakespeare)
I’ll not go sober through the fading light,
Rave, rave with me, I’ve sensed a fine bouquet
And I will taste no other wine tonight.I raise a glass, the future’s looking bright
And I am drunken deep at close of day,
I’ll not go sober through the fading light.This golden liquid is a welcome sight,
Give me a well-chilled vintage Chardonnay
And I will taste no other wine tonight.Good friends are gathered, eager to unite,
Each one intent on leading me astray,
I’ll not go sober through the fading light.We’ll burn and rave, imbibing all we might
The grape that gives – and drunk with joy I’ll say
I’ll not go sober through the fading light
And I will taste no other wine tonight.Sylvia Fairley (Dylan Thomas via Percy Bysshe Shelley)
‘I wish that I could jump,’ said Pooh,
‘High as the evening star.’
‘Then do some jumps,’ suggested Roo,
‘And each time raise the bar.’‘You’re right!’ said Pooh fired with desire,
‘It’s high jump I shall try,
And, each time leaping ever higher,
I’ll learn to jump sky-high.For hours every day I’ll train
With all my strength and might,
I’ll try and try and try again
Until I get it right.Then one day Roo, as you will see,
I’ll jump both high and far
And be as proud as bears can be
When I have cross’d the bar.’Alan Millard (A.A. Milne via Alfred Lord Tennyson)
Drinking late, sitting late, with my bosom cronies,
Ought to be more fun than solitaire.
Laughing loud, singing loud, sniping down life’s phonies.
Transgressing, we rant and rave and swear.Shouting long, singing long, spouting our baloneys,
Each of us adopts a gargoyle face,
Groaning long, griping long, sighing our if onlys,
My urge for solitude gathers apace.Fighting late, striking late, bellowing at cronies,
Can’t they see I’ve clocked them all for fools?
Living fast, dying fast, each one of us lonelies.
At solitaire, at least, I know the rules.Adrian Fry/Philip Larkin via Charles Lamb
That women are more forgiving,
And men are all for taking,
Seems just a lazy assumption
Quite ready for re-making.
A woman should see men sob,
And not play nurse-wursy;
Should scorn the weeping guy
And be a dame sans merci.
While I do applaud this view,
And know it’s hardly novel,
I must confess in my heart
That I don’t want a man who’ll grovel.
So, is it the answer to care less,
To lie down and not fall for men?
It’s true that I’d then have to bear less,
But could I write sharp verse when Zen?W.J. Webster/Dorothy Parker via John Keats
No. 3442: Departing this life
You are invited to supply the opening of a memoir that would discourage the reader from reading on. Please email entries of up to 150 words to competition@spectator.co.uk by midday on 18 March.
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