Congratulations to our Annie (who shoulda won, I reckon!) and to Jerome. And Bazza got a mensh as G M Davis. Well done all of you.
I think it’s a pity the winning poem isn’t punctuated properly. And fined/find as a rhyme? Hmmm...
The next comp is for prose (see new thread)
Jayne
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxThe Oldie Competition
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxby Tessa Castro
For Competition no 182 we had a huge response to the invitation to write a poem called ‘Running for the Bus’. Eileen Gladstone spoke for many by saying that now she’s old and cannot run, she does not give a hoot, because the bloody company has axed her local route. Michael Birt shared a widespread resentment against drivers who accelerate away from runners: ‘I wonder if he’s genuine / Or just an incubus.’
David McCullough made his poetic narrative describe a sponsored run to buy a school minibus. Bevis Hillier rued the disappearance of open-platform buses: ‘The po-faced ’Ealth and Safety sealers / Were fun and joie-de-vivre stealers.’ The Rev Robin Harger began with an Eliot/Andrewes parody: ‘A raw running I had of it.’ G M Davis noted that running for the bus is illegal in North Korea.
Commiserations to them and congratulations to those printed below, each of whom wins £25, with the bonus prize of a Chambers Biographical Dictionary going to front-runner Jim Bartholomew.
Why does it feel as if I’m always running for the bus?
Why can’t I lead a simpler life devoid of all this fuss?
Another meeting looms at work for which I’m unprepared
I should display my confidence, instead I’m slightly scared
My tax return is overdue, I’m certain to be fined
But it depends on documents that sadly I can’t find
The weeds control my flower beds, the grass is inches deep
Around the house the jobs pile up and all I want is sleep
Each night in bed I fret about the things I haven’t done
As deadline after deadline sucks my life of any fun
I mean to be more organised, and practise self-control
But good intentions by themselves won’t dig me out this hole
A leopard cannot change its spots, the course is set for us
Somehow I’m destined to be always running for the bus.
Jim Bartholomew
Bus-pass in hand, O lord, I humbly wait
for one to come which may be gone or late.
I wait in faith, because I am unable
to understand the vandalised timetable.
Hunched in the doorway of the betting shop,
I wait for bus to come or rain to stop.
Between two possibilities I stand,
ready to dash for either on command.
I watch the top of Church Street where one’s due
but on the High Street one’s expected too.
My eyes flick, tennis-wise, torn between these
points of my notional isosceles.
Lord, when the moment comes that I must choose,
add Thy bright wings to orthopaedic shoes,
shrinking the distances that stretch between
Thy servant and E3 or X15.
Ann Drysdale
Great, hulking, number fourteen bus,
To chase would be ridiculous
On ageing feet.
Best let you pull away from us
Down Gower Street
– Then stand outside the UCL
Where students, gathered there as well,
Like us, contrive
To wait, not rush at life pell mell,
But let it arrive.
Their unconcern would seem to say,
‘What comes can either go or stay.’
We, though, insist
That lives, themselves, can get away
Like buses missed.
John Robinson
I’ve had a life that some would call a bore,
And not been places people all discuss.
Now years feel shorter than they did before
Should I at last start running for the bus?
I wonder if they really liked the ride?
Perhaps the others are half-envious
Of those who calmly watched and stood aside
As they were busy running for the bus?
The bus? Where to? Which one is right or wrong?
Sex, drugs and what you will? Too dangerous!
I’d hardly stay the course for very long,
These days, if I tried running for the bus.
One scheduled service nobody will miss,
Delays en route no minus but a plus.
When it arrives, we are assured of this,
There will be no more running for the bus.
Jerome Betts