[Jayne Osborn]

Here's a nice competition (I won a different comp two years ago on this topic. I wonder if I can find it... and try it again?)

Jayne


Competition No 203
Tessa Castro

The Olympic bell is too loud to ring, we are told. A poem called ‘The Ring’, please, on bells, bands, boxing, phones or what you will. Maximum 16 lines.
Entries by post (The Oldie, 23-31 Great Titchfield Street, London W1W 7PA) or email comps@theoldie.co.uk – (don’t forget to include your postal address) to ‘Competition No 203 by 27th May.

[Nicholas Stone]

This may be a bit historically obscure, but the Avar hoard really was called the Ring.

The Avars were a Hunnic people,
Fond of war and plunder:
A nomad horde with bow and sword
To rend the foe asunder.

They warred for plundered treasure,
For the glittering of gold.
They'd pillage every village
For as much as they could hold.

They took it to their treasure house:
They took it to The Ring.
That hoard of gold in days of old
Could humble any king.

They fought for every scrap of it
And brought all they could bring.
For treasure was the measure
Of the glory of the Ring.

[Adrian Fry]

Post removed: doggerel.

[John Whitworth]

Nice one Nico. Here's a refurbishment. Phoebe has a poem too, but she's not showing anyone.

The Ring

Softly falling summer evenings,
College windows, hurrying scholars,
Gin and tonic, dreaming boathouse,
Bells of Oxford pealing, pealing,

Ancient buildings softly falling,
Golden scholars, autumn shadows,
Sunshine punting down the chapels,
Bells of Oxford pealing, pealing,

Golden money, stolen kisses,
Crumpled pillows, broken bindings,
Tangled, naked, sunshine children,
Bells of Oxford, pealing, pealing,

Scudding rainclouds, hurrying figures,
Golden children, weeping mirrors,
This year, next year, sometime, no time,
Bells of Oxford pealing, pealing.

[Nicholas Stone]

That's very nice. Like a mezzotint. I stayed for interviews in a room under Tom tower so the pealing is still in my ears. That rhythm! I do like that.

[John Whitworth]

Good God Nico, are you going to the House. Don't do it. Go to Merton. Easier to climb into for a start.

[Nicholas Stone]

I am. Merton sadly seemed too studious for me to get in. I've heard tales of people being flayed with the cat for getting below a first in mods. Besides, I like the idea of bulldogs.

[John Whitworth]

Different in my day. Lots of idle buggers. I belonged to a cricket team called the Fairies which drank a whole lot. I suppose we must have played cricket too.

[Douglas G. Brown]

When I was just a callow youth, and you ... a sweet young thing;
I held it as a simple truth, my chimes you'd always ring.

One nervous day so long ago, my twenty second spring;
I ponied up my hard-earned dough to buy your wedding ring.

I still recall our wedding day, on Uncle Arthur's farm;
We took our first roll in the hay, and how I loved your charm.

The ladder which life is about loomed high when we were young;
United, we set boldly out, ascending rung by rung.

Though now we both are old and gray ... Remember olden times
When we would frolic in the hay? Now, still you ring my chimes.

[Erik Olson]

The bells our floating fortress ring sound rude.
The church’s calmed or fortified the mind,
These make us sailors sprint, and, bravely blind,
Fire the short thunder at planes' altitude.
War cycles from the chime-cued shootout round,
To dear remembrance of blithe marriage bells.
Wind the shrill horn, the twangy anthem swells,
On either side off ocean strafes rebound . . .
I often wish to hear no brass again
That wears your ear and echoes war’s alarms,
But those that sing when sailors meet the arms
Of sweethearts and the shore receives her men.
Bells ring if I get purple blooms and medals,
Or come home bathed with white and mourning petals.