The Vision

It flashed like a meteor above the plains,
alighted near the brook at break of day,
flustered a flock of geese, which flapped away,
and left Hank staring from his porch. Loud stains
fading before his eyes, he rose. Joint pains
made walking stiff. He hollered, “Hurry, May,
they’re back!” The breeze was busily at play
tickling tufts of grass sporadic rains
left brittle. “Honey, let’s hope to heaven it leaves
with us on board this time around.” The sun’s
cool morning rays lit up the cows and sheaves
as they hobbled toward the vision. In a breath
the field was bare. (The limpid brook still runs
beyond the house, as safe as they from death.)

Having spent far too long concocting an indifferent bouts thingummies about a bearded lady I think I may have hit on an easier, though probably not better, way of dealing with the problem. But since it took less than ten minutes to write -- That long? I hear you say -- it does mean that I can get back to my life at last.

Sod Keats

Find a line to end in “plains.”
Damn! No rhymed couplet. Next comes “day.”
Good! Couplet after all -- “away.”
Back to opening line rhyme -- “stains.”
Easy-peasy. next it’s “pains.”
Back to rhyme scheme b with “May”
Followed rapidly by “play.”
Now we’re back to a with “rains.”
Awkward sod, his next is “leaves.”
Bloody hell! And now it’s “suns.”
Thank God, a rhyme again with “sheaves.”
Tricky bugger! Here comes “breath.”
At last! A rhyme for “suns” with “runs.”
I’m done for, Keats. I welcome “death.”

Doin't feel too badly about the ten minutes, Martin. We all slow down with age.

Ooo, Martin, you little cheat! :p

It made me laugh -- but it had better not win!!!! ;)

Jayne

Jayne, I might just go with my bearded lady instead -- now marginally less unattractive with only a moustache! But I am keeping her under wraps at present

But I may not bother at all. Though I once won a bottle of their whisky I have only seldom tried the Oldie comp. of which I am no great fan. The odds against winning are very long with only four being published, and quite often I am surprised, puzzled and rather disappointed by them. Plus, I already have a fat dictionary.

Anyway, I hate bouts whatsits. Plus, as the apparent expert, you are probably hatching a clutch of potential winners!

Quite right too - you wouldn't want to frighten the horses or give small children nightmares.
Exactly what I often feel about not only the Oldie, but also The New Statesman, The Spectator and above all The Literary Review R.I.P. (present company excepted, of course).

You must have been feeding it too many words.

Music in the Thirtieth Century

The canyons and the mountains and the plains
of lilting melody once made your day
as bright as phlox, an age that’s passed away.
This thirtieth-century gibberish so stains
your nerves with noise and generates such pains
deep in your ears, you feel as though you may
go mad. You long to hear musicians play
the dulcimers which call to mind the rain’s
light peaceful droplets pinging on the leaves
and viols that sound like thrushes in the sun’s
caress. Where are the symphonists with their sheaves
of tunes for flutes and horns in need of breath?
The colorless cosmic background hum that runs
through space is a harp in contrast to this death!

But Martin (P), there are only four, occasionally five, poems published in The Spectator and I'd say there are far more entries to that than to The Oldie competition. Same goes (or went) for The Literary Review : only four or so winners, one of whom was frequently you, as I recall! :rolleyes:

"Plus, as the apparent expert, you are probably hatching a clutch of potential winners!"

I wish! But nay, not so; I'm not the "apparent expert" just because I've won the bouts rimés twice - it was ELEVEN and then SEVEN years ago! - and I've submitted just the one entry this time.

Good luck with your bearded lady, and if you win another fat dictionary that you don't want, would you very kindly donate it to me, please? :)

Jayne

Jayne, I think you will find that the Spectator normally has six winners. It also has a much bigger readership than the Oldie which,alone, i reckon makes it a more worthwhile competition to enter.

The Lit. Rev. was worth winning on the grounds of kudos alone -- notwithstanding that it normally published only four poems. I got lucky. Some reckon that it was the nature of my stuff that induced the Sponsor's withdrawal! Is there any news of any sort of replacement comp?

My feeling is that all competitions need more frequent changes of Judges. If this happens at the Oldie before their next copy date I might give my now-only-moustachioed lady a run. But she needs a bit of a trim first.

My Brother Bob

I’ve never known a fellow who complains
as much as does my brother Bob. Each day
he blathers so, I want to run away.
He walks a lot, though hardly eats, abstains
from fish and milk and meat, and yet the pains
he claims attack his gut he worries may
be signs of something grave; and then the play
he labels life — in which the vernal rains
rally the spring peepers, and the leaves
furnish oxygen, and summer suns
stir the birds — will blow away like sheaves
of newsprint in a gale. With every breath
he utters, I grow weaker. Yet he runs
his mouth as if he longs to see my death.