Oldie New Competition
 

I agree with Tessa (whom I picture as Jane Russell with glasses) that Longfellow's sonorously empty rhymes affected all the competitors here except the overall winner. Still, I was the most sonorous and empty of them all so I pocket my twenty five quid with aplomb. Bad luck on Bazza but you can't buck an intellectual Jane Russell.


COMPETITION NO 137
In the Tate is Michael Andrews's A Man Who Suddenly Fell Over (1952). We do it all the time as children but take it more seriously in older age. So a poem, please, on anything the title will fit, called The Fall. Maximum 16 lines. Entries to 'Competition 137. email (comps@theoldie.co.uk) by 6 May. Don’t forget to include your postal address.

Congratulations on yet another Oldie win, John, and to Bazza for his HM.

I'm off to The Oldie lunch on Tuesday - yippee!

yes indeed...
 

Well done, John, a sparky poem. Hon menches I disdain.

It's like a kiss on the cheek from your sister -- not a bad thing exactly, but not what you came to the party for. To the pecked and the paid alike, congratulations.

The two of you can afford to hold out for a win, Chris, but how about the rest of us? Where's the honor in not being mentioned?

To answer my own question, I guess the honor lies in being able to tell oneself that the damn judge never even read my entry to begin with, or else it surely would have won. A mention tells you that attention was paid and your entry was ultimately found lacking.

[quote=John Whitworth;193369]. We do it all the time as children but take it more seriously in older age.

But of course when you are young you simply fall. When you are aged, you 'have a fall'.

No, Bob, you have to view it that a mention tells you that attention was paid and your entry was found to be pretty darn good but not QUITE as good as the winners.

Easy to say, from an eternal optimist...my glass is always FULL, not half full :D

This was a villanelle once. I think it's better this way.

The Fall

He went before to burn in Hell.
He drooped and dropped and then he died.
The good Lord smote him in his pride,
Pride comes before a fall. He fell,

With dancing devils to abide,
In everlasting fires to dwell.
Being left with nothing else to sell.
He sold his soul. At least he tried,

The moving finger moves to spell
Naught for your comfort is supplied
And nowhere else is left to hide.
The Wrath of God was loosed pell-mell.

It’s hot in there. It’s cold outside.
He left a charred and sooty smell.
He went before to burn in Hell.
He drooped and dropped and then he died.

THE FALL

I once was up,
but down I fell.
I guess I do not
balance well,

or something made me
trip and fall.
A roller skate?
A rubber ball?

But now I've learned,
to my surprise,
I like it here.
Why should I rise?

Standing up
was such a bore!
I plan to stay here
on the floor.

Such poise, Roger!