The Oldie Bonfire and Compost
 

Like leaves in Vallambrosa! Comps, comps, comps! Bazza and Bill to the fore again, with me as a runner-up. A very strong entry, it seems to me. I think, since smells are so localized, that non-Brits had little chance here. The new competition is as follows:

Competition No 128

A conversation in verse, please, between the bonfire and the compost heap. Entries to Competition No 128 email comps@theoldie.co.uk by 27 August. Don't forget to include your postal address.

half-hearted stab at a dull subject
 

There are those who burn and those who rot, and I burn big and bright.
I spray the day with fiery heat, I grace the night with light,
My flames and sparks fly up to an exhilarating height:
I crackle like tumultuous applause

But those who simply rot away inspire no warming glows.
No fierce, high energy from them; they only decompose.
The stink of their decaying mulch would make you comatose.
They have no vital spirit. They are bores.

I combat waste by acting with organic savoir-faire.
I breed enriching nutrients from moisture, warmth and air.
Biodegradability's a positive affair,
Renewing life from matter that has died.

For those who burn and blaze away and boast to beat the band
It's only razzmatazz that matters, just like Russell Brand,
But bonfires dwindle and die out, like rivers in the sand,
While compost heaps eternally abide.

Wel, you knpw Bazza that's very good. I couldn't get a handle on this at all, but you inspire me to persevere.

THE BONFIRE AND THE COMPOST HEAP

CH: All the panache is
in compost, not ashes.

B: But you should aim higher.
The future's in fire.

CH: Don't believe rumours.
The future's in humus.

B: The next giant craze is
the making of blazes.

CH: But why bother roasting
instead of composting?

B: Today's kids are learning
the fine art of burning.

Light as air, Roger! Here's mine. A bit too stolid perhaps.

The Bonfire and the Compost Heap

I coruscate and flash.
My consequence is ash.

I brood in quietude.
I am a multitude.

Here, there and everywhere.
I dance as light as air.

I brood. I breathe a breath
Of life, and life in death.

I am the great bow-bender
Who lives and dies in splendour.

The more you fret and shout,
The sooner you go out.

My arrows light the sky.
They purge and purify.

But I remain, in rain
And sun, in sun and rain.

I'm hot.
I burn.
I roil.
I smoulder.
My heart's ablaze.

I rot.
I turn.
I spoil.
I moulder.
My heart decays.

Neat, Roger. This is a hard one. Only you me and Bazza, isn't it? And I'm shot. I can't do no more.

Thanks, John. I've never won an Oldie, so anything to improve the odds.

This one is definitely hard. I'm still not convinced that a bonfire and a compost heap have enough in common to converse meaningfully, so the assignment seems a bit contrived.

I'm wondering if this slightly expanded version (adding four lines) of what I just posted might work, or if I should just stick with the shorter one:

THE BONFIRE AND THE COMPOST HEAP

I'm hot.
I burn.
I roil.
I smoulder.
My heart's ablaze.

I rot.
I turn.
I spoil.
I moulder.
My heart decays.

You're slow.
I'm fast.

You go.
I last.

I just Googled bonfire and compost heaps and saw many pages telling us that bonfire ash makes a good addition to a compost heap, so now I wonder if this is the connection they were going for with this competition. I hope not, since it gives me no ideas.

Most say the earth will end in fire,
some still say ice,
but the ire of many a denier
makes me think they favor fire.
Why argue, though? We won’t die twice.
Besides, with all the stuff we’ve got
I think that less might be as nice,
and hold with those who favor rot—
but not a lot.

Frank

B: Hi, Compo, how are you? I’m glad we had that storm last night;
I’m soaked right through, thank goodness. I’ll be hard to set alight.

CH: I feel much better, thank you, now I don’t smell quite so rank.

B: That’s great to hear, my friend; we both have all that rain to thank.

CH: Don’t worry, Bonny, you’ll be here for ages, I’ve a hunch;
your predecessor stood for months. 'They' are a lazy bunch!

B: I hope you’re right. They hardly ever come to see us both.
It’s been at least a fortnight since I felt the slightest growth.

CH: I don’t know why they have us – but I’m very glad we’ve met.

B: Oh, so am I! ...and may I say... you’re charming when you’re wet.

CH: How kind. The guy before you had a nasty streak, I learned,
and, honestly, I felt a bit relieved when he was burned.

B: I think we’re both quite safe for now, they won’t spread you around
this messy garden. As for me... too muddy on the ground.

CH: Yes, we’re OK; down here’s a good position to be in;
far better than poor lonely, overloaded Wheelie Bin!

I have worms; you've the Phoenix. The adjective scenic’s
applied more to you than to me. (What a bummer!)
I don’t attract dancers, and nobody answers
with “Compost!” when asked how to welcome midsummer.
I’m casteless, you’re Brahmin. We’ve nothing in common
except for our function: we deal with the dead.
Your role? The cremation of thick vegetation.
My purview’s digesting old garbage instead.

Oh, don’t be so modest! Your reign is the broadest:
you’ve colonised every bachelor’s flat.
The effortless ruler of crisper and cooler,
you clearly outrank me, considering that
you form undetected. I must be collected
and lit; you’re spontaneous, even if slow.
Your decomposition needs no one’s volition,
while mine needs a frustrated poet’s, you know.

(Any glaring Americanisms this time? Is "bummer" okay? I was proud of myself for changing "colonized" to "colonised" on my own.)

Two good ones in a row.

Julie, Lucy's a sucker for those long tet lines with internal rhymes, so go ahead and start budgeting how you will spend the prize.

A minor quibble, though, Julie - many compost heaps are full of castings. Brava!

Frank

Yes, Julie gets my vote. Dammit!

Thanks, guys. Frank, I added some worms just for you.

Julie - that's wonderful; it rots off in unexpected directions and made my day.

I get the suspicion that now and then Lucy mutters to herself "let's find something the buggers can't do" - and then you sock her in the eye with this one.

Hard luck, Lucy. Bummer, in fact!