Oldie: Bulbs
 

The Tattooist's Tales were, I thought, very good. Chris O'Carroll, as so often, bore the banner for the Sphere, showing yet again that you don't have to be Brit to win.

The new competition looks a goodie. At least two ways to go.

Competition Number 131
We've planted the bulbs for next Spring. Meanwhile te EU or someone is banning incandescent bulbs in fa\vour of those low-energy things. A poem called 'Bulbs' please. Maximum 16 lines

email comp@theoldie.co.uk by 19 November

Don't forget to include your postal address.

Some of you wanted to know what the tea and cake set comprises, though Bazza already told you. However, I will tell you again

80 tea-bags Taylor's Yorkshire Tea
Two china mugs (rather nice)
Two cakes one ginger and one not ginger.
One large Yorkshire Tea Towel (it would be)

The cake is nice. Haven't tried the tea yet. Yorkshire is the Texas of the UK. Yorkshiremen shoot first and ask questions afterwards. Yorkshire women have biceps of steel. And they drink lots of tea.

I have found a poem I entered unsuccessfully for a Speccie Comp. At least I think it was a Speccie comp. Please tell me if it was an Oldie.

Bulbs

Friend, do not count my counsel vain:
Switch off the current at the main
Lest excess voltage should thee slay;
Timor mortis conturbat me.

And if thou would’st employ a chair,
Take care the chair legs stand foursquare,
Neither to topple nor to sway;
Timor mortis conturbat me.

Unscrew thy bulb with twist too free;
Bulb breaks and bursts an artery.
Thy life’s blood then will gush and spray;
Timor mortis conturbat me.

Follow the wisest course. Perhaps
‘Tis meet to hire a pair of chaps
Who come a week on Saturday;
Timor mortis conturbat me.

Yes, John, you entered this one for The Speccie 'House-keeping' comp; better luck with Tessa!

Thank you, Jayne. I thought it was one of my better efforts and worth a second outing. Meanwhile Fergus Pickering will consider plant bulbs. Hope deferred maketh the heart sick as far as they are concerned. Mice eat bulbs. Garlic and onions are my favourite bulbs. A sonnet in praise of garlic!

John confirms my belief that Yorkshire is the county portrayed in the Britcom "Last of the Summer Wine", in which practically all the men were terrified of all the women.

It turned out not to be a sonnet:

Bulbs

Garlic! Concoction of the French!
It makes us Anglo-Saxons blench,
Vile vegetable running wild,
The blessed onion’s bastard child,
A night companion of the owl,
It turns your breath and morals foul,
Base bulb odiferous, obscene –
What can those foreign fellows mean?

'Banish your potions and your pills.
One clove of garlic cures all ills.
Take one, take two, take three a day
And keep the Evil One at bay.
Garlic refreshes and renews.
Put garlic in your soups and stews.
Put garlic in your casseroles
And save your shrivelled English souls.'

cheap, opportunistic mockery (but the bulbs are crap)
 

When Brussels banned, with solemn hype,
Bulbs of the incandescent type,
The citizens of Euroland
Were firmly led to understand
That eco-friendly light bulbs would
Be unequivocally good.
Yet many opted to dispute
The value of the substitute.
'This bulb,' they'd howl, 'is not worth shit!
It shatters if you look at it,
It costs the earth, and what is more
Our house is darker than before.
Add five percent of mercury.
A green device? I disagree.'
Such critics, whose complaints were not
Acceptable, were quickly shot.

Bazza, I love it. A taste of Belloc, particularly in that last line.

Way to go, Bazza.
Here's a shorty:

Since eco-friendly bulbs moved in
my once bright home is dingy-tinged:
the lamps are bested in their glows
by hubby’s shiny, bulbous nose.
.

Bazza, that's wonderful.

most kind
 

Thank you, Catherine. Chris has tipped me to check out your verse online, which I will duly do.

Probably, I should try to nobble other competitors by not sharing this bit of information. But the better angels of my nature are beating up on the shrewder ones, so here it is. I believe there's a letter missing from the email address you gave, John. The address should start with "comps" rather than just "comp" -- unless I'm indulging in a bit of chicanery to make all your entries vanish into the cyber-void.

Chris, you're right.
In case John hasn't spotted this the address is
comps@theoldie.co.uk and the deadline is November 19th. (Your good-natured act in pointing this out will no doubt be rewarded. What I mean is, you'll probably win! :))

A selfish rant
 

“Compact Fluorescent Lamps” they’re called,
or CFLs, but I’m appalled
that incandescent bulbs are ‘out’;
they’re still the best, without a doubt.
I stock-pile when I see them now,
which isn’t often, sadly. How
did we get stuck with candle-power
from bulbs which seem to take an hour
before they reach the proper wattage?
I don’t live in a dingy cottage!
I have large rooms, high ceilings, and
I simply cannot bloody stand
those stupid shapes, those bulbs so dim
they make my home look really grim.

Bring back my proper bulbs – and light! –
I’m incandescent every night.

Nice, Jayne. I've been waiting for your bulbs. And now they bloom.

Though bulbs brought Edison his fame
As well as lots of gravy,
The man we really ought to blame
Is our Sir Humphry Davy.

The 19th century two years old,
He set a current flowing,
Through platinum, which cost much gold,
And left the metal glowing.

Now all around see bulbs ablaze,
Canary Wharf, or cottage . . .
Sir Humphry’s legacy these days
Is just a mess of wattage.

The setting might be Amsterdam or Utrecht,
the scene, by early Hals or late Vermeer:
it's auction day; a merry band is here
with faces lit to wonderful effect.
In back, a huisvrau, stiff and ruffly necked,
strains hard to catch the van-dyked auctioneer
(who holds what seems to be a giant tear)
proclaiming that this lot is quite select.
The crowd is surging 'round like running grunion;
they know he won’t return until November,
and caught up in the newest tulipmania,
each yearns to buy that thing shaped like an onion.
He packs them off to Ghent, though, come September—
these bulbs, inscribed “100 watts - Sylvania.”

Frank

neat one, but...
 

doesn't line 5 lack a foot?

Thanks, Bazza - it was still fresh from the forcing jar.

Frank

When it's become too late to do without,
Jo lights one eco-bulb, and slow, so slow,
It stirs itself to spread a moderate glow,
Not quite enough to read by. None could doubt
She was a thinking, caring woman, Jo.
But now her mouth forms in a bitter pout,
Her nostrils tighten and her keen eyes harden.
For what she sees is Dave-next-door's front garden.

Five hundred Christmas lights are rioting there:
They dance around the lawn, they flash in trees,
And snowmen glow. Such prodigalities
Fill Jo with anger verging on despair.
Says Dave: “Oh dear, I bought the lights to please
The kids. What's that? They warm the winter air?
Not much, you know.” He laughs: “But who'd have fancied
A few bright lights could turn a nice girl rancid?”

Very nice, George. And with a moral too.