LitRev Copycat
 

From the magazine:

For next month, and in the vein of this month's winning entry, (over on LitRev 'Clairvoyance' thread) please write a poem that takes as its starting point a character or characters from another, preferably well-known poem.

Entries must rhyme and scan, in no more than twenty-four lines; please send them to:
The Literary Review, 44 Lexington Street, London W1F 0LW or email editorial@literaryreview.co.uk by 27 September 2011

* Reminder: You can submit only two entries

(My bits in red.)
Jayne

Should the poem be in the body of the email or attached? Time to use a Speccie castoff.

In the body of the email, Walter, though they actually prefer snail mail, they've said in the past. Ours not to reason why...

Well now! Congrats to the winners. And all of us must have something for this already.

Good point, John (and Orwn) - Jayne, do they specify "unpublished"? I have a couple of Dover Beach spin-offs that would be the very thing, but...

Hi Ann,

As far as I'm aware they don't specify unpublished but I'll check to make sure. A Dover Beach spin-off sounds just the ticket!

No they don't specify unpublished. Not anywhere nohow. But I wouldn't draw it to their attention.

Thanks, Jayne. I think snail mail might be appropriate because of my poem's idiosyncratic indentation.

***please note***
 

I remember from way, way back that no one's allowed to phone them about the competition, but I've come by this through a friend (and it came with this caveat):

Given that the award of even the runner-up prizes affords us the right to publish your work, it is assumed that any given poem has not already been published elsewhere.

Literary Review/Night and Day
Grand Poetry Competition

Rules

1. Entries must rhyme, scan and make sense on the subject set for the month.

2. No charge is made for entering. The monthly first prize is £300 and the second prize is £150; all other poems printed earn their authors £10. Each year there is a grand poetry prize in which the poem considered the best over the past year receives £5,000.

3. Maximum number of lines per poem: 24.

4. Only two poems may be entered per person per month.

5. All entries must be typed and arrive by the deadline indicated, and every poem must carry the author’s name and address.

6. Only those living abroad may send poems by fax (00 44 20 7734 1844) or email (editorial@literaryreview.co.uk).

7. Whenever possible, poems accompanied by a stamped self-addressed envelope will be returned. If you wish to safeguard your work, we recommend that you make a copy before sending the poem to us.

9. The panel’s decision is final.

10. Parody and pastiche of well-known poets, unless requested, are not eligible for first prize, but may be considered for second or subsequent prizes.

11. Payment of even £10 buys publication rights in Literary Review and non-exclusive anthology rights in any Literary Review anthology.

12. No poet may telephone Literary Review with regard to the competition.

They say that they must have the right to publish but why should previous publication invalidate that?

To be fair, John, it is pretty common for comp entries to need to be previously unpublished. But, as you said earlier, if it's not drawn to their attention...

Fleeing Johnny

(The Flea answers Donne)

Ok--let's get this straight. Your blood, her blood
in my blood? Can we say crowded, Johnny Boy?
And just forget the question of good
vs. bad, that you've been treating her like a toy--

no, forget that. Let's talk hygiene.
Do you have any notion where this girl
slept last week? I don't want to wax obscene
but just because you run across a pearl

you fancy doesn't mean you've got to reach
out and man handle it. What if she's come
from Madagascar where she lived on a beach,
with sailors and soldiers or some Papist bum?

Are you even listening to me? " Bite us," (you prick!).
"her, then me, so I can write some sexy verse."
I'm outta here, my friend. You are seriously sick.
And don't ask the spider. He'll cop your purse.

Good man. Animals may well be the way to go. But here's mine, which is human.

The Traveller

Jesus, who would shoot the breeze
Talking to a bunch of trees?
I was – I admit it – plastered
When you anted up, you bastard,
When you wrote the cheque, post-dated.
Now your credit’s zero-rated.
Friend, your outlook’s far from sunny
Since you gave me funny money.

Then you said you’d make it right
In the middle of the night.
Some things are beyond a joke.
I’m a decent sort of bloke.
I suppose you thought perhaps
I was like those other chaps,
Easy come and easy go.
But you’ll see it isn’t so.

Now I’m off to feed the nag.
Put your money in a bag
And PAY THE BILL, that’s my advice.
I’ve got friends not half as nice,
Friends who do the sort of stuff
That is positively rough.
We’ll be back at sparrow fart
To break your legs and break your heart.

On Last Looking. . . .
 

I consider the "character," the fictional persona/N of the poem"

On Last Looking into Hefner’s Playboy

Much have I traveled where no man grows old,
where surgically shaped women lie and preen
round sunny L. A. poolsides. As a teen,
I knew the narcissistic playbook cold,
and through my youth and midlife blithely trolled,
heedless of the geriatric scene.
Never thinking years would dull the sheen
of buxom Barbies in the center-fold,
I now feel like a scanner of dark skies
who looks for newborn starlets but finds porn;
or shriveled Hef himself, whose bloodshot eyes
see sirens in retreat—and charm outworn,
all lust a bust, hangs limp in his demise,
breathless, upon the Disney Matterhorn.


Ralph

Hi there Ralph,

Good poem - though it doesn't seem to be one that 'takes as its starting point a character or characters from another, preferably well-known poem.'

Keats' Much have I traveled in the realms of gold, and many goodly states and kingdoms seen is well-known enough, but...I'm under the impression they want a person or persons in the first line, not just a pastiche of a famous poem. :o

Mercy, mercy me!
 

Jayne, thanks for the heads up. Apparently, I still don't quite grasp the "starting point." The N of a well-known poem? Something like this? Ping-ponging Plath's N:

I consider the "character" the fictional persona/N of the poem, in this case the voice in "Daddy."

Bewitched

Sivvy! I cannot live with you,
a girl whose dark charms grew
for seven long unholy years
after we said, I do.

Oh no, I must be rid of you,
whose spells would turn me blue,
moving me to violent tears
with magic that you knew.

True, it’s true, I’m leaving you,
who’d melt my mind to glue,
and daily dig my heart out
to boil it in your brew.

Now, I’m going, cursing you:
your tongue's a torture screw
racking me to finally shout,
adieu, you witch, we’re through!


Ralphoooo

My pleasure, Ralph.

I have to admit I'm not a Plath fan at all, so I'm unfamiliar with your Plathian reference above, and to whether it fits the bill or not.

But no, they don't mean the narrator of a well-known poem. Have you looked at the LitRev 'Clairvoyance' thread? The winning poem this month alludes to 'Albert and the Lion' here and what they're after is a similar idea i.e. find a famous poem about someone and then write your own poem alluding to it (I think!)

I hope that makes sense and I've made it clearer :o

Here's another one. How do you think they cope with Scots?


Tae a Poet

Big-bottomed, blusterin’, lumpen lummox,
Wha eats enough tae fill twa stomachs,
And flattens a’ the humps and hummocks
You chance tae see,
Your poetry’s enough tae flummox
The likes o’ me.

I never had imagination
Or the Romantic education.
To make poetic conversation.
I speak my mind,
Though you may find the observation
To be unkind.

You say that mice an’ men, together
Wi’ every sort of fur and feather,
Can change the world and change the weather –
Is that your art?
I call it high-falutin’ blether,
Not worth a fart.

For beast an’ man’s like man and wife,
It’s war we’re talking, tae the knife,
An’ should ye wish tae end the strife
‘Twixt man an’ moose,
Get oot ma field, get oot ma life,
Get oot ma hoose.

Robert Tackles the Blockage

I have been one acquainted with the shite
That gathers in the gloom of septic tanks
And shoulders-up the lid with foetid might.

I was the one selected from the ranks
To face the faeces, armed with only hope
And rubber gloves, a pair of scaffold planks,

A good stout stick, a bucket on a rope
And a technique passed down the family.
Human shadoof, I bent to dip and grope;

A thrusting-under and a hauling-free
Dropping the dollops from a dizzy height
Until I won my Pyrrhic victory.

No-one will stand downwind of me tonight.
I have been one acquainted with the shite.

Ann,

Isn't this just a parody of Frost's I have been one acquainted with the night ?

After saying the same thing to Ralph I'm beginning to feel like a right party pooper here, but I honestly don't think this is what they're after. Where's your character or characters from a well-known poem? I think the poem has to be about someone!
They haven't made it very clear - not even the usual one word theme has been given this time.

Is Byron a character? I guess those who knew him would say so . . .

Byron, To Auden

Dear Wystan (is it Wystan? Is it Hugh?)
Thanks for your letter dated ‘thirty-six.
I’ll own, I’d have preferred a billet-doux,
accompanied by those referenced naked pics,
from some fair thing—still, nice to hear from you.
Before I get to art or politics,
let me explain and then apologize
for this, the most belated of replies.

In Purgatory, as Virgil first explained,
one wears one’s designated wreath—he, an
old laurel—me, some thorny, brown thing. Pained
to find such rules here, I conspired Promethean
revolt, though, as in Greece, I nothing gained.
But, being dead (and bled) already, Lethean
mail service was denied me for a spate,
and that’s why this arrives so late.

I like you, Hugh, so please forgive my screed,
but, God damn, man! Icelandic travelogues
won’t ever make a really ripping read
when mixed with duller parts from catalogs
and diaries. Hugh, you’re gifted, I concede,
but you’ve an eye out for the pedagogues.
If you can’t be a little more rake-helly,
please send your future posts to P.B. Shelley.

He undoubtedly was, Frank, but not 'a character from a well-known poem' as far as I'm aware.

Hello, I'm Philip Larkin's dad.
There's nothing that he said that's true.
My son may have the faults I had,
But he has many virtues, too.

He's educated, super smart,
And famous for the verse he wrote.
In that I think I played a part.
He never thanked me or took note.

Mums and dads may raise a son
Whose books adorn a scholar's shelf,
And yet, when all is said and done,
His sole obsession is himself.

Alluding to a character from a well-known poem.

Right on target, Bob! Nice one.

Jayne, This one should get past your new "Cerberus" persona, I reckon --

Straight from the Horse's mouth

God knows what came over Diana.
She damn nearly gave me a fit
As she fished down my throat with a spanner
When she thought that I’d swallowed my bit.

She’s a talentless, spoilt little owner
Though the Pony Club think she’s a pearl.
I’m an obstinate, cussed old loner,
A bad tempered, vengeful old churl.

I was dragged to the Ring without pity.
I was not even asked how I felt.
I was simply supposed to look pretty
And take every fence at full pelt.

“Now here’s young Diana on Moonbeam,”
Said a voice on a loud microphone.
She’s the cream of our Pony Club Show Team.”
I thought, “Sod it. I want to go home.”

For I hadn’t got over the spanner
And my girth was pulled terribly tight.
“Break a leg,” said a girl to Diana.
And I thought to myself, “She just might.”

But I minded my thoroughbred manners
And we won with our clearest round yet.
But I haven’t forgotten the spanner;
So I’ve eaten her Winner’s rosette.

What's causing all the featherspitting here is the conviction that the narrator of a first-person poem is not a character therein. If this is truly how the land lies, then I stand chastened and corrected. Mine wasn't created for this competition - it's a Speccie reject which some others may remember - but I must admit I thought it reflected Frost's homely application to the tasks incumbent upon the rural dweller... Still, 'nuff said.

But I really must plead for Frank's entry. Byron is surely a character in Auden's letter thereunto and the result is a cracking good poem that I suspect the Lit Rev people may very well enjoy.

I think we're going to have to read between the lines a bit on this one.

Cerberus, Martin? Moi? Ouch.

Straight from the Horse's mouth is brilliant, both title and content.

Frank and Ann,

It's probably a good idea to tell them which poem is being alluded to, don't you think? Frank's is indeed a good 'un but the well-known poem i.e. Auden's letter, eluded me to begin with, and I'm not sure which John's refer to either. Duh! It's To a Mouse. (I must get more sleep - it's affecting my brain :o) Isn't that just a parody, though, as well?

And how do you define 'well-known'? Mine's based on 'Abou Ben Adhem' and I've met people who've never heard of it, though I'd call it well-known.

I just wish they'd defined the comp a bit better, that's all. The 'character' bit is somewhat open to interpretation, as you say.

"Just a parody"? Story of my life...

One more -- and my last! Actually I have 50-100 of this sort of thing, enough for a fat book if only some of the likely publishers would accept uninvited submissions.

Game, Set and Match!

I was Joan Hunter Dunn, your Joan Hunter Dunn
whose ardour soon cooled in the Aldershot sun.
For your tennis was poor and your idea of fun
was to sit in the car park till twenty to one
without your attempting the slightest attack
on my baseline defence. So I gave the ring back,
having realised that, married, we’d spend all our time
with you counting stresses and searching for rhyme.
But a suntanned young Aldershot goddess has needs
and mine were not little rhymed verses, but deeds.
So I married another, more dashing, instead
who was better than you at both tennis and bed.
And now you’re long dead while I’m still having fun;
so it’s game set and match to Miss Joan Hunter Dunn.

No poem is well-known, if you define that as being a poem most people know. I should say 'The Good Ship Venus' is the only well-known poem by those criteria. That and 'Mary had a little lamb'.

My mouse poem is a REPLY to Burns, not a parody. The stanza is known as 'the Burns stanza' because Burns is the best known poet who used it. But he didn't invent it, he got it from Robert Fergusson, and many other poets have used it since. Including me.

HIS LAST DUCHESS

Of course I liked Fra Pandolf – wouldn't you?
He was so kind and friendly while he drew
preliminary sketches of my face,
and this was such a deadly boring place.
I was just seventeen when I came here,
and didn't know my lord was so austere,
I hoped, since he was such a handsome man,
he'd be kind too, but what a puritan
he proved to be! And as I faithful wife,
I looked for small ways to improve my life--
rides on my pretty mule, the cherry trees
I planted in the orchard – things like these
were harmless, surely. And I thought it fun
to have my portrait painted. It was done
so quickly, but for just a little while
I had a friend, and paid him with a smile.
All harmless pleasures, for I'd surely not
be guilty towards my lord...but I forgot
how far a wife is in a husband's power.
He had me strangled in the northern tower.

My Fat Duchess
 

(Zurich)

So you're just hinting to the count's man that
you did me in and you never mention “fat?”

That portrait rendered by Fra Pandolph's hands
is all they know. I end with "There she stands."

Good show! Keep at it. I've lost some forty pounds
on kale and yak milk. Not as bad as it sounds.

A shame the surgeon couldn't restore
that faint half flush. If it's money, there's plenty more.

Sweet, some things even a Swiss spa can't do.
I weighed four hundred pounds. I was two of you.

I say you scorned my nine hundred years old name.
You should see their look of shock. The crime! The shame!

Don't gush it up too much. And must you imply
I was sweet up front and naughty on the sly?

I tell them you rode a mule about the place!
You? Tub of guts? On a mule? Can't keep a straight face.

So let's keep up the front until I lose
the weight. And you're still shucking off the booze?

Of course, my pasta-plated chicadee--
although the count's munificence towards me

is tempting. The dear man is made of gold!
See you in June. Think slim. You are getting old.

What Writest Thou?

“Write me as one who loves his fellow men.
No – wait! That’s still not right. Let’s start again.”
The angel raised his eyes to heaven and sighed,
his patience wearing thin. God knows, he’d tried
to do his job with this Ben Adhem bloke
(whose tribe had increased somehow). Abou spoke
more low – he didn’t want his wife to hear –
“If I say ‘fellow man’ they’ll think I’m queer.
Apologies, I don’t mean to be rude,
but can’t afford to have it misconstrued.”
The angel, writing in his book of gold,
said, “Look, I only put what I’ve been told.
The words aren’t up to me; it’s not my place,
but how about... ‘I love the human race’?”
Ben Adhem thought about it. “That will do
quite nicely, thank you,” so the angel flew
to find the next man ‘Love of God had blest’
and prayed he’d have less trouble with the rest.

Good point, Jayne about identifying the poems in question. My wife had never heard of 'Abou Ben Adhem' when our youngest daughter came home from school one day and announced they'd recited "A Boob in Autumn" in English class.

As for poor old JHD - very well played, Martin. I have a few limericks, but the only one I remember is:

Joan Hunter Dunn, Oh my Joan Hunter Dunn,
He sighed (he was still swollen-hearted),
When a voice by his chest said, Don't give it a rest,
More like Joan Hunter hardly-got-started!

Frank

The 16-line version of this one didn't fare well at the Spectator, and there's no reason to expect that the 24-line version would do any better at the Literary Review. Also, entering it would feel a bit rude now that I know Martin plans to enter his JHD poem. So I'll content myself with adding mine to the growing list here.

Still Weak from Her Loveliness

The decades have passed and the Aldershot sun
Has baked leathery wrinkles on Joan Hunter Dunn.
Triumphant at tennis and most other games,
This hoyden tricked out with a troika of names,

Still lively, but wizened and mottled as well,
Exudes now a lotiony, potiony smell
As she plays on the tournament ground of her skin
A match no contestant is destined to win.

Promoted from subaltern, sporting more brass,
Having now reached an age to be put out to grass,
I look forward to cheerful walks, holding her hand,
On what once was her father’s and now is her land.

My career was unstoried and I’ll die anonymous,
But that can’t take the shine off ancestral euonymus.
Our twilight, like Surrey’s, is glow bright enough;
She’s still got the carefully careless right stuff.

We seldom don evening dress as of yore,
That Hillman she drove is a dead dinosaur,
Our views about social class, Empire, and God
Strike our offspring as more than a little bit odd,

Yet I still find refreshment in gin-and-lime, tea,
And intimate moments with my JHD.
The racket she presses is warm-handled yet,
And she’s deft still at lifting balls over the net.

I think a poem with the title 'A Boob in Autumn' needs to be written I'm working on it.

And behold. The daughter can learn it by heart.


A Boob in Autumn

The snow was falling when you held my hand
And smiled. I knew that you would understand.

I felt the springtime in my fingertips.
I knew the signs and kissed you on the lips.

Together in the summer’s heat we lay
And kissed and talked and talked and kissed all day.

The leaves of brown were falling. My intention
Was something that I hardly liked to mention.

Chris, a quickie for you from JHD,

Mister O'Carroll, dear Mister O'Carroll,
your thoughts all decked out in dactylic apparel
have shown me that late in my evening sun
men still hold a torch for me, Joan Hunter Dunn.

So, publish your work and let battle begin.
My favours are waiting for he who shall win.
And he who comes second shall not go bereft
for I'll partner him next if he's any balls left.

There's so much great stuff here, how can we be resisted?

It occurs to me that something could be done with characters in children's poems, the owl & pussycat, Christopher Robin, etc. But I've already shot my two bolts, so I'm putting this idea in the public domain.

Gail, I have at least one Owl and P'cat and more Milnes than I can count. But enough is enough -- from me, anyway!

I agree. If there is any justice, then how can this thread NOT provide the winners -- though I fear an enormous entry for this particular comp.

Hilarious thread, everyone.

Frank