The Oldie 'Missed Appointment'
 

OK, here’s the latest competition. Tessa says:

Recently someone rang me up in London to ask me why I wasn’t at the station in Devon. A poem, please, not necessarily on that particular example, called ‘Missed Appointment’. Maximum 16 lines.

Entries to ‘Competition 143’ by post (The Oldie, 65 Newman Street, London W1T 3EG), fax (020 7436 8804)
or email (comps@theoldie.co.uk) by 21st October. Don’t forget to include your postal address.

I got on the wrong train in Bradford
and missed my connection at Crewe,
which is why I'm now stuck here in Scunthorpe
instead of in Paris with you.

More may follow, though it seems sacriligious to risk a parody of one of my favourite James Fenton poems.

I suppose it's inevitable that my mind should run on such things.

Missed Appointment

The doorbell rang. I caught my breath.
I drew the bolt and it was Death.
He fumbled in his cloak and took
From some recess a little book.
His glasses slid along his nose.
‘It's Mr Whitworth, I suppose.’
The voice was colder than the stones.
It froze the marrow of my bones.
But I replied in breezy tones,
‘No Whitworth here. My name is Jones.
Whitworth resides at forty-seven,
An ancient shag, and ripe for Heaven,
His mind long gone, his body bent.’
Death nodded, tipped his hat and went.
Jones passed away that very night.
I sent a wreath, as well I might.

As you were. What follows is now the definitive version.


Missed Appointment

The doorbell rang. I caught my breath.
I drew the bolt and it was Death.
He fumbled in his cloak and took
From some recess a little book.
He put his glasses on his nose.
‘It’s Mr Whitworth, I suppose.’
A frosty smile played on his lips
That chilled me to my fingertips,
So I replied in breezy tones,
‘No Whitworth here. My name is Jones.'
Whitworth resides at forty-seven,
An ancient shag, and ripe for Heaven,
His mind long gone, his body bent.’
Death nodded, tipped his hat and went.
Jones passed away that very night.
I sent a wreath, as well I might.

John, that's excellent; a really funny take on the subject :D

tickled to death
 

Funny-macabre, right up my street, though I do balk at 'I/eye' as end-rhymes.

Point taken, bazza. I'll have a thunk. Thunk over. The result is posted.

As so often, you have the remedy wittily at hand.

Now that we're into nit-picking this little gem, John, can you possibly get rid of one or two of the 'his's, I wonder?

He fumbled in his coat and took
From some recess a little book.
He put his glasses on his nose.
‘It's Mr Whitworth, I suppose.’
A frosty smiled played on his lips

Just a suggestion:

He wore an overcoat and took
From some recess a little book.
Bifocals rested on his nose.
‘It's Mr Whitworth, I suppose.’
A frosty smiled played on his lips

... or whatever... :)

I see wat you're getting at, Jayne. I wonder if bifocals isn't going too far.

As well you might. Surely, Death wears a cloak, though. I like this much.

Too right, Frank. And Jayne, I have made certain adjustments giving me an aaaa set of rhymes which I like mightily.

What a treat to see a master at work! I love this one, John.

Frank's idea is great, John. You could just substitute 'cloak' for 'coat' and keep 'his' in that line, but I'd try to lose one of them in the 'glasses' line.

I'm tickled by the notion that 'bifocals' might be going too far... in a poem about Death knocking on your door and talking to you?!
Don't forget, the Grim Reaper's 'an ancient shag' too, so his eyesight must be failing a bit by now :rolleyes:

My husband fell about laughing when I read this out to him. He regrets even more that he was away on business and didn't get to meet you when you stayed here! You've gotta come back again, John :D

PS I took so long to finish this post (dinner was ready) that you've already posted a revision I haven't looked at yet.

Oh, no John, no John, no....

the 'lips and fingertips' was heaps better than the 'bones' and 'tones'.

(Pete says you can't come back and stay unless you re-instate those former rhymes ;))

Forgive me - I posted a poem here and have since realised that I have offered it elsewhere. The Oldie can't have it unless the editor of the journal I sent it to decides not to take it. Posting it here in those circumstances probably constitutes vanity posting, so I've removed it. Sorry.

He was not where He said He’d be.
I left my card and told His man
That I'd be back. He said to me:
You’ll catch Him only as catch can.

He’s up, He’s down, He’s in-between.
He’s never out and never in.
His Lordship’s face is never seen,
But you can always try again,

Though no one knows where He has gone
These twenty centuries and more.
But, still, we leave the hall-light on.
With that he bowed and shut the door.

He’s here? He’s there? He’s everywhere?
Such curious conduct casts a pall!
Now home, I seek my comfy chair
To wait, unchosen, for His call.

I think Jayne's right, John.

What. Two of you. I shall have to reconsider. Damn.

Keep the lips and tips, John, so Pete will let you visit him and Jayne. The number of "his"s was off my radar.

John, if you know what's good for you you'll take Mary's advice. Pete's cooking is better than most professional chefs', I absolutely promise you. (I can't remember what I gave you to eat but, trust me, you missed out last time!)

The food was fine, Jayne, and I cook a mean spag bol myself. I'm also good at pancakes and bacon and eggs in industrial quantities, so Pete and I can exchange notes. I hope the poem as it now is meets the approval of all well-wishers.

A couple of Speccie retreads:

Missed Appointment

The passengers were seated.
We rolled out from the gate.
Our plane was next for take-off.
For once, we were not late.

But all at once my cellphone,
which was actually my son's,
began to blare a rap song
whose refrain was "bombs and guns."

The officers had questions.
By the end, they didn't doubt me,
but when at last they let me go,
the plane had left without me.


Missed Appointment

I'm sorry that I missed your bash.
I truly meant to come.
First the bus did not arrive,
so I stuck out my thumb

and stood beside the road all day
in hopes that car or truck
would kindly offer me a lift.
It turns out, no such luck.

I went back home and grabbed my bike,
but found the chain was busted.
My car was in the body shop.
My motorcycle? Rusted.

I really meant it when I said
I'd come, when last we talked.
I know you live next door to me.
I guess I should have walked.

She’d nagged him so, about his nagging cough,
He’d finally let her book a clinic date.
That morning, as he’d slowly tottered off,
She’d kissed his cheek and seen him through the gate.

Now here stood Doctor Grayson at their door,
His hat in hand, his visage wreathed in gloom,
To tell her, grimly looking at the floor,
That Dan dropped dead outside the waiting room.

She wept and wailed, then asked him in a voice
Which seemed to bear a world of disappointment
In fate and luck, her lot, life's Hobson's choice—
“So it’s a house-call and a missed appointment?”

Frank

This is not one that is likely to stop John getting his thoroughly deserved umpteenth teacakes ! But it filled in a blank fifteen minutes between lunch and dog-walking.

I missed my connection at Bradford
And boarded the wrong train at Crewe,
Which is why I’m now standing in Scunthorpe
Instead of in Paris with you.

It is clear that la vie here in Scunthorpe
Is a long way from being en rose
And our first anniversary dinner
At the George Cinq’s now cold, I suppose.

But a girl on the platform beside me
Who has multiple piercings and wisps
Of dyed orange hair and bad acne
Has offered me one of her crisps.

Though whatever dessert she may offer
It is likely I’ll find that it’s true
That le plaisir d’amour here in Scunthorpe
Will not be the same without you.

Oi, John! I thought we were getting 'lips' and 'fingertips' back?
I hate to say this (one of those EEK! :eek: thingies is applicable here) but having four same-sound lines right in the middle of a poem in couplets puts me in mind of what novices do - but you don't, so why here?

But Jayne, you have got it back. Look again.

Ah, beg your pardon, John, but I thought the top version was the one.

It's a cracker :D

That's a good one, John. You have a typo in this line:

A frosty smiled played on his lips

Tyhank you Martin. Corrected.

Rushing to the Gig

Walking the dog, then rushing to rehearsal
In traffic slow as slugs, exhaust from cars
Making him gag, the place as far as Mars,
To play Variations On a Theme of Purcell
Might seem to some a big ordeal, for what?
It wouldn’t have been so terrible had he
Made sure to read the call sheet. For you see,
After he got through walking the small mutt,
He took him home, then headed for a city
Which wasn’t where the orchestra was meeting.
When he realized, his brain cells started beating
Him up. But it was not such a great pity,
For then he raced and got to the right place.
It would have helped, though, to have brought his bass.


Last line was:
Though he would’ve felt better had he brought his bass.

Aaaah! I feel a great surge of affection for a man who rhymes "Purcell" with "Rehearsal". Dryden, thou shoulds't be living at this hour! Please do not mistake this for sarcasm - I really mean it!

Thanks, Ann. I appreciate that, and I didn't take it as sarcasm in the least. Conveniently, Purcell can be pronounced both ways.

Martin, all those anapests in your last line made it less satisfying to me. It occurred to me that something like "It would have helped, though, to have brought his bass" might add more punch to the line.

Susan

Susan, thanks for your thoughts on the last line. I was afraid those anapests might have bogged it down a bit, so I've amended it with your suggestion.