The Oldie "Look, Dad, a cow" competition by 3rd May
 

Goody, back to poems after last month's prose comp. We don't want an udder one of those! ;)
Plenty of scope with this one.

Jayne

COMPETITION NO 163
By Tessa Castro

The English Tourist Board (or VisitEngand, all one word, as it now calls itself), is promoting the country under the slogan
‘Look, Dad, a cow.’ Write a poem with that title, please, applying it in any way you wish. Maximum 16 lines.

Entries to ‘Competition 163’ by post (The Oldie, 65 Newman Street, London W1T 3EG), email comps@theoldie.co.uk or fax (020 7436 8804) by 3rd May 2013.

Don’t forget to include your postal address.

I don't understand why anyone thinks that is a good slogan for English tourism. Am I missing something? Don't most people have the ability to view cows in their own countries?

I think the idea is that city children are unlikely to have seen a cow or to connect it with milk. We country folk are in the minority, hayseeds that we are.

The sheep is forlorn but the cow is forlorner,
Standing in a field with a leg at each corner.

And I'm told that there are children in France who are convinced that fish are rectangular creatures covered in breadcrumbs.

I have no beef with prose - except, of course, when I don't win. I haven't yet come up with anything for this one, but when I do, I'll find myself on the horns of the usual dilemma: "Should I re-veal it on the Sphere or not? Can there be any be-hoof in doing so? It's a moo-t point."

And then there's the other question: Will Tessa manage to pick the cream of the entries, or will she give the prizes to any old bull?

Though John is very,
Very witty,
Canterbury
Is a city.

Ah but I live in Rough Common close by the village of Blean. Cows and sheep and geese and even the odd fox. Hayseeds, as I said, Bazza.

I know Blean Woods well, lovely spot, used to roam there as a kid, but I don't think 'hayseeds' lived there even then. (I first knew Canterbury when a good deal of its was bomb sites).

Well, the cows and sheep must belong to somebody, Bazza. And everybody round here has at least one big furry dog. Except us, that is.

Our holiday in England started in the countryside.
My son had never seen a cow - he’d eaten them, of course
(At least, he thought he had) - so when, excitedly, he cried
“Look, Dad, a cow!”, I had to tell him: “No, son, that’s a horse.”

Then London, for a talent show. We found the acts revolting;
They couldn’t dance, they couldn’t sing, they mangled every vowel.
The host appeared, a podgy figure, sneering and insulting.
“Look, Dad, a cow!” - I told him: “No, son, that is Simon Cowell.”

We visited Madame Tussaud’s, a curious collection.
He knew “Mad Cow Disease” was caused by Tories acting shady,
So, coming to a waxwork, he established the connection:
“Look, Dad, a cow!” - I told him: “No, son, that’s the Iron Lady.”

Nice one, Brian. And you are the first too. Al the rest of us maundering on and you - crisp, to the point!

I wonder if anyone remembers this Eliot poem that was found a few years ago:

Of all the beasts that God allows
In England’s green and pleasant land,
I most of all dislike the Cows:
Their ways I do not understand.
It puzzles me why they should stare
At me, who am so innocent;
Their stupid gaze is hard to bear —
It’s positively truculent.
I’m very inconspicuous
And scarlet ties I never wear;
I’m not a London Transport Bus,
And yet at me they always stare.
You may reply, to fear a Cow
Is Cowardice the rustic scorns;
But still your reason must allow
That I am weak, and she has horns.
But most I am afraid when walking
With country dames in brogues and tweeds,
Who will persist in hearty talking
And stopping to discuss the breeds.
To country people Cows are mild,
And flee from any stick they throw;
But I’m a timid town bred child,
And all the cattle seem to know.
But when in fields alone I stroll,
Oh then in vain their horns are tossed,
In vain their bloodshot eyes they roll —
Of me they shall not make their boast.
Beyond the hedge or five-barred gate,
My sober wishes never stray;
In vain their prongs may lie in wait,
For I can always run away!
Or I can take sanctuary
In friendly oak or apple tree.

Hack sixteen lines out of that, Orwn, and you'll win.

Yes, but it's not my poem, it's Tommy Eliot's. (No one will know.)

I'm afraid they wouldn't get very far with the slogan, "Look, Dad, an alterpiece by Grinling Gibbons."

True, Orwn. But you could argue that by cutting it you made it your own. On the other hand, does Tessa read this? Lucy does.

This is my first try. And perhaps my last. Who knows? By the way, testiculate does not mean what you think. But perhaps it's confusing.Let's use lactiferous instead. A splendid word.

Look, Dad, It's a Cow

Quadruped corniculate,
Lactiferous, auriculate,
Of profile unslender,
And feminine gender,
Incessantly cries for the moon.

Her lowing and mooing,
All wishing, no doing,
Has issue climactic
And selenatactic.
She leaps to a popular tune,

And, at sixes and sevens,
Ascends to the heavens,
As bright as Orion.
Do you spy her, sweet scion,
Where the dish ran away with the spoon?

John,
I think that you have a winner.

"Daddy, look, I see a cow!
Now won't you please instruct me how
much pressure I should use to squeeze
so I can get some milk for cheese?"
"Son, just grab hold of the udder.
Don't stop too soon, or you'll get butter.
Let me show you. . . It's not working,
No matter how much I am jerking.
Oops, I see now my mistake.
Stand up and run, for heaven's sake!
The good news is: our pail is full.
The bad news is: it was a bull!"

Some of us greybeards will remember the Iron Cow – goes with late at night, pissed, tenuous hopes the damn thing would work, nightmare struggle with waxed paper carton from hell, etc.

Insecticides and pesticides
Have put an end to bees,
To pollination, fertilization,
Flowers, grasses, trees -

All vanished words, like beasts and birds;
No longer will we see ’em.
The cow, the horse, the sheep - of course,
There’s always the museum.

I took my son; he thought it fun
To know what used to be.
“Look, Dad, a cow! And there’s a sow!
And isn’t that a tree?”

Back home, I said: “It’s time for bed.
Today, my boy, you’ve seen
An awful lot of what is not -
Now eat your Soylent Green.”

An English artist, Mr. Hirst
’Mongst taxidermists, was the first
To go beyond upholstered hide,
And utilize formaldehyde
To pickle and divide a cow
(Don’t ask me why he did, or how).

In Tate’s museum, she’s enshrined;
And while bisected, looks refined.
Now, tourists come from far and wide
To see how well formaldehyde
Will stay the course, or if decay
With bovine flesh shall have its way.

I saw a man of noble rank,
Whose daughter (with a wrinkled brow),
Remarked, as she surveyed the tank;
“Look, Dad, a deconstructed cow.”

Oh that's hilarious, Brian!

I think Martin (E) needs to introduce some Martian cows into the fair realm, don't you, Jayne? Sort of like the Trojan horse.... Martin?

The bout rimé was enough for me, I think... These are tough!

Charlotte

I remember those machines, Bazza. Gawd, how old are we?

Love Douglas's Damien Hirst. Would possibly have a small N for noble though?

En route to Maidenhead from Slough,
my young son yelled, “Look, Dad, a cow!”
With pompous smile, I turned to him
and asked, “What kind of cow now, Jim?”
“Guernsey? Jersey? Aberdeen Angus?
Chinese Yellow? Australian Brangus?
Hereford? Holstein? British Friesian?
Latvian Blue or Polynesian?
A Swedish Red or Turkish Grey?
Ankole Watusi? Galloway?
Take a little time and browse
your I-Spy book of British cows,
then maybe you can tell to me
what breed of cow is it you see.”
A jolt! Smashed glass! A yell outside!
“A dead one, Dad,” my son replied.

No threat to D B's Hirst. But .....

Look, Dad, Curtal Cattle

No glory be to God for Milton Keynes
that place which proves His lack of kindly humour.
For there, within the fair Bucks countryside
He gives us one of England’s saddest scenes
where concrete cows adorn a concrete tumour,
no milk to give, no byre for sleep, no place to hide.

These sad beasts stand, derided, on real grass
the taste of which to them is but a rumour,
and there forlornly in the field abide
till concrete cancer’s day shall come to pass
and greater woe betide.

Peter,

Thanks for the suggestion, Would possibly have a small N for noble though?, as to the proper UK case for this.

Come to think of it, I wouldn't want him to be thought of as a vacationing American Shriner, who address one another as "Noble".

Look Dad, A Cow

Lots of your kids in the modern day cities
have trouble connecting their milk with cows.

We old hayseeds know, though it's a pity,
the utter difference between then and now.

***

The Stately Cows of England
 

Those stately English heifers;
In morning mists, they graze.
’Midst balmy noontime zephyrs,
They chew their cuds and laze.

When cows commence lactation,
They then begin to pay
The farmers of the nation,
Who feed us every day.

The fabled wealth of Croesus
Now pales before the butter,
The yogurt, milk, and cheeses
Dependent on the udder.

These stately cows of Britain,
Whose bloodlines are the purest;
With photo-lust, have smitten
The gallivanting tourist.

In my opinion this would have more chance of winning if it fitted the tune, as it could be made to do.

John,

Thanks for the advice. I based this on Felicia Heman's original, which I found in a dusty old anthology. Her meter varies a lot from stanza to stanza, in an irregular pattern. I will have to listen to the musical version, so as to pick up the tune, and make the appropiate corrections.

(a little later) I have found Noel Coward's modern version, and revised mine to solid iambic trimeter.

Is this cow a mythically-giant one, then, or is its 'field' a mere patch? ;)

A cow! A cow! My kingdom for a cow!
Ah no, my boy, it was another beast,
But if the wretched Richard lived here now
He might well find them transposed at the feast . . .

In other words,

Cow course
Now horse.

A last minute effort!


The lad exclaimed 'Look, Dad, a cow!'
His father gaily laughed,
Then frowned and said 'It’s scary how
You’re growing up so daft.

‘The milkman may provide us milk,
But that does not equate
With being of the bovine ilk,
As you insinuate.

‘I wonder just what kind of stuff
You're learning at that school;
It seems you barely know enough
To qualify a fool.

'The teachers that I had in class
Continually strove
To hone my mind. But yours? Alas.
I blame that Michael Gove.'

Well done, feller. And well done for reminding me to send!

Yet this timid creature came from the Midwest where there are more cows than poems.

Maybe he didn't get his specs until he went to Britain.

You guys are brilliant. I'm falling off my seat laughing.