New Statesman -- Gerard Manley Hopkins -- August 8 deadline
 

No 4286
By Leonora Casement
We want a poem in the style of Gerard Manley Hopkins about any story in the news over the summer.
Entries in by 8 August comp@newstatesman.co.uk

The NS asking for a poem? Wonders will never cease!

To make this one easier, all we really need is a nice topical story about some nuns being shipwrecked...

Indeed, Brian. I fear that this is beyond my paltry skill (I could never really grasp how sprung rhythm is different to free verse) but I will be interested to see what others come up with.

I think it's a high time we had a short poems competition; limericks, clerihews, double dactyls etc.

Rhythm is sprung, de rhyme is riz
I wonder who dis Hopkins is?

I don't try NS comps but this one is interesting. Gerard and I once travelled across the Atlantic in a plane- poem extolling the grandeur of flight. I see you have come top of The Spectator bill again, Chris; I hope you move over for me next week. Many congratulations.

Thanks, Marcus. But it's actually John Griffiths-Colby who scores the Tesco vouchers this week. At the Spectator, the entry printed first is always the winner of the bonus fiver, but at the New Statesman, the order in which the winners appear on the page doesn't have the same significance. Go figure.

Grue, I can't write Hopkins - can't even read him: I shall sit this one out, too!

yuk
 

Give me Lightnin' Hopkins any day.

Pied Authority
 

So you know you can do much better!

Pied Authority

After Hopkins

Glory be, he is by God a dappled being—
His house now couple-coloured as a brindled cow;
For faces all a-stipple standing by him;
For words he says for burnt-brown Trayvon’s dying;
Statescapes gutted, pieced—white, black, & now
A verbal fight in which Floridians mock him.

All things countered, North & South estranged;
War's un-civil embers; inscaped Jim Crow.
With words puzzled, clear, sweet , sour, bright, dim
My president insists this will be changed:
Praise him.

Spring and Fall
 

The Martins’ Grief

Martins, are you grieving
For a Golden Child’s sad leaving
The safety of your family tree,
A leaf, alive, torn from your tree?
Ah! As your broken hearts grow older,
Your burning passions will grow colder;
But anger still will singe your sighs.
His killer lied; your child in leafmeal lies,
And weeping, you can hear his cries.
Not forgotten, Trayvon’s his name;
Sorrow’s springs are yours, the same.
What mouths said, and minds repressed,
What hearts heard, and your souls guessed:
It is a blight you’ve seen before;
It is all Martins that you mourn for.

I have to admit this is not a whole lot like Hopkins, but I've got a bugle in and a blushing boy. Hopkins should have watched more cricket obviously.

Saturday at Lord's

List thou my lyre at Lord's, bring out the bugle.
Root-toot for Root, for Yorkshire blushing rose,
Dauntless in derring-do, of words more frugal,
A peerless poet in an age of prose.

Our champions chopped by fire-breathing Siddle,
Cook cooked, Trott trotted off, proud Pietersen
Laid low, our fount of batsmanship a piddle,
A phoenix rises like an orison.

Root-toot for Root, as Yorkshire's pride and joy
Outgraces Grace and trumps the ebullient Trumper.
Cometh the hour, cometh the beamish boy
Whose battering blade dismisses every bumper.

Most meritorious, glorious Galahad,
(Old men remember Hutton in his prime)
Helmet in hand, this lithe and lovely lad
Quits the uproarious field, untouched by time.

I've revised this to make it more Hopkinsy, though it still isn't very.

Saturday at Lord's

Sweet sweep the strings of Summer, blow the bugle.
Root-toot for Root, for Yorkshire blushing rose,
Dauntless in derring-do, of words more frugal,
Peerless a poet in sheer plods of prose.

Our champions chopped by fire-breathing Siddle,
Cook cooked, Trott trotted off, haught Pietersen
Laid low, our fount of batsmanship a piddle,
His phoenix rises like an orison.

Root-toot for Root, as Yorkshire's pride and joy
Outgraces Grace and trumps the ebullient Trumper.
Cometh the hour, cometh the beamish boy
Whose bright and battering blade beats every bumper.

Young chevalier, God's glorious Galahad,
(Old men remember Hutton in his prime.)
Helmet in hand, this lithe and lovely lad
Quits his uproarious field, untouched by time.

John, I think you're on the right track with sport, since Hopkins is so physical. I've got this so far, though I think it needs a bit of redrafting.

Ms Bartoli nimbly with glorious racket-smack
Hoiked balls net-overwards, clearly and sheerly,
Then, all two-handedly, long-lobbed again them back
Till cup was won and she clasped it heart-nearly.

Oh fragile our joy was, too soon to be shattered
By Inverdale's words, all ungracious-unfeeling.
In full-ghastly gloom we gasped grim as he nattered,
Revealing he found our game's queen unappealing.

More, he surmised that her parent paternal
(Parent so proud at this stage in her battling)
Must – Inverdale foul, may your shame be eternal –
Opine much the same. Oh pernicious such prattling!

All praise then Maria, who careth for culture,
Well wisely knew she women's views needed voice.
Fiercer than forest-fire, swift as a vulture,
She sent a brave letter. Now may we rejoice.

I caught this morning the morning news: O, ring
xxBells for the birth of this royal baby, born belatedly,
xxThis diapered dauphin, this minuscule monarch-to-be,
This princely homunculus, a fragile little thing
Trapped in the folds of time, timorously waiting to spring
xxInto childhood, adulthood, late middle-age, waiting patiently
xxFor his forebears to pass, and to fulfil his destiny
After dull, dutiful decades, by becoming King.

But more news followed, deadlier, drearier: the sizzling
xxHeatwave is nearing its end, the forecasts say,
And to darkling downpour, to dank cloud-disgorged drizzling,

xxThe blue-brilliant gold-gashed sky must soon give way.
England’s cricketers shall find their courage failing, fizzling
xxOut, crushed by that dread pronouncement: “Rain stopped play.”

Hi Brian - I was going to celebrate the royal birth myself. Here's what it might have been:


Glory be to God for little things,
For babies pink and puckered, pinched and proud,
With moles and marks, shawl-sheltered and serene
As an angel choir that heralds a birth and sings,
A royal birth and beautiful. Outside the hope-held crowd
Wait like the shepherds of that first Christmas scene
When the Lamb of Love was laid on humble hay;
Parents appear- God give them joy - answering the loud
Sigh and celebration; no Wise Men, no! nor seraphim!
But the Father of Men attends in His love today.
Praise Him.

Marcus, I tried to reply to your PM (re cigars), but got a message saying that your box was full. If you care to clear out some of the detritus, I'll send it again tomorrow.

Done, Sir!

Marcus, there's no reason to say that it 'might have been'. It is, and I trust that my own attempt won't prevent you from sending yours. After all, in a competition with such narrow specifications, there is bound to be a great deal of overlapping.

Nice one, George. Forgive my ignorance, but who is Maria? I must be odd, but I found Miss Bartoli extremely attractive. Sharpova's all very well (could she be Maria, if so then bless her) but she's six feet tall. We dwarfs are quite out of it. We is generic. I have no idea of your height and weight, George.

Andy Murray is agreeably ugly, is he not, in the knobbly Scottish style? A Davie Balfour perhaps. And you have to admit, whatever your sexual preference, that Joe Root is cuddliest of all.

Maria Miller is the Culture Secretary. She may be less than forceful about protecting the arts but has sent robust letter to BBC director general Lord Hall about sexist sports coverage after the Inverdale crssness.
I too rather fancied Sharpova. I too would be a mere midget beside her. Such is life.

Having a Ball!
 

The Wet & Wild World Wide Web

After GMH

A darksome dude, curled-hair brown,
His rocks and dick jut up down
In tweets and Pinterest rising to roam,
Flute-like extending, frantic to foam.

His headstrong-hammer bulges cloth,
Rapidly twindles its own broth;
A pool that he holds back, while groaning,
Engorging himself, hot for boning.

Dabbed with dew, self-dappling spew,
Is the groin of this bro, yearning to screw;
Wiry pudhairs & bollocks now churn,
And his bounce-bonny pecker feels the burn.

What would the web be, once bereft
Of Weiner wet and wild? Let him be left,
O let him be left, all wildness & wet;
Long live this wiener’s world wide jet.

This one sucks dogs. While I credit myself as a pasticheur, I am rather proud of not being able to write like GMH.

I can't do it either. I just pretend I can. I think you need a Catholic faith and a yearning for young buglers. Oh, and you probably have to be Welsh. Bardic keening, don't you know.

O, dreary, dog-sucking, doggerel-loving pasticheurs, who has a
More downright, dogged view of the dread Hopkins than our Bazza?

Season of Constancy
 

Conserve, conserve, D. Cameron, those ways
Passed on before from those of wisdom-days!
Discerning rightly, thus divine, divide,
So we in turn in this truth may abide:
That if all Tories ever should unite
In policy, Great Britain would fall quite.
On Europe long dissension sets the tone,
And on continues, a persistent drone;
Loud Blare has passed, that called out men to War
But still not all are clear what they’re there for;
On lobbying, restrictions are half-hearted,
Allowing loopholes to those deviously-arted.
D. Cameron! Commandments new you raise-
Pronouncing marriage to extend to gays-
Thus, split your Party equally both ways;
The Tory status quota lives! We praise.

Oh, well done, Graham. I didn't think GMH could be made into anything appealing and didn't even dare to try.

Doesn't fit the bill, but it was fun. From the Poetry website.

Fried Beauty
By R. S. Gwynn b. 1948

Glory be to God for breaded things—
Catfish, steak finger, pork chop, chicken thigh,
Sliced green tomatoes, pots full to the brim
With french fries, fritters, life-float onion rings,
Hushpuppies, okra golden to the eye,
That in all oils, corn or canola, swim


Toward mastication’s maw (O molared mouth!);
Whatever browns, is dumped to drain and dry
On paper towels’ sleek translucent scrim,
These greasy bounties of my battered South:
Eat them.

I've always loved that poem, Sam.

And I've never seen it before but I love it now.

Ditto, John, but... 'hush puppies'?!!

Oh... cornballs, not footwear.
(The Wikipedia entry has charming etymology and fascinating anecdotes; Hush Puppies (footwear) may have saved Keith Richards' life.)

And thanks, Nigel! I wasn't sure I'd been 'GMH' enough. (I may enter that one for the 'light touch' comp, too.)

Meanwhile (maybe more like GMH?):

The Weather-Mood
This summer hovered hawk-like in the air,
Aloof-aloft, then swooping wild too near
Beat on our brows with wings rapt close about
Of heat till drawing off; long rainfalls, drought and doubt,
Whose rumour and report preyed on our minds-
Rapscallion of seasons, predator of peace!
Surpriser of our Expectations: pounce-upon
Of mice those are, those little fretful things
That scurry (our breasts as their fields) beneath a sun
Or rain they cannot order nor with wit foretell.
Yet Wimbledon seemed to go off quite well,
And England smiles that Murray (a Scot) won.

Another palpable GMH - remarkable and remarkably done.

Thanks again!
(Though the first part of that sentence sounded almost like a crime :D :

'I am arresting you, sir, on suspicion of having committed palpable GMH.'
'No, 'onestly, hofficer! I only did it for a prank.'

S. Korean Boeing 777 Crashes at San Francisco Airport, July 6, 2013
 

Deleted...

Post Deleted.

Michael,
I intended it as a reflection on corporate ethics, and did not intend to offend the families of the dead, nor the survivors. I apologize.

Thank you.