Spectator -- the darker side of spring -- March 12 deadline
 

No. 2839: art of darkness

You are invited to submit a poem on the darker side of spring (16 lines maximum). Please email entries, wherever possible, to lucy@spectator.co.uk by midday on 12 March.

Poems! Ah! Wonderful! Here's a thought.

Spring

Don't suppose I'm complaining
But the rain keeps on raining.
Every allergy itches. It
'S as cold as a witch's tit.
Sneezes and wheezes they
Erupt like bejesus, hey
It's Spring, Spring, Spring!

All the shorts are a-busting.
God, it's really disgusting,
For you've just got to figure
Could a bum look much bigger?
Though he may prance a lot,
He ain't no Sir Lancelot.
It's Spring, Spring, Spring!

Hold Your Nose!
 

That's the idea, John!

More Ancient Music

After Anon & Pound

Springtide is icumen in
Lhude sing Achoo.
Pollen drifts and gives us fits
And how the sneezes echo!

Sing: Achoo
Burneth eyes and causeth sighs
An ague hath my head.
Meltests snow and makes nose blow

And sinuses to bleed anew.
Achoo you sing: Achoo
Achoo, Achoo, ‘tis why I am, Achoo
So ‘gainst the springtime’s brew

Sing Achoo, Achoo, sing Achoo,
Sing Achoo, Achoo, ACHOO!

A quick and autobiographical attempt :--

Bloody Springtime brings more rain,
Bloody lawn's all moss again.
Bloody wife wants garden dug,
Bloody job for bloody mug.

Bloody grass begins to grow,
Bloody mower will not mow.
Bloody next-door's cat uproots
Bloody swathes of bloody shoots.

Bloody catalogues all lied,
Bloody plants have bloody died.
Bloody roses put out suckers,
Bloody, sodding prickly f******.

Bloody songbirds wake at dawn,
Bloody badgers dig up lawn.
Bloody place a bloody mess.
Next door's like the RHS.

Apologies Martin, seems like I arrived in Orkney just after you.

The ravens' noisy matings in my trees
disrupt our Sunday lie-ins with their calls,
then in the garden I’m on hands and knees
planting spuds while drenched in bloody squalls.
The daffodils show off their strumpet heads--
I note their plot needs weeding and attention,
the slugs are lunching in my seedling beds
with weevils, bugs and mites, their bloody henchmen.
The moss has grown, the bloody grass has riz,
the missus wants the patio hosed down.
I bloody don’t know where the washer is--
most likely nicked as I bought plants in town.
As far as I’m concerned make Spring taboo.
No more icumin in. Bugger cuckoo.

Spring

In spring the bears whose harmless sleep
made winter safe from mauling
awake to threaten man and sheep.
The pollen is appalling.
The birds disturb our dreams at dawn.
The lawns need constant mowing.
The rain won't stop. Mosquitoes spawn.
The world was better snowing.

Rain Stos Fray
 

Withdrawn for recycling

Not easy, this.

It’s an Easter card in crayon sent by murderess Rose West,
It’s an orange frock in rayon that’s been voted Season’s Best,
It’s the rain that stays on longer than the least welcome houseguest:
You don’t want to see the darker side of spring.

It’s the lambs all dead of frostbite when the children run to see,
It’s the wordless howl of March wind as it taunts the solitary,
It’s the Beckettian mindscape of each Spring Bank Holiday:
But you have to see the darker side of spring.

It’s the resumption of hay fever when your flu is not yet done,
It’s the horses we’ll slaughter when the Grand National is run,
It’s the fading ghost of theism that haunts each hot cross bun:
No-one quite escapes the darker side of spring.

In wintertime
the birds all fled,
but now they're back
and crap my head.

A field of tiny lambs in Spring
Can lift our hearts and make us smile.
Their baas persuade us everything
Is good, and living life worthwhile.

Alas, they’re only born to die.
(I’m sorry, but you know they are!)
Their raison d’être’s to supply
The slicing, dicing abattoir.

Each bleating, fluffy little love
Is marked for chops or rogan josh,
And one day men will come to shove
Them into rooms with floors awash

In blood and guts, and then reveal
Their bolt guns, each of which contains
A rod of cold and brutal steel
For pulverising ovine brains.

Mud season blues
 

Northern byways less traveled,
Though graded and graveled,
And solid the rest of the year;
In the spring become monsters I fear.

With the equinox vernal,
Conditions infernal
Create a slow boil in my blood;
It's the boreal season of mud.

Moose sink to their bellies,
And I'll lose my Wellies
When the roads are a glutinous flood
Of seemingly bottomless mud.

Should I ever expire
As I trudge through the mire,
I’ve come to the end of my luck;
Just let me sink under the muck.

Oooh, Rob, that's nasty! It has jogged my memory into a bit of attempted recycling.

Little Roast Lamb

Little Lamb, who took thee?
Know’st thou who did cook thee?
Who it was, one Springtime day
As thou gambolled at thy play,
Sheared thy fleece, and all thy flock’s,
For to knit them woolly socks;
Took thy flesh to slake their greed
(Sunday lunch, and ten to feed);
Honed the knife, thy throat to slit,
Roasted thee upon the spit;
Chopped the mint to make the sauce
Garnishing thy tender corse?
Didst thou find it rather odd?
Here’s a clue: it wasn’t God.
Little Lamb, who did thee take?
Canst thou guess? 'Twas William Blake.

Goodness, Rob and Brian, cutting stuff, pitch-black Where are the songs of spring. Jug, jug . . . jugular . . .

Spring Fever

As cherry blossoms fill the trees
and rustle in the vernal breeze
I learn that I have allergies
that make me gasp, turn blue, and wheeze.

All winter long I cursed the snow
and wished it gone. I did not know,
when spring made sticky blossoms grow,
I'd choke and miss the winter so.

Withdrawn for tinkering

Much cleverness and skill evinced, above.
I feel like going off at a less-literal tangent...


Revision#2
Returned from lonely wanderings,
I need to rest: to ease my state
And let due comfort balm my limbs,
As daffodils I contemplate…
Ah, couch where I so oft recline!
One Dorothy and I now own -
An ancient heirloom of our line
That with the years threadbare has grown -
Whose steel has mettle still to bend
Yet supple stay, supporting well,
With horsehair cushioning one’s end,
Thus softly sounding most aches’ knell!
Thus over-confident - accursed! -
Unwarily I settle. But -
Rude fact! - unseen, one spring has burst
Its bonds... and sharply meets my scut.


Revision#1

Returned from wandering, I claim
A need for rest, to ease my state
And let due comfort balm my frame
As daffodils I contemplate…
'Ah, couch where I so oft recline!'
(Which Dorothy and I now own:
An ancient heirloom of our line,
That has with the years threadbare grown;
Whose steel has mettle still to bend
Yet supple stay, supporting well;
With horsehair cushioning one’s end -
A softness that sounds most aches’ knell!)
Thus over-confident - accursed! -
Unwarily I settle. But -
Rude fact! - beneath, one spring has burst
Its bonds... and sharply meets my scut.


Original
Returned from wandering, I find
Need for some pose to ease my state
And let due comfort balm my mind,
As daffodils I contemplate…
So for the couch I swift repine
That Dorothy and I now own:
An ancient heirloom of our line,
That with the years threadbare has grown;
Whose steel has mettle still to bend
Yet supple stay, supporting well,
With horsehair cushioning one’s end -
A softness that sounds most aches’ knell.
Thus over-confident - accurst! -
Unwarily I drop down. Jut!
Rude fact! - Inside, one spring has burst
Its bounds, and sharply greets my scut.

In L14 instead of 'Jut!' I could have 'But -', or I could keep 'Jut!' and replace L16 'scut' with 'butt' (the word I first thought of).
I opted for the rabbit's tail as more tactfully metaphorical, and maybe apt to Wordsworth's pastoral mindscape;
'butt' seemed too modern and crude. Or would jarring mismatch be a plus here?
Also,
I wondered whether L13 'accurst' was too archly archaic. I do want to avoid 'accursed' being read as 'accursèd'.

Opinions, anyone? Please!

Nice twist on 'spring', Graham. Not 'butt', I think. Clashes, as you say, with 'Wordsworthian' register of the rest.

Maybe . . . 'That threadbare with the years has grown' or ' That with the years has threadbare grown' ?

Don't understand 'swift repine'. Maybe break after points of suspension and resume 'Ah, couch where I so oft recline' ?

I dont think anyone would read 'accursed' as 'accursED'; the metrical pattern should take care of it. Don't know which spelling W.W. himself used. Might be checkable.

I would prefer 'But' to the odd 'Jut!'
Viz,' But -
Rude fact! - inside, one spring has burst . . .'

Hope this is of help.

Thanks for your help, Jerome!
Oddly I hadn't thought of 'recline'...
By 'swift repine' I meant 'swiftly yearn', but I see it is clumsy and obscure. Also repine seems to imply yearning that goes unsatisfied; often, but not exclusively, unrequited love. Here, true, the poet's yearning for comfort goes rudely unmet, but it doesn't suit to foreshadow that.

I think Lines 8 and 12 are still a bit off

L8 Either original That with the years threadbare has grown
or two previous suggestions.

You don't need the single quotes round Ah, . . . recline!

Maybe start bracketed section with This instead of Which?

Adjustments for Lines 12 and 13?

With horsehair pads to please one's end
A softness sounding most aches' knell

I usually do points of suspension like this . . . rather than ... which might be taken as full stops in inadvertent triplicate. But I could be wrong.

Withdrawn for recycling

Further thanks for your further thoughtful comments, Jerome! I've now produced a Revision#2 above, with those and some other changes.
Re points of suspension, I occasionally employ .. instead of ... (where I think I can get away with it).. and hope to start a trend. If adopted the change will save ink and keystrokes.

I admire your Seed Sickness (so to speak!)