Speccie Epigrammatic
 

George Simmers, Bill Greenwell and Chris O'Carroll were all winners and Bazza just missed out with something I'd have loved to have seen in full. This weeks is poetry again. Good-oh!


No. 2689: epigrammatic
You are invited to submit quatrains reflecting on current events in the Middle East in the style of Edward FitzGerald/Omar Khayyam (up to 16 lines). Please email entries, where possible, to lucy@spectator.co.uk by midday on 16 March.

another failure
 

Congratulations to all winners, & for John's benefit here's Bridget's sad billet-doux in full:


Dear Mr Rochester,

I suppose it's awfully 'forward' of me to be writing to you on spec, it's not that we've actually met or anything, but you have, you know, this reputation – oh, I don't mean the thing about the potty wife upstairs, I expect that's just a wicked rumour, and in any case if you did I'm sure you'd have a good reason, no, the word is you are sex on legs, and I've been rather short in that department lately. Well, for a bloody long time. Ever get depressed and want to do tons of smoking, drinking and comfort eating? Probably not. Even if there's a cackling hag swinging from the rafters. Which I'm sure there isn't. The point is, I've got a bit of a thing about you. Actually, quite a lot of a thing. So is there something we can do together?

Yours,

Bridget Jones.

Should have been a winner, Bazza. Was for me! You have the woman to a T.

And here's my Omar. No real prizes for being so quick. I had don all the spade work before. And before is a better poem. Still ....


Epigrammatic

The people walk and talk inside the square.
Our microphones and cameras are there.
Democracy and Freedom, words like these,
Shimmer and dance in the electric air.

A tyrant’s face is trampled in the dust.
We feel the excitement everybody must.
Fresh pictures show us history being made.
A fair wind follows and their cause is just.

The troops of the oppressor break their ranks.
Bouquets of flowers decorate their tanks.
In photographs they lounge and laugh and smoke.
How young they are! The waiting world gives thanks,

Except Experience, that wizened crone,
Who mutters in a corner all alone,
Weeping her unregarded tears of stone,
As in the tyrant’s face she finds her own.

Good lines, John, and true ones.
I think this will be a subject it's not easy to be funny about.

I've just bought my copy of the Speccie at Waitrose, and am delighted to share the information that John was too modest to mention - that his very good poem 'The Sleepers' is in the front half of the magazine.

I wasn't too modest, George. I didn't know till ten minutes ago when my Speccie came. The poetry editor, the ever-delightful Hugo Williams, has three poems of mine which he puts in when he feels the urge I never know until I pick up the magazine. On a purely mercenary note, I got paid FIFTY POUNDS for the last one, which is only eight lines. What do you suppose he will pay me for sixteen? Could it be (gulp!) a CENTURY. It would almost make up for England's cricketing debacle against the O'Briens.

Try your luck. Hugo Willliams is the name.

Song of the Des-pots

The morning square resounds with shouts and shots,
And at the Potter’s, in their quiet spots,
The large, old earthen vessels shake. One says,
“There ain't nobody here, but us des . . pots.”

The next one leans against its mate and cries, “Behold!
Once I was sturdy and I brimmed with gold.
My assets froze, now I’m a hollow shell.”
“Please prop us up,” more cry. “We, too, feel cold.”

Another twits them, “Show some grit today!
The sun will show us in our fine array.
Our juice still keeps the world well-oiled.” One frets,
“The light may also show our feet of clay.”

More tremble, but a cracked one heeds the call.
“I’ll be a bulwark and support us all.
Our foes are kids on pills and Nescafe.”
“Look out!” Each presses hard, and down they fall.

Frank

Awakened yearnings for democracy
Are soon extinguished by gross tyranny.
Gadaffi’s rule is shown for what it is,
Which means red faces at the LSE.

We’ve learnt how this great school, the Webbs’ foundation,
Sold out its fine and hard-won reputation
By awarding, with straight face, a Ph.D.
For plagiarism, plus a huge donation.

Well, when a vile thug’s vile and thuggish son
Came offering millions, could they really shun
A tasty offer? Old boy, that’s absurd.
In straitened times, it’s just how things are done.

For now the LSE is shamed and cowed -
In ancient Oxford, though, dons can be proud
They took no cash from the Gadaffi clan,
But only from the vicious House of Saud.

The fast is ended, now begins the feast.
Old tyrants fall like bread that has no yeast.
Is this the dawning of a Golden Age?
Be still, my soul: This is the Middle East.

Over the flowing lakes of oil, the hand
Of Allah laid a waste of barren sand,
And over that a multitude of men
Who hate each other to share out the land.

The Scourge of Libya on his tarnished throne
Derides all nations and destroys his own.
Is there a chance, when saints and sages die,
That even madmen may be overthrown?

The world grows old, its empires decline,
And many visions wither on the vine.
Is this the dawn or sunset that we see?
Saki, spread up my couch, and pass the wine.