Eratosphere - *FANFARE!* LitRev 'Copycat' results

Only three prizes this month, rather than the usual four. CONGRATULATIONS, Chris! A well-deserved, whopping 300 quid for a terrific poem. Martin nearly made it with his ‘Straight from the Horse’s Mouth’ (first seen on the thread here) so well done Mr P, too.
(Who knows which of us also came close, judging by the write-up in the magazine?)

(See next comp. on new thread.)

Poetry Competition & Results
Report by Deputy Editor Tom Fleming

I’m only disappointed I can’t print more of the varied and amusing entries we received this month. The task was to write a poem in response to another, well-known poem. Chris O’Carroll wins £300, in first place; Colin Wood wins £150 in second; and Alison Prince receives £10. Honourable mentions go to Janet Kenny for ‘Warlock-Williams writes an Invitation’ and Martin Parker for ventriloquising Miss Joan Hunter Dunn.

FIRST PRIZE
Owl and Pussy-cat Honeymoon by Chris O’Carroll

‘Our courtship was fun, now the wedding is done,
And we’ve issues we need to discuss,’
Said the Pussy. ‘Coition in any position
Is a knotty dilemma for us.
Never mind procreation, just plain recreation
Involving a cat and a bird
Looks to be heavy weather. Between fur and feather
Congress must, alas, prove absurd.’

‘My sweet wife,’ the Owl said, ‘our marital bed
Is a place we have no need to fear.
We were made for romance; we are creatures of fancy.
How pleasant to know Mr Lear!
How do you suppose that a ring from the nose
Of a piggy fits snug on your paw?
Nonsensical verse can make better from worse.
We are not bound by natural law.

‘We can dance hand in hand on the edge of the sand,
Though of hands we are neither possessed.
I strum my guitar, croon how lovely you are,
And the Muses take care of the rest.
Details of anatomy simply don’t matter. We
Transcend such stuff; we belong
To a realm whose carnality scoffs at reality.
Come inhale from this tree; it’s a Bong.’

SECOND PRIZE
Prufrock’s Lonely Hearts Ad. by Colin Wood

Gent., middle-aged, unmarried, shy,
Likes sunsets spread across the sky,

Enjoys good food (but can’t eat peaches),
Takes lonely walks round streets and beaches,

Well-dressed, but sober, nothing bold
Like flannel bags with bottoms rolled,

GSOH, though somewhat prim,
(Suspects, sometimes, the joke’s on him),

Good taste, entirely comme il faut
(Not keen on Michelangelo),

Quite debonair, though not a fop,
Not bald, but getting thin on top,

Wd.LTM a busty tart –
Who wouldn’t bore him stiff with art

Or scare him with her Bloomsbury charms
(The lamp-lit rooms, the downy arms),

Or notice, as she hands a plate,
His skinny legs, his balding pate,

Or make him feel, while drinking tea,
Like something dredged up from the sea –

In short, a good, old-fashioned whore,
For fun and games and something more.

Plans by Alison Prince

Kubla Khan was having a bad day.
The planners had turned down his Pleasure Dome,
decreed or not, and boring men had come
from something called Environment, to say
that Alph the sacred river could not be
developed as a chain of poolside taverns
since it was under ten metres from caverns
measureless to man, which last Februaury
had been declared a new Heritage Site.
He could of course apply to Xanadu
District Council for permission to
Open a tourist centre, though they might
insist first that he exorcise the ghost
of the woman wailing for her lover.
Parking for eighty cars, third party cover
And new drains were mandatory. But worst
of all, the damsel with a dulcimer
was out. ‘An Abyssinian, you say?
More illegal immigrants? No way.’
Mistake. She was Roedean, called Jennifer.
Kubla glared, then signaled to his men.
Briefcases scattered. Incense-bearing trees
blossomed unheeding as blood flowed. The peace
desended. ‘Now,’ he said. ‘we’ll start again.’