Eratosphere - LitRev 'Pygmalion moments' results. *Big money for John and Martin*

John and Martin win the big wads of cash this month. What was it you said to each other on the original comp thread, chaps - “See you on the podium”? – well, you were right! Huge congratulations to you both. (Just wondering, John, was it you who changed the tense in the penultimate line, from the original we saw here which read “It was I who wore the trousers in those Parliamentary Houses”?)

Next month’s comp is an easier topic than this one was, thank goodness. (See new thread.)

Jayne

Poetry Competition & Results

From Literary Review Deputy Editor Tom Fleming:

This month’s poems were on the subject of ‘Pygmalion moments’, which caused a lot of confusion. Admittedly it was vague, but there’s no ‘right’ response in this competition; as long as the poems are not wildly off-topic, they’ll do just fine. John Whitworth’s impressively fluent entry wins him the first prize of £300, generously sponsored by the Mail on Sunday, while Martin Parker wins £150 in second place and Janet Kenny wins £10.

FIRST PRIZE
A Pygmalion Moment by John Whitworth

My father was a grocer, ' Three bags full sir, yes sir, no sir!'
With a peck of grocer's unction and a pale and pasty face.
'Pound of plums, such lovely fruit sir, mind your suit sir, lick your boots, sir',
For he always knew his onions and he always knew his place.

I was father's little daughter and I did just as I oughter.
I was pretty as a picture and I stood out from the crowd.
For I never lacked endeavour. I was very very clever
And a scholarship to Oxford made my father very proud.

There's an Oxford way of walking and an Oxford way of talking,
Which will show the world that you're an Eton or a Harrow man.
You are born to rule the roast and any other chaps are toast and
As for ladies – go to Hades in the quickest way you can.

Nonetheless I went for glory as a woman and a Tory
With a true-blue Tory husband who was fundamentally sound.
I was nifty, I was neat and so I won myself a seat and
I became a rising star with both feet firmly on the ground.

As an up-and-coming filly I was sensible not silly,
With a twin-set and a hair-do and a handbag and a hat.
Many fellows were protective of my feminine perspective,
So they let me sit in cabinet and, frankly, that was that.

Though you might have thought perhaps, with such a plethora of chaps,
One must spring into the saddle when the world of duty calls,
It is I who wears the trousers in these Parliamentary Houses,
And the girl who came from Grantham was the one who had the balls.

Second Prize
…Or but a Wandering Voice? by Martin Parker

I’ve stuffed my one chick on a diet of worm
and the sorts of small insects that robins like best.
But now it’s the size of a small pachyderm
and its wings hang far over both sides of my nest.
And it’s far from becoming a robin.

Its colouring, too, makes me ask myself whether
my efforts are wasted. For each day I think
that there’s less and less prospect that even one feather
is turning bright red yet – or even pale pink –
to suggest it’s becoming a robin.

I’ve ruptured my larynx to teach it to chirp
in a twittering, chirruping, robinish trill.
But all I’ve got back is an ill-sounding ‘Burp’.
Still, I live with the hope that tomorrow it will
say ‘Cheep’ and behave like a robin.

It’s a thankless grey heap. It’s the size of a jeep.
Its feathers aren’t red and its voice is too deep.
They say as you sow then that’s how you shall reap,
and I’ve sown weeks of love on this graceless young creep.
But it still won’t turn into a robin.

By Jove! Did that happen? Or was I asleep?
I think that it’s got it! Just then it said, ‘Cheep’.
Though I fear it requires more than one massive leap
of faith to believe it’s a robin.

Arise Dame Galatea by Janet Kenny

When my voice commands attention I am filled with apprehension.
Was it something that I uttered or the way that I pronounce it?
I’m consumed by inner tension as I exercise pretension
if my ‘Oxford’ accent sputters when I carefully enounce it.

When I say ‘I’m from Australia’ the announcement is a failure
since the Londoners just wonder why I mention it at all?
I repeat with echolalia, ‘I’m Australian’, glossolalia
isn’t there to help my blunders. My linguistic skills are small.

‘Rain in Spain’ in conversation may occasion consternation
when my ‘rine in Spine’ astonishes the insular and proud.
But I find my sublimation in a quiet contemplation
of the certainty this voice of mine will galvanise the crowd.

When I sing I am translated and the long anticipated
recognition is extended by the condescending Poms.
I am swiftly elevated though some critics aggravated
by my diction are offended when I dominate the Proms.

They say ‘oo’ is insufficient in a singer who’s proficient
at more acrobatic matters but whose words cannot be heard.
Though I scoop and trill it isn’t thought enough, though reminiscent
of Dame Nellie. As that flatters I will take them at their word.

Now the British pay to hear me and my Aussie quirks endear me
to the broader population as they get to know my ways.
And the English singers near me adulate me and they fear me
as the musical sensation whom the journals love to praise.