The Oldie Comp 'Thirteen' by 11th January
 

As the bingo callers have it: "Unlucky for some - 13".
Let's hope it's a lucky number for some of us.

Jayne

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxCOMPETITION No 159
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxby Tessa Castro

Now that we’re getting used to the idea of 2013, a poem, please, with the title ‘Thirteen’. Maximum 16 lines.

Entries to ‘Competition 159’ by post (The Oldie, 65 Newman Street, London W1T 3EG), email (comps@theoldie.co.uk) or fax (020 7436 8804) by 11th January.
Don’t forget to include your postal address.

THIRTEEN

I think that I have never seen
A number cuss-ed as thirteen.
Thirteen, the surly senior cousin
That mocks the celebrated dozen
(Which factors neatly into fours,
Sixes, twos and threes, of course).
And fourteen, though a clumsy beast;
Can spawn a seven, twice, at least.

Thirteen, you are a nasty nit
That never can be cleanly split;
Immune you are to all division,
And luck arouses your derision.
I think it ought to be a crime
That any number should be prime.

Neat one, Douglas.

An oldie but, I hope, a goldie.

Thirteen

One red queen and two black jacks,
'Lickety-split!' says the headsman's axe.
Wish three times at your room's four corners,
A coffin of bread and mice for mourners.
Five dried beans and six mute swans,
A silver key to a house of bronze.
Seven strong sons and eight mad daughters,
Fire, air, earth and water.
Nine times round on ten pink toes,
'A rose.' says a rose, 'is a rose is a rose.'
Eleven tall guards for twelve tall doors,
And riddle-me-ree at the carrefours.
When the big clock strikes it strikes thirteen,
'Peekaboo!' says the wicked queen.

The thirteen days of Christmas

My wife walked out on Christmas Eve, she said she’d had enough.
Then, day by day, she sent me cartloads of disgusting stuff:

Twelve outrageous lawyers’ bills,
Eleven claims for child support,
Ten no-longer-needed pills,
Nine repellent ties she’d bought,
Eight CDs I’ve always hated,
Seven films the critics slated,
Six eggs past their sell-by date,
Five old photos of her mother,
Four sardines, obscenely late,
Three expletives from her brother,
Two raised fingers - spread, of course -
One petition for divorce.

The thirteenth day, I won the lottery. Whoopee! I’m rich.
Guess what? She says she’s changed her mind, the greedy little bitch!

THIRTEEN

When I was twelve, for all I'd seen,
it looked like fun to be thirteen,
the age when adult life began
(the Rabbi said I'd be a man),
but when I reached my birthday I
discovered all too promptly why
the number "thirteen" means bad luck.
I found I was the selfsame schmuck
that I had been the day before,
though people now demanded more.
With scraggly whiskers on my chin
I missed the boy that I had been,
the boy that time was poised to kill.
So long ago. I miss him still.

Amid an infinite forest of integers,
Only the number 13
Is afflicted with blackbirds.

One knows they're from the Wallace Stevens poem,
"Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird,"
Because these blackbirds are limpid and ineluctable.

Many people thought that 13 was odd
And an ill omen,
Even before the blackbirds showed up.

Like 2 and 67 and 281 and 983, 13 is prime,
Though now it is also a composite
Of the euphonious ululations of the blackbirds.

Since his poem is about numbers, as well as birds,
I wonder why Stevens didn't transform the blackbirds
Into a flock of cardinals,
Or even ordinals.

Roger, I find your poem very touching.

Thirteen Lines

O for a draft of the Hippocrene
the day before I turn thirteen
To bolster me for coming years
When my hurly-burly man appears.
Oh if he must let him come so
that we're twin compasses who know
when each leg must and must away.
When one's alone alone t'will stay,
Childhood one, the man the other,
The man, who beams at his little brother
and kisses him with a strong good-bye,
no more to tell the ancient lie
that the child is father to the man.

Frank, yours surely has got what John would call a £25 ticket on it.