Eratosphere - Speccie Competition It's All Relative

Bill Greenwell and Martin Parker scored for us and Jayne nearly did.

Lucy Vickery 16 March 2013
In Competition No. 2788 you were invited to submit a poem about a relative. A popular one, this, and long lines mean there is space only to award the winners £25 each and the bonus fiver to Bill Greenwell. Commendations go to Dorothy Pope and Jayne Osborn.

Till seventeen, I didn’t know
of Nell (two miles or nearer) —
a great-aunt, who was seen aslant.
A class thing. In that era,

the nicest people were ignored
because the rules were firmed.
My mother said she’d not been wed
when she’d seen Nell. I squirmed,

and off we drove (my Dad asleep)
to see her. Mum knew where.
Nell, ninety, had just baked a cake.
She didn’t turn a hair.

She set aside the hymns she played,
though twenty years had missed her:
The protocols were fol-de-rols.
She was my grandad’s sister.
Bill Greenwell

My cousin Clive, no sluggard he,
Was fond of ladies’ lingerie,
Discovered at the age of nine
Robbing a neighbour’s washing line.

We marched the nipper to a shrink
Who said, ‘This is a common kink.
Believe me, I’ve seen many worse.
He’ll straighten out. Please pay the nurse.’

We took his word, but snakes alive,
There was no cure for naughty Clive.
He grew up with a single aim
That drowned the family in shame.

At thirty-five he got his kicks
From stealing thongs in Harvey Nicks
And drew a stretch in Wormwood Scrubs,
But that’s the way the gusset rubs.
G.M. Davis

A soldier stood on the doorstep: ‘Sunny Jim’s in?’
‘He’s down the shed’ — another time and other
lives —
Retired from teaching half the C stream boys in
Lynn,
Ex–pupils came in droves to show him cars or
wives.

Mocked for his efforts to inspire, he taught first aid
And tennis to rough lads who’d given up, who’d failed,
Whose efforts and self-confidence had been betrayed;
Steadfast, his atheistic love for them prevailed.

At home he had to knuckle under: She was boss;
Adoring him, She called him ‘sap’, ‘a right disgrace’.
A note walked out of his back pocket: ten bob loss!
When sent to do the weekly shop at Windsor Place.

‘Make my money right, Jimmy!’ Oh what luck! I had
Enough to bail him out. Years after, in the gloom
Of early morning, half asleep, I hear it, Dad:
Your joyful laughter echo from another room.
Anne Du Croz

In Cornwall my cousin, dear Daisy, did dwell,
Sing Summer-slow, barleymow, indigo haze!
And as soon as we met I was under her spell,
Charmed and disarmed by her gaze.
Bonny and buxom and cuddlesome too
She hinted we might, and we did, as you do
When familial fondling is novel and new
In those Summer-slow, long-ago days.

Though, duly, my cousin to Cornwall returned,
Sing water-flow, tidal-tow, fire-glow blaze!
Still sweet are those relative values I learned
In a novice’s innocent ways;
We frolicked for only a weekend, and yet
For family ties I shall never forget
Dear Daisy’s the cousin I’m glad to have met
In those fire-glow, long-ago days.
Alan Millard

Uncle Kenneth, past his zenith, chose a Home for his retirement
With a warden but no garden, so he got him an allotment.
He grew veges round the edges; flowers though,were far from fine:
His azaleas were all failures — soil pH too alkaline.
His aubretia, brought from Esher, had a scent like dear knows what,
I’ve seen grander oleander in a tiny plastic pot.
His nepeta lured a cheetah from a nearby circus tent
Which then ate his best clematis and his liliums of Lent.
His dwarf asters were disasters and his digitalis too,
It was no go for plumbago and his phormium turned blue.
Smells of sewer from manure that he spread around his phlox
Made him compromise with ox-eyes in a little window box.
Things went better when he met a charming lady resident
And together with his Heather Ken finds passion’s not all spent.
Alanna Blake

Uncle Ted, home from the Pit,
In his old tin bath would sit
With his ferret and his whippet
And a pint of ale to sip. It
Was the normal aftermath
That Auntie found around the bath,
A scum of thick, malodorous greases
Washed from Ted’s less savoury pieces.

Poor Auntie used to frown and say,
‘If tha wants ecky-thump today
I beg you, when you’ve had your fill
And rise from your congealing swill,
Please follow the politer path
Of always cleaning round the bath —
An act of which your dog and ferret
Have begged me to extol the merit.’
Martin Parker