Speccie Chain Reaction comp by 12th June
 

I'm standing in for John again here, just for this week's new comp. This looks like a nice one, but I wish it had been the final word of each line becoming the first word of the next line, rather than the final letter. (Only because I already have a chain verse written; never mind, I'm sure that version will come up some day.)

Jayne

From Lucy Vickery:
No. 2802: chain reaction
You are invited to submit a poem on the subject of your choice in which the final letter of each line becomes the first letter of the next line (16 lines maximum). Please email entries, wherever possible, to lucy@spectator.co.uk by midday on 12 June.

The horrendous events in Woolwich have been followed within hours and within days with further revelations of the horrors wrought by the policies of the Blair and Bush eras and of their ever growing effects.

Time was when our societies marvelled at the savagery of those cultures encumbered with the traditions of the blood-feud. Now, with the BBC screening a 'documentary' on the Iraq War, we are having to re-hear the liars of the past paraded, unpunished in the present - while ordinary people across the world from London to Lahore, from Baghdad to Boston are still being killed. One would think that so much blood would be heard but, even in the best of our media, it still seems remarkably hushed.

DUMB BLOOD

Butchery in Woolwich -
hacked about by lies,
squandered in our real world -
doomed by self-dimmed eyes,
statesmen seldom answer
rightful law’s assize.

Each of our false rulers
served his own regard -
drones dash dreams of millions,
Shia/Sunni charred -
death broadcast’s brought here, how
war makes home-truths hard.

Dual vision’s nonsense;
everyone can see
each life taken’s wicked.

Damn both leaders B…

Summer
 

‘Sumer is icumen in’?
Not evident to me!
-Except in fits and starts. Such
Heat and light we used to see
Each year far more dependably-
Year after year, it seemed,
Days long and languorous would stretch,
Heady, hot-dazing, deemed
Delightful in those play-filled hours:
So much grass, sky and time!
Exhilarating now, recalled
Devotedly, since I’m
Much older (my half century).
Years flicker past like trains;
Such looking back along the tracks
Soothes chills, and loss, and pains.

[Final line: alternatively, 'Soothes chill[s?] of loss and pains.' - which of the three is best? I liked ending on 's' - which happended naturally - as it completes a cycle back to the first line beginning with 's' - for Summer.]

I can’t believe I’m doing this again!
“Nevermore!” I cried, like some daft raven.
Now, here I am, unfed, unwashed, unshaven,
Nibbling a biscuit for the hunger pain,
Nervous and irritable, seeking letters -
So many of them, and so few that fit
The words I need. Another ciggy lit
To calm my nerves. Damn those sadistic setters!
Sheer misery, these tricksy competitions;
Such desperate mental strain to find ideas,
Sustained by fags and far too many beers,
Scratching my bonce on masochistic missions.

So harken to my end-of-tether cry:
“You think I’m doing this again? Not I!”

Made me laugh! Your opening two lines are a great attention-getter, Brian, and introduce the tone excellently.

Bit of an odd one this. Would anyone notice the repeated letters if they hadn't read the rubrics? I haven't pinched your biscuit, Brian. Sent this off hours ago before seeing yours.

Small children, while rejecting greens,
Scoff biscuits, then, as fire-proof teens,
Scorn elders' fears of bulges, pots,
Sludge in the arteries and clots.

Some years go by. Not quite so thin
Now, biscuits turn to life-style sin.
No more! Along the road they start
To slender form and healthy heart.

Truth is, they're useful to disguise
Embarrassment at shape and size.
Embonpoint? Beer-gut? Rolls of fat?
Thank goodness biscuits cause all that!

I quite agree, Jerome. It's a technical challenge that adds nothing to the end-product, apart from showing how jolly clever we all are.

And of course, I wouldn't have dreamt of suspecting you of pinching my biscuit. Even if you had, I would never refuse a biscuit to a starving fellow-poet, unless it was my last chocolate digestive.

Being a glutton for punishment, I couldn't help wondering if it could be done as a palindromic paracrostic. In terms of rhyme, the answer so far is: not quite.

My goodness! Here’s a piece of prime erotica -
A gorgeous creature made from a rib I shed,
Demure among the tropical exotica,
And smiling as she nibbles on a yam,
My nubile nymph, my buxom Botticelli!

I’d love to teach her how to Mum and Dad ‘em -
Maybe that serpent had the right idea:

An apple from God’s deli, ripe and red ...
Delectable! Delicious! Mamma mia!
And now, let’s - oh, you're wondering who I am?
Madam, I’m Adam.

Well done, Brian! I've admitted defeat with this competition but my hopeless struggle will make me all the more admiring (or do I mean jealous?) of the winners.

Ingenious as ever, Brian - and there was me thinking I'd done OK to get back to my starting letter. One effort is enough for me though - so the field for still greater ingenuity is all yours.