Eratosphere - Speccie Competition Light Touch

Our discussions about this were wide-ranging. In general Lucy came down on the side of safety - stiff-upper lips about one's own misfortunes. Congratulations to the forgetful Adrian Fry, to my splendid self and to the lovely Melissa Balmain. I'm not sure I understand the winner. Perhaps someone should explain it to me and why the subject is particularly serious.

Lucy Vickery 17 August 2013
In Competition 2810 you were invited to write a light-hearted poem about a serious subject.

I suggested you take a look at J.B.S. Haldane’s comic poem ‘Cancer is a funny thing’ to get an idea of what I was after. Another source of inspiration might have been my predecessor Jaspistos, the poet James Michie, who treated the big subjects — life, illness, death — with an exquisitely deft, witty touch. Here is ‘Cancer, or the Biter Bit’, written shortly before he died: ‘I used to fancy crabmeat as a treat:/ Now Crab’s the epicure, and I’m the meat.’

It was a large entry but the standard was on the patchy side. Still, some excelled. Commendations go to Katie Mallett, Jean Hayes and Christopher Pearson; and congratulations to the prizewinners, printed below, who take £30 each. The extra fiver is Alan Millard’s.

The act of prostitution is a serious offence,
As witnessed by the jury in this tale of decadence:
His Honour, feeling tetchy, saw before him, in the dock,
A flighty, fallen woman in a flimsy, frilly frock.
‘Soliciting again?’ he barked. ‘You ladies go too far.’
‘It wasn’t me,’ she shouted, ‘It was him what stopped the car!’
‘Blaming others yet again? So, tell me, where’s your proof?’
His Honour sneered from high above, all pompous and aloof.
‘I’ll get Your Honour proof,’ she said, ‘and make the scoundrel pay!
I’ll grab him where it really hurts before he gets away.’
‘How often’, said His Honour, ‘have you seen this man about?’
‘Oh, several times,’ she answered. ‘If you like I’ll point him out.’
‘You’ll point him out?’ His Honour said. ‘And can you tell me how?’
‘Oh yes, Your Honour,’ she replied. ‘He’s in the courtroom now.’‘
‘No need to point,’ His Honour said, ‘you’re innocent I see.’
And, much to everyone’s surprise, he let her off scot-free.
Alan Millard

Earth has not anything to show more fain
To waive the chance of laurels, less intent
On doing whatever must be done to gain
Sweet victory in a major sport event
Than British gentlemen, when in a team
Or playing for themselves. When they’re ahead
(As now and then they are) it doesn’t seem
Appropriate: they’re overwhelmed by dread
Of winning. That would spark the urge to crow
As others do, a circumstance they choose
To avoid. They don’t deliberately throw
The match, but somehow find a way to lose.
How well these gracious losers have been taught!
So good at being sports, so bad at sport.
That sonnet once made sense. I wonder how
It strikes Great Britons as they read it now.
Ray Kelley

The doorbell rang. I caught my breath.
I drew the bolt and it was Death.
He fumbled in his cloak and took
From some recess a little book.
He slid his glasses down his nose.
‘It’s Mr Whitworth, I suppose.’
A frosty smiled played on his lips
That chilled me to my fingertips,
So I replied in breezy tones,
‘No Whitworth here. My name is Jones.’
Whitworth resides at forty-seven,
An ancient shag, and ripe for Heaven,
His mind long gone, his body bent.’
Death nodded, tipped his hat and went.
Jones passed away that very night.
I sent a wreath, as well I might.
John Whitworth

One day, I couldn’t find my keys
And went upstairs to look for these
But getting there, forgetting what
I’d come for, found that I could not.

And then, forgetting, to my shame,
What I was upstairs for, my name
And almost all worldly affairs,
I went to look for them downstairs.

On getting there, could not recall
Quite who had come, where, or what for.
To summon back my waning powers
I stood, woolgathering, for hours.

I missed, therefore, by being late,
With Doctor Alzheimer a date
At which he’d say I’d his disease.
I’d better go: where are my keys?
Adrian Fry

Whenever thoughts of dying bring me low,
I tell myself at least by then I’ll know
Which trauma or disease has killed me by degrees
Or clobbered me with one efficient blow.

While croaking, I won’t fear that UV rays
Or germs on doorknobs, cash, and PDAs,
Or poisons leached from soils, or saturated oils,
Could cause a tragic ending to my days;

Magnetic fields, asbestos, deer ticks, gin,
Mad cow disease, lead paint, and saccharin
Won’t fill me with alarm — for what can do me harm
If I’ve been irreversibly done in?

Just one last thing will smother me with dread:
The notion of the nothingness ahead.
But that will vanish, too, the moment that I’m through —
A perk, I must admit, of being dead.
Melissa Balmain