Spectator -- the darker side of spring -- March 12 deadline
 

No. 2839: art of darkness

You are invited to submit a poem on the darker side of spring (16 lines maximum). Please email entries, wherever possible, to lucy@spectator.co.uk by midday on 12 March.

Poems! Ah! Wonderful! Here's a thought.

Spring

Don't suppose I'm complaining
But the rain keeps on raining.
Every allergy itches. It
'S as cold as a witch's tit.
Sneezes and wheezes they
Erupt like bejesus, hey
It's Spring, Spring, Spring!

All the shorts are a-busting.
God, it's really disgusting,
For you've just got to figure
Could a bum look much bigger?
Though he may prance a lot,
He ain't no Sir Lancelot.
It's Spring, Spring, Spring!

Hold Your Nose!
 

That's the idea, John!

More Ancient Music

After Anon & Pound

Springtide is icumen in
Lhude sing Achoo.
Pollen drifts and gives us fits
And how the sneezes echo!

Sing: Achoo
Burneth eyes and causeth sighs
An ague hath my head.
Meltests snow and makes nose blow

And sinuses to bleed anew.
Achoo you sing: Achoo
Achoo, Achoo, ‘tis why I am, Achoo
So ‘gainst the springtime’s brew

Sing Achoo, Achoo, sing Achoo,
Sing Achoo, Achoo, ACHOO!

A quick and autobiographical attempt :--

Bloody Springtime brings more rain,
Bloody lawn's all moss again.
Bloody wife wants garden dug,
Bloody job for bloody mug.

Bloody grass begins to grow,
Bloody mower will not mow.
Bloody next-door's cat uproots
Bloody swathes of bloody shoots.

Bloody catalogues all lied,
Bloody plants have bloody died.
Bloody roses put out suckers,
Bloody, sodding prickly f******.

Bloody songbirds wake at dawn,
Bloody badgers dig up lawn.
Bloody place a bloody mess.
Next door's like the RHS.

Apologies Martin, seems like I arrived in Orkney just after you.

The ravens' noisy matings in my trees
disrupt our Sunday lie-ins with their calls,
then in the garden I’m on hands and knees
planting spuds while drenched in bloody squalls.
The daffodils show off their strumpet heads--
I note their plot needs weeding and attention,
the slugs are lunching in my seedling beds
with weevils, bugs and mites, their bloody henchmen.
The moss has grown, the bloody grass has riz,
the missus wants the patio hosed down.
I bloody don’t know where the washer is--
most likely nicked as I bought plants in town.
As far as I’m concerned make Spring taboo.
No more icumin in. Bugger cuckoo.

Spring

In spring the bears whose harmless sleep
made winter safe from mauling
awake to threaten man and sheep.
The pollen is appalling.
The birds disturb our dreams at dawn.
The lawns need constant mowing.
The rain won't stop. Mosquitoes spawn.
The world was better snowing.

Rain Stos Fray
 

Withdrawn for recycling

Not easy, this.

It’s an Easter card in crayon sent by murderess Rose West,
It’s an orange frock in rayon that’s been voted Season’s Best,
It’s the rain that stays on longer than the least welcome houseguest:
You don’t want to see the darker side of spring.

It’s the lambs all dead of frostbite when the children run to see,
It’s the wordless howl of March wind as it taunts the solitary,
It’s the Beckettian mindscape of each Spring Bank Holiday:
But you have to see the darker side of spring.

It’s the resumption of hay fever when your flu is not yet done,
It’s the horses we’ll slaughter when the Grand National is run,
It’s the fading ghost of theism that haunts each hot cross bun:
No-one quite escapes the darker side of spring.

In wintertime
the birds all fled,
but now they're back
and crap my head.

A field of tiny lambs in Spring
Can lift our hearts and make us smile.
Their baas persuade us everything
Is good, and living life worthwhile.

Alas, they’re only born to die.
(I’m sorry, but you know they are!)
Their raison d’être’s to supply
The slicing, dicing abattoir.

Each bleating, fluffy little love
Is marked for chops or rogan josh,
And one day men will come to shove
Them into rooms with floors awash

In blood and guts, and then reveal
Their bolt guns, each of which contains
A rod of cold and brutal steel
For pulverising ovine brains.