The Oldie Life on Mars competition by 27th June
 

Here's your next challenge.
There's lots of space for improvement... so planet well! ;)

Jayne

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxThe Oldie Competitionxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxby Tessa Castro
 
Competition no 178

In England, Mars has hung big and red in the southern sky as summer approached. A poem, please, called ‘Life on Mars’. Maximum 16 lines.

Entries to ‘Competition no 178’ by post (The Oldie, 65 Newman Street, London W1T 3EG) fax (020 7436 8804) or email comps@theoldie.co.uk by 27th June 2014. Please include your postal address.

There isn’t any man who knows
If life exists among the stars,
But every scrap of data shows
There’s positively none on Mars.

Whenever some new mission lands,
It samples, sniffs and reconfirms
The lone and level Martian sands
Don’t even harbour simple germs.

Our sister world is not possessed
Of any sucker-fingered folk.
Whatever H.G. Wells professed,
The planet’s dead as Basingstoke.

There are no Martian kings or czars,
No emperors or commissars;
It’s just a minor nation
Of Star Trek’s Federation.

On Mars, no threats of global warming
Inspire legislative warning;
The Martian Senate’s fooling
Around with global cooling.

On Mars there are no motorcars
To travel to the local bars;
The Martian cruises over
In his Martian rover.

In Martian skies, a pair of moons
Shine down as lusty Martians spoon;
Unless a dust storms covers
The frolicking of lovers.

* deleted *

Sorry, I posted my entry in a fit of absent-mindedness, having forgotten that I've given up doing so.

Love your poem, Rob. There's something so bathetically unexpected about Basingstoke turning up in it - made me laugh aloud.

Do you think it cuts down on your chances of winning, Brian?

I dunno, John, but not posting can't decrease the chances. I've never been superstitious - I'll cheerfully walk under ladders with thirteen black cats on every rung - but whenever I've posted a piece that someone hails as a certain winner, it's been the kiss of death.

On the other hand, it might be worth taking up superstition in my old age, if only to be able to describe myself as suffering from paraskevidekatriaphobia.

Thanks Adrian. I'm slightly concerned it's so short, but another stanza simply seems superfluous.

It may be that people her ehave better taste than Lucy. No Lucy, forget I said that. Your taste is impeccable.