Competition Speccie Take Two
Lucy Vickery presents the latest competition
In Competition No. 2669 you we invited to take one of Shakespeare's soliloquies and recast it in the style of the author of your choice. This was an exceptionally strong field, with winners enough to fill several columns. Honourable mentions to G.M. Davis, Mary Holtby, Laura Garratt
and Margaret Howell, and £30 each to those printed below. Catherine Tufariello bags the extra fiver,
Miss Juliet Capulet, you are the sun,
With that sheen on your skin and your braids half undone!
I'm a fool on a cliff, and you give me a shove—
Is it any surprise that he fallen in love?
Your daddy looked daggers all night at the dance,
While I hoped and I prayed for tiniest glance
At your firm-muscled forearms and strenuous thighs.
Now you stand at the window, the sun in your eyes:
Though it's quarter past midnight, you'd think it was noon,
And the greeny-faced, chilly-chaste, envious moon
Looks queasy as I am, your servant in livery
Dumbstruck and weak-kneed and lovery-shivery.
How l wish I could be a globe warmed by your hand,
Or a shoe on your foot, or a wave on the sand
Between your strong toes as you kick me and run!
Miss Juliet Capulet, you are the sun.
Catherine Tufariello/John Betjeman
Death comes at us disguised as days
Advancing with their slow-march tread,
An infinite parade of strength.
In time we're ground to dust, always,
Like all the fools before, all dead,
Life clicked off in a last breath's length.
Our lives are nothing but a stage
For acting out our fears and dreams,
A sad illusion, soon destroyed.
Like idiots we shout and rage,
As if we did not know our screams
Would die to nothing in the void.
W.J,Webster/Philip Larkin
I'll use that bloomin' 'elf-wit to sharpen up my plan.
I wouldn't gie 'im time of day, just chattin' man to man,
But 'e can 'elp me dish the Moor, 'oo as the gossip runs
Is at it with my missus like a pair o' gatling guns.
Call it just a barracks rumour, but to me it's all the same.
A man I 'ate I'll 'ate buckshee, regardless of the blame.
Yet a loyal and honest ancient is 'ow 'e thinks of me,
Which makes my scheme as easy as unwinding a puttee.
Now Cassio, 'oo's in my way -'ow do I topple 'im?
'E scrubs well in uniform, although 'is lights are dim,
The ladies 'ave an eye for 'im, so what if I suggest
That Cassio's the cuckoo in Othello's little nest?
The Moor's still wet be'ind the ears. 'E thinks the best of folk.
You can lead 'im where you want 'im like an 'opeless plodding moke.
So there it is, a strategy straight from the pit of 'ell;
For me it's blissful vengeance, but for 'im it's bliss farewell.
Basil Ransome-Davies/Kipllng
What choice this is I think I know—
I'm racked with indecision though –
to face my fate however dire
or risk what terrors lie below?
For who indeed would not desire
to take their lease of fortune's ire,
but for the fear of going from
the frying pan into the fire?
My father's spirit must be glum
to see the way I'm playing dumb,
wandering round this crumbling heap,
while my uncle shags my mum.
Death beckons, peaceful, dark and deep,
but I havs vows that I must keep
and three more acts before I sleep
and three more acts before I sleep.
Marion Shore/Robert Frost
0, what is this hanging before me in the Scottish misty air?
You move but do not disappear however much I stare.
You look like a knife or a dagger or maybe a skeandhu
But, when I try to grasp you, you dissoke just like morning dew.
I know that a royal imagination can be powerful
But I wonder if I might be going mad, which makes me very sorrowful.
Or maybe this is all an unusually bad dream
Because now blood is pouring off you in a spotty stream.
It is of course a fact that men at my period in history
Are inclined to be superstitious and get involved in mystery
But why is that howlet doing such peculiar singing,
And who is summoning me by that noisy bell ringing?
If this is a trick to convince me that I must take Duncan's life
Then the blame will lie with the three witches or else with my domineering wife.
G. Mcllraith/William McGonagall
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