Competition: Oldie Bulbs
The Oldie Competition
Tessa Castro
In Competition No 131 you were invited to write a poem called 'Bulbs'. The light-bulb of inspiration certainly popped on above many a head and I kept exclaiming, 'This one's good!'
The best and worst joke came from Jerome Betts: 'Sir Humphry's legacy these days / Is just a mess of wattage.' Like many, Jayne Osborn glowed with rage: 'Bring back my proper bulbs - and light - / I'm incandescent every night.' Fay Dickinson made martial moves for change: 'Now bayonet at the ready / I'll make my enemy relent. / I'm pushing fearlessly forward... / Blast, the fittings flaming bent.'
John Whitworth, like Lord Finchley by William Dunbar, didn't dare change his bulb for timor mortis. Chris 0' Carroll was Housmanian: 'These threescore watts of fragile light / Cannot for long ward off the night.'
Jim C Wilson reminisced: 'The class's shining blooms were judged inline. / All looked identical. Which won? Not mine,'
So commiserations to him and the others and congratulations to those printed below, each of whom wins £25, with the bright and beautiful bonus Taylor's of Harrogate tea and cake set going to Frank McDonald.
Look at their scaly winter coats,
their gargoyle heads devoid of grace;
Nature has taken every trace
of loveliness from these old brutes.
leave them to darkness and forget
what once they were; their sun has set.
What fool believes in second birth?
They had their day to bring delight,
bestow their fragrance and their grace;
let some new wonder take their place;
leave them to slumber through their night.
Can we believe in vernal skies
the shoots of life might reappear
and out of death, in some new year,
these tired old wrinkled things will rise?
Frank McDonald
But they won't grow if you don’t plant them. Yes,
I know. I also know it's cold and damp
and uninviting in that general mess
we call the potting shed. I'd need a lamp
to scare the spiders off and banish mice.
It's 50-50 that a squirrel raid
will dig up every one - their paradise
is based on pots of tulips, freshly made
.
Bulbs look so sweet, appealing in their net,
all begging for release. I brought them home
to join the other good intentions - yet
I will go out, despite the chill, find loam
and pots, and tuck them deep, and grate some soap
to keep the squirrels off. This year I think t
hey're short and fringed (the label says), and hope,
which springs eternal, colours them blush-pink.
D A Prince
The setting might be Amsterdam or Utrecht,
the scene, by early Hals or late Vermeer.
it's auction day a merry band is here
with faces lit to wonderful effect.
In back, a huisvrau, stiff and ruffly necked,
strains hard to catch the van-dyked auctioneer
(who holds what seems to be a giant tear)
proclaiming that this lot is quite select.
The crowd is surging 'round like running grunion;
they know he won’t return until November,
and caught up in the newest tulipmania,
each yearns to buy that thing shaped like an onion.
They're going next to Ghent, though, come September –
these bulbs, inscribed ioo watts - Sylvania.'
Frank Osen
Papery skin above a white moustache of roots
A pointed white nose pushing upwards, sniffing the spring air
Globes like little onions, shallots
Or pear-shaped, like light bulbs
Woman-shaped, English woman-shaped,
Gracefully curved, wet road shiny
Wet roads?
Vehicles skidding, hooting hooters Hooters?
Noses.
Bulbous drinkers' noses, pock-marked
skin above a stained slug of hair
Wide nostrils, blotchy red
Sniffing the beer-ridden air
Ignoring the delicate fragrance of the flowers
From the bulbs
Linda Fawke
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