[Jayne Osborn]

All quiet on the Sphere front this month: No winners or Hon Menshes among us. Let's keep trying though; if anyone can give 'em what they want surely we can? (Don't you think the Second Prize poem ought to have an internal rhyme in S3L3, though, for consistency?)

Jayne

Report by Deputy Editor Tom Fleming

This month’s poetry was on the subject of ‘mud’. Nick Syrett came first, and wins £300, generously sponsored by the Mail on Sunday; J R Gillie came second, and wins £150; D A Prince and Noel Petty win £10 each.

First Prize
Show parade by Nick Syrett

The Etruscan army’s glittering ranks
Got stuck in the mud of the Tiber’s banks,
And only Horatius got clean home
Minus the stench and the coating of loam;
The Romans themselves had some lustre to lose,
Caligae deep in East Anglian ooze,
Breastplates all splattered and mud in the eye
From Boudicca’s chariots slithering by;
Bowmen of Crecy and Agincourt’s heroes,
Full marks for valour but cleanliness? Zeroes,
The Duke spent so much on his soaps and his bleaches
He dreamed up a boot to keep mud off his breeches;
Mud round Sevastapol, sullen and cruel,
Mud on the Somme that could swallow a mule,
Wagons and women, tobacco and brew
Follow the soldier, the mud follows too;
Now I’ve dreamed of its touch when I’m choking with dust
But it isn’t a beast that a soldier should trust,
And there’s mud on my toe-cap, a clandestine kiss
That that eagle-eyed sod of a sergeant won’t miss;
Ambitions and stratagems, bodies and blood,
And now my stand-easy, all lost in the mud.

Second Prize
Mud Royal by J R Gillie

Edmund Spenser and Raleigh
Went out with the Queen for a walk.
Raleigh wore satin and Spencer spoke Latin:
The Queen was entranced by their talk.

But then they arrived at a puddle.
The Queen almost slipped in the mud.
Said Spenser, ‘That soil, I dub “the mud royal.”’
The quip fell to earth with a thud.

Her Majesty bridled in horror:
‘Sir, we do not care for your joke.’
Poor Spenser gulped, feeling his collar.
Sir Walter had whipped off his cloak.

The garment was ruined forever.
Though laundresses scrubbed off the goo,
Sir Walter, repining, cried ‘Look at the lining,
Those little brown marks will not do.’

‘I’m keen on the Queen too,’ drawled Spenser,
‘But balk at your chivalrous tricks.
I’m not so besotted I’d have my cloak spotted.
No, no. Marks and Spenser don’t mix.’

The unlevel playing field by D A Prince

Hockey was part of ‘learning about life’ –
fair play, team spirit, what it’s like to lose.
Competing in the changing room was rife:
rich girls owned studded boots; we wore old shoes
and shared bashed sticks, provided by the school.
In dark green box-pleat shorts and knee-high socks,
come rain come shine, we played: that was the rule,
out there, stumbling through all the bruising shocks
that schoolgirl flesh is heir to. Dulled with cold
we stumbled through the timetable, each game
always in murky light, the pitch grown old
and scuffed and rough, and every time the same.

I’d have missed all the sessions if I could.
Even today some Wednesdays taste of mud.

‘When you’re visiting the moors’ by Noel Petty

When you’re visiting the moors and you venture out of doors
And see a footpath snaking through the fog,
It’s absolutely bound to lead to where the ground
Gives way before a steaming, quaking bog.

And the locals will relate of the folk who’ve met their fate
By following that dark deceitful way.
They’ll tell you (as a friend) that the bog’s depth has no end,
And never looses hold upon its prey.

But if you hover near, quite soon there will appear
A fugitive engaged in desperate flight,
And next you’ll hear the sounds of policemen and their hounds
And see their flashing torches pierce the night.

And of course it will transpire that he plunges in the mire,
You’ll see it suck him down before your eyes.
And he’ll struggle and he’ll flail, but it’s all to no avail
As slowly he will sink with piteous cries.

One final finger drops and one final bubble plops
And the ooze moves in to cover in the hole.
It’s the consequence of crime, and it happens every time,
So breathe again, and watch the credits roll.

[Brian Allgar]

I agree about the missing internal rhyme, Jayne (and without it, 'collar' doesn't really rhyme with 'horror'). Even so, it's a very entertaining piece, with an excellent joke at the end. I'd have given it first prize ... but what do I know?