Speccie In brief
In brief
In Competition No. 2715 you were invited to condense the plot of a well-known novel into 16 lines or fewer.
In the interest of making space for the winners, I will follow your lead and keep it brief. Honourable mentions to G. McIlraith, Robert Schechter and Michael Grosvenor Myer, who pulled off the impressive feat of boiling down Moby-Dick to four lines.
The prizewinners below are rewarded with £25 and the bonus fiver flutters into the lap of Alan Millard.
Bright bonnie Connie, though less bonnie latterly,
Marries a knight and becomes Lady Chatterley.
Clifford, her spouse, tries his best to appease her
But, being defective below, fails to please her.
Michaelis, a playwright, attempts to relieve her
Though, sadly, his efforts serve only to grieve her
When into the frame springs the frankest of fellers
Who’s surly but burly, the gamekeeper — Mellors.
Nothing he does or reveals to her frights her,
Indeed what she sees of him simply delights her
Till, finding herself in the family way,
She pops off to Venice in dire dismay.
The pair, being married, must file for divorce
But their partners object, which is par for the course,
And thus the tale ends with them stuck in a rut
Both rueing their pranks in that infamous hut!
Alan Millard
Mr Harding, gently drowsing
Over Hiram’s sheltered housing,
In his daughters took delight
Played the cello morn and night.
When the Warden’s worthiness
Was questioned by the gutter Press,
Saint-like, he resigned. His loss
Made Archdeacon Grantley cross.
Barchester spared little pity;
Mrs Proudie ran the city.
Mr Harding, dear old fellow,
Quietly went back to his cello.
Paul Griffin
Clarissa Dalloway, slim, pale, in blue,
was sad about the war but glad it stopped.
She thought of other men whom once she knew,
and planned a formal party as she shopped.
Less powerful people lived their parallel
unhappy lives, and passed her in the street.
Her life was rather dull, but theirs was hell.
Their paths would almost touch but never meet.
Medical experts, members of her set,
would over-analyse a shell-shocked man
who chose defenestration to forget.
His poor abandoned wife came from Milan.
Sir William Bradshaw and his wife were late.
He spoke about this case and politics.
Clarissa, stricken, was in such a state
of rapture — death could wait. She had to mix.
Janet Kenny
All Julio-Claudians are noble or barmy.
They thought me a stammering halfwit at best.
Some died for Rome at the head of an army,
And Grandmother Livia poisoned the rest.
Augustus got rid of the empire-resisters.
Tiberius was an old pervert, of course.
Caligula was barking and screwed all his sisters,
And then made a senator out of his horse.
The Praetorian Guard thought that I was a fool,
Made me Emperor Claudius, though it seemed odd,
But I got back some eagles, found out how to rule,
And the loonies in Britain declared me a god.
My wife Messalina, they said, was a whore,
A fact I discovered was far from erroneous.
I made Nero heir, so there would be no more,
But the empire went on. Go and read Suetonius.
Brian Murdoch
Two dwellings make the setting for the plot —
one grand, the house of Godfrey Cass but not
his secret, cast-off wife and child; one mean,
where Silas Marner lives, whose life has been
confined to working at his loom to make
a hoard of gold he loves for its own sake.
But then it’s stolen and he’s left distraught
till Cass’s wife and child one night are caught
in blizzards as she seeks Cass out to claim
their lawful place: the mother dies, her name
unknown, but Marner saves the gold-haired tot
and raises her, aware that now he’s got
true wealth. However, when young Eppies’s grown
to womanhood, Cass claims her as his own.
For all his urgings, though, her head’s not turned:
her home’s with Silas — and the mansion’s
spurned.
W.J. Webster
The animals feared Farmer Jones,
By whom their lives were mastered,
Till Major urged, in stirring tones,
They overthrow the bastard.
Their revolution seemed a boon.
It ended human power,
But Major died and all too soon
Utopia turned sour.
Napoleon, the great boar’s heir,
Betrayed the farmyard’s hopes.
His rule was harsh and doctrinaire,
More cruel than any pope’s.
In time the animals could see
That they were slaves again.
Men might be pigs, but equally
Pigs could be foul as men.
Basil Ransome-Davies
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