[John Whitworth]

Competition No. 2655
Wednesday, 14th July 2010
Lucy Vickery presents the latest competition
In Competition No. 2655 you were asked to submit a poem about a mundane household task such as boiling an egg or changing a light bulb in the style of a poet of your choice.
Pastiche always pulls in the crowds, and true to form the entries came flooding in. Commendations go to Virginia Price Evans, Paul Griffin, Martin Parker, Gee McIlraith and Tim Raikes, all of whom were unlucky losers. But a pat on the back all round: entries were almost uniformly magnificent and it was extremely tough to choose only a handful. The winners are printed below and earn their authors £25 each. The bonus fiver belongs to George Simmers.

Each morn resplendent angels swept the rich
Brocaded carpets of the Heavenly halls
With whirring Dysons, and let marvel none
That such machinery was there, for Heaven’s store
Holds all devices that God’s providence
Has planned for human weal in future times.
Satan was on that rota; with deft skill
He could all four attachments utilise
To clean fine tapestries and yet harm not
The lustrous filigrees of golden thread.
Which work gave him great joy, till Raphael
With Mister Muscle made the kitchen shine,
For which all Heaven garnished him with praise,
Ignoring Satan’s efforts, and the thoughts
Of that bright angel darkened, breeding vast
Resentful Pride, and so began all woe.
George Simmers/Milton

Into the neutral the blue wire goes.
Once it was black; things change I suppose.
The live one is brown. It used to be red,
Bringing to mind a decade long dead.
My wife is impatient. She wants the tv.
She likes Antiques Roadshow, doesn’t like me.
A trivial task, but it’s making me sweat.
I daren’t pop out for a quick cigarette.
My neighbour gave up. He put on three stone.
Now the women leave him alone.
Earth is bi-coloured, yellow and green.
I’d rather be reading a men’s magazine.
I’m missing a screw, but it’s always the case.
First you lose love, then you lose face.
When I’ve done this I’ll get out the car
And go for a drive, but not very far.
Basil Ransome-Davies/W.H. Auden’s Plug-Wiring Blues

The Sock Drawer is a little Ark —
Whose Dwellers two by two
Are first a Mound — of Wantonness
The Laundress must undo.
Entangled, newly clean and dry,
They hide out — from the Hand
That vetoes bachelor Debauch —
And publishes — the Banns.
The Matchmaker’s Intent is firm —
She finds and rolls — each Pair,
Coordinate Habiliments
For ten-toed Twins to — share.
Yet mirthful Providence conspires
On every washing Day —
That when the even Task is done,
Still Oddness — claims one Stray.
Chris O’Carroll/Emily Dickinson

Much have I rubbed ’long grimy skirting boards
And many dusty greying cobwebs seen;
Round furring carpet-edges have I been
Where furtive moths are hatching in their hordes.
Behind old furniture for rich rewards
Of dirt, dead flies, cat hair and grit I glean
And counted all time lost until, to clean,
I bought a vacuum cleaner without cords.
Then felt I like some warrior on speed
When a new sword is fitted to his hand,
Or like a weary traveller whose steed
Brings him at length to an untrodden land
Where all the world is young — and saw no need
To creep on ageing knees but took my stand.
D.A. Prince/Keats

Draw up from Arethusa’s sacred rill
One shimm’ring pan, nor any droplet spill;
With proper caution, lest the shell should break,
From neath Dame Partlet now the ovoid take,
And while the kettle on the hob doth sing
The speckled embryo to the kitchen bring
And gently with a silvern ladle urge
The oval feast into the seething surge.
Now tip the timer over with your hand,
Where lucent glass combines with desert sand:
With butter from the Fresian, clover-fed
Smoothe o’er the finely slivered wheaten bread,
And when the sands have run prepare the cup
From which the fair Belinda soon shall sup,
And in its clay the light-boil’d feast exalt
Attended by a tiny Alp of salt.
Gerard Benson/Alexander Pope

Shuck off its husk,
The scorched-papery cloak,
Then peel away
The clinging underthing:
Stripped stark
It lies moon-pale
Innocent of trappings,
Clenched in its roundness.

Under the knife
The glistening thing becomes
The ball of Polyphemus’ eye:
Ichor oozes, films the blade.
The cleft halves, cut across
And cut again,
Reduce to tesserae.
W.J. Webster/Ted Hughes