[Jayne Osborn]

Sorry it's late, everyone. My copy of the magazine failed to arrive but lovely John at The Oldie has come to my rescue and sent me the results page by email.

Congratulations to our John (as Phoebe Flood) and to Max; well done also to Annie and Charlie for Hon Menshes.

(Next competition "To See the Sea" on a new thread)

Jayne

The Oldie Competition
by Tessa Castro

In competition 203, you were invited to write a poem called ‘The Ring’. The entries were excellent. Commiserations to Katie Mallett (lost ring found), Andrew Bamji (an auction ring outwitted), Margaret Gilman (several kinds, including the Large Hadron Collider), Judith Caulfield (a ring of standing stones), Zara Jaber (loud Wagner), Ann Drysdale (endless Wagner), Paul Elmhirst (phone), Rita-Norah Greer (a lost pearl),
D A Prince (an unflashy kind), Captain J R Marigold (all sorts) and Charles
Southerland (a triolet in form).
Congratulations to those printed below, each of whom wins £25. No triolets for years and two come together, the other being from Jenny Morris who also wins the bonus prize of a Chambers Biographical Dictionary.

This circle’s rolled through many women’s lives.
This working hoop, this noose, this golden band
worn thin, so close to bone, it still survives.
This circle’s rolled through many women’s lives.
A spinning world that loses, shines and thrives
on grandma’s, mother’s, daughter’s thin left hand.
This circle’s rolled through many women’s lives.
This working hoop, this noose, this golden band.
Jenny Morris

Don’t trust him if he’s got a tiny arse.
Don’t trust him if he says he’s working class.
Don’t trust him if he tells you what he thinks.
Don’t trust him if he orders funny drinks.
Don’t trust him if he knows a lot of shits.
Don’t trust him if he stares at women’s tits.
Don’t trust him if he likes conceptual art.
Don’t trust him if he thinks he’s Bonaparte.
Don’t trust him if he drinks his whisky iced.
Don’t trust him if he thinks he’s Jesus Christ.
Don’t trust him if he’s left or if he’s right.
Don’t trust him if he wants to stay the night.
Don’t trust him if he drives a BMW.
Don’t trust him if there’s anything to trouble you.
Don’t trust him till your finger shows the bling.
Don’t trust him till you’ve got the bloody ring.
Phoebe Flood

The wedding ring, the wedding ring! Let’s sing a song about it.
You’d have to be a ding-a-ling to ever wed without it!
A quite extraordinary thing, it shouts, ‘This woman’s taken!’
The Keep Hands Off acquires the force of law. It’s truly meant.
A good one makes astounding bling. ‘My man brings home the bacon.
He could have bought a top-notch horse for half of what he spent.’
It proves the coupling ain’t no fling. ‘You think my fella’s fakin’?
We’re hitched till death or till divorce. The guy’s a proper gent.’
The wedding ring, the wedding ring! Let’s sing a song about it.
Unless you’re only practising, don’t ever wed without it!
Max Gutmann

His anniversary gift, exquisite thing
She gazes at and gratefully admires,
Adorns her finger, turquoise opal ring
Of old antiquity and quiet fires.
They celebrate their fiftieth year today
Though only forty-nine years married. They’re
Anticipating by twelve months the day
He will no longer be alive to share.
The opal tokens sorrow and October –
The end and the beginning of their love:
The Halloween ball where they met each other,
The days remaining being not enough.
This opal, then, a twofold message sends
Of rapture and of heartbreak as it ends.
Dorothy Pope