[RCL]

The Martins’ Grief

Martins, are you grieving
For a Golden Child’s sad leaving
The safety of your family tree,
A leaf, alive, torn from your tree?
Ah! As your broken hearts grow older,
Your burning passions will grow colder;
But anger still will singe your sighs.
His killer lied; your child in leafmeal lies,
And weeping, you can hear his cries.
Not forgotten, Trayvon’s his name;
Sorrow’s springs are yours, the same.
What mouths said, and minds repressed,
What hearts heard, and your souls guessed:
It is a blight you’ve seen before;
It is all Martins that you mourn for.

[John Whitworth]

I have to admit this is not a whole lot like Hopkins, but I've got a bugle in and a blushing boy. Hopkins should have watched more cricket obviously.

Saturday at Lord's

List thou my lyre at Lord's, bring out the bugle.
Root-toot for Root, for Yorkshire blushing rose,
Dauntless in derring-do, of words more frugal,
A peerless poet in an age of prose.

Our champions chopped by fire-breathing Siddle,
Cook cooked, Trott trotted off, proud Pietersen
Laid low, our fount of batsmanship a piddle,
A phoenix rises like an orison.

Root-toot for Root, as Yorkshire's pride and joy
Outgraces Grace and trumps the ebullient Trumper.
Cometh the hour, cometh the beamish boy
Whose battering blade dismisses every bumper.

Most meritorious, glorious Galahad,
(Old men remember Hutton in his prime)
Helmet in hand, this lithe and lovely lad
Quits the uproarious field, untouched by time.

I've revised this to make it more Hopkinsy, though it still isn't very.

Saturday at Lord's

Sweet sweep the strings of Summer, blow the bugle.
Root-toot for Root, for Yorkshire blushing rose,
Dauntless in derring-do, of words more frugal,
Peerless a poet in sheer plods of prose.

Our champions chopped by fire-breathing Siddle,
Cook cooked, Trott trotted off, haught Pietersen
Laid low, our fount of batsmanship a piddle,
His phoenix rises like an orison.

Root-toot for Root, as Yorkshire's pride and joy
Outgraces Grace and trumps the ebullient Trumper.
Cometh the hour, cometh the beamish boy
Whose bright and battering blade beats every bumper.

Young chevalier, God's glorious Galahad,
(Old men remember Hutton in his prime.)
Helmet in hand, this lithe and lovely lad
Quits his uproarious field, untouched by time.

[George Simmers]

John, I think you're on the right track with sport, since Hopkins is so physical. I've got this so far, though I think it needs a bit of redrafting.

Ms Bartoli nimbly with glorious racket-smack
Hoiked balls net-overwards, clearly and sheerly,
Then, all two-handedly, long-lobbed again them back
Till cup was won and she clasped it heart-nearly.

Oh fragile our joy was, too soon to be shattered
By Inverdale's words, all ungracious-unfeeling.
In full-ghastly gloom we gasped grim as he nattered,
Revealing he found our game's queen unappealing.

More, he surmised that her parent paternal
(Parent so proud at this stage in her battling)
Must – Inverdale foul, may your shame be eternal –
Opine much the same. Oh pernicious such prattling!

All praise then Maria, who careth for culture,
Well wisely knew she women's views needed voice.
Fiercer than forest-fire, swift as a vulture,
She sent a brave letter. Now may we rejoice.

[Brian Allgar]

I caught this morning the morning news: O, ring
xxBells for the birth of this royal baby, born belatedly,
xxThis diapered dauphin, this minuscule monarch-to-be,
This princely homunculus, a fragile little thing
Trapped in the folds of time, timorously waiting to spring
xxInto childhood, adulthood, late middle-age, waiting patiently
xxFor his forebears to pass, and to fulfil his destiny
After dull, dutiful decades, by becoming King.

But more news followed, deadlier, drearier: the sizzling
xxHeatwave is nearing its end, the forecasts say,
And to darkling downpour, to dank cloud-disgorged drizzling,

xxThe blue-brilliant gold-gashed sky must soon give way.
England’s cricketers shall find their courage failing, fizzling
xxOut, crushed by that dread pronouncement: “Rain stopped play.”

[Marcus Sevat]

Hi Brian - I was going to celebrate the royal birth myself. Here's what it might have been:


Glory be to God for little things,
For babies pink and puckered, pinched and proud,
With moles and marks, shawl-sheltered and serene
As an angel choir that heralds a birth and sings,
A royal birth and beautiful. Outside the hope-held crowd
Wait like the shepherds of that first Christmas scene
When the Lamb of Love was laid on humble hay;
Parents appear- God give them joy - answering the loud
Sigh and celebration; no Wise Men, no! nor seraphim!
But the Father of Men attends in His love today.
Praise Him.

[Brian Allgar]

Marcus, I tried to reply to your PM (re cigars), but got a message saying that your box was full. If you care to clear out some of the detritus, I'll send it again tomorrow.

[Marcus Sevat]

Done, Sir!

[Brian Allgar]

Originally Posted by Marcus Sevat

Hi Brian - I was going to celebrate the royal birth myself. Here's what it might have been:


Glory be to God for little things,
For babies pink and puckered, pinched and proud,
With moles and marks, shawl-sheltered and serene
As an angel choir that heralds a birth and sings,
A royal birth and beautiful. Outside the hope-held crowd
Wait like the shepherds of that first Christmas scene
When the Lamb of Love was laid on humble hay;
Parents appear- God give them joy - answering the loud
Sigh and celebration; no Wise Men, no! nor seraphim!
But the Father of Men attends in His love today.
Praise Him.

Marcus, there's no reason to say that it 'might have been'. It is, and I trust that my own attempt won't prevent you from sending yours. After all, in a competition with such narrow specifications, there is bound to be a great deal of overlapping.

[John Whitworth]

Nice one, George. Forgive my ignorance, but who is Maria? I must be odd, but I found Miss Bartoli extremely attractive. Sharpova's all very well (could she be Maria, if so then bless her) but she's six feet tall. We dwarfs are quite out of it. We is generic. I have no idea of your height and weight, George.

Andy Murray is agreeably ugly, is he not, in the knobbly Scottish style? A Davie Balfour perhaps. And you have to admit, whatever your sexual preference, that Joe Root is cuddliest of all.

[George Simmers]

Originally Posted by John Whitworth

Nice one, George. Forgive my ignorance, but who is Maria?

Maria Miller is the Culture Secretary. She may be less than forceful about protecting the arts but has sent robust letter to BBC director general Lord Hall about sexist sports coverage after the Inverdale crssness.

Originally Posted by John Whitworth

I must be odd, but I found Miss Bartoli extremely attractive. Sharpova's all very well but she's six feet tall. We dwarfs are quite out of it. We is generic. I have no idea of your height and weight, George.

I too rather fancied Sharpova. I too would be a mere midget beside her. Such is life.