[John Whitworth]

The Oldie Competition
Tessa Castro
In Competition No 131 you were invited to write a poem called 'Bulbs'. The light-bulb of inspiration certainly popped on above many a head and I kept exclaiming, 'This one's good!'
The best and worst joke came from Jerome Betts: 'Sir Humphry's legacy these days / Is just a mess of wattage.' Like many, Jayne Osborn glowed with rage: 'Bring back my proper bulbs - and light - / I'm incandescent every night.' Fay Dickinson made martial moves for change: 'Now bayonet at the ready / I'll make my enemy relent. / I'm pushing fearlessly forward... / Blast, the fittings flaming bent.'
John Whitworth, like Lord Finchley by William Dunbar, didn't dare change his bulb for timor mortis. Chris 0' Carroll was Housmanian: 'These threescore watts of fragile light / Cannot for long ward off the night.'
Jim C Wilson reminisced: 'The class's shining blooms were judged inline. / All looked identical. Which won? Not mine,'
So commiserations to him and the others and congratulations to those printed below, each of whom wins £25, with the bright and beautiful bonus Taylor's of Harrogate tea and cake set going to Frank McDonald.

Look at their scaly winter coats,
their gargoyle heads devoid of grace;
Nature has taken every trace
of loveliness from these old brutes.
leave them to darkness and forget
what once they were; their sun has set.
What fool believes in second birth?
They had their day to bring delight,
bestow their fragrance and their grace;
let some new wonder take their place;
leave them to slumber through their night.
Can we believe in vernal skies
the shoots of life might reappear
and out of death, in some new year,
these tired old wrinkled things will rise?
Frank McDonald

But they won't grow if you don’t plant them. Yes,
I know. I also know it's cold and damp
and uninviting in that general mess
we call the potting shed. I'd need a lamp
to scare the spiders off and banish mice.
It's 50-50 that a squirrel raid
will dig up every one - their paradise
is based on pots of tulips, freshly made
.
Bulbs look so sweet, appealing in their net,
all begging for release. I brought them home
to join the other good intentions - yet
I will go out, despite the chill, find loam
and pots, and tuck them deep, and grate some soap
to keep the squirrels off. This year I think t
hey're short and fringed (the label says), and hope,
which springs eternal, colours them blush-pink.
D A Prince

The setting might be Amsterdam or Utrecht,
the scene, by early Hals or late Vermeer.
it's auction day a merry band is here
with faces lit to wonderful effect.
In back, a huisvrau, stiff and ruffly necked,
strains hard to catch the van-dyked auctioneer
(who holds what seems to be a giant tear)
proclaiming that this lot is quite select.
The crowd is surging 'round like running grunion;
they know he won’t return until November,
and caught up in the newest tulipmania,
each yearns to buy that thing shaped like an onion.
They're going next to Ghent, though, come September –
these bulbs, inscribed ioo watts - Sylvania.'
Frank Osen

Papery skin above a white moustache of roots
A pointed white nose pushing upwards, sniffing the spring air
Globes like little onions, shallots
Or pear-shaped, like light bulbs
Woman-shaped, English woman-shaped,
Gracefully curved, wet road shiny
Wet roads?
Vehicles skidding, hooting hooters Hooters?
Noses.
Bulbous drinkers' noses, pock-marked
skin above a stained slug of hair
Wide nostrils, blotchy red
Sniffing the beer-ridden air
Ignoring the delicate fragrance of the flowers
From the bulbs
Linda Fawke

[Jayne Osborn]

Well done, Frank!
Close, but no cigar, for Jerome, John, Chris and me. An HM is still pleasing, though

[George Simmers]

Does TC mean "a cross between Lord Finchley and William Dunbar"?

[John Whitworth]

No. I fear T.C. is a bit hazy about William Dunbar, which is (I suppose) not a crime. The man who wrote about Lord Finchley, as you and I know, was Hilaire Belloc.

Lord Finchley tried to mend the electric light
Himself. It struck him dead and serve him right!
It is the business of the wealthy man
To give employment to the artisan.

[George Simmers]

But didn't your poem refer to Dunbar's "Lament for the Makers"?



I THAT in heill was and gladness
Am trublit now with great sickness
And feblit with infirmitie:--
Timor Mortis conturbat me.

[John Whitworth]

Indeed it did, George. Indeed it did. But then I know about Dunbar, as you do. Did you know that the vast majority of the makars Dunbar mentions are known to posterity ONLY through his poem. That certainly goes to show, though to show what I'm not quite sure.

[Jayne Osborn]

I fear T.C. is a bit hazy about William Dunbar

In that case I'm hazy about him too, like Tessa, because you two guys, John and George - two of my closest poetry pals - have me wondering what you're talking about. Maybe I've just had too much wine... it's 8pm on Saturday evening, after all...

I DO know that Belloc wrote about Lord Finchley but 'Makers/makars' (sic) ...??

[John Whitworth]

I forgive you, Jayne. Wiliam Dunbar is Scotland's second poet. He flourished in the Court of King James the Fourth, a better man than that dreadful Henry Seventh, but dead on Flodden field. James, not Dunbar.
Dunbar's masterpiece is his 'Lament for the Makars (when he was seik)'. I'm sure you can look it up. The Scots isn't difficult. Or perhaps it is.

Makars are poets.

[Jayne Osborn]

Dunbar's masterpiece is his 'Lament for the Makars (when he was seik)'. I'm sure you can look it up. The Scots isn't difficult. Or perhaps it is.

Makars are poets.

Thanks for enlightening me, John. I've never heard the term 'makars' for poets. Some of the Scots is a bit tricky, such as:

I see that makaris amang the lave
Playis here their padyanis, syne gois to grave;

I know you have a Scottish connection and maybe you like this poem but 'masterpiece' isn't the word I'd use for it. I'm not a fan of Burns either; I guess it's because I struggle with the dialect that it has little appeal for me, sorry.

[John Whitworth]

I see that makars.among the lave (rest),
Play here their pageants, then go to the grave,
Spared is not their faculty

A little spelling difficulty and a couple of words 'lave' and 'syne' which Burns uses 250 years later. Good God, we have to decipher American all the time. I would have thought Scots is a doddle.

Burns (to me) is the best of the romantic poets, except for Keats. I've always thought Blake overrated and Wordsworth wrote such a lot.

Dunbar is the best poet (except for Chaucer) before Shakespeare. I think. And Henryson the second best.