[John Whitworth]

Lucy Vickery presents this week's competition

In Competition No. 2687 you were invited to take a well-known poem, change one letter in the first line and continue the poem for up to a further 15 lines.

Oh, for more space to do justice to a truly stellar postbag! It was agony whittling the entry down to just six. Deserving of a standing ovation at the very least are Robert Schechter, Gillian Ewing, John Whitworth, Iain Crawford, Chris O’Carroll, George Simmers, David Silverman and Martin Parker. The winners get £25 each, except Basil Ransome-Davies, who gets £30.

She lied in the upstairs bedroom
till she thought her tongue would bleed;
he was halfway wise, but he bought her lies
with the currency of need.

Desire she knew as a compound
of sullen nocturnal bars
and the shabby hells of cheap motels
and the smell of strangers’ cars.

They dwelt in a smoky silence
while the sweat cooled on their flesh
until hands and lips and grinding hips
conspired to lie afresh.

But why scorn the emotional rescue
of a cynical caress
on the purblind date that can palliate
the Moloch of loneliness?
Basil Ransome-Davies

I met a traveller from an antique band
who said, ‘I’m—aarrgghh—Keef Richards,
Rolling Stone,’
and near this wraithlike geezer, on the sand,
half-sunk, a massive visage lay, with frown,
familiar lip, and leer of cold command.
‘Oh, him, the monument,’ exclaimed the codger,
‘I wrote a book and said he was my mate,
and told the world he had a tiny todger
and how I boffed his chick. He’s in a tiff,
that’s all—I mean, it’s Life, at any rate.’
And then he played the most stupendous riff,
and I forgot to ask him why he’d stayed
or driven others from this petroglyph.
I knew he’d lived so long within its shade.
Frank Osen

No coward soup is mine:
I like it hot and spicy.
Scotch Bonnet is divine
Without a chaser icy.

Not timid is my tongue:
I savour torrid curries.
I thrived on phaal when young;
Fifty years on, no worries.

A pusillanimous cheese
Is fit for grandmammas.
I want mine stinky, please:
Blue Stilton or Epoisses.

Begone, all wimpish rums!
Let’s check the OP measure:
The higher it becomes
The more a snort I treasure.
Ray Kelley

Woman much pissed, how you call to me, call to me,
Begging me get you one last little drink;
Aren’t you aware that your conduct is gall to me?
And what our friends and the neighbours must think?

Can’t you behave with at least some propriety?
Dancing on tables is going too far;
Though I don’t ask of you total sobriety,
Stripping in front of the vicar’s bizarre.

As for your language! It’s quite indefensible:
Couldn’t you show just a little restraint?
Are you, I wonder, the slightest bit sensible
That your blue jokes caused Aunt Ethel to faint?

When we first married, your romps bacchanalian
Had some bohemian charm in a bride;
Twenty years on, and such antics are alien;
Wherefore, my darling, our paths must divide.
Monica Ascham

‘This was Mr Bleaney’s loom. He stayed
An artist all his life, and so today —’
She glanced down at her notes, as one who prayed —
‘We launch his gallery at the V&A.’

His loom has pride of place. Around the walls
The famous tapestries (The Knight’s Last Quest,
Romance Recovered) gleam as she recalls
His skill and vision. ‘Certainly the best’.

Bleaney Society members smile with pride.
Their man, much more than Morris or Burne Jones,
Has reached his rightful place; from either side
The press take photographs, use mobile phones,

To catch the lunchtime news, and worldwide show
Of interest. His legacy’s secure.
They’ve championed him so tirelessly, and know
He merited as much, of that they’re sure.
D.A. Prince

O mild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn’s being
Who blows thus kindly o’er this pleasant lea,
I watch you gently rustle ev’ry tree,
And meditate on what I now am seeing ─
The gift of Nature to the forest floor,
When leaves change colour and then idly float
Down on the breeze to make sweet Earth a coat
To warm her when the winds begin to roar.

And I myself am touched by thy benign
Caress, and thus bethink myself this day:
Haply this breeze may waft some thought of mine
Some trifling rhyme, some unconsidered lay,
Perhaps some verse I pen this very morn,
Into the hearts of men as yet unborn.
Gerard Benson

[George Simmers]

Well done, Frank! At least I can claim to have spotted yours as a winner.

[Max Goodman]

Congrats Bazza and Frank, and all you Erato HMs, too!

[Roger Slater]

If you count HMs, that's seven of us. But HMs don't count, so my congrats go only to Bazza and Frank. Well done once again, guys.

[FOsen]

Thanks, George and Max and all; congrats to Bazza and all - fanks to Keef and the Boys . . .

Frank

[Lance Levens]

Much deserved, Frank! You got some sa-a-tisfaction.

[Jayne Osborn]

Many congratulations, Bazza and Frank.

And well done to 'runners-up' Bob, John, Chris, George and Martin.

Roger/Bob - HMs DO count - THEY REALLY DO - (I just got one in The Oldie and I'm thrilled).
Be justifiably proud for being on that page at all, out of god-knows-how-many-entries they must get! You (and we) know your stuff is excellent, Bob, and an HM is the evidence. Enjoy!

[Chris O'Carroll]

Those Betjeman- and Shelley-inspired winners are, well, winners. As for the rest of our happy band, a fistful of cash and a round of applause may be preferable to a round of applause alone, but when the field is as strong as it was this week, I'd say we have good reason to be happy about our share of Lucy's ovation. (And this was one of the really fun competitions, not one of those that you slog through just for the exercise.)