[Holly Martins]

Did everyone like Carol Ann Duffy's poem to commemorate the interment of Richard III?

Richard

My bones, scripted in light, upon cold soil,
a human braille. My skull, scarred by a crown,
emptied of history. Describe my soul
as incense, votive, vanishing; your own
the same. Grant me the carving of my name.

These relics, bless. Imagine you re-tie
a broken string and on it thread a cross,
the symbol severed from me when I died.
The end of time – an unknown, unfelt loss –
unless the Resurrection of the Dead …

or I once dreamed of this, your future breath
in prayer for me, lost long, forever found;
or sensed you from the backstage of my death,
as kings glimpse shadows on a battleground.




Here's my effort:


Richard III

The weight of Volvos, BMWs, Mercs,
Did nothing to suppress you, not a bit;
A Leicester parking lot, historical quirks
Don’t come much quirkier, now think of it,
You’re risen up, made shiny new again,
Your lovely handmade coffin, a perfect fit,
All pomp and circumstance to mark your reign,
You lie here now, a truly historical figure,
You’re really popular at last, a hit!
Your title causes some of us to snigger:
Cockney rhyming slang: a piece of shit.

[John Whitworth]

Yours is nice. Dick Turd! Hers is the sort of pompous windbaggery for which she has now (alas) become celebrated.

[Ann Drysdale]

I thought he was interred. It was Leicester, not Guantanamo.

[John Whitworth]

Dick Turd interred!

[Holly Martins]

Becoming the Queen's poet is certainly a poisoned chalice. The instant you're appointed you start writing rubbish. Yes, Anne, of course it's interment, what was I thinking of? Must have been Benedict Cumberbatch's serious face as he read La Duffy's poem.

[John Whitworth]

Does the Cumberbatch have another one? He tries so hard and he's still a loser.