John's still recovering fom his op so I'm standing in for him once more this week.
Many congratulations Bill and Ann for superb entries (well, we all knew yours was a winner, Ann, right from the off!) Well done for an HM, Bob; another near miss, though at least one of your muliple entries should have won, I reckon!
Competition: Dead end
In Competition No. 2709 you were invited to take as your opening line ‘When I am dead, cremate me’ and continue, in verse, for up to a further 15.
This assignment was suggested by Frank McDonald and inspired by an exchange in the film Wilde between Queensberry and Wilde. Asked by Queensberry, ‘Where d’you stand on cremation?’, Wilde replies: ‘I’m not sure I have a position.’ To which the Marquess responds, ‘I’m for it. I wrote a poem about it. “When I am dead, cremate me.” That’s how it starts. “When I am dead ... cremate me.” Whaddya think of that for an opening line?’ ‘It’s ... challenging,’ says Wilde.
Well, it was a challenge that elicited a robust and witty response, the best examples of which are printed below and earn their authors £25 each. Commendations to Pete Ritchie, David Silverman and Robert Schechter. This week’s leader of the pack is Bill Greenwell, who nabs £30.
When I am dead, cremate me,
Burn me until I’m a powder,
Before turning me out of the urn
And mixing me into a chowder,
Or add my remains to a pud,
And swallow me as you might phlegm:
That’d be good, and I wish that you would.
I’d be the crème de la crem.
Don’t let me push up the daisies,
Or raise up a stone with my name.
I’d far rather go to the blazes:
Consign me, my dear, to the flame.
So when you have raised any rafters
With laughter about me, please plate me.
Have me for starters or afters.
When I am dead, cremate me.
Bill Greenwell
When I am dead cremate me;
Though further fires await me
Where I am bound to go,
How highly would they rate me
(Demons queue up to date me?),
Arriving all aglow...
No undertaker crate me,
No wormlet excavate me,
But while I burn below
Let smoke-wreaths elevate me
And gently dissipate me
And waft me to and fro;
Though flames disintegrate me
The skies shall celebrate me
And heaven itself bestow
A blessing on its foe.
Mary Holtby
When I am dead cremate me,
It’s the last chance I’ll get for a smoke,
With no one around to berate me
And claim that one wisp makes them choke.
First take any parts with more mileage
And bits that show what to avoid;
Just treat me as medical silage,
Old stock that can still be employed.
The rest can then all go to blazes
Without any fuss or to-do:
No singing of hymns or of praises,
No sickly de mortuis goo.
Don’t mind where my ashes are scattered,
I doubt they’ll make anything grow.
I never did think that it mattered —
Wherever they go I won’t know.
W.J. Webster
When I am dead, cremate me
until I am reduced
to bonemeal flavoured with the past
as madeleines were for Proust,
a slag of whitish ashes,
a concentrate of me,
to be urned on someone’s mantelpiece
or scattered out to sea.
Whatever’s combustible
will feed the earth and sky.
Matter is indestructible;
consciousness must die.
I dream of death as white-hot,
a funerary pyre.
There are those who burn and those who rot.
Let my world end in fire.
G.M. Davis
When I am dead, cremate me,
Said the man who invented the rules;
The earth is a nasty, dirty place
And religion is just for fools.
Oh, I’d prefer to be buried,
Said the lady who pushed the pram,
So when I meet my friends beyond
They’ll know me for who I am.
Aye-aye, said the salt-soaked sailor,
Neither of those for me;
Just sew me into a canvas sail
And tip me into the sea.
The man in the corner said nothing
As he plucked at the fringe of his shawl.
He’d paid in advance for cryonics
And knew he’d outlive them all.
Gerard Benson
When I am dead, cremate me.
Wrap me up tight and crate me.
Simply incinerate me
Like unattended bread.
With cakes and ale, then fête me
And lovingly debate me.
Feel free to celebrate me
By quoting things I said.
Rather than over-rate me,
Discreetly understate me.
Be gentle with the late me;
Speak kindly of the dead.
Then you may relocate me.
Scoop up my dust and freight me
And then disseminate me
Where angels fear to tread.
Ann Drysdale
•••
No. 2712: Modern maladies
Newly emergent malaises include FOMO (Fear of Missing Out) and texter’s thumb: you are invited to add your own to this ever-lengthening list. Please submit a description, including treatment options (150 words maximum). Please email entries, if possible, to
lucy@spectator.co.uk by midday on 31 August.
(John is still in hospital) Speccie Dead End Results
Linear Mode
