Competition:Dialogue
Lucy Vickery presents the latest competition
In Competition No. 2639 you were invited to submit a dialogue, in verse or prose, between a well-known writer and one of his or her creations. The entry was vast and bursting with wit. Barry Baldwin’s dialogue, in which Godot quizzes his creator on, among other things, why he wasn’t allowed to appear at the end of the play, was a cracker. There is just space to congratulate W.J. Webster, Chris O’Carroll, Adrian Fry, Paul Griffin, Sid Field, Martin Parker and Robert Schechter, who were unlucky to miss out on a place in this week’s winning line-up. They were edged out by the entries printed below, which earn their authors a well-deserved £25 each. Basil Ransome-Davies scoops the bonus fiver.
Poe, you are an awkward bastard, quarrelsome and often plastered,
Though I grant beneath the bullshit lies a vein of precious ore.
Even a poetic maven shouldn’t smell and be unshaven
Or pick on the nearest raven just to settle some old score.
Desperate and alcoholic, you have made my role symbolic,
As if birds are simply tokens in a stock of mythic lore.
Though aesthetically you need me, you won’t leave your chair and feed me.
I am hungry. Do you read me? Not a chance. We’ve no rapport.
Well, my friend, you may be feathered, but I’ll wager you’ve not weathered
Slander and humiliation, years of being shown the door.
Food’s a matter for the waiter, what the soul demands is greater;
Genius in a creator seeks a mission, not a chore.
When the muse is in attendance I know nothing but transcendence.
Birdseed is a mundane item, infra dig, but don’t get sore.
Thanks to entering my portal you’ve the chance to be immortal.
You should not complain but chortle. Now you’ll live for evermore.
Basil Ransome-Davies
Your verse does me an injury
And mocks how I was dumped;
Why scorn a double-amputee?
It leaves me frankly stumped.
No matter quite how low one sinks,
It’s best to take the rise,
And many readers laugh, methinks,
That you’re cut down to size.
Your rhymes when read, or so I hope,
Will swiftly be harangued.
Poetry? Money for old rope.
If funny, I’ll be hanged.
You delve too deep, though you were ditched:
My wizard words must play.
Should folk by puns be unbewitched?
Not on your Nelly Gray.
Bill Greenwell
‘Oh why did you snaffle my toes
When I once had twice times five?’
‘Why squabble so, Pobble? It’s nonsense I cobble.
Be thankful I left you alive!’
‘And did you on purpose a porpoise invent
To rip off my wrap with malicious intent?’
‘I invent what I will in my ludicrous art
As is fair, I declare, for a poet at heart.’
‘Is it fair that a Pobble should hobble
On tootsies deprived of their toes?’
‘I can see you’re averse to what seems like a curse
But in nonsense rhyme anything goes.’
‘Yes, anything goes, even toes so it seems,
Oh why must you go to such silly extremes?’
‘Because, though I grant that your toes may be missed,
Without me, poor Pobble, you wouldn’t exist.’
Alan Millard
The horn rims and the pipe suggested an accountant from East Jesus, Kansas, but I didn’t argue when he said he was a writer. Clients were scarce, and if his money was good he could be the Dalai Lama.
‘The thing is, Mr Marlowe,’ he said, ‘I’ve lost my inspiration.’
‘Tough call,’ I told him. ‘When did you last see it?’
He got stuck on a reply, so I pulled the fifth of bourbon from my desk drawer. It helped.
‘About the time my wife died. Suddenly my plots got twisted up, and those colourful tropes that are my signature — I couldn’t do them any more.’
‘Sure, it must be hell when the tropes hold out on you. But this may not be a case for me. Ever think of getting a new wife?’
‘I think of nothing else,’ he said, looking as dismal as Tijuana in the rain.
G.M. Davis
Dear Tess, you modest maid of Marlott,
When I created you I thought
Of you as virtuous, not a harlot.
Dear Tom, my life was always fraught.
I gave my all to Angel Clare,
But shared my favours everywhere.
I wish, dear Tess, your soul to rest
In peace. But Clare no angel seemed,
To me at least. I wrote with zest
The story of a doomed affair.
Throughout it all your beauty gleamed.
Although I had to change the plot,
I never lost it totally.
Dear Tom, your novels hit the spot,
If only anecdotally.
Dr G.W. Tapper
‘Big savage, senseless, selfish man
You’ve spoiled things since time began,
Now it’s my home you overran,
You feckless thief.’
‘Wee beestie you maun understan’
I hae tae labour where I can;
And moosie, it was nae my plan,
To cause ye grief.’
‘You’re truly sorry, so you say,
And then you up, and walk away,
But where am I to live now, pray?
Could things be worse?’
‘Don’t worry, moosie, I’ll repay
The damage done to straw and hay.
You’ll live for ever and a day
In Rabbie’s verse.’
Frank Mc Donald
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