[Jayne Osborn]

Sorry it's late, everyone. My copy of the magazine failed to arrive but lovely John at The Oldie has come to my rescue and sent me the results page by email.

Congratulations to our John (as Phoebe Flood) and to Max; well done also to Annie and Charlie for Hon Menshes.

(Next competition "To See the Sea" on a new thread)

Jayne

The Oldie Competition
by Tessa Castro

In competition 203, you were invited to write a poem called ‘The Ring’. The entries were excellent. Commiserations to Katie Mallett (lost ring found), Andrew Bamji (an auction ring outwitted), Margaret Gilman (several kinds, including the Large Hadron Collider), Judith Caulfield (a ring of standing stones), Zara Jaber (loud Wagner), Ann Drysdale (endless Wagner), Paul Elmhirst (phone), Rita-Norah Greer (a lost pearl),
D A Prince (an unflashy kind), Captain J R Marigold (all sorts) and Charles
Southerland (a triolet in form).
Congratulations to those printed below, each of whom wins £25. No triolets for years and two come together, the other being from Jenny Morris who also wins the bonus prize of a Chambers Biographical Dictionary.

This circle’s rolled through many women’s lives.
This working hoop, this noose, this golden band
worn thin, so close to bone, it still survives.
This circle’s rolled through many women’s lives.
A spinning world that loses, shines and thrives
on grandma’s, mother’s, daughter’s thin left hand.
This circle’s rolled through many women’s lives.
This working hoop, this noose, this golden band.
Jenny Morris

Don’t trust him if he’s got a tiny arse.
Don’t trust him if he says he’s working class.
Don’t trust him if he tells you what he thinks.
Don’t trust him if he orders funny drinks.
Don’t trust him if he knows a lot of shits.
Don’t trust him if he stares at women’s tits.
Don’t trust him if he likes conceptual art.
Don’t trust him if he thinks he’s Bonaparte.
Don’t trust him if he drinks his whisky iced.
Don’t trust him if he thinks he’s Jesus Christ.
Don’t trust him if he’s left or if he’s right.
Don’t trust him if he wants to stay the night.
Don’t trust him if he drives a BMW.
Don’t trust him if there’s anything to trouble you.
Don’t trust him till your finger shows the bling.
Don’t trust him till you’ve got the bloody ring.
Phoebe Flood

The wedding ring, the wedding ring! Let’s sing a song about it.
You’d have to be a ding-a-ling to ever wed without it!
A quite extraordinary thing, it shouts, ‘This woman’s taken!’
The Keep Hands Off acquires the force of law. It’s truly meant.
A good one makes astounding bling. ‘My man brings home the bacon.
He could have bought a top-notch horse for half of what he spent.’
It proves the coupling ain’t no fling. ‘You think my fella’s fakin’?
We’re hitched till death or till divorce. The guy’s a proper gent.’
The wedding ring, the wedding ring! Let’s sing a song about it.
Unless you’re only practising, don’t ever wed without it!
Max Gutmann

His anniversary gift, exquisite thing
She gazes at and gratefully admires,
Adorns her finger, turquoise opal ring
Of old antiquity and quiet fires.
They celebrate their fiftieth year today
Though only forty-nine years married. They’re
Anticipating by twelve months the day
He will no longer be alive to share.
The opal tokens sorrow and October –
The end and the beginning of their love:
The Halloween ball where they met each other,
The days remaining being not enough.
This opal, then, a twofold message sends
Of rapture and of heartbreak as it ends.
Dorothy Pope

[John Whitworth]

How much better you set the poems out. In The Oldie they are all squidged up.

[Jayne Osborn]

Thank you, John.

Narrow columns are not the way to show poems at their best; I don't know why they persist in doing it.

They have ruined the look of yours in particular, with the odd word here and there on the next line. Fortunately most of our friends will see it here, in all its glory, rather than in the magazine.

Jayne

[Max Goodman]

Thanks for posting, Jayne. I don't even mind that the magazine ignored my stanza breaks, indentations, and even line breaks, putting short lines together. It was all pretty complex and I thought that alone was going to take the poem out of the running.

Your poem is funnier, John.

[Brian Allgar]

Well done, John. And well done, Max. You seem to be (with the exception of John in drag) the token male.

I'm sorry to say that the winner confirms my dislike of triolets. I suppose the advantage of them is that you only have to write five actual lines, the other three being repetitions which never seem to add anything to the already-brief poem. Still, nice work if you can get it. (Now, where did I put that valuable old rope?)

[Max Goodman]

To my surprise, not only did a cheque arrive today, much earlier than I expected, but Tessa and co. went to the trouble and expense of shipping a copy of the magazine to this non-subscriber across the pond. And in The Oldie's pages, the poem appears in much closer to its original formatting than in the email Jayne received, likely as close as could be accomplished given the narrow space. Care was clearly taken.

I and my little poem have been treated royally!

[John Whitworth]

Perhaps the new-ish editor is the one to thank. You should consider taking out a subscription, Max. I always read mine from cover to cover. And they were, most of them, on the right side in the recent shenanigans.