[John Whitworth]

This is the latest Spectator Competition. It seems to me full of promise. I'm working on Heartbreak Hotel by Robert Browning. Whole Lotta Shakin' Goin' On by John Milton appeals too, thoughI don't know what it would sound like.

No. 2570: Lyric poetry
You are invited to take any song by the Beatles or by Elvis Presley and rewrite it in the style of the poet of your choice (16 lines maximum and please identify poet). Entries to ‘Competition 2570’ by 6 November or email lucy@spectator.co.uk.

[Jim Hayes]

John this doesn't qualify;
it's a take on Philip Larkin, yes him, as I imagine he would write Frankie Laine's Sixteen Tons

Forty-nine Years

Some people say a man is made to be alone,
so the sex I get is on the telephone,
a poor man is made out of powerless jealousies,
an urge that’s strong and devoid of subtleties.

You’re now forty- nine years and what do you get?
The Beatles and the Stones got sex, no sweat.
I was still the only fellow losing his virginity
underneath the bedclothes reading Lady Chatterley.

Well, I was born one morning when it pissed down rain,
I pulled back the curtains from the window pane,
underneath a lamp a pair were having it off,
I wondered what it might be like and heard them scoff;

You’re now forty-nine years and what do you get?
The Beatles and the Stones got sex, no sweat.
I was still the only fellow losing his virginity
underneath the bedclothes reading Lady Chatterley.

Well, I was born one morning and I squinnied for a sign,
that this was still the town that had been mine,
and as I stood and looked around I really got depressed;
the boys devoid of biceps and the girls devoid of chest.

You’re now forty-nine years and what do you get?
The Beatles and the Stones got sex, no sweat.
I was still the only fellow losing his virginity
underneath the bedclothes reading Lady Chatterley.

When they see me coming no one steps aside,
it gets so little use my cock is atrophied,
Well, life is grim and I know I am defeated
as I contemplate the heritage my parents have bequeathed,

You’re now forty-nine years and what do you get?
The Beatles and the Stones got sex, no sweat.
St Peter don’t you call me cause I can’t go,
with all the faults they gave me I’ll be fucked up down below.



[This message has been edited by Jim Hayes (edited October 25, 2008).]

[John Whitworth]

You got rhythm., Jim.

[R. S. Gwynn]

When You Are 64

When you are old and grey and 64,
You will forget to send my valentine,
My birthday greetings or my jug of wine;
You shall not think of me much anymore,

How once I stooped to dig your garden's weeds
Or spent a Saturday to mend your fuse.
My sweater lies unknitted, and you use
Your dwindling days not tending to my needs.

You will not need or feed me in the grave.
That is where I shall lie. Please, send no card
To me, late martyr to your disregard,
Who shall be mourned by Vera, Chuck & Dave.

W. B Yeats

[R. S. Gwynn]

Shame, Jim! Tennessee Ernie Ford!

[R. S. Gwynn]

Shame, John! "Whole Lotta Shakin' Goin' On" was Jerry Lee Lewis.

[R. S. Gwynn]

Heartbreak Hotel--Innisfree

I will arise and go now
And go to Innisfree.
They’ve got a Heartbreak Hotel there
Where I can stay for free.

You make me so lonely, Maudie,
I get so lonely,
I get so lonely I write poems.

There’s nine bean rows a’growin’,
And bees loud in the glade.
The beds are kinda lumpy
But the lightbulb’s got a shade.

You make me so lonely, Maudie,
I get so lonely,
I get so lonely I write poems.

And I shall have some peace there,
For peace comes dropping slow.
You got to go to Innisfree
When you got no place to go.

You make me so lonely, Maudie,
I get so lonely,
I get so lonely I write poems.

I hear lake water lapping
With low sounds by the shore.
I pop another sleeping pill,
Get up and bolt the door.

You make me so lonely, Maudie,
I get so lonely,
I get so lonely I write poems.

Hey now, if your Maudie grieves you,
And you want your poems to sell,
Just take a boat to Innisfree
And Heartbreak Hotel.

[Lance Levens]

"And Death Shall Have No Dominion""
Dylan Thomas
(Elvis' "Love Me Tender")

Death has no dominion
The naked dead are one
In the wind and in the moon
All their clean bones gone
Stars at elbow, stars at feet
Though they go mad they’re sane
Though they sink down in the sea
They shall rise again.

[John Whitworth]

Lance, that's way too terse and on the money for Dylan. He'd have scarcely have finished clearing his throat. But it's a sweetpoem. Give it a whirl.

I would have thought Sam's first effort is a racing certainty for twenty-five quid if it weren't that these people often prove to have no taste being no more than Grub Street hacks and hackettes. Here's Browning. He was fun to do though a bit obvious.


Comp. No. 2570: Lyric Poetry (Robert Browning)

She was false! that fair wanton I wished for a wife,
So I shut up the house and abandoned my life.
Down the street that’s called Lonely I followed my doom
To the inn that’s called Heartbreak and asked for a room.

There are grief-stricken lovers on every floor
But there’s always a billet for one lover more.
The weeping and wailing extend through the nights
And nobody bothers to turn on the lights.

The suits of the staff are as black as my hat,
As they moan and they mope – how they love doing that!
The tears that they shed are as deep as a river,
And everyone stays there for ever and ever.

So take my advice, if your darling has left you
And stolen your soul and betrayed and bereft you,
A street that’s called Lonely’s a street you should know
And an inn that’s called Heartbreak a place you should go.




[This message has been edited by John Whitworth (edited October 29, 2008).]

[Martin Elster]

Comp. No. 2570: Lyric Poetry (Robert Frost)

Octopus's Garden

Whose plot this is beneath the sea,
I think I know. He lives as free
As fish and whales. A mollusk owns
This garden. Buddy, come with me.

It’s snug enough to warm our bones
Below the storm, where no one moans
Or tells us what we ought to do.
Nobody here needs chaperones.

A sea horse might come into view
And shake his head, ask, “Who are you?”
We’d swim and shout and sing and dance.
Beneath the sea I’d be with you.

What joy for boy and girl to glance
At all the octopus’s plants.
They might just put us in a trance.
They might just put us in a trance.