In Competition No. 3176 you were invited to write a poem to a city.
This challenge was inspired by both Simon Armitage’s letter to London (‘Dear London, I’ve applied for a restraining order requiring that you remain 200 miles from Huddersfield at all times…’), and William McGonagall’s inadvertently hilarious ‘Jottings of New York’, of which a snippet:
Oh mighty City of New York! you are wonderful to behold,
Your buildings are magnificent, the truth be it told,
They were the only things that seemed to arrest my eye,
Because many of them are thirteen storeys high.
The Tayside Tragedian’s voice lives on in entries from John O’Byrne and Alanna Blake, among others. Plaudits, too, to R.M. Goddard, for a clever reworking of Phil Coulter’s ‘To the Town I love So Well’, and to Emma Teichmann. The winners earn £25.
Dear Sunderland, your boulevards,
Your strange exotic dark façades —
Here on the coast your secrets sleep:
Your ancient minster, castle keep,
The statues to the past, the future.
The river’s simple silver suture
Stitches the northern and southern sides —
While on the coast, the riding tides
Burst over apple-dappled dunes
To fill the coal and flint lagoons.
On evenings, quiet crowds parade
After the football match is played,
And hoist their heroes, red and white,
Whose dazzling skills are dynamite.
Above the Wear, the moon breaks through!
If only half of this were true.
Dear Wells, the smallest city in the land,
how perfectly you’re formed, size doesn’t matter!
Beside the Mendips, gracefully you stand,
exuding peace the modern world can’t shatter.
Your great cathedral, gothic-hewn, appears
where jousting knights spin clockwise every day
to subdivide the hours, the days, the years,
while centuries drift timelessly away.
While gliding smoothly on the palace moat
the swans drop in to ring the dinner bell,
and, like the swans, our thoughts, unfettered, float
with nothing untoward to break the spell.
In testing times, when forced to keep apart,
with Covid bringing lockdown to the nation,
I long to relocate — another start —
in you, dear Wells, I’d welcome isolation.
Dear Cambridge, you were home to me
Before I knew about your fame:
Hedge-dens and wheatfields then would be
The pictures conjured by your name.
In time I grew to find and know
Your bridges, chapels, courts and halls;
To watch your gentle river flow
As moat to ancient college walls;
Resented how the annual tide
Of undergrads with bumptious airs
Would pour in from the great outside
And dare to think of you as theirs.
But now a worse flood fills your streets
Awash with jostling crocodiles:
For them, you’re simply stuff for tweets
And backdrop for their selfie smiles.
Dear Newport — you’re the most maligned of places;
it makes me sad and I shall try to stop it.
I’ll take a selfie of our homely faces
and then I’ll see if I can photoshop it.
Nobody likes you, probably because
you’ve always been defined by what you’re not,
compared to Cardiff, given lower scores
and classified by what you haven’t got.
I shall adopt your own bold attitude —
two fingers to the guidebook on the shelf —
and call upon Saint Woolos and Saint Jude
to show me how to make you love yourself.
Come, take my hand and I’ll escort you through it;
it’s a tough job, but someone’s got to do it.
Dear Leicester, once so quiet and — well,
dull was the only word —
then changed by the transforming spell
of Richard (King) the Third.
Who can forget your car-park trope —
the buzz, the whole world’s press,
the archaeologists, their hope
The tourist office stepped up, fast;
visitor numbers zoomed.
You even got a Pret, at last.
The whole economy boomed.
No longer dull and quiet, fame
has graced your name, and stuck;
though much-maligned (Shakespeare’s to blame)
King Richard brought good luck.
Earth had not anything to show more fair
when first I paused and wrote, a passer-by
who saw in London naught but majesty.
Yet London now doth like a felon wear
a prison house’s stench from which each bare-
faced, money-grabbing, wild, lick-penny lie
doth rise, a Devil’s incense, to the sky
and hangs like poison in the godless air.
Nowhere could sun, more hesitating, peep
to light a Banker’s paunch or shyster’s maw
and witness Mammon gorging quite so deep.
Proud Thames now creepeth past this putrid sore
where greed and easy virtue never sleep,
the City now the Devil’s cut-purse whore.
No. 3179: singular sonnets
You are invited to submit a Christmas hit single (please specify) rewritten as a sonnet. Please email entries to firstname.lastname@example.org by midday on 4 December. NB the shorter deadline is because of Christmas production schedules.
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