Comp. 3465 invited you to write a centre-aligned poem, with a hidden message running down the middle. The brief was tough, and some concessions had to be made. Deserving of a mention: Tracy Davidson, Chris Oswald, Nick Syrett, Nicholas Lee, Brian Murdoch, and David Silverman for his eggtimer poem. Extra props for connecting theme with encoded message. The prizes go to those below.

At first I strive to get the meter right,

my verse, it seems to me will never scan

or else the rhythm’s out, the words take flight,

oh, pray relieve me of this futile plan.

And yet I’m staying here, you ask me why?

to prove for certain I can write a verse,

creative juices seem in short supply,

I’d write a sonnet to my toes, or worse,

what can the topic be? Just light my fire,

I’ve writers’ block, I’m stuck, try as I may,

the muse won’t steal inside me to inspire.

Such misery! Yes, this could be the way,

I could narrate my wretched life, compose

a tragic, heartfelt poem upon my woes.

Sylvia Fairley

You must remember this: fear the extreme.

Each choice you make is fraught. A candidate

who fiercely boosts a new design may seem

to be the one whose way will aid the state,

but a fanatic’s sure to twist things, fiddle

with everything we do. The road is long;

we ought to walk precisely down the middle,

to guarantee that nothing grave goes wrong.

Max Gutmann

If there was magic, if some pagan god

allowed us time, the space to take our age

back into fancy, choice say, of some odd

remake, reset, is this what you would stage

for both of us? You say your century’s

finding America or somewhere such –

all travelling, the restless switchback seas,

tracking the dog star, sailing out of touch.

Of course, and I meanwhile, stuck here at home

would sit reluctant, know long sleepless dread

fearing what shore, which continent you roam,

hoping for just one word that you’re not dead.

Loving and loyal? I’d not call it so

although I know you’d pick your time to go.

D.A. Prince

You advocate, dear Internet,

I give AI a click,

But realise please, I must decline,

I tend to get on quick,

I’m never lost for words too long,

With time I work it out,

I truly don’t find this a chore,

You never need to doubt,

It’s kind of you to offer, how

You try to play the friend,

To hint at help but it is not

for me to recommend,

Perhaps you write angelically,

though few say this about you –

I will stay bloody but unbowed,

And pen this poem without you.

Janine Beacham

A bustling life is what most of us face,

When day after day is a swift rapid race.

We are told to do this then do that as well

As if our short life meant living in Hell.

Success is assured if doing our best

We toil every day full of vigour and zest.

We wake up aware of all we must do,

Ever keen to take care and be diligent too.

Refusing to rest, we get things done,

Nobody needs to have time for fun.

No breaks for tea, no chance to sit back

We don’t have the time to dither or slack.

Life beckons us all to slog and to work

Never desiring to stand still and shirk.

Our aim is to run and to keep up the pace

Not being afraid to stare work in the face.

Alan Millard

Have you any car in mind?

Our EVs are all here on show,

Each a dream to drive you’ll find –

Very fewdiscounted, though.

No silly offers from us, but,

For a man as knows what’s what

Bits and pieces could be cut

To get you a deal here on the spot –

One I know you’re bound to like.

With nothing now for you to lose

It’s all about the deal we’ll strike,

All the cars are there to choose –

Beamer or Mini, as you prefer,

It’s business as it should be, sir.

W.J. Webster

Every weekend we’d eat out

before we split. His shout

he always said. The treat was his.

He’d pay the bill: caviar and fizz!

His cards were down, the stingy git

controlled my life, the whole of it:

night or dawn, middle of the day,

the scheming rat; he would hold sway.

The household costs, said he, fair play,

he’d proudly boast of how he’d pay.

Light dawned. Of course. I wisely quit;

he sadly wept he’d do his bit,

be the provider always. Now I’m wiser.

Praise be, I’ve forgotten that old miser.

My newbie’s love, his warmth and care,

and daily costs, cash, all we share.

Shirley Curran

You ask: ‘What is the worst that Fate can throw

at us to set the path we chose askew?’

That journey to our mortal goal, we know,

seems well within our reach, and yet our due

relies upon success that’s in the hands

of not just us; and we must navigate

a fickle sea of happiness where bands

of monsters lie in dream-consuming wait.

So, you must make life work for you, instead.

Be kind, though fortune isn’t by your side.

When needed, always force a way ahead,

but not alone – a novice needs a guide.

For Destiny’s not straight and daily deals

with Time’s vague line of wheels within wheels.

Paul Freeman

No. 3468: The great renaming

After the Lake Ontario/Lake America business, you’re invited to submit a poem proposing alternative names for other places/people/things (16 lines max). Please email entries to competition@spectator.co.uk by 16 September.