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Dear Peter Congratulations: am enjoying the poem and expect to continue to do so for even longer then the Olympics! Glen Phillips Peter Howard wrote: > Some of you might be interested to know that I came second in the Arvon > Poetry Competition, announced in the Daily Telegraph on Saturday. It's > one of the largest single-poem competitions in the UK, so I'm jolly > pleased. The outright winner was Henry Shukman, with an absolutely > brilliant poem called "Ararat". Third prize was to Candy Neubert for > "Hostage". > > I was a bit diffident about announcing this here, as I know some members > disapprove of poetry competitions, and in any case I thought it might > seem a bit show-offish. But JVK insisted I should post the info. > > Here's my poem... > > The Construction of the Tomahawk > -------------------------------- > > I have put it about that he murders children > and colours his strawberry syrup with their crystallised blood, > that he beats his wife, then makes her dress as a man > before taking her in an unnatural manner. > > I have talked to the candyfloss merchant and the manager > of the amusement arcade. They are sympathetic, but have little > in the way of practical advice. The fat, odious > burger franchisee has, I am certain, already been corrupted. > > I have whispered to the men in the transport café > that the accident with the bikini bra and the overloaded vanilla cornet > will be re-enacted fortnightly at the hottest part of the day, > but not while he continues to steal my livelihood. > > They listen intently and I see grey, cloudy plans > forming behind their dull eyes. But nothing ever transpires. > > I have considered many things. I spend my evenings > with books and ideas. I am an expert on number theory, > the law of contract and tort, the practice of toxicology. > I know the construction of the tomahawk. I have downloaded > instructions for making a nuclear device from the world wide web. > > It would be fair, would it not, for him to set up > halfway between the lifeboat station and the central pier, > for me to place my stand between the pier and the rocks. > > So it starts, each morning. But he plays grandmother's footsteps, > encroaching on my shoal of sunburned flesh. And so I must do the same. > By mid-afternoon, when kids are dehydrated and fractious, > parents willing to bribe them with Solero or 99 > we are back to back, pretending the other a mirage. We never speak. > > I do not know where he lives, or the source of his supplies. > Every morning we arrive simultaneously, > from opposite directions, each with a full box. > But I have looked into the inventory of his wares > and know it to be the same as mine. > > And I have looked into his eyes. > > -- > Peter > > http://www.hphoward.demon.co.uk/poetry/ %%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%