In Competition No. 2611 you were invited to provide a poem to be recited on the Fourth Plinth in Trafalgar Square.
Thanks to Juliet Walker, who suggested this challenge: it was a popular one that drew a large and bracing entry. What is more, I was unaware when I set it that there is already a fully fledged plinther poet in our midst. George Simmers, a regular on these pages, took to the plinth at 1 a.m. on 6 August and recited his specially composed poem, which begins: ‘So. Here we are. Trafalgar Square./ And I’m up here and you’re down there…’. A statement on his webzine, Snakeskin, reports that Mr Simmers ‘was there, he thoroughly enjoyed himself, and he didn’t fall off’. And, unlike some, he remained fully clothed.
Mike Morrison, G.M. Davis and Geoffrey Tapper shone but were narrowly outflanked by the winners, printed below, who get £30 each. The bonus fiver is Alan Millard’s.
Here behold me, raised in glory, lifted to my
proper station.
Hearken all who stand before me, hear my
message to the nation.
Mine are words of poignant power, words to
ponder, words to savour.
Grant me of your time one hour! All I ask is
this small favour.
No dull sermon shall I offer, nor some
politician’s prattle,
Neither shall you hear me proffer scandal
mongering tittle-tattle
But, within the time remaining, given your
co-operation,
I shall tell you, though it’s raining, all about my
operation.
Long I’d watched the nodule growing, long had
seen it bulge and burgeon
Ever bigger, sadly knowing soon I’d have to see
a surgeon.
My consultant, Mr Comber, turned towards me
speaking gravely
And, in manner sad and sombre, bid me take
the bad news bravely:
‘This,’ he said, ‘is quite compelling. Yours is
such a monstrous bunion!
Never have I seen a swelling larger than a giant
onion.’
Look! I see that some have parted. Is the crowd
below me thinning?
Stay, I pray, I’ve hardly started. This is just my
tale’s beginning…
Alan Millard
My Hour! My Space! My home-truths time
To put the world to right in rhyme:
Unplug your ears (those drumming tones
Just rot your brains), get off your phones,
Un-text your fingers, please stop chewing
(Obesity’s the nation’s ruin),
Stop shambling round in indolence
(The flocking pigeons have more sense!),
Don’t feel the need to photograph
Yourself, each other, every laugh
(Or not) to prove you’re really here
(Just buy a London tee-shirt, dear!)
and, for a while, participate.
Now: pay attention, concentrate …
What! Sixteen lines are all I get?
Oh hell — I haven’t started yet!
D.A. Prince
On high, stand I — a monument
to womanhood, at last!
That eighteen-foot Lord Nelson looms
atop his massive mast;
my fellow corner tenants likewise
warlords from the past;
dead men, and doubly dead, for they
in graven bronze are cast.
The jingoistic doubly dead
through vacant sockets stare,
commemorating battles won —
the cost beyond compare.
On high, stand I, the only living
icon in the Square;
the token wife, I stand for life,
for peace and hope and care.
Barbara Smoker
To occupy this lofty plinth
I nominate myself,
in stature growing inch by inth
to fit the hero’s shelf.
Here, on the nation’s monument
to those who quelled disaster,
isn’t it time to represent
the Unknown Poetaster?
I’d represent, when viewed afar
among the sculptured dead,
those poets who, in peace and war
were equally unread.
With unmolested dignity
I’d face the circling sun,
for birds can do no worse to me
than editors have done.
Gail White
It’s strange what Sassenachs call art:
Deid sheep an’ bricks an’ all that.
They dinna move my Scottish heart,
Their japes and tricks an’ all that.
Though I’ve no art to fill this space
It won’t go spare for all that.
I’ll say Trafalgar Square’s no place,
Or empty plinths for all that.
Let’s call it for those artists who
Can paint and sculpt an’ all that
But let’s ignore the Young Brit crew
Who canna draw for all that.
While Gormley’s like proclaim their rights
To prizes, praise an’ all that,
Though showing off from dizzy heights
They’ll soon lose hold an’ fall flat.
G. McIlraith
No. 2614: Literary landscapes
You are invited to provide a press release by the tourist board of one of the following fictional holiday destinations: Lilliput; Wonderland; Oceania; Huxley’s Brave New World (150 words maximum). Entries to Competition 2614 by midday on 16 September or email lucy@spectator.co.uk.
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