Lucy Vickery presents this week’s competition
In Competition No. 2680 you were invited to submit an acrostic poem of which the first letter of each line spells out the words Happy New Year.
This challenge elicited a whopping entry, and there were plenty of unfamiliar names among the regulars, which is always pleasing.
You were under no obligation to exude optimism and goodwill; indeed, with a few notable exceptions, those valiant souls that did attempt to inject a note of cheer failed to convince. Most didn’t bother to try, though, and Bernadette Evans’s closing couplet encapsulates the general gloomy tenor of the entry:
As politicians wonder if we’re happy,
Reality suggests the future’s crappy.
I liked George Simmers’s Hardy-inspired submission, while Mae Scanlan, G.W. Tapper, Max Ross, Lance Levens, Chris O’Carroll and Sam Gwynn were on equally fine form.
The winners, printed below, earn £25 each and W.J. Webster pockets the bonus fiver.
Heaven knows it’s never wise
At any point to look ahead:
Prediction’s so much wild surmise;
Prophetic stuff, where reason’s fled,
Yields mumbo jumbo porky pies,
No matter how the runes are read.
Each year, though, we evince surprise
When Clotho tweaks her fatal thread —
Yarn flimsier that we realise.
Enough of gloom! Enjoy instead
A state all mortal creatures prize:
Rejoice, rejoice that you’re not dead!
W.J. Webster
Hi, mother dear. Yes, Uni’s great! No news —
Apart from …well I’d better hold my tongue.
Perhaps I’ll get parole. I’m only young.
Please mother, don’t postpone your winter
cruise,
You need a break. You’ve long been over
strung.
No, Nigel, rest assured! I won’t postpone.
Expect a card! I’m sure you’ll cope alone.
Whatever’s troubling you, please son, don’t
phone!
You needn’t fear, they’ve seized my phone. No
frets.
Enjoy yourself! Dad’s gone. Feel fancy-free
And, mother, happy may your New Year be.
Relax! I’ll do my time — and pay my debts.
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