In Competition No. 2903 you were invited to supply a poem incorporating a dozen cricketing terms. English poets love cricket: Housman, Betjeman, Chesterton and Sassoon all wrote about the game. And then, of course, there is Harold Pinter, who encapsulated it so beautifully in two lines:
I saw Len Hutton in his prime,
Another time, another time.
I admired P.C. Parrish’s clever poem in the opaque modernist style of Edith Sitwell. Tim Raikes, Peter Goulding, Nick Hodgson and Rosemary Kirk also stood out in a large and impressive field. The winners earn £25 apiece. Brian Allgar takes £30.
My wife reminds me of a game of cricket:
A splendid sport, but hard to comprehend.
I often feel I’m on a sticky wicket —
Caught out, or stumped, or driven round the bend.
And when she starts to eye the heavy roller,
Or pads towards the dreaded daisy-cutter,
I know it’s time to grab my coat and bowler;
‘Must just run out to buy some fags,’ I mutter.
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