In Competition 2813 you were invited to submit an application in verse, from the poet of your choice, for the position of poet laureate.
There were robust bids from poets who were passed over for the laureateship on account of their questionable politics — Pope, for example, and Milton — as well as from those that made the grade: Betjeman, Hughes, Wordsworth and Nahum Tate all threw their hat in the ring. Other eloquent pleas came from McGonagall, who would surely have challenged Alfred Austin for the crown of worst rhymester, Ogden Nash and Dylan Thomas.
Mae Scanlan, Gerard Benson, Mike Morrison, Sylvia Fairley and Paul Evans were unlucky losers. The winners take £30 each. Alanna Blake earns £35.
I pen these lines to whom it may concern
As, in the line for laurels, ’tis my turn.
I scan man’s foibles and his virtues praise,
Though virtue’s not in fashion nowadays.
A search for Poets of sufficient wit —
Or wisdom to conceal a want of it —
Will not reveal a plethora of such
With aught of Homer’s or great Milton’s touch
To strike the powers that be with sharp-tipp’d pen
And dare to satirise our ‘public men’.
To soar beyond the bounds of envy’s rage
And nicely hit the target on each page
A laureate of honour you should name,
One not too fawning nor too fond of fame.
Compare contestants, put us to the test,
With all your wisdom you must judge me best.
Alanna Blake/Alexander Pope
When you consider how my life is spent
Composing lines on paradise I’ve lost,
You will not wait until my joyless ghost
Flies home before you make it your intent
To grant poor Milton some emolument.
I seek not wealth, only the humble post
Of vates poetarum, not to boast
But to proclaim my talents, heaven-sent.
Then surely out of darkness would come light
To soothe the soul and warmly compensate
For heartaches that attend my loss of sight.
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