mum starts smiling and nudges his brother.
“I did this at school,” says the amnesiac mother.
“In fact, I’m sure that I won first prize.”
Matilda told such dreadful lies.
The next one’s modern and nobody knows it.
They can’t comprehend but nobody shows it.
They prefer verses they learnt as a child:
Iambic pentameters, not text running wild.
“Dulce et Decorum Est…”
The old ones really are the best.
I’m next.
And I’m scared.
There’s parents and teachers and sisters and brothers.
The judge seems quite nice but then so did the others.
They’re always just so damned condescending;
They like your beginning but prefer your ending.
“Kiddies and grown-ups too-oo-oo.”
(I’m desperate for the loo-oo-oo.)
I’m up on stage and I know I don’t know it.
I can’t even remember the poem or poet.
I’m unable to start - my mind is quite hollow.
If I get the name then the rest just might follow.
Was it Kipling (Rudyard) or Byron (George Gordon)?
Was it T.S. Eliot or W.H. Auden?
“I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky…”
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