In Competition No. 2905 you were invited to write a sonnet whose lines begin with the letters R,O,Y,G,B,I,V,V,I,B,G,Y,O,R, in that order.

Thanks to Frank McDonald for suggesting this gem of a competition. I ummed and ahed over what was a vast and accomplished entry trying to whittle it down to a winning seven. It wasn’t easy. Those that missed the cut — Bill Greenwell, Brian Allgar, John Whitworth, Adrienne Parker, Pippa Crawford, Priscilla Bench-Capon, David Silverman and Tim Raikes — did so by the narrowest of margins. Congratulations, all round.

The winners, printed below, are rewarded with £20 each. The bonus fiver goes to Alan Millard’s sonnet on the Labour leadership contenders.

Resolved, all four, to right the nation’s wrongs
On winning favour all their futures rest:
Yvette, with impish smile, for victory longs,
Grey Jeremy seeks power for the oppressed,
Brunette-haired Liz for wealth creation fights,
Immediate help for all is Andy’s dream;
Vaunting various talents, each invites
Votes for the leadership of Labour’s team;
Inevitably one of them will win
But we, desiring some alternative,
Grown weary of the politician’s spin,
Yearn earnestly for more than they can give.
Oh Lord, there being none on whom we dote,
Reveal to us who most deserves our vote!
Alan Millard
 
Remorseless fate required my soul to flit
Out of time’s mists to end life’s weary game.
Youth was still mine when whispers of acclaim
Grew louder with each lyric. I would sit
Beguiled by fancy but my name was writ
In water and my autumn never came.
Verses I wrote seemed immature and lame.
Vainly I’d hoped to keep life’s candle lit.
I see now that the lines my boyhood penned
Bear autumn fruits. My nightingale sings on.
Greatness has met me like a long-lost friend
Years after all my suffering has gone.
Out of my joyful tomb serene I send
Rainbows of beauty from a deathless dawn.
Max Ross
 
Rhona offered kisses for a penny,
Olive’s playground currency was Mars.
Yana wanted Smarties, though not many,
Gina puckered up for Crunchie Bars.
Beth could be persuaded by a Rolo,
Izzie offered tongues for Custard Creams,
Vicky’d reach your tonsils for a Polo,
Vera, offered fudge, could fuel strange dreams.
Inflation set in at our Comp., Saint Barty’s.
By twelve angelic Yana had turned hard.
Gone the days when she’d accept three Smarties.
Yana now required a Credit Card —
Of which, for spotty schoolboys down in Hackney,
Regular instalments cured our acne.
Martin Parker
 
Richly above the double rainbows spread.
Only a moment since the clouds were grey,
Yet now they break to show a glorious day,
Green, yellow, purple, indigo and red.
Before these glories broke above my head
I feared my grief would never go away:
Virtually to the time of its allay
Vividly they proclaimed that it was dead.
 
In fact, the double rainbows’ mundane glow
Bore no relationship to the immense
Griefs and reliefs that the beholders knew.
Yet still, when rainbows mark my joy, I know,
Or wish to know, in spite of common sense,
Ruskin’s pathetic fallacy is true.
S.E.G. Hopkin
 
Revealed to mark the peace behind the storm,
Offsetting when the sky turned fiercely dark —
Yet all the brilliance of this lovely form
Grows out of broken light that shapes its arc.
But we’re content to marvel at the sight,
Imagining some magic as its source;
View wonders through the prism of delight,
Voice no disquiet at nature’s unseen force.
It suits us better not to probe what lies
Behind the surface splendour we admire:
Great glories from complexities arise,
Yet simple pleasure’s what we most desire.
Overt, the rainbow makes its beauty plain
Reflecting all we struggle to explain.
W.J. Webster
 
Raising my eyes from plasma screen to pane,
Over the red/grey city far below
Yellow the buildings’ western faces show;
Gothic the eastern clouds with drenching rain.
Bland and banal, the office colours wane.
Insurgent winds erupt, a sudden blow
Violent as the broken sky aglow;
Vulgar as frothy leaving-do champagne.
It’s my last day! I find I’ve no regret,
Banish the timid thoughts that were my curse
Give up those notes — they will just have to cope
(You don’t appreciate my efforts, yet!)
Outside I view the rainbow’s wide traverse
Rising above the gloom in spectral hope.
Frank Upton
 
Reluctant though she was to play a tune
Of such a blatant nature, she agreed.
Young Victor was the fellow picked to croon
‘Goodnight, Irene.’ Her cello took the lead.
By evening’s end, the encores reached fifteen.
‘I thank you all,’ she said. ‘And now I’ll go.’
Vic spoke for all: ‘But must you go, Irene?’
Voracious were their appetites post-show.
Inside the bistro, tearful fans drew near,
Beseeching her to change her made-up mind,
Give up retirement plans, play one more year.
Yet she stayed firm. ‘You all are very kind.
Of course I’ll play — by some far-off fjord.
Retirement’s not my end. It’s my reward.’
Warren Clements

No 2908: open and shut case

It’s Bulwer Lytton season again. You are invited to submit a comically appalling opening to an imaginary novel. Please email entries of inspired awfulness (150 words maximum) to lucy@spectator.co.uk by 22 July.