COMPETITION

Kitchen prayer

Christopher Howse

IN COMPETITION NO. 1774 you were invited to write a poem with the title `Kitchen Prayer'.

What a haven of domestic pleasures you expect your kitchen to be, with copper hood, stone flooring, pot plants, pets beneath the big table and a constant flow of fresh bread and nourishing stews for a throng of grateful children and spouses. But there's a lurking fear of sinking souf- fles (always when guests are there) and a horror of washing-up.

My friend Jaspistos has taken a week off to repaint the kitchen ceiling, but it was on his kitchen wall that I saw a plate inscribed with a prayer, which included these lines:

Although I must have Martha's hands

I have a Mary mind

And when I black the boots and shoes Thy sandals, Lord, I find.

None of this week's entrants blacked boots in their kitchens, and, sadly, most were far too seasoned to attempt a simple prayer. There were three parodies of the Our Father, the most ingenious of which had a Joycean incomprehensibility. Christ- ine Sapieha Fremantle took an earthier view in her celebration of grease, crumbs and cat hairs. And Watson Weeks deserves commendation for successfully incorporat- ing the rhyme-word `apolaustic'.

In a hard-fought week the winners below get £20 each, and the bonus bottle of Aberlour Single Malt whisky will be de- spatched to the sinkboard of Paul Griffin.

As I wash up, I see my state All bright and useful, like this plate. Like it, I gather dirt, it's true, But soon emerge as good as new And show a brightly shining face, Thanks to hot water, i.e. grace.

Although, admittedly, this line Is theologically fine, Another tempts me by and by: The Water Company's supply, Though purely drawn from unknown springs, Becomes a mass of filthy things.

Do I grow grey and start to stink Like this foul water in my sink?

Lord, do not send me down the drain, But let me be a plate again. (Paul Griffin) K indly remember, friend, that when I'm cooking I cannot concentrate if someone's looking: T hough you may feel compulsion to assist, C ontain your urge to play philanthropist.

11 ow can I hang upon your every word, E xchanging small talk as I prod the bird?

N or can I grill a point your fillet steak

P retending to enjoy the jokes you make: R oast pork can suffer from excessive cackling A nd end up underdone without the crackling. Y our host awaits you, so why not just sit E njoying Whisky Sour or Gin-and-It, R egaling him, till dinner, with your wit? (Peter Hadley)

I thank you, 0 God, for my kitchen, With its cupboards of natural pine, A table to match, a Welsh dresser, Busy Lizzies and rack for the wine.

I thank you for all things electric, The kettle, the toaster, the fryer, The fridge and the fruit juice extractor, The washing machine and the dryer.

And thanks for the microwave oven, Auto start, auto cook, auto beep. The old kitchen range has departed, It had earned its perpetual sleep.

I don't need to chop any firewood, Or carry great buckets of coal.

O God, who invented inventions, Take my thanks, from the depths of my soul.

(Phyllis Fountain) Holy Mother, on this day, Help me to work the best I may, That I may cook for the ones I love.

Pray for me always in Heaven above, Help me to bake the bread and the meat, As if Jcsus and Joseph were coming to eat.

Help of good mothers, housewife's friend, Pray for me now and at the end.

Amen.

(Hazel Sweetman) Lord, by a special private grace, Visit this melancholy place With miracles. In that grim sink Where dishes soar and earwigs drink Let nimble-handed cherub lads Bustle among the Brillo pads. Next send, with pails and copious Vim, A troupe of scrubbing seraphim To cleanse those nooks where spiders lie `Mid funeral feast of mummied fly. Last, if You will, have Gabriel's self Wipe and re-stack each nightmare shelf. Succour me thus in my despair, And I from thankful basket chair A glass of beaded wine will raise In pledge of never-stinting praise.

(Chris Tingley) 0 Lord, who blessed the Canaan feast With water changed to wine, and fed Vast crowds with just five loaves of bread And two small fish, I crave the least Of miracles — that while I live And cook in here, the dough may rise, The roasts not burn, that my supplies May be enough, that Thou'It forgive My frenzies when things go awry; I pray that someone else will do The washing up, the drying too (I pray for no machine, for I Need no such thing; just now and then I'd like a hand with that dull task).

Fresh water, daily bread I ask, And iron pots. And salt. Amen.

(Gerard Benson)

No. 1777: Outlaws

My son has ordered me to write a poem about Robin Hood and his Merry Men. I invite you to comply with this request with a poem suitable for children, or not (max- imum 16 lines). Entries to 'Competition No. 1777' by 30 April.