No. 1233: The winners
Jaspistos reports: 'Shall I compare a sum- mer's day to you?' The Poetry Critical Ser- vice exists in order to put misquoters right. Competitors were asked to rewrite the
Shakespeare sonnet without the benefit of the Service.
Half way across the Channel, too late, I realised that I had worded this competition sloppily, with so many ambiguities that it was no wonder that you presented me with everything from a Shakespearian pastiche to a McGonagall mishmash. So this week anything goes — as long as it goes well. Variations on the last couplet of the original proved particularly fruitful, Aubrey Bush offering 'As long as this poetic verse is read, You shall . (pardon the word) remain undead' and D. Ganger coming up with 'But when all's said and done and called the hearse is, At least thou'lt be remembered through these verses'. J. H. M. Donald had an appealing quatrain: Who knows a thyme whereon a wild bank blows,
Who longs for England now November's there, Who loves the thorn but does not see the rose - I leave him, Critical Service, to your care.
Ten pounds each to the four competitors printed below who made the best sense, or nonsense, of my imprecise challenge.
Shall I compare a summer's day to you Or not? You know how miserable it gets: May winds rough up a darling bud or two And English summers always take short lets. Sometimes 'Phew, what a scorcher!' we all say And often is the weather dull and cold; And everyone goes off a bit some day It's either bad luck or they're growing old. But, thanks to me, your summer is immortal, Your looks will be preserved from year to year, Nor shall Death brag you've wandered through his portal When anyone who reads can find you here. While men can breathe you'll live in this my song - At least I hope so, but 1 could be wrong.
(Jason Strugnell) For me, dear boy, you strike the chord of June.
Perhaps that's not a very apt comparison: Our effing climate's often out of tune At all events, I love you, Billy Harrison. It's hardly what you'd call a theme for boasting, This parody that's labelled 'English Summer': You're either frozen rigid or you're roasting The English summer frankly is a bummer. But not to worry, possum, not to fret, These lines of mine, admittedly uncouth, Through countless aeons will (you want to bet?) Encapsulate the glamour of your youth, Far distant ages' appetites to tease, Preserved in this, my doggerel deep-freeze.
(Robin Ravensbourne) Shall I compare a summer's day to you? You are far sunnier, becoming mild: The wind, increasing strong, brings summer 'flu And blows away the unprotected child. A sudden heat-wave can exhaust the brain And make of naked flesh a human roast, Or, in a moment, turn to clouds and rain, With heavy storms in places near the coast. But your tomorrow's outlook shall not change. Nor overcast with grey your summer's gold; Nor shall all moods that come within your range Confuse a chap by blowing hot and cold. As long as warmth and brightness fill the heart,
These loving lines shall be your weather chart:
(Roger Woddls)
Compared to you, I'd go so far as to say An English summer day is just outclassed. Cricketers keep two sweaters on in May And, all too soon, the next fixture's the last. Either the sun burns like a laser-beam Or like a wet match, with a fitful flame: Take Derbyshire — last season a fine team This year, pathetic — hardly won a game. Many a time, at Lord's, high on the roof, Old Father Time has swung his scythe to mark The close of play — but you remain aloof, You stay outside his blade's free-swinging arc. So long as, year by year, Wisden is read, This tribute will be, too, when I am dead. (Stanley Shaw)
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