SPECTATOR COMPETITION No. 109

Report. by Guy Kendall A prize of £5 was offered for an extract from a poem called " The ITew Town," in the manner and metre of Goldsmith's " The Deserted Nage," by one who knew the site as agricultural land.

As was not unexpected, a large proportion of the competitors proved themselves competent to reproduce the couplet of " The Deserted Village," and dozens may be justifiably hurt at finding their pleasant verses unmentioned. Those who failed on metrical grounds mostly did so through running over the couplet and stopping in the middle of the next line. Goldsmith does so once in his poem, but not even he to good effect: As to " manner," some aimed at a parody and some at a poem. The latter divined better the intention of the setter. The suggestion of parody rather mars at the outset the otherwise attractive beginning of Admiral Sir W. M. James's poem : " 111 fares the land, to blueprints now a prey ;

The pastures, age-enriched, are swept away ; The human bees forsake their city hives And where they swarm no blade of corn survives."

Some able entries suggested Pope in his satirical mood rather than Goldsmith. Of these was R. Kennard Davis, who, despite his usual vigour and ingenuity, waxed too rhetorical for the present purpose, ending :

" And the bright stream that rippled through the plain Now reeks with effluents from the factory's drain."

Much the same applies to Allan M. Laing's clever verses, though I like the couplet : " Did these brick mortar boxes have to spoil

The rich potential of a living soil ? "

The expression New Town was primarily intended to suggest Stevenage, Harlow and the others. Harlow seemed to rankle with many, even evoking the cry :

"111 fares the land of Essex, VERY ill."

But many of the descriptions might have fitted any factory town : indeed Barrow was attacked by one Cumbrian with no little venom. But it is believed, or at least intended, that the New Towns of today will emerge as urban but not repulsive. Still, for the present purpose the term New Town has been allowed to apply with some latitude ; the best of the towns will at least exhibit a super-cinema, as H. A. C. Evans forcibly describes it, " Where muster young and old of every sort To sit in noisy darkness for their sport."

The provision of beer seemed to trouble others, and the new public- house, which D. Norwood calls :

" No modest mansion, where we'd stop to chat, But now a pub., and State-controlled at that." And A. J. Hirst has a warning vision of a tavern where "A civic clerk, stripe-trousered, draws the beer."

No doubt there is an intentional anti-climax in J. G. Logan's couplet: " Nor yellow ducklings seek the slimy pool ; Its site is now the secondary school."

Similar, but stronger, is the sarcasm of H. G. Taylor : " And where the useful swede prolific grew

A multilateral School obstructs the view."

For true poetry the following lines are worth mention :

" Still their swift games the happy children play And shout and chatter the sweet hours away. '

(Iris St. Hill Mousley) "The sea-gull poised above the ploughman's wake."

(Rev. Walter McClccry)

and these for satirical contrast :

" And tithe-barn, oft bedecked for harvest-home, Was lost to fun-fair, rink and picturedrome."

(Rhoda Tuck Pook)

I recommend that a first prize of three guineas be awarded to A. M. Sayers, and a second prize of two guineas to Miss D. Bushell, whose lines, despite a weak beginning, are in some respects the nearest to Goldsmith. Very near to them are Margaret Sparrow (whose elegy must come home to anyone who knew the Hinkseys, as I did, unchanged from Matthew Arnold's time), Hazel Grain (whose " sweet Kidbrooke " would have reached prize rank but for one really clumsy line), G. J. Blundell, V. E. L. Brown, C. J. Richards and Muriel M. Malvern.

FIRST PRIZE (A. M. SAYERS)

Dear bourn, which once no traveller could gain

Except by favour of a branch-line train— - Now concrete bus-stops peep from every bower And Greenlines rush to London twice an hour. There, up the meadow, where the drowsy kine Would low in concert at the sun's decline, Now hideous rows of raddled roofs ascend To blast the prospect and with nothing blend. Along the vale, displacing tender crops, Appears a phalanx of suburban shops That sell, behind plate glass, the sort ofstuff For which we thought one village shop enough While, in the night, flood-lighting tower and spire, " THE REGAL " flames in characters of fire.

SECOND PRIZE (D. BUSHELL).

How oft, a happy child, just here I'd stand : Before me lay the fertile valley-land ;

Behind, the orchard's verdant shade was sweet,

Its dewy grasses cool about my feet.

Is all, then, gone ? No crop but concrete borne Where once the breeze ran wave-like through the corn,

While gaunt grey lamp-posts shed a ghastly light, And fill the streets with walking dead each night ?

Ah no ! One sad survivor still I see,

Outside the station—one lone apple-tree.

With stones and orange-peel and broken glass It shares a meagre strip of yellowed grass ; There pines, with grimy bough and famished root,

And weeps its leaves away, but yields no fruit.