Spectator Competition: Vernal triolet

For Competition 3394 you were invited to submit a vernal triolet.

In 1894, the poet Banjo Paterson wrote a heartfelt triolet in dispraise of the triolet and Brian Allgar did the same this week:

I really hate the triolet,

And, Spring or not, I find them hell.

‘Oh, tra-la-la, it’s cold and wet.’

I really hate the triolet.

All those repeated lines that get

Nowhere (just like the villanelle).

I really hate the triolet,

And, Spring or not, I find them hell.

Nonetheless, you rose to the challenge with gusto, producing a funny and poignant entry that was hard to whittle down to a winning line-up. Hats off to unlucky losers Tom Adam, Martin Parker, Iain Morley, Jasmine Jones, Alan Bradnam, Dorothy Pope, Nick Syrett, Bob Newman, Anna Cox and Susan McLean. Those below snaffle the £25 John Lewis vouchers.

Our snowman is a thing of woe,

A pile of coals is all that’s left,

He’s gone where melted crystals go,

Our snowman is a thing of woe.

Spring’s warmth has dealt a mortal blow;

Strange how it feels an act of theft.

Our snowman is a thing of woe,

A pile of coals is all that’s left.

Janine Beacham

Along the verge the daffs are out,

But sigh and have another vape.

Thrilling to see the green shoots sprout.

Along the verge the daffs are out,

Augurs of Spring without a doubt;

The human world is in bad shape.

Along the verge the daffs are out,

But sigh and have another vape.

Basil Ransome-Davies

Cruel spring, tell youth your lovely lies

Of greenery and resurrection

And happiness that never dies.

Cruel spring, tell youth your lovely lies.

Hide winter from their wishful eyes

And blind them with your false affection.

Cruel spring, tell youth your lovely lies

Of greenery and resurrection.

Frank McDonald

Sore eyes, runny nose and the impulse to sneeze,

these are the torments I suffer each spring,

It’s the pollen that spawns, as it wafts on the breeze,

sore eyes, runny nose and the impulse to sneeze,

though it may be like nectar to numerous bees

to me there’s the spectre of what it will bring:

sore eyes, runny nose and the impulse to sneeze,

these are the torments I suffer each spring.

Sylvia Fairley

Poets: they’re so excited over Spring –

all Oh-to-be-in-England, daffodils

and burgeoning when Love can have its fling.

Poets — they’re so excited over Spring

and yet it comes round every year, that thing

with birds and bees. It’s how they get their thrills,

poets. They’re so excited over Spring –

all Oh-to-be-in-England, daffodils.

D.A. Prince

It’s Spring! The sunlight’s in the mood;

The garden really won’t relax –

It can’t be still, it’s keen to brood.

It’s Spring! The sunlight’s in the mood

To breed a weed, to grow some food.

I pay new rates of Council Tax,

It’s Spring, it’s sunlight. In the mood?

The garden really won’t … Relax!

Bill Greenwell

‘Jug-jug, pee-wit, tu-witta-wu,’

These blasted birds are always singing.

Are there no other ways to woo?

‘Jug-jug, pee-wit, tu-witta-wu,’

Are not the sounds that I or you

Would choose to make when love is springing.

‘Jug-jug, pee-wit, tu-witta-wu,’

These blasted birds are always singing.

Gail White

The cuckoo’s call is quite unique –

It tells us all that spring is here.

Two notes announce her slick technique,

The cuckoo’s call is quite unique;

She has no shame, a wicked beak,

That ousts another’s eggs each year.

The cuckoo’s call is quite unique –

It tells us all that spring is here.

Elizabeth Kay

When May be out we cast a clout

And wear a shirt against the skin.

It’s pleasant when the sun is out

When May be out we cast a clout

Enjoy the sun and lark about;

Then shiver when the sun goes in.

When May be out we cast a clout

And wear a shirt against the skin.

Philip Roe

When little lambs come out to play,

it means that Spring’s begun its course.

Daffodils greet each brightened day

when little lambs come out to play.

While other lambs, from far away,

are silenced now. I serve mint sauce.

When little lambs come out to play,

it means that Spring’s begun its course.

Tracy Davidson

Oh, to be in Devon

Now that Spring is here,

Where it blows a gale force seven –

Oh to be in Devon,

Where it’s pissing down from Heaven

As though the End is near –

Oh, to be in Devon

Now that Spring is here!

David Silverman

No. 3397: In out, in out

You are invited to recast the ‘Hokey-Cokey’ in the style of a poet of your choice. Please email entries to competition@spectator.co.uk by midday on 23 April.