Photograph by Susan Jane Sims
Sorry for the delay in announcing the winner for this final challenge. It is Leela Gautam with Last Game. Congratulations Leela.
Thank you to everyone who has taken part. The aim is to produce a book containing all the photographs and poems. This could be a while in the making however I will be contacting all poets and photographers before Christmas to ask you all to proofread your poems and send high res copies of photographs if I don’t already have them. The book will measure 30cm x 30 cm (12 x 12 inches) and will have a heavy card cover.
Poem 1
A fitting end
Letter tiles from a famous game,
Arnead, wadrett, irzot, hondie jump out at me.
It’s been the problem all along,
Finding words for pictures. Now words are
Everywhere; letters without let, a free-range
Alphabet, community of letters.
But what does Arnead mean? I mean,
What’s a wadrett? A small wallet?
Irzot? Sounds faintly jewish, does it not?
And as for hondie…beats me.
Arnead – Greek, probably, tinged with tragedy.
Old letters, new words, or, old words, new
Matters addressed in the competition.
But before you post, e-mail or text it
In – your scrabble of a poem –
To this final competition, ask yourself,
Would you rather bremain,
Connected to the letters,
Or brexit.
Michael Docker
Poem 2
Game changer
Games teach rules of life,
language to explain ourselves,
or understand the actions of others.
Games in the holiday caravan
when it rained,
gave me a love of rubbish weather!.
Winning and losing
and warmth and togetherness.
Made me a good looser. I did it often.
Being on sides,
mum and son, dad and daughter,
child against adults. I am supportive.
Games span generations,
some come and go,
or stay their time.
Win or loose or play the game
It’s good to know life’s rules
and the downfalls of cheating.
Angie Butler
Poem 3
Game Fantastical: In Which Cleopatra Challenges Octavius to Scrabble and Tells Her British Audience One Tale That Shakespeare Could Not
The game is nearly done.
He thinks he’s bested me—
This serpent upstart boy of Caesar’s house—
And all because Mark Antony
Has gone: has fallen on his sword and died
Within my hopeless lover’s arms.
So I am left to play at words and sell my body
(Not my old Egyptian soul) to Rome.
Now, hearken well, you gawping British gentlefolk:
You in your burnished thrones at Stratford;
You in your homespun wooden Os in London—
Those vain playhouses next the feeble Thames.
Aye, he thinks he’s bested me—me!—
Cleopatra, Queen of Egypt and the mighty River Nile.
Stay! What letters have I here in this my end-game?
‘RASP’ I can make, or ‘GRASP’.
Too small! Too little and too late, alas!
Hurry, Charmian; Iras, hasten! Pass
That pretty basket; open up the hasp.
Oh, he words me, girls, he words me.
He thinks he’s got me and my Egypt in his grasp,
But I shall trounce him at the last
And count a triple score
(And half a Roman centum more)
In the final flourishing riposte:
One venomous, sharp word laid down
Across the ‘Why?’ he’s just rasped out as futile question;
Across the ‘Y’ he’s just set down in smirking triumph.
Watch, good handmaids! Leave
Your hieroglyphics be.
And you flabbergasted British, see!
Opening wide the basket’s lid,
I play with all my seven tiles
The winning, hissing word: ‘ASPERITY’.
Lizzie Ballagher
Poem 4
In the Scrabble Box
The cardboard tray in this old Fifties’ box reveals
My parents’ troubled marriage somehow still intact,
Epitomised in endless late-night games of Scrabble.
I check my mathematician father’s neat black numbering,
His flawless, quick-fire computation in column after column
But notice too his almost daily straight defeat:
My mother beat him,
High score after high score.
And, now and then, it seems,
He must have flung the board aside;
The sums are broken off, the game abruptly halted
After only three plays each.
They parted company after a score
Of years, seven thousand games.
Their words unscrambled later in divorce courts.
But afterwards I had the memories of my mother’s merry laughter,
My father’s head-shaking frustration
At all the bitter calculations.
And, buried under wooden tiles, under the cardboard tray,
I find that I’ve inherited some ancient tallies tucked
Inside this Scrabble box and titled Jo vs Ji.
I loved them both:
The man of skilful numbers
And the woman of the winning words.
Lizzie Ballagher
Poem 5
Last game
Our last day together,
we played the game
late into the night,
We made words,
long words,short words,
some so absurd,
We laughed and cried
as the night died
and came another day.
Without a goodbye,
you walked away,
My heart broken,
life in disarray.
I looked through streaming tears
at words torn apart
and saw ,in code ,a love
that didn’t last.
Leela Gautam
Poem 6
Momentous Retirement Day
There are many types of Reactions,
Goes on in ones emotional life;
There are many phases ,
Which one goes through in one’s life ;
Retirement day is proud momentous day of one’s life,
It brings feeling of long coffee break of one’s life,
With lots of courage and determinations,
It is time to ponder over proud moments of one’s life;
Good and bad moments in one’s life,
Cruel and honest moments in one’s life,
It is a time in true sense,
Which shakes one and reminds one,
That it’s time to give back to society one,
Good gift by, practicing honesty,
Spirituality, in one’s life,
With best wishes of all and one,
Like a star, one should face boldly ,
And enjoy momentous day
A retirement day of one’s life.
Sukarma Rani Thareja
Poem 7
A to Z
Oh these little monsters, seemed to me,
I picked a pencil at inception, terrifying.
Making the adamant alphabets sit on paper
Incessant attempts, my fear abandoned,
I could write flawless with a lily-white heart.
Little did I knew
And these letters to be my kindred.
Today, with myriad emotions lingering
Words once placed on paper
Purifies my tormenting musings.
Rhythmic whisperings of letters
Tickles the shy mind, dawning liveliness.
Unfurls benediction to move, just move
To a lea of fresh desires, happiness.
Denim Deka
Poem 8
Scrabble Plot
It was a dark and misty night
The eyes around were shining bright
The power had gone
The board was worn
Slowly he picked his tiles
Placed them carefully
On the board
To spell TONIGHT
11 points he whispered
The players took their turns
Picking tiles as they went along
She looked into his eyes
And placed her tiles quickly
To spell HUSBAND
He waited for his turn
The steamy tiles
Rattling on the board
KILL Double Word Score
That’s 24
He said
She gasped
Her long finger nails dropping tiles
Picking them up
Quivering as she placed them on the board
NO only 2 points
He followed her N vertically
To spell NUISANCE
50 bonus points he smiled
The large man next to him
Took his time
Placed each tile
Carefully above his E
To spell JUVENILE
She was trembling now
As her fingers carefully
Laid out PLEASE
But he grabbed his new tiles
And spelt LOVE
The large fingers next to him
Laid out ZAP
42 Triple Word Score
There was a loud thud
And the young lover’s head
Hit the board
Scattering tiles and letters
On the floor
Silence
Two figures left the door
Someone’s nose was out of joint
This scrabble has no point
Anita Pinto
Poem 9
Wordy
Spread the upturned tiles and we’ll
Come and play quietly at the table,
Rummage among the letters to coax
Apposite letters into JUNK and TAXI,
Because scoring high is intoxicating,
Become zealous with who’s verboser,
Letting calls of ‘Cheat’ greet neologia.
Etymons and lies fly around the room.
Sue Spiers
