In Competitors No. 3277, you had been invited to produce a poem to mark the a hundredth anniversary of the invention of Tutankhamun’s tomb. Fifty years in the past, amid a wave of Tut mania, some 1.6 million individuals queued as much as see the boy king on the British Museum. Nick MacKinnon and his mum had been amongst them and he earns a commendation for his account of their outing. In a various, intelligent and technically achieved entry, Roger Rengold, A.H. Harker, Michael Jameson, Paul A. Freeman, Donald Mack and Robin Hill additionally shone, however the prizes go to the seven printed beneath, whose authors snaffle £20 every.

Three thousand years of strangers personal his bones
And site visitors within the trappings of his reign –
From mummy masks of gold and valuable stones
To canes that helped him limp with bent-foot ache.
Although robbed a wee bit in antiquity,
His tomb stayed untouched to an ideal extent
Until Europe’s Nice Warfare was a reminiscence
And overseas scholarship might pitch its tent.
Then doorways lengthy sealed had been breached, braving a curse.
They discovered his mummy, coffined in pure gold,
by a twisted backbone and worse.
He hadn’t lived to be twenty years previous.
He died so younger, endured so weirdly lengthy,
Our fascination feels each proper and improper.
Chris O’Carroll

So, Mr Carter, why disturb my relaxation?
Three thousand years at peace, earlier than you broke
that sacred seal. I assumed you might need guessed
the fury of the Gods that you simply’d invoke.
I’ve treasures that can assist me on my manner:
gold artefacts – and video games that I can play
whereas heading for the Afterlife – for, hey!
beneath the masks I’m only a mummied boy.
‘See in every single place the glint of gold,’ you cried,
inside the gilded shrine the place I’m entombed
to journey with Osiris by my facet,
however pay attention, mate, I’ve information for you – you’re doomed!
So don’t make plans, however repair your self a hearse,
you realize you’ll be able to’t evade the Pharoah’s curse.
Sylvia Fairley

Although Howard Carter had a constitution, time
Was working out; his patron’s doubt remained.
He’d must quick discover the huge, chic
Necropolis Diospolis contained.

He came across a crumbled stone that led
Beneath; he breached a door, and reached a crypt
And what he noticed impressed his awe, he stated.
Agog, his funder waited, wonder-gripped.

Inside the calm of Tutankhamun’s tomb
Antiquities for hundreds of years unseen
Had been stacked and strewn; he knew he’d quickly exhume
The once-iconic pharaonic teen.

And so it got here to move that fame was gained
For Akhenaten’s long-forgotten son.
Alex Steelsmith

As Nefertiti’s son-in-law, you dominated
While you’d have higher been out kicking gourds
As an alternative of searching hippos. You weren’t schooled
In something. The vizier whispered phrases
And also you carried out them, false beard in your chin.
Pharaoh of glam, mascara darkish, beautiful,
You limped by life and married next-of-kin,
However died a teen – not very cheerful, is it?

Now after dying, your buckteeth grin’s on view,
As is your charcoal pores and skin. Two thousand years
Between us? Gold is gold, previous pal, and also you
Had been buried with a shedload, it seems.
Historical past observes you, a nonentity,
Although, gawping, we are going to give you id.
Invoice Greenwell

100 years since Howard Carter discovered
my tomb, peered in and noticed ‘Fantastic issues!’
Since then my golden face has been round
the world – a marvel, like a pig with wings.
However what’s a century? We previous Egyptians
held our dominion for 3 thousand years.
It’s you unusual folks who go into conniptions
over 100. We reserve our cheers
for Bastet’s seven-thousandth anniversary.
We’ve barely reached the highest of historical past’s hill.
Your gods are hardly out of heaven’s nursery,
whereas Isis, Ra, and Horus guard us nonetheless.
100 years – you assume the world is yours
at such an insignificant quantity? Amateurs!
Gail White

Immured, entombed, his coffin, too, encased,
Tutankhamun, King’s trappings laid round,
Was readied for the voyage that he confronted
To succeed in the afterlife deep underground.
Untouched then for millennia he lay,
A silent presence in that lightless place,
His earthly remnants proofed in opposition to decay,
A golden masks to symbolize his face.
No extra. The trendy day broke in, revealed
The secrets and techniques of his tomb, his regnal title,
What gross return his glittering masks may yield:
The afterlife for him meant worldly fame.
His story had attraction however – fact be instructed –
It was transcended by the glow of gold.
W.J. Webster

Did you go mild into that good night time
Nice king, whose brief life led you to this tomb?
For 3 millennia, hidden from our sight,
You’ve rested silent in your second womb.
Then within the daylight, mild to which you’re blind,
Males scoured your rocky, arid valley until
The smallest tomb turned their best discover
But, in the long run, would convey them solely unwell.
Now, poised like vultures, questioning the way you died
Males scan your bones, whereas those that courageous the chilly
And queue to see your treasures, eagle-eyed,
Could but be jinxed for gazing in your gold;
With this I shut my valedictory verse:
‘Be cautious, all, of Tutankhamun’s curse!’
Alan Millard

No. 3280: you’ve obtained mail

You’re invited to submit an updating of W.H. Auden’s ‘Night time Mail’ entitled ‘Electronic mail’. Please e-mail entries of as much as 16 traces to [email protected] by noon on 28 December.

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