In Competitors No. 3277, you have been invited to produce a poem to mark the one centesimal anniversary of the invention of Tutankhamun’s tomb. Fifty years in the past, amid a wave of Tut mania, some 1.6 million folks queued as much as see the boy king on the British Museum. Nick MacKinnon and his mum have 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 under, 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 treasured stones
To canes that helped him limp with bent-foot ache.
Although robbed a wee bit in antiquity,
His tomb stayed untouched to a fantastic extent
Until Europe’s Nice Warfare was a reminiscence
And overseas scholarship may pitch its tent.
Then doorways lengthy sealed have been breached, braving a curse.
They discovered his mummy, coffined in pure gold,
Bothered by a twisted backbone and worse.
He hadn’t lived to be twenty years outdated.
He died so younger, endured so weirdly lengthy,
Our fascination feels each proper and unsuitable.
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 may need guessed
the fury of the Gods that you just’d invoke.
I’ve treasures that can assist me on my approach:
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,
throughout the gilded shrine the place I’m entombed
to journey with Osiris by my facet,
however hear, mate, I’ve information for you – you’re doomed!
So don’t make plans, however repair your self a hearse,
you recognize you’ll be able to’t evade the Pharoah’s curse.
Sylvia Fairley
Although Howard Carter had a constitution, time
Was operating out; his patron’s doubt remained.
He’d should quick discover the huge, chic
Necropolis Diospolis contained.He came upon a crumbled stone that led
Under; 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
Have been stacked and strewn; he knew he’d quickly exhume
The once-iconic pharaonic teen.And so it got here to go 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 a substitute 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 via 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, outdated good friend, and also you
Have been buried with a shedload, it seems.
Historical past observes you, a nonentity,
Although, gawping, we are going to give you identification.
Invoice Greenwell
100 years since Howard Carter discovered
my tomb, peered in and noticed ‘Great issues!’
Since then my golden face has been round
the world – a marvel, like a pig with wings.
However what’s a century? We outdated 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 suppose the world is yours
at such a mere 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 towards 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 identify,
What gross return his glittering masks may yield:
The afterlife for him meant worldly fame.
His story had attraction however – fact be advised –
It was transcended by the glow of gold.
W.J. Webster
Did you go light 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 grew to become their best discover
But, ultimately, would deliver 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 might be invited to submit an updating of W.H. Auden’s ‘Evening Mail’ entitled ‘E-mail’. Please e-mail entries of as much as 16 strains to [email protected] by noon on 28 December.
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