Philip Larkin’s poem “Aubade” prompted Kingsley Amis to speak out: “If you feel as bad as you say, then fucking get up, or if it’s too early or something then put on the light and read Dick Francis . . .” etc. We asked you for Amisian (or Grumpy Old Men) responses to “Intimations of Immortality”, “Ode on Melancholy”, “Dejection: an Ode”, “In Memoriam”, or other, similarly well-known dolorous poems

Report by Ms de Meaner

Well done. That divided those with hairs on their chests from those without! However, hon menshes are awarded to Bill Greenwell ("Len, old bean . . . for God's sake, don't call her 'thee'"), M E Ault ("Palely loitering about the withered sedge is hardly fulfilling your potential"), Alanna Blake ("That's fucking perverted. What a way to end a poem!"), John O'Byrne ("Snap out of it, Percy. You're not the only one who has 'nor hope nor health, nor peace within nor calm around . . . nor fame nor power, nor love, nor leisure'. My sister Mabel's eldest son has just been laid off . . .") and Nicholas Hodgson ("Beach? Beach? Who's interested in Dover beach? You're looking at the wrong place as usual. We want Dover cliffs"). £20 to each of the winners, the best of whom (David Silverman) also gets the Tesco vouchers.

Ode to a Nightingale

OK, you've got a hangover and someone's taken you birdwatching on the Heath. So what? You didn't have to go, and it's hardly a reason to be "half in love with easeful death" or whatever. You're in Hampstead, for goodness' sake! NW3 address to die for, great coffee shops, tall Americanos to cure the "drowsy numbness" that's "paining" what's left of your sense.

As for the "weariness, the fever and the fret/Here, where men sit and hear each other groan", no one makes you go to the Belsize Park Comedy Club either. What? You cannot see the flowers at your feet? Look, sonny boy, stay off all the draughts of vintage and blushful Hippocrene, get some exercise, get your hair cut and get a proper job.

David Silverman

Not Waving But Drowning

What do they teach them these days! In my day we had hard and fast rules: don't go out of your depth until you know what you're doing, and always keep an eye on the tide. Simple. Can't say you weren't warned. Fooling around's for fools, "Buster" Briggs used to bellow at us before he chucked us in at the deep end - but by George he made swimmers of us. Made men of us, too. And we could take the cold without moaning; there was no hot water in the showers softening us up. No drowning in self-pity for us poor sods - or anything else, for that matter.

D A Prince

The Raven

Look, mate, it's a bird, all right? Just a bird. Not a very attractive one, maybe, and you don't want it crapping all over your bust of Pallas (what's that about, anyway?), but push comes to shove, you can get rid. I don't think our politically correct masters have yet got round to making ravens a protected species, but what if they have? Sod 'em. Agreed, it's a bit one-note, but at least it only does three syllables, for Christ's sake. It's not reciting the collected journalism of John Pilger or Polly Toynbee. It's not advertising fizzy drinks for kids. It's not telling you to go to cashier number five, please. It's just a bird. And that goes for bleeding Lenore as well.

Basil Ransome-Davies

No 4030 Named and shamed

Set by Tim Hopkins

The names of our politicians are actually acronyms. But what do BROWN, CAMERON, DARLING, or any other of your choice, actually mean?

Email: comp@newstatesman.co.uk

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