In praise of slow

In Competition No. 2489 you were invited to submit a poem with the title ‘In Praise of Slow’. In Praise of Slow is a book by Carl Honoré, a chronicler of the Slow Movement, whose philosophy is that the important things in life should not be rushed.

The prizewinners, printed below, get £25 apiece. Honoré would no doubt approve of the take-a-chill-pill spirit of Dorothy Pope, whose entry had the following footnote: ‘emails retrieved only on Sundays’. Hear, hear. The extra fiver, though, goes to Adrian Fry. The rhyme of ‘fjords’ with ‘Lords’ works well, as does the teasing reference to Auden’s ‘Night Mail’; Fry’s expansive ‘glacial pace’ contrasting with Auden’s careering rhythm.

Now settle; be at leisure and let’s sing, adagio,

Of branchline trains and Henry James and all things that are slow:Of Ibsen plays, bygone Sundays, of elephants and snailsAnd the reassuring glacial pace beloved of Royal Mail.Take an unhurried amble through everything sedate;Poets intoning their own verse or Beckett’s tramps’ long wait,The strange tectonic forces that carve canyons and fjordsOr the mull of legislation as it passes through the Lords.In an age of cold alacrity, how can a man not warmTo those things that let life linger, to longueurs in all their forms?Oh give me five-day cricket tests and arthouse cinemaAnd a ride on Shank’s pony over any motor car.Oh, never press fast forward, only seek to pauseFor, as a pint of Guinness ripens only if correctly poured,So life acquires a savour just so long as you can bearResiding as a tortoise in a time contrived for hares.Adrian Fry

Daydreamers know they only seem

To spin the world who rush and steam-Roller the money-making schemeWith workaholic self-esteem.In hammock hung from apple boughIdeas come, it’s not known how.Inventors, poets all avowThe idling mind’s the one endowedWith thought. The Newtons, Wordsworths knowThe fruitfulness of going slowOf gazing, musing, strolling soLet’s pause awhile and wiser grow.Dorothy Pope

I feel that I shall never take

To Clarkson and the cult of speed.It grieves me that I have to liveWith avatars of Mr ToadWhose conduct on the public roadIs frenziedly competitive.What fuels their neurotic need?Is their virility at stake?Myself, I much prefer to strollAt half-pace on a limestone bluffAnd take my time to watch and museWhile quiet streamlets gently splash,Or peer through gorse and mountain ashAt marvellous lacustrine views.Why go a ton when soon enoughMortality will take its toll?Basil Ransome-Davies

‘The carrier’s cart set such a gentle pace,

Going to town on market day,’ she said,‘Through lanes made glorious with Queen Anne’s lace,Lilac, dog-roses, hawthorn white and red,Juniper, honeysuckle, broom — your headSpun with the scent. Back in the failing lightWe’d see a ghosting owl; and take to bedA long day’s memories to bless the night.’I drove that route only the other day;It takes about a quarter of an hour.Of course, you don’t see quite as much by car:The world has changed, and that’s the price we pay.‘The price we pay’: a pretty poor excuseFor squeezing time and throwing out the juice.Michael Swan

For tempo I prefer adagio

Accompanied by a mature BordeauxUnder an ancient, sun-bleached porticoAs early bats complete the sky’s tableau.I like to watch the sunset’s lingering glow,Feeling the evening’s soft pianissimoMelt into tones that Fra AngelicoWould fresco on the walls of San Marco.I know I always choose the status quoAnd turn back to the arts of long agoRather than Hirst’s or Emin’s studio.I recognise I’m not a dynamo,Would rather use a map than SatNav, goOn backroads, not the motorways, althoughOur journeys all take longer; it’s the slowAnd thoughtful routes I’ll travel, even so.D.A. Prince

If time and space are of our making,

The consequence of consciousness awaking,Then fast and slow and great and smallAre deep impressed into us all.Thus haste and self-assertionBecome our chief ambition.Passion followed by regretHopes which never can be met.Only the unconscious mind perceivesOur paradoxes and our needs.Within our psyche’s secret depths we findIdeals of another kind.Integral balance serves us best,The eternal pulse of work and rest.Progress followed by regress,The strict avoidance of excess.E.W. HuckNo. 2492: Lipogram

You are invited to write a piece of prose  (150 words maximum) entitled ‘Irritable vowel syndrome’, without using the letter ‘u’. Entries to ‘Competition 2492’ by 26 April, or email to lucy@spectator.co.uk.