The Strokestown Poetry Festival

The e-mail came out of the blue,
I’d forgotten it completely.
Incredulously, I read it through,
Then gave a smile discreetly.
My mouth hung open, catching flies,
When reading, to my great surprise,
I was in the running for a minor prize
At the Strokestown Poetry Festival.

I called my wife with voicebox hoarse,
And proudly bade her read it.
Although she was impressed, of course
There’s no way she’d concede it!
“My dear,” she said, “I realise
You’re wanting me to eulogise,
But sure, it’s only a minor prize
At the Strokestown Poetry Festival.

“It matters not, dear spouse,” quoth I,
Responding quite athletically.
“The judges have been struck by my
Attempts to wax poetically.
Henceforth I’ll punctuate my cries
With sonnets praising dappled skies.
Gee! In the running for a minor prize
At the Strokestown Poetry Festival!”

“Seamus Heaney’s literary talents,”
(She said) “are rightly famous.
Your verse has neither wit nor balance –
In short, you are no Seamus.
I really must apologise
If I should seem to criticise,
But you only might get a minor prize
At the Strokestown Poetry Festival.”

“I know that you’re made up,” I said,
“Just trying not to show it.
It’s hard to get into your head
That I’m a major poet.
In time, you’ll come to idolise
This wordsmith’s art I exercise,
Nominated for a minor prize
At the Strokestown Poetry Festival.”

At this, my wife collapsed in mirth,
O’ertaken by the giggles,
(A habit she has had from birth
Which sometimes frankly niggles.)
But sure, she’s trying to disguise
The pride betrayed beneath her eyes
That I am up for a minor prize
At the Strokestown Poetry Festival.