No. 1296: The winners

Jaspistos reports: Competitors were asked for an untraditional poem written privately by Penelope before or after the arrival home of Odysseus/Ulysses.

Rupert Brooke's antiromantic sonnet 'Menelaus' (not a bad poem at all) gave me the idea for this one:

Often he wonders why on earth he went Troyward, or why poor Paris ever came. Oft she weeps, gummy-eyed and impotent; Her dry shanks twitch at Paris' mumbled name.

So Menelaus nagged; and Helen cried; And Paris slept on by Scamander side,

A good entry, though 1 couldn't stomach the old hero so often being called `Oddy' or `Uly'. Welcome a newcomer with the splen- did pseudonym of Lazarus Rackett and a nice opening verse: 'The nearer his ap- proach, the more his/Iteration/ Pre-bores me.' Congratulations to six winners who get £8 each, and to John Sweetman whose last line persuaded me to give him the two bonus bottles of Château Gruaud-Larose 1976 presented by Bibendum, 113 Regent's Park Road, Primrose Hill NW1 (01 586 9761).

Let me consider how I lived my life, Those nineteen years with Ulysses away. I kept things going on from day to day, Efficiently, without continuing strife. Before he went I was a model wife, Like other women in their simple way; Since then, while at my loom, I've had to say What should be done, give orders, wield the knife.

Now, suddenly, he's back. He's bent his bow And slain the suitors, such a pleasant crew. He could have simply asked them all to go, But no, he had to kill them, two by two. No wonder, now, I'm loath to share my bed. But one good thing: that foul old dog is dead.

(John Sweetman) Heigh-ho, 1 must say Phemius sang beautifully last night!

How handsome dear Amphinomus looked by the fire's soft light!

And they'd all brought lovely presents, which I do deserve, I think, When you balance them against the frightful quantity they drink.

But although the competition has been quite a lot of fun, The days of merry widowhood, I fear, are nearly done.

(Besides Telemachus is looking far too old to be my son.) So today I'll have to tell them which of all of • them has won, And it won't be very easy to express.

For at the solemn moment when I choose my second mate, While the Gods on high Olympus are deciding on our fate, It's a truth I cannot easily confess, That I've taken quite a fancy to that beggar at the gate.

He's a man to whom I'd willingly say 'yes'.

(Humphrey Key) Can it be you? Can I believe my eyes? Odysseus — this beggar, fat and bald? Throw off, oh husband dear, such poor disguise!

(What's this? He has already? I'm appalled!) How good to see you, darling. Welcome back! My noble lord, you don't know how I've pined.

(Ye gods! That paunch — a melon in a sack. And now the greeting kiss. Zeus, what a bind!) Take some refreshment by your rightful hearth; The pain of separation is now done!

(Then, please, Odysseus, do take a bath; The pain of meeting's only just begun.) Just let me mix a night-cap, strong and sweet, Then tell me of your conquests, mighty lord. (Beware, though, as you slip beneath the sheet; The Pen, you'll find, is mightier than the

sword.) (N. J. Warburton) A moment's peace. I've given him the slip. He carries on as if aboard a ship.

Mv eardrums almost burst beneath his roar: 'Aft!"Port!"Penclope, bend to the oar!'

He's set Telemachus on roof-top watch. And all his language such a strange hotch- potch.

What he was really up to and whom with I'd like to know — his yarn sounds such a myth.

But what has hurt me more than 1 can tell: He never brought me so much as a shell.

I wish he'd paint a mural in the lobby. Now he's retired he needs to find a hobby. (George Moor) Nineteen years! But no dispute — as

If his wife forgave Odysseus!

'Not one word, dear.' — What's at issue's Why be diced and sliced my suitors: Filthy beast! — I may not cavil.

Dawn's his rosy groping fingers.

Though he comes, he never lingers — I'm his substitute for travel!

Sexually, he's even worse, he Rides me like a Trojan horse. He Said last night (1 thought), 'You're saucy!'

Turns out what he said was 'Circe!

When I think of how he's fibbed, his Promises are worthless tattle.

He'll find out I'm no mere chattel:

I'll be Scylla and Charybdis! (Nell L. WreSibIC)

So welcome back, my darling husband.

The wanderer returns.

You have hardly changed at all.

You always loved to dress in rags, walk around unshaven, show off with your silly bow and

break up my dinner-parties with a massacre, n)

(Ellen Woodbur