COMPETITION

Vox pop

Jaspistos

In Competition No. 1545 you were in- vited to anticipate the work by Barbara Cartland soon to be offered to the world by British Telecom's Dial-a-Poem service.

If Picasso had his 'pink' and 'blue' periods Barbara Cartland has sustained a pink-and-blue lifetime. Within the narrow compass of these two colours you worked wonders. Honourable mentions abound, headed by Maureen Melvin and closely followed by Noel Petty, Gerry Hamill, Gina Berkeley and Monica G. Ribon. There is room for six prizewinners, who get £12 each, and the bonus bottle of Château Cantemerle 1979, kindly donated by Asshetons, Solicitors, 99 Aldwych, Lon- don WC2, is taken by David Heaton, whose poem seems to breathe the very odours of the heartland of Cartland.

On the south side of my garden The love-grass looks so cool, And I've planted love-in-idleness (Or heart's-ease) by the pool.

On the east side of my garden The terrace is sun-kissed, And I've planted soft blue fennel-flower (Known as love-in-a-mist).

On the north side of my garden, In memory of Roy I've planted love-lies-bleeding And love-bind (traveller's joy).

On the west side of my garden I've planted, in full sun, Some love-apples (yes, tomatoes) - And lovage, just for fun. (David Heaton) Will she say 'No!' when the lights are low, And her head is muzzy with wine? It's been a blind date, and the hour is late, And he's murmuring, 'Your place or mine?'

Will she give in to his sexy grin, While his breath is hot on her neck? Other girls do it; will she live to rue it, Or manage to hold him in check?

At the moment of truth for Yvonne and the youth She recalls, as her courage fades, That illicit passion is now out of fashion; Supposing the fellow has Aids?

He's down on his knees, but she says, 'No sex, please,

That way lies nothing but shame; The man who would bed me must first of all wed me.'

I'm sure, girls, that you'd say the same. (Stanley J. Sharpless) Come! hear the tale I oft-times tell, Of youth and maid in amorous strife, He brave, she chaste, and what befell, Until, at last, they're man and wife.

Hear how true love may be denied, And lovers parted by the wiles Of some dark temptress, who has lied, And licks her cruel lips, and smiles.

Hear how a maiden's love is proved, How faith is kept 'gainst every strain,' And fearful obstacles removed, Until the sun can shine again.

The future now is bright as day, All wicked villains duly served; For love at last has found a way,.

My tale is done, all rights reserved.

(John Sweetman) Without sweet honey of romance Or love's soft pearl-pink glow, Life is a solitary dance, A wink without an answering glance, A belle without a beau.

Deep in the warm shell of your ear This poem breathes its rhyme To whisper that, when love is near And trumpets ring out 'He is here And chastity's a crime . .

You must not heed the call but stay Clean, virgin, chaste. Deplore What true romancers keep at bay —

Rough sex (at least 'til wed) and stay Outside the bedroom door.

(D. A. Prince) If you can keep your looks when you are eighty, Without resembling mutton dressed as lamb; Be friends with everyone, yet not too matey; Put on an act — without a hint of ham.

If you've a talent as a story-teller, Start writing — if you've nothing else to do; You may become the world's supreme best- seller

(Please see my modest entry in Who's Who).

If you want to be a TV personality And very soon become a household name, You've got to outperform in triviality And beat the other gurus at their game.

If you can do all this I'll eat my hat. So nice of you to ring me for a chat.

(Martin Braby) We all need romance in our lives.

We all need sterling health.

Young men require intact young wives, And everyone needs wealth.

The good Lord in his wisdom wrought A world where breeding counts, Where royal jelly can be bought For ninety pounds an ounce.

Why should we spoil His perfect scheme With strife and social change?

Be always true to love's young dream That time can't disarrange.

The man impassioned, bold, but good; The wife demure and loyal; The outcome perfect parenthood; The bloodline rich and royal.

(Basil Ransome-Davies)