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Poetry in motion

Jaspistos

IN COMPETITION NO. 1839 you were invited to write a poem in praise of a famous tennis player, past or present.

I am an unashamed tennis freak. Twenty years ago I saw an old film of Suzanne Lenglen in action and to the embarrass- ment of my family burst into tears at the poetry in motion, at 'the achieve of, the mastery of the thing'. The player who has moved me most was the bow-legged Ecuadorean ex-ball boy, Pancho Segura, whom I once watched take the almost unbeatable Gonzales, well over a foot taller and with a first serve nearly double the

speed, to a tight five-setter. Another gentle artist was nicely celebrated by Andrew Gibbons:

Francoise Durr — now there's a thought: The slowest serve on a tennis court? It seemed to hang like smoke in the air More laissez-, say, than savoir-faire . .

The prize-winners, printed below, get £20 each, and the bonus bottle of Isle of Jura Single Malt Scotch whisky goes to Basil Ransome-Davies.

Remember the great Nancy Richie, Cloche-hatted, in elegant shorts? Though her talent at tennis was titchy, She brought cool, sexy chic to the courts.

Her aces were beauty and glamour, The hygienic American type.

She was never a muscular slammer: Her image was hip more than hype. There were times when she won — mainly doubles — But I loved her the most when she lost.

Like Beluga or Bollinger bubbles, She was worth it, whatever it cost.

The screen of nostalgia and fancy Shows fiction, deception and lies, But it replays the picture of Nancy And it will till its memory dies.

(Basil Ransome-Davies) You were not meant for tennis. That ramrod Back; the clipped moustache; the piercing, pale blue eyes; The slick, shorn hair approved and fetishised By RSMs: all pointed to mythic Exploits in fields far from the cultured lawns Of Wimbledon.

I see you still on some Remote maidan, winning the final chukka, Or with cool, well-creased authority

Holding the line firm against marauding Tribesmen. Aces there are served with lethal Precision; lobs are mortar shells fired high Against a searing sun; volleys always Find their mark. No passing shots there, Nor gilded trophies. A curt mention in dis- patches; A self-effacing smile; the Colonel's toast: Major Stanley Smith; officer and gentleman. (Watson Weeks) I cannot say I love the game at all; 1 do not understand the way they score. The darting heads, the leaps, the flying ball, The players' funny names, too, are a bore. But I love one dead player known to fame — Henry the Fifth, who, chroniclers attest, Was wont to play so long and hard a game, His skin glowed rosy through his silken vest. The Dauphin, hating him, said, 'By St Denis, I'll teach this playboy prince what he should

do',

And sent him balls — a hint to stick to tennis. Henry served back in style (Act I, Scene 2), Outmatched the Dauphin in another sport, The field not Wimbledon, but Agincourt.

(0. Banfield) My friends all fondly savour The bygone arts of Laver, Or doff ecstatic hats To simmering superbrats.

Now I'm the cranky sort Who wants things plain on court; And, looking back, by golly I liked Fred Stolle.

He never made them shriek Or spoilt the umpire's week: No swaggering headline-hugger, Just a good, honest bugger Who did his solid job With serve and smash and lob And no doubt crowned his wins With a few cold tins. (Chris Tingley) Furnished and burnished by Wimbledon sun, Top of the world in the doubles, Like Joan Hunter-Dunn but rather more fun, She fizzes and sparkles and bubbles.

Everyone loves her engaging demeanour — A delight, the reverse of a churl; Who hasn't seen her just lose to Martina, Reluctant to beat the old girl?

Wonderful overhead volley backhanders Time and again and again — Here's to the grandest, to Gigi Fernandez, For whom they invented champagne.

(David Heaton)