COMPETITION

In a lather

Tom Castro

The subject was suggested by Mr Kings- ley Amis in a review of a volume celebrat- ing Larkin's life, in which a contributor revealed this practice. As it turned out, the competition demonstrated how difficult it is to write like Larkin, or as well (as Pound pointed out to Eliot with regard to Pope). For all that, it was hard to choose between parodies, scriptural accommodations and original approaches. I was surprised to find no entries written from the point of view of the mirror. Less successful attempts relied too heavily on the word 'fuck'. Naturally, many of you ended with a Revelation (of some kind). Many, too, recounted electric shaving. Is this documented?

Among entries I enjoyed most were Alcuin Davies's almost macaronic alterna- tions between the Bible and pseudo- Larkin, and those by D. B. Jenkinson, Faith Collins, Mary Holtby, T. Griffiths, P. D. James, D. A. Prince and David Heaton.

Those printed below win £12 a kick, and the bonus prize of a bottle of Anares Tinto Rioja, kindly presented by Atkinson Bald- win and Co, St Mary's House, 42 Vicarage Crescent, London SW11, goes to John Stanley.

Mr Larkin was, in all sorts of ways, An ideal lodger, making no trouble. It's very clear that a man who prays Is preferable to a sinner paying double.

Not that he made any great show of piety. But there were some odd things he used to do, But nothing that gave any cause for anxiety; Though he did leave sheets of paper in the loo, From his bible! He had got quite a way. He used them to clean his razor of lather, After reading a page every day, He wiped the cut-throat that had belonged to his father.

When he had gone, on that unfortunate excur- sion, We found the book, pages torn through to Second Kings, (It was an octavo, the Authorised Versiori) We sent it away with the rest of his things.

(John Stanley)

I like to read the Iliad

When I am sitting in the loo: Homer was such a clever lad, And quite a decent poet, too.

But when I shave I always turn To more uplifting anecdotes: I read the Bible, which I learn To my surprise is full of quotes.

Thus God reveals his master-plan When propped up on my bathroom shelf, And justifies His ways to Man - Oh fuck, I've gone and cut myself! (Roger Woddis) The month December and the morning dark, Once I am sure the bristles on my face Presume too much, and overstep the mark, I lift electric razor from its case And set it humming like a maddened moth. Facing an open page of Holy Writ I shave and read the Bible, doing both With awkward reverence, as might befit A lapsed agnostic. Am I such, I wonder? Someone would know: I don't. Unseen under The foil, hairdust collects like speckled snow, To be dispersed soon with a Brobdingnagian blow.

I turn a page with left hand, whereupon I read Luke's second chapter -- he relates it with Admired economy of words, so cool a tone — A girl in winter, Mary, giving birth. (Stanley Shaw) Two images contend: the Angel said To Philip, 'Get prepared, set out at noon' (And he: 'You understood what you have read?' 'How can I till one show me?'). And the Moon, Reflected. Gotham men were heard to say 'We saw (if not above our bathroom shelves) Light in a place where water is'. (Though they Then left interpretation to themselves.) (P. I. Fell) Beside the porcelain I place My ring and watch.

Close up, I finger on my face A private blotch Which, cupping hands, I stoop to clean With soap and water.

Behind the mirror, unbeseen, Are bricks and mortar. (David Cram) The bloke in the mirror sniggers At scriptural dirty bits Like those upright suburban figures Who peeked at Susannah's tits, Supposing that he, the shaver, Would never have that taint: Too old to be a raver, Too young to be a saint, But a whited sepulchre, never, No scribe or pharisee.

He'd rather be good than clever. He'd rather be safe than free.

His grin is like a gibbon's In a Tesco towelling robe, But he cuts his face to ribbons When he reaches the Book of Job.

(Basil Ransome-Davies)