COMPETITION

Self-deprecating

Jaspistos

IN COMPETITION NO. 2099 you were given a choice of three opening lines of self-deprecation and invited to carry on in your own humble way.

As a matter of interest the three poets who used these lines as openers were Robert Brough (who he?), Patrick Barrington, author of the immortal 'I had a duck-billed platypus when I was up at Trinity', and Emily Dickinson, who was modest in everything but her use of capitals.

Special commendation to Basil Ransome- Davies. The prizewinners, printed below, get £25 each, and the bottle of The Macallan Single Malt Highland Scotch whisky goes to Martin Woodhead for a superb grovel.

I'm a shrimp: I'm a weak-kneed crustacean wimp, Over whom intransigent seas Come and go as they please.

I'm a mite: I just need to hide from the light. I hope you'll be pleased to ignore A creep, a crawler, a bore. I'm a gnat, I'm a speck on a toff's top-hat, I'm a flea in somebody's ear, A mote in the eye: it'll clear.

Then I'm gone: I'm the poor beetle you tread upon, Out of sight. My sole plea Is not to notice me. (Martin Woodhead) I'm Nobody in Nothingville, Who'll never see Nirvana, I'm next in line to last of all, My turn will come manna. I'm in a crowd of also-rams Whose thrills are all behind them; I'd spend the precious coins of life If only I could find them.

Rejection is my second name, Old buttons my regalia, While optimists dine well on hope I feed myself on failure.

In boyhood days I used to pray Before some sacred figure Until one evening, by my bed, I heard an angel snigger. (Frank McDonald) I'm Nobody, invisible, Unseen behind the scenes; Conceptually as risible As Georgian Milton Keynes.

To be or not is unresolved In my nonentity: A puzzle that cannot be solved A cipher with no key.

A presence neither felt nor seen Defines vacuity: So portraitists, however keen, Would draw a blank with me.

But this relief at least is due To my obscurity: When no one knows what might be true, That Nobody is me.

(W.J. Webster) I'm Nobody, with few kin, fewer kith, As charismatic as a monolith, And if you think I'm clever, it's a myth Not worth repeating.

With looks I haven't been too well endowed; My voice and clothes are never really loud; I know you wouldn't spot me in a crowd And wave a greeting.

I've never hankered after wealth or fame; To sparkling, witty speech I make no claim. I couldn't even win a children's game Except by cheating.

The only time I feel a thrill of pride Is when my country fields a winning side, But then I face what cannot be denied: Such joys are fleeting.

(O.Smith) I'm only a second trombone, A kind of inferior trumpet; My curious tone has a timbre of its own, And those who don't like it can lump it: But if you're requiring a bellow Like dinosaurs robbed of their prey, Don't send for the 'cello, bassoons are too mellow, While tubas do nothing but bray.

I dislike soporific material -

I rest when it's written 'pp' -

But when some imperial, rich, magisterial Music is called for — that's me!

So, in spite of my lowly position, One day will a deafening burst Of brazen ambition, by sudden transition, Promote me from 'second' to 'first'?

(Godfrey Bullard)