No. 1298: The winners

Jaspistos reports: Competitors were asked for a sonnet (the rhyme-scheme was given) in the manner of a tired poet of the end of the last century.

Congratulations to the two of you who spotted the original ghastly poem by the ghastly Lord Alfred Douglas, printed by that ghastly editor, known to my generation as 'Sir Arthur Swiller-Douche', first per- petrator of the ghastly Oxford Book of English Verse in 1900, when fin-de-siecle taste was at its most ghastly. 1 can't resist reproducing the tired but homosexually gallant, in terms of breasts, sestet:

That's the great town at night: I sec her breasts, Prick'd out with lamps they stand like huge black towers, 1 think they move! I hear her panting breath. And that's her head where the tiara rests. And in her brain, through lanes as dark as death, Men creep like thoughts . . . The lamps are like pale flowers.

Some of you were simply too tired and some of you were too clever and sprightly for the pretence of artistic exhaustion to succeed. But the winners, who get £10 each, are a very good bunch of clapped-out, degenerate sonneteers, and 0. Banfield, by a touch of something extra, carries away the two bottles of Château Gruaud-Larose

1976, the gift of Bibendum, 113 Regent's Park Rd, Primrose Hill, London NW1 (01 586 9761).

A veil of mist the sleeping village wears, The patient cattle waiting in a row But on the peaks is morning's rosy glow. Down in the vale the wondering peasant stares, Envious, perhaps, to see a youth who dares To scale the heights, while others toil below, To look on vistas they may never know. Conscious that Death may strike him unawares, But daring still the mountain's snowy breasts, He plucks his edelweiss. But icy towers, Stirred by his footsteps, even by his breath, Seal him in crystal. There for years he rests Till the slow ice descends, reveals his death Still young, and grasping still the snowy flowers.

(0. Banfield) Woman of wistful silences, who wears Pale pearls like muted griefs — a solemn row That in the light of candles dimly glow — And, pensive, into greying embers stares. Aloof she seems, alone, like one who dares To conquer unsealed peaks, while far below Crawl those who heights like these will never know, But live in dull content, all unawares.

How many men will yearn for these white breasts, Desire these lips, besiege in vain these towers, Sigh for her love with every passing breath! But now the pallor of her forehead rests On that small hand, soft as the touch of death, And pale as fragile, faded, funeral flowers.

(C.J.D. Harvey) Benighted every way, the city wears Its frowsy shift; as carious as the row Of harlot's teeth the street-lamp's glaucous glow Illumines; lurid as the moon that stares Alike at stews and tenement. Who dares Aver that they who (sown to broil below!) Gehenna's halls thus fashioned, did not know The bale they wrought, schemed Sodom unawares?

Sucking in vain at her sclerotic breasts, I flee the foetid metropole! Her towers, Base brickish Babels — sour as absinthe breath!

A syphilitic Sisyphus who rests From penance never, London (very death In life) like some putrescent chancre flowers!

(Enoch Soames)

Lines inspired by the departure of Field-Marshal Lord Roberts for South Africa, December, 1899. God speed, great Roberts, soldier lord who wears His country's medals, row on shining row, Causing all native Englishmen to glow With pride! At Ladysmith, while Botha stares Incredulous, our gallant army dares Withstand the Afrikaaners far below The scorched Equator. They will never know When 'Bobs' will strike to catch them unawares, Sowing such seeds of terror in their breasts As Hector knew ere 'Death the topless towers Of Ilium he drew his final breath.

Now in this continent where Gordon rests Another foe must rendezvous with Death, And shed his blood to fertilise the flowers. (Richard Spencer) The rose fades in your cheek, the pale skin wears Thin and transparent, five curls in a row Lie limply on your forehead now the glow Of health has left. It is your soul that stares From frightened eyes, telling what no one dares To think — that our last hope has dropped below The bleak horizon. We who love you know That Death will never take you unawares. But yet these are the selfsame eyes, lips, breasts; You are the girl who, pointing to the towers Of the cathedral claimed 'They'll ring!' Your breath Grows shallow, but you smile when my arm rests About your shoulders, and I swear when Death Does come he'll bring you singing bells and flowers.

(Ginger Jones)

'They're an endangered species, thank goodness.'