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12 YEAR OLD SCOTCH WHISKY

COMPETITION

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12 YEAR OLD SCOTCH WHISKY

Sunny side down

Jaspistos

In Competition No. 1674 you were in- vited to make the metre of FitzGerald's translation of the Rubdiyat the vehicle for a message not of hedonistic cheer but purita- nical gloom.

It was about nine years ago that I gave you this metre to play with, prompted by 'The Golfer's Rubdiyae by H.W. Boynton, which I came across in an American parody collection (in which several of you appear) oddly entitled The Brand-X Anthology of Poetry:

The swinging Brassie strikes; and, having struck, Moves on; nor all your Wit or future Luck Shall lure it back to cancel a half a Stroke, Nor from the Card a single Seven pluck . . .

A good competition, evoking gleaming gloom from Roger Waddis, Carolyn Beck- ingham , M.R. Macintyre, David Heaton, John E. Cunningham, Phyllis Fountain and Steve Bremner. The winners, printed be- low, get £15 each, and the bonus bottle of Chivas Regal 12-year-old de luxe blended whisky goes to P.I. Fell.

I sometimes think of what a Sufi said – 'How swiftly doth Luxuriancy spread.'

A telling Symbol is the Marmalade, For see – how thick it lies upon the Bread!'

Behold this Dish of Glass, which, as the Moon Fades, re-acquires its orange Hue! Full soon Must I return an Answer to the Question: 'How deep shall dig the excavating Spoon?'

Methought I heard a Voice cry, 'Do you not Agree your spoon has spooned . . . well, quite a lot?'

The marmaladic Surplus, therefore, I, Become ascetic, put back in the Pot.

Still by the Tavern Door they seek to doff Their Caps to me, the sybaritic Toff: See, now, upon my plate this Marmalade — I spread it on. And then I scrape it off.

(P. I. Fell) Do not awake! Rather, sleep on awhile, If not for aye. There's nothing to beguile Your yearning Spirit in a World that boasts Of little Virtue but of much that's vile.

Though, here and there, a few Oases stain The desert Sands with Green, we look in vain For longer Bliss than that bestowed by these Brief Inns of Ease in one great Waste of Pain.

And those so light of Spirit as to ape The ways of old Khayyam and clutch the Grape Will find in that frail Valour it confers Mere temporary Balm, no true Escape From earthly Anguish. No! The only way To Freedom is the stern Resolve to say Farewell to Alcohol, to take the Pledge And join the ranks of Isfahan's AA.

(Martin Fagg) See, pilgrim, where the sun with radiance fresh Reveals anew the pitfalls of the flesh; Waken your soul, and let no sensual snare Your fallible footsteps through this day enmesh.

Eschew the noxious grape and barleycorn, Whence fuddled wits and godless thoughts are born, Leading as sure to mental, mortal stain As tippling night gives way to nauseous morn.

Let pious reason's cooling draught condense The sinful steam of seething carnal sense; That lusty-bosomed wench you now desire, Think how she may appear three decades hence.

All specious raiment from your form dismiss; Shun flagrant dyes and silk's insidious kiss; In sackcloth coat, hair shirt and hessian drawers Fare forth to meet salvation's certain bliss!

(Philip Dacre) Forswear the Cup, lest to the Fires of Hell Thy Soul be damned, when tolls the Judgment Knell.

Thy stern and sombre Garments never shed: Repentance is our due since Adam fell.

All fleshly Lusts at once chastise and quell. The Devil knows our Frailties all too well: In Maiden's Form he tempts Men to their Doom.

Repel alluring eyes, repel! repel!

Dost thou beware all Snares, all Joys expel, In chilly Righteousness aloofly dwell, And fancy that thy Virtues all excel?

Thou dost? Thou Fool! With Pride thou goest to Hell! (John Hatton Davidson) Awake, thou slumb'ring Wretch! For old St Paul's Hath chimed the Hour of Five, and Duty calls, Lo! there are Penances to be perform'd And charitable Acts, ere Evening falls. The Saints who gather by the Chapel Door To read the Scriptures to the thankless Poor And are reviled, receive their true Reward In Heav'n above – nor should they ask for More.

See that thy Garb be sober all the Week, Thine Eyes cast downward, thy Demeanour meek, And if thy Foe should strike thee, why, rejoice And humbly offer him the other Cheek.

Oh tear that Carpet out with pious Zeal To show beneath unvarnish'd Boards of Deal; For purest Colloquy with God, 'tis Bliss On the bare Floor with naked Knees to kneel.

(Gerard Benson)