COMPETITION

Now we aren't six Jaspistos

IN COMPETITION NO. 2121 you were invited to supply an 'I wish I were. . . 'poem in tune with the taste of the modern child.

'I wish I were a bumble-bee. . . ' I cited at random in setting the comp, but it may have been a dim childish memory, for Gerard Benson, a few years younger than me, remembers a poem featuring bumble- bees 'posting their letters in little clover letter-boxes'. I once wrote an 'I wish I were. . . ' poem for my six-year-old son which at 13 he can still recite, whether sen- timentally or sardonically I can't tell.

The prizewinners, printed below, get the loot, £25 apiece. The owner of the bottle of the Macallan Single Malt Highland Scotch whisky is W.J. Webster.

I wish I were a gigabyte That lived in a PC — I'd munch and crunch with all my might And stuff my memory.

Or I could be a megahertz And work at wicked speed — As soon as people tapped their qwerts I'd process all their feed.

Yet there again a wysiwyg Would suit me perfectly — It's useless being fast or big If nothing's there to see.

But what I'd really love to be Is what decides what's what — That pointing punctuation key, The awesome dot-com dot. (W.J. Webster) I wish I were a botanist, A-working in a lab; To terminate the barley-seed, That would be oh-so-lab!

I'd nullify the butterfly To boost my boss's gains, And modify the daisy-flowers So that they grew in chains.

I'd make the primroses so tall, And paint the violet red; I'd margarine the buttercups, And then go home to bed.

(Gerard Benson) I wish I were a pigling, a wretched little runtling, with licence for much niggling and grounds for much disgruntling.

My days would be enhanced by inverse discrimination and where I saw my chance I could sue for compensation.

I'd label all not for me as porcophobe and fascist, and publish my sad story — I'd call it Porker's Ashes.

I'd grow up spry and sprightly and not the least bit bitter.

Ah yes, I wish I might be the runtling of the litter. (Henry Hogge) I wish I were in cyberspace where everything's a thrill, with lots of rocket ships to race and aliens to kill.

I'd zoom across the Milky Way at twice the speed of light, and with my proton-laser ray zap everything in sight.

It would be cool to blast the sun and turn it into ash, and watch the planets, one by one, dissolving in a flash.

And when the furthest stars explode in nuclear fire and rain, I'll laugh and click the replay mode and do it all again. (Andrew Brison) I wish I were a TV set, Because at home they seldom let

Me see the programmes I would choose

(They all watch boring things like News).

I'd be content to go to bed And channel-hop inside my head, And when at last I felt like sleep, Instead of counting stupid sheep I'd search for bears to count, or gnus, Or porcupines, or kangaroos.

I wish and wish, but as you see, I'm still just ordinary me; And Mummy says that no one yet Has turned into a TV set. (Ron Rubin) I wish I were a woodworm; I'd chew deckchairs to bits And laugh to see how they collapsed When sat on by old gits.

I'd chew the oars of Boat Race crews Without the damage showing, And wet myself when by mid-race They'd only stumps for rowing.

I'd eat gates, stiles and walking-sticks, And bridges used on rambles, Till pompous hikers starting trips Found them reduced to shambles.

What sort of boy is this? you ask. But 'boy' is not the term; Just ask my Dad, he'll tell you I'm A greedy little worm. (Paul Griffin)

No. 2124: Metre and meter

Last year October 7 was designated National Poetry Day (did anybody notice it scuttle by?). Among the arranged events was a competition for London's 1,700 Dial- a-Cab drivers — to compose their own verse starting with a line from a song. You are invited to compete with a suitable taxi- driver's poem. Maximum 16 lines. Entries to 'Competition No. 2124' by 17 February.