Ayittl MMONDs. COMPETITION

pctliMMOND's-

PUKE MALT

%%Iiitit0

Organ music

Jaspistos

IN COMPETITION NO. 1819 you were invited to write a poem about a bodily organ.

You were lucky I didn't choose some of the other subjects which Ms Knight's book suggested as suitable sources of inspira- tion, such as 'illness', 'pain' and 'excre- tions'. 'Oh gerroo, my lungs and liver!' exclaims a Dickens character from time to time, and these were the two organs that appealed to you most. An organ performs a 'vital function', but that still leaves me uncertain as to what is or isn't one, strictly speaking; but since practically everything, bar the head, seems to be replaceable these days, I have taken the broad view.

The prizewinners, printed below, get £20 each, and the bonus bottle of Drummond's Pure Malt Scotch whisky goes to Noel Petty.

I sing the humble prostate, or prostata, A kind of valve allowing one to pee, To which, I hear, one male in three falls martyr. That sounds like pretty fearful odds to me.

I hasten to consult my Home Physician. I read that sufferers cannot `go' at will, But must await the prostate's disposition; Perhaps retrain themselves in 'bladder- drill'.

How great a weapon is humiliation!

All this from something merely 'walnut- size'!

I try again, but wild imagination Has done its worst: the tears obscure my eyes. I sing the prostate, therefore, in these verses, Not to exalt, but to propitiate, As one might wear a garlic against curses, Or nail a horseshoe to the garden gate. (Noel Petty) Within the strongbox of my chest, Entrapped inside its gloom, Symmetrically synchronised, Two coral flowers bloom.

Adjacent to my pounding heart, They swell as I breathe in, Irradiated with the soft Sweet gift of oxygen.

Their traceries suffuse with blood At every thoughtless breath I take, from squalling infancy To final, gasping death.

Two coral flowers bloom inside The prison of my breast; Of all my vital organs, they Are quite the loveliest. (Peter Norman) The vital organs have their darker side: Kidneys are said to be the seat of pride, Livers grow hobnailed if you take to drink, The spleen — well, that's an obvious one, I think; The stomach, too well-pampered, may protrude, Grumble in company, its language crude. The heart, though, poets say, is love's own nest; It's far more photogenic than the rest A universal, loved, respected sign. (Who'd paint a liver on a Valentine?) And some hotels have heart-shaped baths and beds To let especially to newly-weds.

One good thing too — if hearts should take to sin, You need not call some Christian Barnard in; Though it turn wicked, evil, black as night, You could get saved, and wash your black heart white.

(0. Banfield) In juxtaposition I'm one of a pair, And if in condition You won't know I'm there.

I'm hardly a beauty, I look like a bean, But I stick to my duty And keep your blood clean.

Avoid stimulation; Have water to drink. With due moderation You'll stay in the pink.

But if, when you're driving, You have a mishap, I'll go on surviving In some other chap.

(0. Smith)