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COMPETITION

Bouts-rimes

Jaspistos

IN COMPETITION NO. 1981 you were invited to write verses with a given rhyme- scheme.

The rhyme-scheme was the famous Eugene Onegin stanza used by Pushkin in his poem and brilliantly reproduced by Sir Charles Johnston in his translation. The actual rhyme-words, though, were taken from Vikram Seth's fine long poem, The Golden Gate, which effortlessly uses the same form for a modern Californian novel in verse.

The standard was high and judging was difficult. John Harvey, Katie Mallett and 60 THE SPECTATOR 10 May 1997 John Nicoll can count themselves unlucky to be unrewarded.

The prizewinners, printed below, get £25 each, and the bonus bottle of Isle of Jura Single Malt Scotch goes to Frank McDonald, who has often been a whisker away from the whisky.

I gave commands — you'd answer snappily.

No 'what's his game?' or 'where's the catch?' or 'how's

He going to force me?' — No! you'd happily Come running to my whim. I'd pause, I'd browse And you would watch this god in your creation With eyes of love, enjoying the sensation Of being ruled, having your zest contained, Adoring a master, wonderfully brained, Who held your studded collar in his fingers, Who, in return for servitude, gave stuff That made you lick his hand, more than enough To keep a slave content. Memory lingers On moments when a tempting sticky bun Brought panting joy, when man and dog were

one. (Frank McDonald) Last ball delivered, speedily, snappily, Last wicket down in a chorus of 'How's Thats?' from the fielders capering happily, Sheep in the outfield forgetting to browse. Padre gives thanks to the Lord of creation; We are victorious — what a sensation! The cunning high-flier is safely contained, Thanks to the lad we once called feather-brained Holding a catch with just two of his fingers, Here's what the game's about! This is the stuff That we all dream of, it's more than enough! There on the scoreboard the glory still lingers While heroes feast on sweet tea and a bun. Top of the league — and we beat them by one!

(Giles Ewing) St Judas was emptying snappily, And the vicar was mouthing his 'How's Your family doing?' when, happily, A man on a bike came to browse.

`Mr Larkin en route to creation,' The organist roared. 'Each sensation He suffers is swiftly contained In a verse or two.' Larkin looked brained.

They watched as he twiddled his fingers And pulled out his pad. 'Dreary stuff,' The vicar opined. 'Seen enough?'

Then whispered, 'Just look how he lingers!'

The poet myopically munched on a bun: He wanted a church, but this wasn't the one.

(Bill Greenwell) With synapses no longer working snappily You lapsed into aphasia. The how's Your-father's in the what's-it-called, you'd happily Declare. When entertaining guests you'd browse Through Delia Smith for some nouvelle creation, Keen to create a culinary sensation, Then put in peas, where Delia's dish contained Ripe pears. So gloriously scatterbrained! I still recall your slender, trembling fingers That fumbled through a handbag crammed with stuff For purse or keys. I never saw enough Of you, and yet the vivid image lingers Of long, straight, ash-white hair swept in a bun. From your peculiar mould they made just one.

(Peter Norman) 'It can be done,' he answered snappily To all my puzzled spate of why's and how's.

Some time ago I'd left him happily Engrossed in tomes on which he loved to browse, But when I found him dabbling in creation It gave me a quite terrible sensation. He held a test-tube which he said contained A human clone ... 'But you're too feather- brained To realise it's whole, complete with fingers.'

I stared with horror at some gooey stuff, Then, feeling sick, cried out, 'Enough's enough!' The shock of what he'd done forever lingers — He'd cloned Aunt Muriel, beady eyes and bun. I'd found it grim when there was just the one.

(0. Smith) If you can jump to someone's bidding snappily, Without a pause to ask the why's and how's; If you can keep that task in mind quite happily And feel no urge to turn aside and browse; If, drudging for some other man's creation, You never feel a gathering sensation Of rage at being put-upon, contained, Or generally known as tunnel-brained;

If, when you feel your disobedient fingers

Itching to get to work on your own stuff, You tell yourself it is reward enough To beaver on while your superior lingers; If this is you, my little currant bun, Your arse will feel the boot of everyone.

(Noel Petty)

No. 1984: 100 years later

You are writing a dystopian novel set in 2084 which opens with the same sentence as George Orwell's: 'It was a bright cold day in April and the clocks were striking thirteen.' Please continue for up to 150 words (excluding the quotation). Entries to 'Competition No. 1984' by 22 May.