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COMPETITION

Musing on the job

J asp i st o s

IN COMPETITION NO. 1906 you were invited to supply poetic musings by some- body with an unpoetic job.

Well, there aren't many jobs which are even faintly poetic, come to think of it. Is a postman more prosaic than a proofreader, or a politician? Chesterton would have given a thundering no. In fact, both police- men and postmen have been poets, notably Edward Capern (1819-94) of Bideford, Devon. The bell which he carried on his rounds still hangs (if vandals haven't nicked it) in a niche on his tombstone at Heanton Puncharton.

A grand entry. Bad luck, Frank Upton and Alanna Blake. The prizewinners, print- ed below, get £20 apiece, and the bonus bottle of Isle of Jura Single Malt Scotch whisky goes to Denis Young for his dreamy lavatory attendant — or should I say con- venience custodian?

0 gentlemen, come down and visit me; Water, soap, and dryer, all are free. Tread carefully, dear sirs, and don't forget How treacherous the floor is when it's wet. The waters that descend like heavy rain,

Prelude in cistern, coda down the drain, To you they are the common sounds that bore us, To me they are the Hallelujah Chorus.

From off these crowded walls, look how there surge The impure longing, the frustrated urge; See also where the figurative arts Anatomise imaginary tarts.

I'd have a poet write a moral tale Fifty feet long on paper soft and frail.

I'd fold it, hide it, carry it away And read it slowly at the close of day.

Denis Young Lexicography need not be dreary; let me expound a fine, post-Modern theory which Samuel Johnson, had he thought of it, would grumpily assert: Make Sport of It. The art of any dictionary-writing is this: to make the contents more exciting; add verve, add spice, some element of sur- prise, turn verbal somersaults, neologise!

Often I'll coin an adjective for fun — Pseudo-respoffulees my latest one; sometimes 1 tinker with the definitions, skilfully sneak 'em into new editions;

which ruse, while fazing ardent crossword- solvers, also has scholars reaching for revolvers. If there's a word I disapprove or doubt, I apply the golden rule and Leave It Out!

Mike Morrison When I read of the troubles which Afflict the seriously rich, I know that I am happier far Than those that hope to be, or are, Above me in the social scale; I do not grasp, so cannot fail.

I tread the green and fragrant sward, Never anxious, never bored; The park for which I do so much Is grateful for my willing touch, Rewarding me with trees and flowers To fill with scent my working hours.

Then later, when the gates are shut, I get into my little hut, Make sure my bag is in good nick, And sharpen up my pointed stick. I. C. Snell I often ponder, perched here on my chair, On how it is these folks who come and stare Resemble most the works of art they pick To linger longest by. I learned this trick Up at the National Portrait, but of course It's just as true with pictures of a horse. And, even now I'm down here at the Tate, I see them make a bee-line for their mate. That lady, now, there in the hairy coat — Doesn't she look just like a pickled goat? And him there: if you screw your eyes up, he's Quite like a smashed-up piano sprouting keys. And, gazing at the brownish exhibit, You must concede that chap's a perfect shit. Oh, yes, this job requires imagination: More than the artist's, in my estimation.

Noel Petty 1 patch the tube and plug the tread, Whip out old valves and shove in new, Then spin `ern till they balance true, While every sort comes through my shed — Young tearaways, all badge and lip, The tight perm who's a Busy Bee,

And chicks who act the Little Me? And old-type guys who leave a tip.

There's working wheels and wheels as toys, Low profile, whitewall and the rest: I pull off what won't pass the Test, And flog 'em to the retread boys.

Until my MOT expires I'll stick here — it's an easy ride When you know how. The world outside Blinds past on bald, unbalanced tyres.

John E. Cunningham

NO. 1909: Oral floral

Some people are said to talk to flowers, but there is no record of the flowers answering back. You are invited to provide a poetic dialogue between person and flower, the flower's responses inaudible to the speaker. Maximum 16 lines. Entries to 'Competition No. 1909' by 23 November.