Kog,RLoo e R L ON?

PURE HIGHLAND MALT

SCOTCH %WHISKY

COMPETITION

Ghazal

Jaspistos

In Competition No. 1749 you were invit- ed to write a ghazal, defined as 'a Persian and Arabic verse-form, the first two lines and the even-numbered lines thereafter rhyming together; mainly amatory and bac- chanalian'.

I have been in the west of Ireland, with- out telephone or access to learned books or Arabists, so I have failed to bone up on the ghazal. One of you kindly sent me two examples in English from an anthology by Thomas Moore, but they didn't seem very ghazal-like to me. Some of yours didn't either, because they too didn't meet the dictionary definition given. But to judge in ignorance was probably best. Philip Dacre, D. Shepherd, David Barton, Moyra Blyth, Gerard Benson and Bill Greenwell all delighted, but not as much as the prizewin- ners, printed below, who get £20 each. The bonus bottle of Aberlour Single whisky goes to George Simmers: again Bacchus overcomes Venus.

Scatter fivers, flash the plastic; Let the night be orgiastic.

Pile the rare exotic victuals, Luscious cakes and fruits fantastic. Inhibitions — fall like skittles! Life's too rich for thoughts monastic. Set the saxophones a-moaning, Let the trombones boom bombastic. Guests, resound with lusty groaning When the dancers get gymnastic. Malt onCe

Pop the champers, pour the whisky With a wrist enthusiastic.

Let the girls be lithe and frisky, Let their morals be elastic, Let no sour Thersites darken Spirits with remarks sarcastic, And let (0 mighty Bacchus, hearken!) Our hangovers be not too drastic.

(George Simmers) We will go together, darling, to the rave, Through the colonnades, beneath the architrave Of the famous ruined abbey in the shires Where they're dancing down the aisles and in the nave.

Wear your jeans and naughty T-shirt, dye your hair.

am glad to say I do not have to shave, For a sharp designer stubble's all the rage, The dishevelled look's as wicked as it's brave.

But remember, bring some condoms to be safe; We will couple on a tombstone or a grave While our fellow ravers, high on ecstasy, Are all riding on the crest of this New Wave.

The rhythm of the band will keep us high And you'll do some crack if that is what you crave.

We can pay for it, we're living off the dole! Who said the upper classes ought to save? (Alanna Blake)

I met this woman journalist,

And what with getting Brahms and Liszt, A pleasant evening lay ahead.

She murmured, as we fondly kissed, `By now my paper's gone to bed — Let's do the same, we shan't be missed.'

'It's well past one o'clock,' I said, 'But very well, if you insist.'

What followed when we reached her pad Remains a half-forgotten mist;

I only know the skills she had

Were thoroughly post-modernist.

The things we did on her divan Were rapture-filled, but here's the twist:

I am a staunch republican,

And she's a fervent monarchist. (Roger Woddis) We shall not pine, For we combine Two aching hearts;

As I resign

My former love — The grand design Of happiness That once was mine — Most willingly I reassign Myself to you.

Like eglantine And climbing rose We'll intertwine, Anti soon forget Poor Clementine.

(David Heaton ) Come, my love, and let's be merry; Time's the lover's adversary; Fill again the empty cup.

Pluck the grape and crush the berry — Take your choice and drink it up, Whether whisky, rum or sherry.

Here's a bottle; join the fun.

Cider, vodka, port or perry?

Cheers! The party's just begun.

Let regrets be momentary; Life's too short for carping care.

Have a cocktail with a cherry ...

What you like .. . there's plenty there; We've got whatever makes a very Satisfying night of bliss; Nothing else is necessary. (0. Smith)

No. 1752: Headlines

This competition was set by me ten years ago and also calls for resurrection. You are invited to write a poem (maximum 12 lines) which consists entirely of imaginary news- paper headlines. Entries to 'Competition No. 1752' by 30 October.