COMPETITION

The other view

Jaspistos

In Competition No. 1519 you were asked for a 'view of the matter' in verse by an animal addressed by a poet in a well- known poem.

A fine week, to make up for the recent debacle. Amusing and unexpected views came from such diverse sources as Belloc's lion, Ponto, Ted Hughes's 'Thought-Fox', the 'spotted snakes with double tongue', Mrs Leo Hunter's frog, Poe's raven, Getett Burgess's purple cow, La Fontaine's cicada and Robert Frost's bored little horse, muttering in Gerry Hamill's account:

Whose woods these are I do not care A tinker's cuss. It makes me swear To stand like some arthritic nut While he writes sylvan verse up there.

Besides the entries just mentioned Alcuin Davies, John Sweetman, V. M. Cornford and Noel Petty produced sparklers. The prizewinners below carry off £12 each, and the bonus bottle of White Horse Whisky, presented by United Distillers Group, goes to Geoffrey Whiteman, whose piece is entitled 'The Darkling Poet: by Thomas Thrush'.

Hardy's Thrush He leant upon the coppice gate When Frost was spectre-grey And groaning wind was in full spate — I'd suffered it all day.

It must have been that worm I'd had Which didn't taste quite right; Small wonder I looked gaunt and sad - I'd been up half the night.

Relief at last! I sang with glee!

The old boy looked surprised: Perhaps my cause for jollity Was less than he surmised? Another trill, then off I flew And left him pond'ring there On that great Burp, of which I knew And he was unaware.

(Geoffrey Whiteman) Blake's Tiger William Blake, William Blake, What a lot of fuss you make! In the jungle, as a rule, Tigers keep extremely cool.

Quietly one pads about, Sniffing tasty morsels out: And, of course, we hunt by day — Easier, see, to spot the prey.

Furthermore, my anxious fellow, For a creature black-and-yellow, Honestly, it rather wearies To be thrown so many queries.

By the way, your spelling. I Have never used, as you do, 'y'.

Now you know the way I am, Who then was it made the Lamb?

(Nigel Blewrell) Gilbert's Tit

On the bank of a river a gentleman sat,

Oh, willow, titwillow, titwillow!

And he talked to a tit, on a willow at that,

Singing 'Willow, titwillow, titwillow!'

I in fact am a Swallow — the tree was an elm --- Not the uncommonett things in the realm.—

But that's what you get with an ass at the helm With his 'Willow, titwillow, titwillow!'

He claimed that I dived in the billowing wave Singing 'Willow, titwillow, titwillow!'

With a sob and a sigh to a suicide's grave With 'Willow, titwillbw, titwillow!' Froth the top of the stream I was taking a fly, And I certainly uttered a satisfied cry; But the rest of the story is simply my eye!

It was swallow, elm, swallow, elm, swallow!

(Paul Griffin) Lawrence's Snake And indeed I felt so sorry for him, Pale phthisic runt, Fog-begotten son of frozen England, Stewing in the filth of his corrupted lungs, Hoping that the strong sun of Sicily Would somehow purge the foulness from his body, Cleanse him, cure him, Make him whole.

Was it weakness, that I pitied him?

Was it frailty, that I longed to comfort him,

To fill out that puny frame, To straighten those pathetic shoulders, To build him, mould him, Make him hale? ' I wish now that I had let him hit me with that log.

It would not have been much for him — but something.. .

(Robin Ravensbourne) Burns's Mouse Great blunderin, reelin, drunken vandal! A carl like you's no fit tae handle A pleugh. Ye've left no worth a candle My hard-built hame!

Guid sakes, but it's an unco scandal An' cryin' Shame!

An' then it makes it even worse That you, my bardie, will rehearse My plight in jinglin, maudlin verse Addressed tae birks.

Deil take ye! An' a mouse's curse On a' yer works! (Robert Baird) Blake's Tiger Meagre, meagre little man, Mouth your verses while you can; Every predator despises Metaphysical surmises.

Yet I'm forced to ask myself From what dim and dusty shelf Did the Source of Being fetch Such a miserable wretch?

What the pleasure, what the gain? In what ferment was His brain, Who after sun and star and cat Formed so poor a thing as that, Neither swift nor sage nor good, Scarcely palatable food?

Yet how impertinently Man

Dares speculate how I began!

(Grani'de Morgan)