COMPETITION

Classical corner

Jaspistos

In Competition No. 1605 you were in- vited to write in English a poem entitled December' in one of the two classical metres, alcaics or sapphics. A difficult assignment. It's extremely hard to match Latin metres to English verse, mainly because we have so few natural spondees (two consecutive, long, equally stressed syllables: e.g. 'green- house'). To reproduce alcaics or sapphics (the latter especially) is the devil of a job; one can approximate successfully, but if You drift too far from the basic pattern, things break down, as they did with most of this week's gallant entries. Interesting ex- a mples among English poets are Cowper's Hatred and vengeance, my eternal portion • • •' and Canning, the future Prime Minis- ter's `The Friend of Humanity and the Knife-grinder' (sapphics), and Tennyson's Milton' and MacNeice's second poem in Memoranda to Horace' (alcaics). Good efforts came from Alan Bancroft, Peter Hadley, Keith Norman and David Tompsett. As in my opinion there were only four worthy money-winners (printed below, three alcaics and one rhymed! sapphics), they get £20 each, and there is room for an unremunerated, self- advertising item written many years ago. The bonus bottle of Highland Park 12- year-old Single Malt Whisky, presented by The Spectator, goes to Robert Roberts for the strictest and most 'classical' offering. A happy Christmas to you all.

Indoors, it's warm rooms, bright decorations and Old friends remembered, mulled wine and mistletoe Lamplight and curtains drawn at teatime All perestroika, glasnost, Yuletide.

Old foes embrace traditional heartiness: Fur hats and bear hugs keep us from feeling how Cold stalks the darkness close behind our Festival gatherings round the log fire.

Outside the windows, double-glazed, frost- patterned, All's dead, a starved white shivering leaflessness, Stillborn December, runt of each year's Moody, untamable, twelvefold litter.

(Robert Roberts) Now comes the time for savouring rare Tokay, For gently sipping ancient madeira, culled From cellars' furthest depths to counter Boreas blustering through the snowflakes.

Now too's the time for bribing and flattering Reluctant plumbers, come with ungracious sneers To view the pipe which your remissness (Blame the madeira, perhaps) let shatter. The month it is for comfortably hollow sighs, Of sweetly drowsy thoughts how a more alert, Less vinous lifestyle might engender Greater success in the year approaching.

(Chris Tingley) O dreary month-long gloom of the winter-time, Fogbound December, making roads treacher- ous; Frost threatens all who venture outside Illness is rife; influenza rages.

Now duty bids me buy for my family.

Ten days to Christmas — how can I please them all?

Clueless, I drag round stores like Woolworth's. Shopping is murder, and queueing plain hell.

Would I could find lost childhood's simplicity, Make haste to hang bright holly and mistletoe, Joyfully greet each day of Advent, Knowing the magic of past Decembers!

Could I forget life's troublesome quandaries, Lose all the tinpot trappings of Christmastide, Search out the star that shone at midnight, Then I would welcome this festive season. (0. Smith) Not the bright snow with reindeer hooves imprinted, Not the fat sack of gorgeous goodies chockfull, Red-coated saint interpreting the hinted Hopes for a sockful. . . .

Season of lists, but not a sign of Santa: Cake, pudding, pies — monotonously fruitful; Big, boring birds, and minor objects tanta- Mount to a bootful.

Shepherds attend to megaphonic musak; Agents proclaim the joys of winter travel; If heaven speaks, it hails the fall of Husak, Advent of Havel; Shines in the candles where the crowds are waiting, Cries through the crash of brick and Party member, Dares us to find a cause for celebrating Spring in December.

(Mary Holtby)

Delos

`According to the Hymn of Homer, the wander- ing Latona took refuge at Delos, where she gave birth to Apollo. . . . The Emperor Julian, we are told, consulted the oracle, with some degree of affectation, in An 363' (Blue Guide).

Men really tried here, harder than ever, but Again achieved just wilderness, suicide. Reptiles, a failed race too, look up at Columns they once could have overshadowed.

Where gods are born, men suffer most, leading or Led. Here a strong man, oracle-mongering En route for those bad lands of Persia, Wasted a bit of the breath he lost there.

Heat calmly holds; sea-colour immutable Also. The flies with sunset to live till, the Tourists, their prospect's stretching further, Hover excitedly round the spots where Most blood was let out, leaving behind them the Hairpins and coins whence other intelligence (Wave paler, sun less red) will guess at Date of disaster and end of effort.

(Jaspistos)