COMPETITION

Faint praise

Jaspistos

In Competition No. 1630 you were in- vited to write a poem damning a member of the opposite sex with faint praise.

Unless I have been bamboozled for years by male competitors sporting 'drag' pseudonyms, this was definitely Ladies' Week. Feminine irony proved subtler, and often, after doing the demolition job, the women left behind a faint aroma, not of performing seals, but of affection. Male targets tended to be physical (sharpshoo- ters shouldn't aim at barn doors), and there was a dreary old pot-pourri of pique and whinge in the air. Notable exceptions were Peter Norman and George Simmers, whose last quartrain was what we used to call a humdinger:

Just to see her's to pause and to wonder How many young men she's beguiled With kisses more thrilling than porridge On nights not unbearably wild.

The prizewinners printed below get £13 each, and the bonus bottle of Chivas Regal 12-year-old de luxe blended whisky goes to Emily Hill, who was brief and bitter-sweet.

You seemed a tall, good-looking man, Whatever you were dressed in —

Though, when my contacts are not in, Most men look interesting.

Your hair was dark, I do recall, Perhaps a bit receding; Your nose was large, which often is A sign of quite good breeding.

You stood out from the shopping crowd In your gruff, manly way - There were in fact no other men In Peter Jones that day. (Emily Hill) You are not coarse, embarrassing and loud. With you I never fear vulgarity. You do not need to stand out in a crowd By yelling your opinions. You're vice-free: No curses, or tobacco, or strong drink Will ever pass your lips. You don't use drugs. You're always dead on time. You never wink At other men, or give them teasing hugs. You're tolerant and open-minded, too, Though morally you never compromise. You pay your bills as soon as they are due. You'd sooner die than tell a pack of lies.

Impeccable, you always make me feel A shoddy replica of your ideal.

(Basil Ransome-Davies) I have some friends who turn quite puce When mention's made of Richard Luce, But, personally, I have found That he is really awfully sound.

He'll never wantonly enthuse;

He has such level-headed views -

The which he'll patiently expound To those who aren't perhaps as sound As he is in their attitudes: Bright-shirted, arty-farty pseuds - The sort who like to hold the floor And flourish gaudy metaphor.

Our Richard's not at all that type: No side, no show, no flap, no hype; A safer fellow can't be found - He's (well, how better put it?) sound.

(Molly Fitton) Size isn't everything. It's what you do That matters, darling, and you do quite well

In some respects. Credit where credit's due You work, you're literate, you rarely smell. Small men can be aggressive, people say, But you are often genial and kind,

As long as you can have things all your way And I comply, and do not speak my mind. You look all right. I've never been disgusted By paunchiness. Who wants some skinny youth? My friends have warned me that you can't be trusted, But I protest I've heard you tell the truth. Nobody's perfect. Now and then, my pet, You're almost human. You could make it yet.

(Penny Whistle) Without the beard you look your youthful best (Your chin will soon acquire a matching tan); It tended to show up your head and chest, Though baldness can be sexy in a man.

I'm really proud you won the novice cup; And you remember every stroke you played! You get quite ardent when we're making up, And birthday gifts are sweeter when delayed.

Your business venture took a lot of pluck Not even experts could foresee the crash; With something better than your usual luck A second mortgage wouldn't have seemed rash.

You lend a kindly ear to all my woes — If only you could stay awake some more; But though you snort and snuffle through your nose, At least, my love, you don't exactly snore.

(Alanna Blake) Shall I compare him to a summer's day?

Well, yes; it's very likely that I shall;

An English summer, certainly, which may Blow hot and cold yet still be genial.

Career development discreetly planned, Adding another crony now and then, He was, until he married, in demand As quite the trustiest of extra men.

A hostess who has toiled for several days To keep the reputation of her food Would rather hear a well-turned word of praise, A boyish cry of 'Heavens, this is good!'

Than try to recollect what else he said Or guess what's going on inside his head.

(M. R. Macintyre)