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COMPETITION

Bouts limes

Jaspistos

IN COMPETITION NO. 1959 you were invited to write a poem with a given rhyme- scheme.

The scheme was taken from Gavin Ewart's charming 'Ending' (in the Oxford Book of Short Poems), which describes a clapped-out love affair — 'The hands that held electric charges/Now lie inert as four moored barges'. Ewart's theme was nicely echoed by Carole Angier — 'What hap- pened to our old-found joy?/Why aren't we still the real McCoy?' — who, along with Paul Griffin, Noel Petty, Paul Wigmore and Frank McDonald, gets a special men- tion.

The prizewinners, printed below, deserve praise for variety of approach as well as the £25 each they receive. The bonus bottle of Isle of Jura Single Malt Scotch whisky goes to Bill Greenwell.

The tumbril comes. You hear the horses stop, And sense that you are shortly for the chop: There's no one left with whom there's time to curry Favour. Life is in a reckless hurry, Dismissing what you say against the charges. A guard arrives. Without a word he barges Into your cell. His papers bear a date Which may not be disputed. Far too late To bandy words, or bribes. The case is shut, Your trembling, slender neck as good as cut.

The clean machine inspires little joy, Its operator anything but coy.

He'll execute. Or will there be a stay?

The blade decides the question straight away.

(Bill Greenwell) In Bristol, where I sometimes stop, I go no more to Mallett's Chop House but to Broad Quay for a curry At Ahmed's; there time doesn't hurry, And no one grudges what he charges To dine where once lay handsome barges, And schooners of uncertain date Which sharper merchants would board late To hide from creditors, pull shut The door of secret cabins cut In panelling and find a joy, A modest pride, a solace coy, In such a shipshape way to stay Afloat ashore, a mile away. (David Heaton) Why is it that no female friends can stop Instructing one how best to cook a chop? Each mocks my leisured recipe for curry, Vaunting some TV chefs emetic hurry; Condemns the shops I choose for 'wicked charges'; In on my kitchen kingdom brusquely barges, Sniffs out all products past their sell-by date (Though hinting silently she's not too late); Pulls drawers to angles where they will not shut, Carves surfaces to prove the knives don't cut; Brings stressful rule to my disordered joy More queen than woman, rather stern than coy - Lingers her leaving, much inclined to stay, And, though departed, cannot keep away!

(Godfrey Bullard) Our boss strides in. 'No, no, don't stop! Look, time is money. Right, chop-chop!' The supervisor tries to curry Favour with a show of hurry - To no advantage. Out he charges.

Minutes later, in he barges.

`That order — what's the deadline date?

God help you if it goes out late!'

He glares at us, mouth tightly shut And mind the same. Each issue's cut And dried. He has no time for joy.

He's never tentative or coy.

He owns the place — he's here to stay - But how I wish he'd go away! (Peter Norman) Galileo You see, all this has got to stop - Or it's the fire, or headsman's chop.

Look, no one's asking you to curry Favour, old man. But why the hurry To run your head at mortal. charges?

What other Christian scholar barges Into these things? Just sign and date This paper here — it's not too late - Then keep your mouth discreetly shut.

We have, you know, to prune and cut To safeguard man's eternal joy.

Still not content? Well, don't be coy.

Grunt 'It does move', and there we'll stay.

Frankly, we wish you'd go away.

(Chris Tingley) Well does he start who knows just when to stop.

A wise hen never fattens for the chop.

Seek out an Indian chef for Indian curry.

The noosebound knave can see no need to hurry.

Move when, but not before, the rhino charges.

Let barmen man their bars, bargees their barges.

Cars are designed like calendars to date.

Poets who Swinburne early Wordsworth late.

The ears are open when the eyes are shut.

The sweetest meat falls from the neatest cut.

In frogless ponds expect no tadpole joy.

You court the cunning when you court the coy.

Are these new-minted maxims here to stay, Or will Time's filter filter them away?

(Ray Kelley)

No. 1962: No room at Brown's

For years the Kipling Room at Brown's hotel has been made freely available to the Kipling Society for their meetings. The new owners, Granada Group, have demanded £450 for the room's use and so barbarously ended an old tradition. You are invited to write a poem (maximum 16 lines) in the style of either Kipling or one of his con- temporaries, deploring this. Entries to `Competition No. 1962' by 5 December.