No. 1238: The winners

Jaspistos reports: Competitors were asked for a poem with 16 given rhymes (they were, in fact, from Don Juan, Canto XVI, 32-3).

There were so many good entries that prize-giving (it hurts me more than it hurts you) was quite painful. Among the best losers were not only old friends (Mary Holtby, Stanley Shaw, John Stanley, Monica G. Ribon, Belle R. Welling and Basil Ransome-Davies) but also a flock of rarer birds (P. Hulin, Owen Jenkins, J. A. Craig, Basil Saunders, D. Oldfield, Joyce Taylor and Philip A. Nicholson). Before I make myself scarce to make way for six winners, let me launch one plea: use a typewriter if you possibly can. Nine pounds each to the deft rhymesters printed below.

'My hands shake when I try to hold them still, And as for sleeping, well, I've more or less Resigned myself, you know ... I feel quite ill, Mainly on Fridays when it comes out .... Yes, That's right, the competition tests one's skill At wrenching words about till they express With wit or wisdom what's been asked for ...

Tell Me straight, Doc. When will I be really well?'

`Such cases are, I fear, mysterious; The competition addict can be both Extremely lucid and delirious.

The obsession shows a characteristic growth: At first a bit of fun, it gets more serious Until at last the gibbering victim's loath To eat or sleep ... I say, I took for granted The plain, unvarnished truth was what you wanted?' (Peter Norman) And I shall remember you still, Although you may love me the less: Would I do you a positive ill? The answer's a negative 'yes'. The doctor who loses his skill, The poet who cannot express The thoughts he is burning to tell, Are losers and winners as well.

The bonds of the heart are mysterious, They comfort and strangulate both; When happiness seems most delirious, It signals the end of its growth.

The clown bringing laughter is serious, The passionate lover is loath To take easy favours when granted, And what is most sought is least wanted.

(Roger Woddis) I shop within the village still (So near, I feel I can't do less).

It's handy, too, when Reg is ill.

And do I get good value? Yes.

Mind you, it takes me all my skill When entertaining to express Exactly what I mean, to tell Old Mrs T that I want — well,

Some outre food she finds mysterious.

But never mind, it's fun. We both Come home from shopping quite delirious.

I can't pretend I've noticed growth In her small stock, or even serious Attempts to modernise, but I'm loath To change. Much that I wish is granted, And, as Reg says, we've never wanted.

(V. M. Comfort')

Old Father Rafferty once kept a still Down in the crypt of St James the Less.

Did his parishioners take it ill?

`Tis a liar I'd be if I answered yes.

Such was the darlin' Father's skill None but a poet could express ... You'll have heard of what ancient writers tell Of enchanted draughts from a magic well.

Now the Bishop considered it rather mysterious That a vast crowd of Catholics, Protestants,

both Frequented the church in condition delirious.

What could account for the worshippers' growth? When he found out, sure, his Lordship looked serious, But to stop the good work, well, indeed, he was loath;

After tasting one tot, dispensation he granted,

For the spirit, he said, was what the church wanted. (0. smith) You've really set a stinker this time. Still, My sixteen lines of verse — no more, no less I now embark upon for good or ill, But will you judge them good enough?

Say yes!

Alas, I cannot claim Miltonic skill, My train of thought is not, I fear, express But goods. And yet, I ask, if William Tell

Could have a shot, then why not me as well?

Jaspistos, your identity's mysterious: An angel or a fiend? Or are you both?

Your weekly vintage makes a man delirious,

Not classified as secondary growth

But premier cru: no flattery, I'm serious.

At last the thing is done, though I am loath To send it, so I ask your pardon. 'Granted? I only hope to God it's what you wanted.

(Peter 1-ladle)!

On 'Beachcomber' Say not that voice is mute, for ever still; The age it mirrored needed it far less Than we who now are suffering ill on ill.

We need its honesty and humour — Yes,

Almost alone it had an arcane skill; In simple, jesting words, it could express Contempt or love — above all, it could tell Its sorrows for the land it served so well Perhaps the art was not mysterious; both Its heirs could carry on the craft — be - Precise and brief, excise delirious And esoteric verbiage, whose growth Has made the outlook for our tongue so serious Send back that chuckling voice. It e

would

loath

To take our present sorry State for granted; _A. It should be combing beaches where its CwaSnl)

(I, ee"