No. 1212: The winners

Jaspistos reports: Competitors were asked for a poem to suit Tennyson's title for one of his: 'Supposed Confessions of a Second- rate Mind Not in Unity with Itself.

Carelessly I omitted the word 'sensitive' from Tennyson's title, but that scarcely mattered, since a second-rate mind in such a condition is bound to be horribly sen- sitive. The original begins, appropriately enough, '0 God! my God! have mercy now./ I faint, I fall', and ends, with perfect feebleness, '0 damned vacillating state!' Apropos, Fitzgerald said that the mark of a first-rate intelligence is 'the ability to hold two opposing ideas in the mind at the same time, and still retain the ability to function'. I keep trying, Scott, but I keep falling over.

If it takes a first-class mind to mimic a second-class one, you can all pat yourselves on the head, for the standard of entries this week was very high. In the end I was left with seven finalists among whom I simply could not discern an order of merit. I lost my nerve and called for the referee, and after prolonged debate the five winners below emerged with nine pounds apiece, at the expense of those inveterate prize-takers Ellen Brigwell and Basil Ransome-Davies, whose witty pieces sadly will have to waste their sweetness in the archives. The bonus bottle of the Famous Grouse Scotch Whisky goes to Robin Davidson, who, I think, was making his debut.

I don't write just for myself but then who does? I mean, who doesn't crave an audience of sorts? I know it's un- professional to say this but deep down I suppose I'm an amateur at heart. And aren't we all? At heart? I don't mind if my poems cryptic (though thin one isn't), or gnomic as one reviewer called them, rather stupidly I thought. I think a poem is a way of expressing something that couldn't be said any other way.

fruit tastes sweeter.'

Hence obscurity, if you take my meaning.

So don't think I'm a difficult poet, because I'm not. If anyone's difficult it's you, yes, I said you, hypocrite lecteur! (You've read The Waste Land 1 suppose?) (Robin Davidson) I sit and think, I think, therefore I am, Therefore, I think, I am because I think, And then I think my thoughts are all a sham, For all the thoughts I think rely on drink.

Sometimes I think, I drink, therefore I am, Establishing 'twixt dram and am a link, Which means, I am because I drink - oh damn!

I find it hard to think without a drink.

I here confess my mind is second-rate Until the spirit clarifies my brain, And then the sober self I do negate. I think I'm mad to think drink keeps me sane.

(V Had I but words enough and time. Ernest Cox)

To reconcile my too sublime With my all too subliminal Desires in a confessional, I would (or would I not?) confess Such memories as, more or less, Convince me that my mind (or state

Of mind) — if mine — is second-rate.

But in my brain I always hear Some wicked whisper in my ear Which makes it difficult to know Whether myself be mine or no. Steadfastly though I strive and stammer And struggle with the laws of grammar, One case (accusative) I see: I nominative am not me. (Gerard Benson)

Confession is good for the soul, you will find, But it isn't so good for a second-rate mind. A man who thinks clearly without any mess Will know to a T what he's trying to confess, But I'm in a terrible spasm of doubt As to what I'm to make a confession about. I'm not to be trusted: that statement is fair.

once stole ten pounds from a till in my care. But my memory's faulty, it could have been four; Or did I return them and put in some more? I can hear my old Tutor's last word to me: 'Think!'

As he sat sobbing hopelessly into his drink. His life went to bits after teaching me Greek, Which bears out the truth that I'm longing t°

speak:

IT'S THE CLEVER THAT SIN; SO, St Peter, be kind,

For I'm only a muddled-up second-rate mind. (P.B.) The woof, it seems, is split, Likewise the weft; I am bereft Mayhap of native wit.

I cannot hold the thread; The weave, I say, ever gives way; I might as well be dead.

And yet time was when I Went not far wrong, plodded along Somewhere 'twixt earth and sky.

If only I felt less!

I'd be resigned to my dull mind; I'd not be such a mess.

But, as it is, I'm split!

In direst dole's my tortured soul; My brains can't rescue it. (Paul Griffin)