r IAS R EGAz 12 YEAR OLD SCOTCH WHISKY COMPETITION clu vAS RE G4t

12 YEAR OLD SCOTCH WHISKY

Logodaedaly

Jaspistos

I n Competition No. 1690 you were in- vited to write a poem with a lavish use of rare words, entitled either 'Sunset' or `Accident'.

The best poet for rum words, except for your dialect men, was surely Francis Thompson. Fishing in his Odes, I pulled up the following, some rainbow-trout, some old boots: enwoored, cymar, threne, dafts, rubiginous, blanch-amiced, disglutest, but- /a, maenadize, dove-nuncioed, trifid, was- sailous, glaive, uneuphrasied, inevadible, intercease. W. H. Auden brought off a nice Derbyshire double with the phrase, 'the haltering torrent shrunk to a soodling thread'. Some of you overdid it. Even if a glossary is provided, to start off 'The gumple-foisted gomeril gurled at the gammerstang/ And fettled with his fewtrils in the frail' is to amaze rather than amuse. The prizewinners, printed below, are all truly palmary and get a guerdon of £14 each. The bonus bottle of Chivas Regal 12-year-old de luxe blended whisky goes to 0. Smith. Accidents first, sunsets second.

Engaged in pogonotomy With visage saponaceous, To titubate, alas, I chanced; My razor slipped; my nose it lanced. My colour turned porraceous.

Such plethoric phlebotomy Poured from this nasal scissure, Some rhinoplasty must be tried Or surely I'd be mortified By such a riving fissure.

Men skilled in olfactology, My cicatrice exploring, To temulence my case ascribed And said potations I'd imbibed Provoked haetnic outpouring. (0. Smith) Wheels slip on cranreuch, something strikes a wing. My morning grits lie heavy on my turn And I am grum. I brake, and smell the hircine smell of hing; I've hit a goat.

It's chill; I don a coat Over my lammy, thrusting at the stye, Climb out, inspect the sides.

The cold still grides, And light as flong the snow stings in my eye.

From this stramash A goat has had a bash, And ringent in my wing's a burl, a knar, Where the beast's horn has brayed against the car. (Paul Griffin) My Favel's stirps quite clearly shows No cladist trait of frush; The grisy stithy says he knows Subungual prills can cause the throes And make a garron dush.

A funest crepance made it shy, The Favel soon turned pale; There was no Catcher in the Rye, Sejant upon a rampick, Could be of no avail.

My hippic days are o'er and I'm Relieved the morkin's gone; Triduan dreams, erstwhile sublime,

I abnegate and so have time To trawl my lexicon.

(D. B. Jenkinson) After a meal of bacalao She joined the grockles at Heathrow Wearing her jipijapa low.

She touched her ankh upon its chain For luck and then checked in amain With saccades, so het up was Jane.

She aimed at making scads of dough. Her luggage bulged with swag although No boondoggles would she stow.

A wallydraigle passing by, Pursy, let his trolley fly.

Down went the faitour with a cry.

Her bursa hurt, her arm hung loose, Broken. Her nisus was no use, For she missed her flight to Syracuse.

(Ba Miller) It is the time of dimps. Along the marge, The draff of day sinks into hebetude, Save where the waves the glabrous boulders sparge, Making the queachy, writhen dulse detrude.

Among the hispid dunes the marrams pleach Above the hirpling of a glaucous tide That indagates alveola on the beach, Where squamous, saxatile amphibians hide. The perdues of the yeanling flocks espy The pulvinate clouds imbrued with rubious awning, And nutate at this paregoric sky, Prevenient of xeransis in the morning.

(Noel Petty) Time has in youth sesquipedality, Childhood's perousia reversing things, But at the flavid height of noon Time wings As swift as petasus-topped Mercury.

Apollo wields his chabouk cruelly.

Life's sun descending new lentando brings And on the madid sabulous flats flings Rubescence, pyrrhous, quenching in the sea.

We old who watch the aizle in the West Are by a lavra's latria possessed.

Apollo's biga has the day's race run.

Our frist of life and light is nearly done. A terek wades on the enormous shore As the last fulvid glimmerings glow no more.

(George Moor)