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IN COMPETITION NO. 1848 you were invited to supply a song or a poem begin- ning, 'A life in the avant-garde Robert Frost said that he was never a radical in his youth because he was afraid of becoming conservative in his old age. Most of you took the view that the front line is not the safest place to be, or, as Paul Griffin put it:

Oh, you're hoist with your own petard When you follow the avant-garde!

He, Keith Norman and Peter Norman get special mentions, the last for his wry stanza:

John Cage composed a piece Of totally silent space: He never knew that folk would queue

To hear it not take place.

Twenty pounds each to the prizewinners, printed below, and the bonus bottle of Isle of Jura Single Malt Scotch whisky to Jonathan Sleigh.

A life in the avant-garde

Like a soldier's is 'terrible hard'.

For even the greatest at doing the latest Are often a trifle trop tard.

Whether wild, way in, or far out, You muffle the mind-blowing clout

If you're too slow to phase in the truly

amazing,

And do what last week was about.

The funkest, grooviest trend Has its all too predictable end, For where is the 'wow' if it's not about 'now', And the freakiest minds fail to bend?

The voguish, the weird, the bizarre, The 'too much', the 'too sick', the 'too far', Are but arriere tat, if they're not what it's at In the judgment at prophecy's bar.

(Jonathan Sleigh) A life in the avant-garde Is always a trifle ill-starred: The barriers break And you're soon on the make, Selling art by the pound and the yard.

Atonal and angular tricks

Will hit your credentials for six:

There's always a rogue Who will vote for your vogue Till you're in a traditional fix.

If you're inventing the van, You'll find nothing follows the plan: When there's grey in your beard, What was thought pretty weird Will be Hollywood rather than Cannes.

(Bill Greenwell) A life in the avant-garde, my friend, Is a life where the vague's nouvelle. You're high on a roller that seems not to end, And riding the ocean swell.

But when the wave breaks, as waves always do, And dribbles away in the sand, The art is in seeing it won't include you In the jetsam it leaves on the strand.

A life in the avant-garde, old chum, Is a life where you never look back: The past is passé and the best is to come, As long as you click with the claque.

But bandwagons, too, can skid down the pan, And leave your idies in a fixe: It's no good your being right up in the van, If the van's got its axles on bricks.

(W.J. Webster) A life in the avant-garde these days Is never a bed of roses.

It's a hell of a strain to follow the craze Or adopt the latest poses.

And sometimes you're struck by an apercu, But someone else thought of it first, Some hotshot who's jumped to the front of the queue (It's usually Damien Hirst).

When you're given a showing through friends of friends, It's nice not to feel alone.

But that's where the lifeline of friendship ends And, strangely, you're on your own; And you're faced with neglect and with critics who bitch - Especially Sewell and Auty - And sometimes you worry you'll never get rich, And wonder if banking's your forte.

(Basil Ransome-Davies)