COMPETITION

'TeaUMMOND's

PURE MALT ,

SU(nrii WHIMO

Villanelle

Jaspistos

IN COMPETITION NO. 1822 you were invited to write a villanelle about a once heavenly place that is now hellish.

`Dost thou remember Sicily?' Oscar Wilde enquires plaintively in a villanelle. By God, I do — in the days when the bandit Giuliano ruled the north-west corner, from where I walked to Taormina, which then offered only one third-class restaurant. There I imbibed much Marsala and peasant wisdom: 'He who is born round will not die square.' And so on. This was an open invitation to bitter nostalgia, and I was greatly impressed by the skill you showed in handling an exacting verse- form. But for a technical slip Eric Payne would have had a prize for his startling choice of site:

In Goethe's day all dreamily it stood; In Buchenwald one felt that life was good.

Your actual prizewinners, printed be- low, get £25 each, and the bonus bottle of Drummond's Pure Malt Scotch whisky goes to Annie Brooks. It was careless of Napoleon to die in 1821 rather than the next year, the number of our competition.

Amid the chattering crowd I mourn alone The punctual passing of herb-scented hills; The Elba that Napoleon must have known Still lingers there, though now grotesquely grown Into a rash of village overspills.

Amid the chattering crowd I mourn alone Neglected fields and shrunk vines, the bare bone Of local cultivation — no one tills The Elba that Napoleon must have known.

The guide, in an enthusiastic tone, • Describes the dying out of rural skills. Amid the chattering crowd I mourn alone The monstrous birth of yet another clone; Camp-sites and souvenirs, the trade that kills The Elba that Napoleon must have known.

'Thousands come here in summer . . .' Engines drone,

Shoppers are herded, and the sleek coach fills. Amid the chattering crowd I mourn alone The Elba that Napoleon must have known.

(Annie Brooks) Where once Victorian children used to play On the secluded, wave-lapped sandy shore, Now water-skiers scream across the bay.

Old Gosse found heaven on earth here in his day In rock-pools he and Edmund could explore Where once Victorian children used to play.

The teeming pools have long since passed away, Those rich, fantastic tidal worlds of yore. Now water-skiers scream across the bay.

For beauty there is now a price to pay. The power-boats' din resounds from tor to tor Where once Victorian children used to play.

Gosse's poor rustic, pious 'Saints' would pray For Heavenly wealth. Compared with them we're poor, Now water-skiers scream across the bay.

Who would come here for solitude today?

The tranquil sounds of summer are no more. Where once Victorian children used to play, Now water-skiers scream across the bay.

(Geoffrey Riley) This is God's house, I cannot help but feel Regret that often deepens to dismay.

I fold my hands; I close my eyes; I kneel.

Now moving-with-the-times makes an ordeal Of Sundays, and it's difficult to pray. This is God's house, I cannot help but feel Though dancing may express some people's zeal That here the world is better kept at bay, I fold my hands; I close my eyes; I kneel.

Once people came because the peace could heal; In reverence their sins were washed away; This is God's house, I cannot help but feel Him here – and yet the building's old appeal Has gone, it's often locked by night and day. This is God's house, I cannot help but feel. I fold my hands; I close my eyes; I kneel.

(Ginger Jelinek) A lovely beach to lay our bones We found when summer had begun, Remote from offices and phones.

It lurked among the great unknowns, A place as quiet as a nun, A lovely beach to lay our bones, Till others came, and with their drones Destroyed the peace that we had won Remote from offices and phones; And now the wretched radio moans And screaming monsters overrun A lovely beach to lay our bones.

Some say our lives are merely loans, That humans must repay their fun Remote from offices and phones; But what in any life atones For losing this, as we have done?

A lovely place to lay our bones, Remote from offices and phones. (Paul Griffin)