cOVAS Ra t

12 YEAR OLD SCOTCH WHISKY

OvAS REGV 12 YEAR OLD SCOTCH WHISKY

COMPETITION

With a difference

Jaspistos

In Competition No. 1626 you were asked for a poem beginning with De la Mare's famous first line but telling a different story.

The 'story' in the original, I grant you, is pretty foggy, fraught with who, what and why, and all the better for that. There was a splendid entry featuring a fine variety of travellers — De la Mare himself, a political fellow-traveller, and of course several astronauts. In her second entry Alanna Blake had a charming last quatrain: From a fever-haunted nightmare A body stirred in the gloom.

The Traveller proffered a courteous hand: `Doctor Livingstone, I presume?'

Will Bellenger, George Simmers, Paul Griffin, Gina Berkeley and Peter Norman all shone, but the real glitterers this week, printed below, get £13 each, and the bonus bottle of Chivas Regal 12-year-old de luxe blended whisky goes to Vicky Cornford.

`Is there anybody there?' said the Traveller. 'Are there chartered parties in planes? Do they trample the early flowers? Do they clog the narrow lanes?

'I want a plateau of quiet,' Said the Traveller, pleadingly, 'No deckchairs or discos or diesels, No sound but a sibilant sea.

`I'd like to explore,' said the Traveller, 'On foot, on a horse, on my own.

No commentaries, coaches or chatter I want to discover alone.'

She lowered her eyes, the Agent, And slowly she shook her head.

`There's nowhere like that now in Europe — Well, not on our books,' she said.

(Vicky 'Is there anybody there?' said (tVheicTraCve°IrInerf°rd)

As he clutched the grille of the gate. 'God help!' he groaned as he drove the bell Of the British Consulate.

He heard the snarl of a savage hound And teeth on a bone went crunch.

On the topmost spike was a notice hung:

`OUT FOR A DRINK AND LUNCH'.

The stars hung huge in the Afghan night.

Would the Queen's rep never come? The earth resounded with thundering hooves, As if beaten by a drum.

With no place for changing a traveller's cheque, At the end of the world, alone, \ He saw the sabres and, headless, sank

To the guard-dog's wolf-like tone!

(George Moor) 'Is there anybody there?' said the Traveller. 'If there's anyone — man or youth - Who'd go six rounds for a hundred pounds, Step right up to the boxing booth.'

Now I fancied myself as a pugilist (Well I knew how to duck and swing) And I needed the cash, so I thought, 'Have a bash', Then I stripped and got into the ring.

He was built like the Rock of Gibraltar With Hercules' biceps as well, And I knew in advance I stood just as much chance As an undersized snowball in Hell.

'Is there still someone there?' mocked the Traveller

Near the end of that one-sided bout, But I'd run out of puff and enough was enough, I went down and they counted me out.

(J. J. Webster) 'Is there anybody there?' said the Traveller, But no one gave a toss. He paced the weed-filled garden And scraped the established moss.

Thus to renege, he considered, Was little short of gross.

'What are you doing?' he cried aloud, Feeling himself at a loss.

'Is there anybody there?' he shouted, 'I'm starting to get quite cross.'

An hour had passed when the answer Came: 'Just us chickens, Boss.'

(M.R. Macintyre) 'Is there anybody there?' said the Traveller In a voice decidedly nervous As he pressed for the sixth or seventh time The button marked 'Room Service'.

But nobody answered the Traveller Nor brought him a thing to eat, For the staff were all in the TV lounge

Where they watched Coronation Street.

So he picked up the Gideon Bible In search of a precept to keep, Read, 'Blessed are they that hunger', Said, 'I'm blessed', and dropped off to sleep.

(W. Rodgers) 'Is there anybody there?' said the Traveller, Speaking to the Ansaphone, And he ground his teeth in anguish On being asked to wait for the tone. 'That's the hundredth recorded message I've had in the last two weeks, But never a live appointment Or a human voice that speaks.

'It's too late to make my quota Or to sell enough spare parts; You can take your orders and stuff them In the space where you should have hearts.'

The blood from his slashed wrists spattered On the bills that he'd never pay, As the gently swinging receiver Told him to 'have a nice day'.

(Alanna Blake)