COMPETITION

Boring is beautiful

Jaspistos

In Competition No. 1771 you were in- vited to write a poem in praise of some banal, prosaic and poetically neglected activity.

This competition was set 16 years ago, in the pre-Jaspistos era, and elicited a rich crop of drab activities — toenail-cutting, sticking in gift stamps, fuse-mending, puncture-repairing and, of course, shaving, to which 1993 added train-spotting, playing Ludo, fretwork, jogging and potato- peeling. I was glad to see that in 1977 a friend of mine got a prize, and so did 0. Smith, who is still a sharp competitor. This was another week which drew a big re- sponse. I was rather shaken by the number of domestic chores mentioned which I do not perform — or perform so badly (an old ploy) that I'm not allowed to do them. On the other hand, no one mentioned cleaning out and building fires, my expertise and joy.

The prizewinners, printed below, get £20 each, and the bonus bottle of Aberlour Single Malt whisky goes to Robert Roberts. Thank you all for a grand entry.

Waiting for things to happen, come and go (Living's another word for it), is not Quite such a bore as you would have it. No: Rather a chance for meditative thought.

Late trains, strikes, tailbacks, guests who don't turn up, Death, dentists, Godot — these all make us wait.

Yet saints sit cross-legged half their lives on top Of pillars and high mountains in a state Of rapt nirvana: that's where we should be. However bleak our platform, it's the place. To practise dwelling in eternity, Transcending railway timetables and space. Even a two-star car-wash gives us pause To pray, or contemplate the soapy foam Aesthetically, or think through Newton's Laws: The whole world is a sort of waiting-room.

(Robert Roberts) The razor slides its edge along my skin, Ploughing a little drift of foam and hair, And in its gentle wake appears a thin, Sharp-sidedpiste of jawline, pink and bare, I watch the contradictions in my face: The lather clown-mouth, and the naked part That strips it like a plaster stuck in place And gives it the expressiveness of art.

I pause, then depilate another patch, Playing all my delaying war-paint games Before I don my suit and go to catch The bus that will transport me to St James.

Much more transporting is the morning rite Of trimming back the ever-growing stubble On auto-pilot, while my mind takes flight, Freed from responsibility and trouble.

(Basil Ransome-Davies) When every night I leave my heavenly hearth to clean the bath, the scene is Earth before the birth of Time — a glacial gulf of frost-encrusted rime. Then lo! a geyser, surging in its prime, urges a foam of snow along its path.

Now, where the icy flood and scalding jet meet in a whirlpool round an oubliette, between its bars I see a spider climb out of the darkness of primeval slime: God knows upon what stars his sights are set! I see him yet,

against white cliffs, a staggering silhouette — he falls. Turn out the light. My eyes are wet. One cannot quite forget what was sublime.

`Tis an apple-fresh dawn! You feel filthy, forlorn, Unwanted, unwashed and obscene?

Sure, the way to restore the old freshness of yore Is by keeping your fingernails clean.

Now I spend half my day in this curious way, Doubling my fist like a man, With porcelain scraper and emery paper Dislodging things into a pan.

I ponder, of course, on their ultimate source, A mystery, even to me;

Whence came this excess of unsavoury mess? Where was it wanting to be?

As my grandmother said when she staggered to bed (We toddlers, mute, at her hems), (Gina Berkeley)

'Honour the Queen! Keep your fingernails clean!

And never hunt south of the Thames.'

(G. Meadon) A Yorkshireman said to me, 'My friend, would you like to see Me do something that nobody Has even done before In the whole of creation, nor Will ever do again?'

I considered his sober, plain And dependable countenance, And his foursquare Northern stance, And said, 'Yes, I'd like to see.'

And he did it in front of me, With a simple solemnity And commendable dispatch: Took a matchbox out of his pocket, And struck a single match. (G. S. Wright)

No. 1774: Kitchen prayer

In our kitchen hangs a plate with a poem with this title on it. You are invited to write a poem (maximum 16 lines) called 'Kitchen Prayer'. Entries to 'Competition No. 1774' by Thursday, 8 April.