MALT

COMPETITION

Molto serioso

Jaspistos

IN COMPETITION NO. 2112 you were invited to write a serious poem entitled 'Childish Fears'.

I am five, on a Scottish holiday. It is a dark and stormy night, the wind moaning in the telephone wires, twigs scrabbling at the window. My elder brother, on the other side of the room, says sepulchrally, 'There is a Noony-poopon under your bed.' I deny it. He repeats the dreaded words until I break down and agree to give him sixpence to turn on the lights. This has happened before and I am now nearly bankrupt. The fact that a `Noony-poopon' in our childish argot meant 'nun' adds a bizarre flavour to my memory.

The fears you expressed were impres- sively multiform. I'll mention only Chas F. Garvey's confession that he was terrified by the sound of a fire engine because he thought it was rushing to start rather than stop a conflagration.

This comp made a nice change — tragic relief, you might say. Judging the photo- finish was a headache. The prizewinners, printed below, get £25 each, and the bottle of The Macallan Single Malt Highland Scotch whisky goes to Pat Utechin.

Where have they gone to, where can they be? If I stand by the window maybe I'll see. Perhaps they've been eaten, there's dinosaurs there

Out in the streets, but I don't know where. I wish I'd a biscuit, I do want a drink: I can just reach the tap — Icon. I think. Perhaps they're divorced — what is divorce? Timmy's mum is, but he says, 'Of course It's cool and OK, I don't mind at all, If I want to see Dad I can give him a call.' It's getting so cold, and a little bit dark— twists I could hear Granny's puppy-dog bark. I wish I was bigger, I wish I could read — I'm biting my finger, I expect it'll bleed. Where have they gone to, where can they be? If they don't come back soon. what'll happen

to me? (Pat Utechin) Which was the gate I came in When I crossed the field in fright? The field doesn't look the same in This early evening light.

My mother hasn't yet missed me As they gather round local: The last time that she kissed me, She told me to wipe my feet.

I pulled her a face, and hurried Along beside the wood.

Perhaps she's no longer worried, Even thinks I am gone for good.

I watch how the white clouds billow.

Is this near the way I came?

I miss my bed and my pillow, And I cannot remember my name.

(Bill Greenwell) Lost and alone, I watched my body grow, Convinced that I was soon to pass away: Each cramp and spot and headache told me so; I said no word, for there was none to say. Perhaps, I thought, if Providence so pleases, My name will dignify some new diseases. Lying awake, I felt my bedroom's gloom And wondered always how it felt to die. I was a needle in a darkened room, A frozen snowflake in an empty sky. Now, patched and spotty after 60 years, Iowa the ailments, but have lost the fears. (Paul Griffin) What if this planet has gone bad, A world quite rotten to the core? What if its people are all sad? Then what would we be living for?

What if bombs just keep on raining, Mines exploding, people dying, Soldiers shooting, not complaining? Who'd be left to hear our crying?

What if cities keep on growing, Ice-packs melting, woodland shrinking? What if rivers just stop flowing?

Will this make us change our thinking?

What if pollution cuts out light, And nature's colours slip away?

In that cold world, all black and white, How could we still go out to play? (Paul Brummell) The little me that used to be was taught to fear the fires of Hell. The priests and nuns were just the ones to scare a child. They did it well. Then, at an age when passions rage and mortal sins are two a penny, I learned instead that God was dead and, as for Hell, there wasn't any.

But now, grown old and none too bold, the child I was can scare me stiff by floating near my better ear and whispering, 'What if... ?, what if... ?'

(Ralph Rochester) 'Four angels round your bed.'

That's what my praying mother said.

'Two at the foot, and two at the head.'

Dumbly I lay in rigid dread, Fearing to see those white-robed men, So tall, unsmiling, wings outspread, Encompass me, my doll, my Ted.

Keep them away! Amen, amen. (Isabel Davis)

No. 2115: Poetic ellipse

The Wakefield Wildcats are the first rugby- league side to appoint their own bard. Mr Louis Kasatkin is even now at work com- posing his 'Ode to a Rugby Ball'. You are invited to provide up to 16 odic lines on this theme. Entries to 'Competition No. 2115' by 9 December.