COMPETITION Tragical-comical-

Jaspistos

In Competition No. 1597 you were asked to write a villanelle about a scene which may have been pastoral once but certainly isn't now.

There was such a large and talented entry that I shall make room for the Prizewinners, pausing only to mention

someye' y —

honourable runners-up - Jonathan Femside, Chris Tingley, Lene W. Bellgirl, Noel Petty, D. B. Jenkinson and P.I. Fell. Those printed below get £15 each, and the bonus bottle of Cognac Otard VSOP, kindly presented by the Château de Cognac, goes to Elizabeth Thomson for the neatest contrast between ancient and modern.

The lights of Oxford shine in gathering dark, Watched by a shadow from an ear-marked field Where Thyrsis haunts a future Science Park.

An acid rain is trickling down the bark Of his old oak, a tree not quickly healed. The lights of Oxford shine in gathering dark.

Long since the Morris car outsang the lark And now a ring road keeps the city sealed Where Thyrsis haunts a future Science Park.

(The views of my lord Clarendon were stark On the brash Centre which his name must shield.

The lights of Oxford shine in gathering dark.) Even the scholars bear the weary mark Of traffic with the world: for worlds have reeled Where Thyrsis haunts a future Science Park.

In these days we must cultivate the quark And, for our masters, calculate a yield. The lights of Oxford shine in gathering dark Where Thyrsis haunts a future Science Park. (Elizabeth Thomson) Nowhere by motorway is all that far, Not even driving down to Land's End, where It's two-pounds-fifty just to park your car.

Where sheep once safely grazed, the cliff walks are An overflowing noisy thoroughfare: Nowhere by motorway is all that far.

The all-night discos and the hotel bar Keep you awake with son and lumiere: It's two-pounds-fifty just to park your car.

And, if you've come to tap the reservoir Of the Atlantic's once free, fresh, salt air— Nowhere by motorway is all that far - Or watch a sunset, or an evening star, Or feel the west wind blowing through your hair, It's two-pounds-fifty just to park your car. Here in this Cornish sort of Shangri-La You'll find the madding crowd's already there: Nowhere by motorway is all that far.

It's two-pounds-fifty just to park your car.

(Robert Roberts) In Mayfair there's no maypole in the streets,

In Brook Street you will find no babbling brook, In Shepherd Market not a lambkin bleats.

The faded resident of Farm Street greets The morning after with a jaded look; In Mayfair there's no maypole in the streets.

In these brick lanes the new fast food defeats The farmyard chicken and the homely cook; In Shepherd Market not a lambkin bleats.

In this grey maze where man with woman meets It's not to daily midst the corn in stook; In Mayfair there's no maypole in the streets.

From barn to bahn, from town to country seats, This is the land the landed ones forsook: In Shepherd Market not a lambkin bleats.

Metropolitan policemen on their beats May be observed inscribing in their book: In Mayfair there's no maypole in the streets, In Shepherd Market not a lambkin bleats.

(Richard Blomfield) This village that I used to know so well Is lined with gift shops selling rural kitsch. (Or have I died? Is this my private hell?) The village hall — at least its gutted shell - Is now a 'Crane Shoppe', run by some old witch. The village that I used to know so well

Has been betrayed; obscenely keen to sell, The natives flogged it to the filthy rich. (Or have I died? Is this my private hell?)

Was that the bakery, whose yeasty smell Would drift across our makeshift cricket pitch? This village that I used to know so well Has changed so much, it's very hard to tell Which tarted-up old property is which. (Or have I died? Is this my private hell?) `I'd like to hire a bulldozer,' I yell, `And sweep into the nearest bloody ditch

This village that I used to know so well!'

(Or have I died? Is this my private hell?) (Peter Norman) The branches wither once the root is killed. These tall hotels grope vainly at the sky. We cannot reach as high as we can build.

No matter what their architects have willed, They look like hospitals where patients die. The branches wither once the root is killed.

Where fields were torn up and foundations drilled Loud Watney bars and discos testify We cannot reach as high as we can build.

The port where shoals of fishing vessels milled Abounds with kitsch that drunken tourists buy. The branches wither once the root is killed.

The beach is spread with foreign bodies, grilled Like oily chicken portions, breast and thigh. We cannot reach as high as we can build.

Here, holidays are work for the unskilled, Routines for those whose fancy has run dry. The branches wither once the root is killed; We cannot reach as high as we can build.

(Basil Ransome-Davies) Stratford, where Shakespeare spent his childhood days, Nursery of genius beyond compare (If it was Will, indeed, who wrote those plays) Now draws the tourists to its dud cafés, Simply because they are located there: Stratford, where Shakespeare spent his childhood days.

Dreaming of Lear's creator's ghost, they gaze, See the 'same' sights and breathe the 'selfsame air!'

(If it was Will, indeed, who wrote those plays).

`Are these his footmarks or Anne Hathaway's?' `He could have stood here, climbed that very stair!'

`Stratford! where Shakespeare spent his childhood days!'

`Some claim the works are Bacon's.' Others praise De Vere."And Marlowe!' Shall we ask the mayor If it was Will, indeed, who wrote those plays?'

Watch how the placid Avon's waters laze Between the Theatre and the striped deck-chair. Stratford! where Shakespeare spent his childhood days (If it was Will, indeed, who wrote those plays).

(Gerard Benson)