COMPETITION

Hendeca-

Jaspistos

In Competition No. 1772 you were in- vited to write a poem in hendecasyllabics beginning '0 you . . .', addressed to some group of people.

`0 Japistos, you crucify your compers!' wailed Monica G. Ribon — and so I intended to, in order to give myself a more comfortable week in the throne of judg- ment. It's diabolically difficult to anglicise Latin metres, which is why Tennyson's successes are so admirable. Both of his hendecasyllabics were written in irritation with reviewers. Here's the lesser known set, aimed at a nonentity who had attacked

Tennyson and his work in a book of essays:

Gentle Life — what a title! here's a subject Calls aloud for a gentleman to handle! Who has handled it? he, the would-be poet, Friswell, Pisswell — a liar and a twaddler —

Pisswell, Friswell — a clown beyond redemp- tion, Brutal, personal, infinitely blackguard.

The five prizewinners printed below, who clearly outpaced the rest of the field, take f20 each, and the bonus bottle of Aberlour Single Malt whisky goes to Philip Dacre, whose technically sparkling piece is also a rare case of flattery getting you somewhere.

Oh! you guards of original creation's Well-springs, doughty defenders of the tasteful, Help, 0 Muses! A lowly poetaster

Flounders feebly in ill-co-ordinated Mistuned hendecametric agitation: Accent, quantity, pester and perplex him, Boding versificational disaster.

Wherefore, haunts Heliconian deserting, Sisters, hark to his humble invocation: Where once groaning ineptitude resounded, Set sweet harmony consonantly piping, Charming crabbed criticasters in beguilement. Then, with tunefully escalating ardour, Charm Jaspistos, a worthy arbitrator; So may neither the favour of the Muses Nor that pen's sweaty toil be unrewarded.

(Philip Dacre) 0 you beauties who grace the beach at Deau- ville, Limbs all languidly stretched to tempt the sunshine, Brightly clad in bikini bottoms only, Brilliant triangles, hiding next to nothing, Neatly tied at the waist with tiny ribbons, Blue and yellow and red with dazzling patterns (Talk of gilding the lily!), how you please me! How your glorious sun-tanned torsos cheer me! How your undulant gait, your luscious move- ments, Swaying down to the sea, delight my senses! When we meet in the waves I smile politely; Quite a mild man I am, a simple poet, One who wishes to love his fellow-human. If I secretly lust I'll keep it hidden. I've decided I must take swimming lessons, For I mean to perfect this year my breast-stroke.

(Gerard Benson) O you hedonists, lost for entertainment, How I pity you, seeking your Nirvana. You'll try anything, nothing is too futile — Ping-pong, mah-jongg, bezique or Racing Demon, Nap, snap, vingt-et-un, baccarat, canasta, Ludo, Cluedo or intellectual board games Bored games, more like — I tried 'em all, they're ghastly, All so fatuous, vacuous, redundant.

Can't you see it's the player who's the joker? Outdoor sports too have little or no purpose Costly, dangerous, ultimately tiresome, Over-hyped, of course — sponsorship's the culprit (Booze and fags pay for motocross and rugby).

I'm not cynical, never was or will be: I take exercise, cerebral gymnastics, Writing verses in hendecasyllabics!

(Mike Morrison) O you chorus of competition-winners, What think you of this latest little teaser? If well-practised in prosody, you're lucky; Juggling syllables into prescribed patterns, Delicately articulated rhythms, Novel music for ears tuned to iambics; Trochees, dactyls and anapaests are outlawed, Metre hangs now on hendecasyllabics. O my fellow competitors, a dreadful Struggle I have had so far with this fearsome Exercise in the marshalling of metre; Easy ride for such poets as Catullus, Ticklish job for such rhymesters as yours truly! Stress-related symptoms I now suffer, I'm just hoping that I've not put a foot wrong; Now, my friends, we shall see who wins that whisky. (Stanley J. Sharpless) O you coachloads of stupid, sun-tanned tourists, Swelled with lager, and with your silly hats on, Out you sprawl at a picturesque location Like fresh octopus discharged from a bucket, Point your cameras vaguely at the hillsides, Waste time wandering looking for a toilet, Then pile back in confusion and in clamour, Speeding forth to your next inane encounter. Know, silent faces smile at your excursions: Ancient denizens older than the mountains, Watchful guardians of Venus's own island.

(Martin Woodhead)

No. 1775: England and St George

We are approaching England's national day. An imaginary conversation, please, between St George and Shakespeare, who are reputed to have a common birthday. Entries (maximum 150 words) to 'Com- petition No. 1775' by 16 April.