COMPETITION

Ring 1987

Jaspistos

Ia Competition No. 1452 you were in- vited to write an unTennysonian poem in the metre of In Memoriam and beginning Ring out, wild bells . . .' to usher in the New Year.

I'd always thought Tennyson invented the metre, and so did he, until kind friends Informed him that it had been used long before by Sir Philip Sidney, Ben Jonson and Lord Herbert of Cherbury. Tenny- son's soporific philosophical uncertainties were neatly taken off by Edward Bradley In the last century:

A something comes from out the gloom - I know it not, nor seek to know I only see it swell and grow, And more than this would not presume . . .

Shortly after which one imagines the Laureate in the grip of a giant squid. Tennyson was always trying to be optimis- tic, but cheerlessness was always breaking in, so I didn't judge the most gloomy of the entries to be especially unTennysonian. Bridget Rees's last quatrain, though, de- finitely was:

Ring Eighty-seven into view, Ring changes on the same old tricks, Ring out the dregs of Eighty-six, But don't ring me, kids, I'll ring you.

She and Philip Nicholson and George Moor and T. Griffiths all gave pleasure, but the winners, who get £10 each, sepa- rated themselves from the ruck more easily than usual. Tim Elliott wins the bonus bottle of Ferreira Late Bottled Vintage Port, donated by Stowells of Chelsea, for a most unTennysonian piece which re- minded me of the time I saw the Crazy Gang as campanologists at the Victoria Palace. I. C. Snell's entry reminded me of the way that indomitable atheist, J. B. S. Haldane, used to complain that ill-rung church bells on a Sunday morning consti- tuted an infringement of his aural liberty. Mary Holtby's witty poem should be read with the immediate knowledge that the first word is a noun not a verb. A happy New Year to you, whoever you may be. 'Ring our, wild bells!' the poet cried;

But little guessed how very wild A band can get on Old and Mild With whisky mac and gin beside.

The treble's pulling off — look to!

Make rounds and see the sallies dance! But timing is a thing of chance, And strangely jangling sounds ensue.

Bob Doubles — go! But no one hears.

The sallies leap; the backstays crack.

Dodge up! Bob down! Doc's on his back, And little Patty disappears.

The Old Year's dead. He's died of fright. The New Year trembles on the brink. Sweet Eighty-seven, do not shrink! Our fearsome din's for your delight.

(Tim Elliott)

Ring out, wild bells out, church, the lot - Out with the bride dressed all in white,

Out with the virgin wedding night, In with the loosening of the knot: Such wisdom ruled our former life (I hear an echo from afar: `Out with permission from Papa, Out with the means to keep a wife . . .').

How different sounds the chime today!

Out with the cheapest indoor sport, Out with the girl in every port, Out with the careless and the gay; Out with the unrestricted bed, In with the lifelong marriage tie, On with the chains of chastity - The Age of Liberty is dead. (Mary Holtby) Ring out, wild bells, but most inapt The Grandsire Method at New Year, So let the sound in human ear Be Stedman's Principle that's clapped.

A staider one-note tocsin rings Declaring from a nearby church The old year's fallen off its perch, And calls to mind the Four Last Things.

Each year a new year comes on time, The model of a punctual guest At our Sylvesterabendfest, And duly sounds the front-door chime.

A still more up-to-date bell's tone May yet announce New Year and say It's started and is on the way By speaking down the telephone.

(Charles Mosley) Ring out, wild bells! New Year is back, So fill the glass and raise the cup And generally limber up To hear Old Petty's almanac: Geoff Boycott's backers will intrigue; And McEnroe will ooze conceit; And Botham will be indiscreet; And Liverpool will win the league.

The Princess Michael will offend (The glass is cloudy over how); And Maxwell will provoke a row; And Mrs T. will condescend.

And long before the summer's done The politicians will appear To ring your bell and chew your ear, Then go to ground till '91.

(Noel Petty) Ring out, wild bells, discordantly, A peal without appeal, a din; Your way to let the new year in Is sheer anathema to me.

`Tis clear the tenor chap's forgot His place within the scheme of things; I shudder every time he dings Was that a triple bob, or what?

The chimes at Oxford sounded rich, And Canterbury's pure delight; This lot will never get it right I wish I had not perfect pitch.

So why, then, do I ask for more, When with such pain my soul it fills?

It is the lesser of two ills - They're singing 'Auld Lang Syne' next door!

(I. C. Snell)