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Univocalic

Jaspistos

IN COMPETITION NO. 1926 you were invited to write a poem using only one vowel.

The Victorian wordsmith, C. C. Bom- baugh, devised univocalic poems for each vowel, but I have only been able to track down his offering for i:

Idling, I sit in this mild twilight dim, Whilst birds, in wild, swift vigils, circling skim.

Light winds in sighing sink, till, rising bright, Night's Virgin pilgrim swims in vivid light!

U proved a beast beyond the control of everybody. My own attempt to ride it ended up like this:

Sun's up; but subfusc cumulus, sky-scum, Plugs up July, turns suburbs dull, us glum.

This was the largest entry ever. The prizewinners, printed below, get £2 per line, and the bonus bottle of Isle of Jura Single Malt Scotch whisky is richly deserved by Godfrey Bullard.

Abraham Ballard, awkward, fat and small, Alarms a lass that's sat athwart a wall. Alas, aghast at what that bad lad calls, Amanda starts, bawls, falls, lands —bang! and sprawls.

Abraham, all hands and arms, At last can grasp Amanda's charms.

(Ted Thompson) Ah, Man may rant and Man may cant, And Man may call and pray: All stars shall fall, all garlands pall, And Man shall pass away. (Paul Hatton) That's Marat's bath. An angry harpy calls, Stabs fast (a fatal dart!) and Marat falls.

(Anthony Creery-Hill) Where Selene's slender crescent Decks the sweet remembered scene, Gentle eve, her spell extended, Scents the level, dew-drenched green: Sleep the restless schemer blesses - Perfect, fever-free, serene.

(Godfrey Bullard) Eleven men bend tensely by the green. Presently they see the red sphere fly. We never eye the best events by screen: Every Test event's reserved by Sky.

(Roger Whiteway)

Gen. The scene:

Eden, green, serene.

Eve enters, sees the Tree.

Serpent tempts her, sets free Hell's bells, envy, greed 'n' Sex. By Ex. they're ex-Eden. (C.P. Evans) The evening when she went (Deeply repented yet) Three presents me she sent: Resentment, need, regret.

Between the sheets they breed Regret, resentment, need.

(Martin Woodhead) Is it birds' wings, lifting in rhythmic flight? Is it high hills, lit by swift spring light? In thy kiss, Iris, in thy smiling sigh, My wilting spirit finds its thrilling whirlwind sky. (Dominic Milroy) If Flick finds His gift is licit, Trinity minds Will still dismiss it. (Sydney Giffard) Virgin, fiftyish, is willing.

Six pink gins, I think I might Find this thing is simply thrilling If it's strictly fly-by-night.

Quick! This wrinkly miss is chilling My virility; I'm tight. (Alanna Blake) 'Not go to London, son?'

'No, not now — nor tomorrow.' Hot blood too soon grows cold. Who knows who's lost or won, Who's born to joy or sorrow, Who's top dog — or too old?

(Robert Roberts) Bolt down my wools, O bloody moth! For only fools Brood on lost cloth! (E. Winter) Rooks roost, owls hoot, brown fox prowls softly by, Cob trots, cock crows on drowsy sow's old sty. Now top-notch doctors of zoology, Hotfoot from Town to work on CJD, Cry, 'How or why? Too soon to know, folks. Sorry!'

Cold comfort for poor cows on doom-row lorry.

(Michael Lee)