ISLE OF 1

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JU RA .,.. !, •401,111111so

IN COMPETITION NO. 1934 you were given certain rhyme words in a certain order and asked to provide a poem accord- ingly.

The scheme, I brazenly confess, was taken from one of my own poems, which I forbear to quote. The entry was vast, varied and versatile. Honourable mentions to Eric Payne, Frank McDonald, Chris Tingley, Dominica Roberts and M.R. Macintyre.

The prizewinners, printed below, get £20 each, and the bonus bottle of Isle of Jura Single Malt Scotch whisky goes to S. Barrance for a very genuine article.

I'm rotting in a cell that's six foot square And empty, save a slop-pail and a bed.

COMPETITION

Bouts times

Jaspistos

There's sweet FA to do but dream of where The skies are blue and light-districts are red, Or long-lost days when larceny was grand And blokes like me who had a steady hand To pick a lock were quids in. Still it lingers— The pride I felt when Big Len dubbed me 'Fingers'.

We plod around for exercise in twos And talk of neutral subjects — pubs or soccer.

They don't allow us laces for our shoes;

MILE OF

Each cell-door has a lock but not a knocker. For fourteen hours a day we sit dejectedly, Just staring into space, or disconnectedly Scribbling on prison paper to our wives, Trying to salvage something of our lives.

(S. Barrance) Into my lawn I plan to cut a square, Remove the turf, prepare a flower bed. (I've drawn a sketch which shows exactly where.) The flowers will be predominantly red, And though my scheme can't be described as grand, My wife approves the plan I have in hand: A lovely, vivid flower display that lingers Long in the mind, proving I've grass-green fingers. When gardening the hours fly by in twos. While couch potatoes watch replays of soccer Or game shows, I'm outside in gardening shoes.

Of every TV show I'm not a knocker, But pity you who, slumped dejectedly, Keep changing channels, disconnectedly Watching wallpaper telly with your wives. Get gardening and lead creative lives!

(John Nicoll) My uncle has a house in Eaton Square Complete with Chippendale four-poster bed, His coat of arms emblazoned everywhere With quarterings and goles — which just means red.

Of course by now you've realised he's 'grand'; And when he deigns to shake you by the hand I'll guarantee no ounce of your flesh lingers Longer than half a second on his fingers.

His Jaguars are always bought in twos; He's never heard of pubs or beer or soccer; His shelves hold forty pairs of handmade shoes; Cellini could have wrought his front-door knocker. I know it's neither sadly nor dejectedly — In fact the word to use is 'disconnectedly' — He pays the upkeep for his six ex-wives. Thank God the rich know how to live their lives! (Jane Falloon) A pigeon flies across the empty square Above a tramp who makes his cardboard bed As bells ring out for evensong somewhere And the sun sinks in a glow of winter red. I turn back to my room, where, feeling grand, I turn a wine-glass slowly iii my hand, And savour its bouquet, which sweetly lingers As drops escape to run between my fingers.

Churchgoers cross the square in Sunday twos (More go to church than all who go to soccer), The square resounding with their well-heeled shoes, A rapid tap, perhaps, on heaven's knocker. I hold the glass, then gulp from it dejectedly, Before I don my coat, and disconnectedly Consider how neglected vicars' wives Somehow make sense of God's will in their lives. (Katie Mallett) You'll find the chocolates fair and square On the dubious marriage bed — Their origin? Shan't tell you where — Gift-wrapped, tied with ribbon red. Not my habit gestures grand? Time is ripe to show my hand! Poison's taste — how long it lingers On your damp, deceiving fingers!

Hope you gobble them in twos Soon as you've come back from soccer.

Glad I won't be in your shoes When in trust you raise the knocker!

We'll mourn your death dejectedly, Stammering disconnectedly — I and both your other wives.

Sweet revenge for broken lives!

(Mrs H.G. Parker)