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COMPETITION

In Competition No. 1409 you were asked for a poem, serious or light, either for or against the month of February. Something, or somebody, tells me that I set almost the same competition two years ago. C. Baudelaire himself sent me some reproving lines, ending 'Et l'homme est las d ecrire/ A propos de fevrier'. And Mary Holtby was equally severe:

Of February I complain: It keeps on coming round again. This is exactly the position

,, With your persistent competition. Well, it wasn't quite the same. This Febru- ary being especially nasty, I allowed you to damn it as well as praise it, and I set no length-limit. Although several of you seized your chance to exceed 16 lines, none of the longer entries was striking enough to displace the prize-winners below, who get £9 each.

, ThankKnow the person who added to my useless ledge Department by telling me that February contains the feast day of JApostle who was the stand-in for Champagne Matthias. The bonus bottle of s-nallipagne Victor Canard (Brut), pre- sented by The John Milroy Soho Wine .rislart, 3 Greek St, London Wl, is Nigel tsunker's.

Inst.

Jaspistos

In February all defeats, All wounds, are magnified.

It is the month of chilling sleets, Fatigue and suicide.

In February getting sacked Or being left alone Is like the breaking of a pact: It turns the blood to stone.

Some letter from the income tax Inconsequential, terse Is like a figure formed in wax To work a witch's curse.

Children become disastrous threats, Not to be loved or kissed, The month a rusty blade that gets Keen for the shaking wrist. (Nigel Bunker) Funerals are to February as plums To August. Rain or snow has filled the dykes, The lonely lode has frozen and becomes A skaters' race-track. Somewhere there are strikes And pickets stamping round a brazier. Righteously we've renounced all booze for Lent; But modern central heating makes us lazier Than ever summer did. The air lacks scent Except where a reluctant car exhales Its noxious breath. Some dry and tasteless tufts Show through the snow where horses nudge for food; Dog-breeders groom their champions for Cruft's; But as the cold gives way before March gales February ends with welcome promptitude.

(J. C. M. Hepple) January promises nothing, March is brash and breezy, But February, in between, Makes my mind uneasy.

He tempts the blackbirds into wooing, Then brings a bitter blow. He whistles up my hellebore To bury it in snow.

February, runt of months, You are no friend of mine: Let no man throw you seeds, no maid Believe a Valentine. (E. S. Goodwill) Fairest of months, whose days decreed by Fate Extend, alas, to only twenty-eight (But happily some agency divine Rewards us now and then with twenty-nine), Unwelcome? Never! Who could wish for spring And all those weary hours of gardening, Rebellious mowers, undiscouraged weeds? You stunt the grass and mortify the seeds. Freezing outside? Defying ice and snow I sit here in a hibernating glow: Lots of good steak-and-kidney pud for eating, Lashings of whisky mac for central heating. • Dear friend, by March too swiftly dispossessed, I must contrive to speed the parting guest, Knowing I can, if there's a God in Heaven, Expect you back in 1987. (Peter Hadley) All thy eleven sisters vary, But thou art constant, February.

In Germany, der Februar Mit Wasser fills das Reservoir.

Italians facing wet febbraio Remain indoors till bello maio.

In France, le mois de fevrier Rained chats et chiens every day Until the revolutionaries Abolished things like Februaries, Only to find that Pluviose Half-drowned them, like a fireman's hose.

So, second month, I love thee best For being shorter than the rest. (Peter Wingate) Febrile February, a month to yearn For any other month, and to concern Ourselves with temperatures as they're conveyed In Celsius, Fahrenheit and Centigrade.

Lacklustre, lacking lust and all desire. Instead, corroding throat, temples of fire, Echoing coughs, chilblains and woolly vests Along with germs are my unwelcome guests.

I've caught the lot, but I've missed Cupid's barb, For Valentine, that sinner in saint's garb, Has turned to frog my erstwhile charming prince.

No wonder February makes me wince.

But as the heartless month moves bleakly on, If I remember the phenomenon, One consolation may restore my zest: This damn month's that much shorter than the