COMPETITION

Valentine

Jaspistos

IN Competition No. 1510 you were invited to write a Valentine of some sort in the form of a sonnet of some sort.

`The connection of lovers with Valen- tine, with all its consequences for the printing and retailing industries, is one of the less likely results of the cult of the Roman martyrs,' says my Dictionary of Saints rather stuffily. Unstuffily, a hundred of you celebrated this 500-year-old tradi- tion, the hundredth being a beautifully decorated card addressed to me. Thank you, unknown enchantress. (Do you ever go to the Chelsea Arts Club?) Sheila Madden, Grani de Morgan, Michael Lee and Jermyn Thynne are highly com- mended, but the winners below are those with the money (£11 apiece), and the last bonus bottle of Hugel Riesling Reserve 1983, presented by our 'well-wisher in the Far East' (who is gratefully well-wished by us all), goes to Frank McDonald for his unabashedly narcissistic message.

There's no one loves you better than the one Who daily draws his fingers through your hair; Should they discover, others might make fun Of what must be a foolish love affair.

What grand perversion led me on to this, A love that knows no loving in return?

Yours are the only lips I cannot kiss, Yours is the single life I cannot spurn.

I grant that, in the silence of the years, I could have hoped that other loves were mine, But you were there to dry my selfish tears, So may you always be my Valentine!

To hell with all the loves we failed to see: Old as I am, I'm still in love with me.

(Frank McDonald)

O were I T;rzan and you Jane, I need not send this Valentine,

For in the jungle you'd be mine, New muscled fitness would speak plain, The best bananas I'd obtain.

No need of dropping you a line - I'd swing across upon a vine.

But here the. tropic idyll's vain.

I'm not a rugged outdoors guy, The SAS is not my scene, I couldn't be a Royal Marine.

Your health and beauty I adore.

I trail you in the health food store And sigh, and buy the things you buy. (George Moor) Just now my data card let out a bleep. The message scrolled read `URGENT. FEB 14'.

I've done research in depth — well, fairly deep - And here is all the gen that I can glean: Today, I learn, is when birds choose their mates, Although as yet there's little sign of spring; Our feathered friends, it seems, are hot on dates — So, dead on.time, romance is on the wing.

I take that story with a pinch of salt, But everyone behaves as if it's true, And I observe convention to a fault: That's why I'M moved to send these lines to you.

I've chosen you to be my Valentine.

Delete as needed: I acceptIdecline.

(Keith Norman) Cards never were my strongest suit, it's true. Attribute it to some over-refined Rejection of their sentimental goo, Or just the failings of an absent mind. Love's often deepest when it lies unspoken; It's not about trite cards that read 'Be mine!'. Nevertheless, you say, you'd like some token Each year: a bunch of flowers, your favourite wine . . .

No soppy card, no flowers, no wine this year. Old habits die hard, don't they? Anyway, Restrain your righteous indignation, dear: My versifying might just save the day.

A name like yours must merit top position,

No less, in the Spectator competition (Peter Norman) When first I saw your face on ITV That button nose, that firm and dimpled chin I knew you were the only girl for me,. The one to share my life, my perfect twin. You stood outside the Greenhani barrier, So near and yet too far. What could I do?

Then Greenpeace made its banner-carrier A fortnight later none but little you.

Oh joy of joys that Fate should so elect To introduce to me a kindred soul!

We save the whale, we're in the Marmite sect, We shun E numbers, eat our lentils whole.

From Cuddly Bear to Honeybunny Mine All love and kisses, Be my Valentine.

(Ba Miller) Dear David 0 (hot S, you note — oh, no!), Since leaving Sheffield on last Sunday week You must have felt abominably low — Politically your prospects are so bleak Yet you've looked cheerful,.with your head held high, Unbowed, though bloOdy, to the bitter end. But which way now? Do you see eye to eye With anyone? Have you a single friend? Yes, we are one. We've watched you stand and fight, Admired your guts — and seen you miss the bus. It's time that you were moving to the right And staking out your claim to follow us.

I'd rather like to make your talent mine, So cross the floor and be my Valentine! (David Heaton) Dear Mr Moore, we nurses love you true: Do not desert us! Grant us our deserts! You can't just woo us from behind the skirts Of you-know-who, yet swear you love us too; You tell us we must wait for your review Until our strike, which, like a syringe, spurts, Becomes a spate — but, Mr Moore, it hurts, It hurts us even more than it does you!

O if we had you in intensive care, Howe'er expensive! When, with nought to spend, In sleep you mutter, 'Curse the NHS', A nurse will wake you, and with tenderness Will make you take your pill; for we'll be there - Yes, we'll be with you to the very end!

(Gina Berkeley)