No. 1242: The winners

Jaspistos reports: Competitors were asked for a verse self-portrait, physical and/or psychological, such as a well-known poet might have attempted in a light-hearted mood.

One or two poets, as you kindly informed

me, have tried their hand at this tricky task. Ugo Foscolo (who translated Sterne's Sen- timental Journey and died in Turnham Green) in 11 proprio ritratto' viewed himself with some satisfaction — 'fine neck, my chest hairy, compact limbs, choice and simple style of dress ... Death, you will give me fame and rest.' Robert Graves, in 'The Face in the Mirror', sees himself as a bit of a joli laid — 'crookedly broken nose — low tackling caused

,

it ... coarse grey hair, flying

frenetic; ... teeth, few; lips, full and rud- dy; mouth, ascetic.' Among competitors 0. Smith did a fine job on the aged Words- worth sadly contemplating himself, 'a doter out of stamps for Westmorland', 0. Bonfield was good on Milton net me with a gladsome mind/Praise myself, for I am kind'), and George Moor, Martin Fagg and Philip A. Nicholson succeeded strikingly with Clare, Byron and Charles Causley. Ada Gething was right to append 'apologies to the ghost of W.E. Henley' to her entry, which outrageously began:

Galled by the garb that covers me - Sad hand-me-downs and jumble rig I hereby thank most lovingly The Chinese chap who made my wig.

The winners below receive £10 each, and Pedro Domecq's bonus bottle of Carlos III Selected Brandy is awarded to Mary Holtby.

W.S. at his Mirror

To me, dear friend, you never looked so old: Like as the curling waves desert the shore And leave a promontory bare and cold So do these traitor locks that clung before Creep from the parent brow with stealthy pace, Edging their treacherous ebb with streaks

of white.

Must I acknowledge this autumnal face, Which once knew summer's pride and spring's delight? The mole of care my fading features mines: There mark his crevices, and here his hills; What bygone lover, looking on these lines, Could from his heart declare them to be Will's?

John Betjeman

I'm a gloomy old chap, with the one saving grace That I weep for the world with a smile on my face: My poems are paintings in which I find room For rainbow reflections of laughter and gloom.

1 have to confess to a passion pathetic For freckles and feminine figures athletic, So when I played tennis with Joan Hunter-Dunn, My schoolgirl Diana, she usually won.

They tell me I look like the old teddy bear I hugged as a child — though he'd rather more hair.

Dear Archibald, still you are with me in bed (But I wish I could hug Hunter-Dunn there instead).

Gothic churches I love, but have always abhorred The abortions produced when St Levan restored, Though some have opined that my Laureate

verse,

Which The Times has to print on occasions, is worse.

(Peter Hadley) Ted Hughes My eyebrows are as thick as thieves. They hang like shags of tobacco Above a nose like a wedge, a doorstop. They could probably get knotted.

A chin juts out. A blunt, Almost pointless boulder of bone, Stuck out stern from the face. The lips are as grim as poachers'.

Curving quietly, up to no good. The furrow between them is rough: They seem to snag on laughter. Nothing much given away here.

And the hair, thick as quills From which feathers are stripped: Swept back by an oily rake.

There is great weight on my forehead.

(Belle R. Welling) Christopher Smart

Mad is the poet men call Kit;

Mad is his thought, and mad his wit, And madness, sure, he writes: Mad as the pig when he is stuck; Mad as the bull that runs amuck, Or rabid dog that bites.

Mad as his eyes are rimmed with black; Mad as his stare is lustre-lack; Mad as his prayers are long: Mad as his wig is shrunk and torn; Mad as his shoes are long outworn; Mad as his faith is strong. (Stanley Shaw) Stevie Smith

Oh, I am full of love and joy, I could dance and sing aloud.

My mother said I would make a handsome boy,

Although my head was often in a cloud.

Now my head is in this flowery hat, To hide my hair that won't curl, Thank goodness for that.

Mother thought I was rather a plain girl.

Can I tell how I look?

Perhaps Mother was right.

She was a gojd plain cook, But never wanted me to look a fright. Then let my heirs this glassy image break And of smooth marble my memorial make.

(Mary Holtby) (John Sweetman)