c ii.WAS REG AL

12 YLAR OLD

COMPETITION

coVAS REGA

Pantoum

Jaspistos

In Competition No. 1639 you were in- vited to write a pantoum on the subject of either bathrooms or kitchens.

Like 'ketchup' and 'amok', 'pantoum' is one of the very few words to have entered our language via Malay. The verse form was popularised in the 19th century by (you wouldn't have guessed it) Victor Hugo, and according to Alan Judd's new biography Ford Madox Ford was a dab hand at writing them in party games. I took my definition of a pantoum from Chambers Dictionary, but, as several of you with more specialised works to hand pointed out, strictly speaking, it involves the repeti- tion of lines as well as rhymes. However, the dictionary doctors quoted at me didn't all agree, and confusion was further con- founded by Cassell's Encyclopaedia of World Literature, which states that 'the first two lines of the pantoum foreshadow the second couplet etc by sound and association rather than logic', whatever that may mean. That feat was gallantly attempted by Laurence Fowler. By now one thing alone is clear: that I was bound to be open to any old sort of pantoum.

The winners, printed below, have £13 each, and the bonus bottle of Chivas Regal 12-year-old de luxe blended whisky goes to M. R. Woodhead for — what always appeals to me — a touch of genuine sentiment.

A knot of hair obstructs the drain, And round the rim, bottles of all Her strange enchantments still remain. The rest is long beyond recall.

The full-length mirror on the wall In which her slender shape once shone, Misty-eyed at her mistress' fall Sees only me, naked, alone.

No other room makes her so gone. Rosy and amorous from the steam, Not this pale shade of which I dream (Toilette de Venus, poets' theme).

I trace her fingers on the tiles: Tokens that I can not redeem.

For someone else, across the miles, She dallies in the bath again.

(M. R. Woodhcad)

Bathrooms come in avocado, Honeysuckle, lime, morello: Mine, with minimum bravado, Adds off-white to dirty yellow.

Not for me the soft bordello Touch of bidet, three-speed shower.

For I'm not that sort of fellow, Nor possess the idle hour Whiled away in indoor bower, Reaching for jojoba lotion, Oil of musk or elderflower, Nor pour in the foaming potion - I abjure jacuzzi motion, Scorn such bathroom El Dorado.

Bleak and spartan: that's my notion.

Sir, I am not Brigitte Bardot.

(Will &Bengt: )

If you want to be up to the minute, And astonish your neighbours and friends, The bathroom's the place to begin it And achieve these desirable ends.

First you hide all the pipework and bends With tastefully colourful tile; This brightens the place up and lends An impression of up-to-date style.

Get a carpet with inches of pile In purple or heliotrope, And a clock with a waterproof dial, And an earthenware dish for the soap (If you like you can hang it on rope), And a budgerigar or a linnet.

You can see there is plenty of scope If the budgie won't sing you can skin it.

(John Sweetman) This bathroom is a strange uneasy room; My spirit shudders when I enter here.

I find it heavy with impending doom, Though Clytemnestra laughs and mocks my fear.

My spirit shudders when I enter here, I am the prey of dread imaginings.

Though Clytemnestra laughs and mocks my fear, I cannot rid my mind of evil things. I am the prey of dread imaginings; My bathroom is an eerie, haunted place. I cannot rid my mind of evil things, Although no ghosts confront me face to face.

My bathroom is an eerie, haunted place; I find it heavy with impending doom.

Although no ghosts confront me face to face, This bathroom is a strange uneasy room.

(D. Shepherd)

It wouldn't rate a spread in Ideal Home; At House and Garden staff would hoot and laugh

If shown this kitchen (not a hint of chrome, No gadgetry, no ovens cut in half).

At House and Garden staff would hoot and

laugh.

They'd label me a slut who didn't care; No gadgetry, no ovens cut in half - A cosy, wine-dark kitchen/study/lair.

They'd label me a slut who didn't care If they knew half the goings-on in here A cosy, wine-dark kitchen/study/lair Alive with cats and music, books and beer.

If they knew half the goings-on in here, If shown this kitchen (not a hint of chrome) Alive with cats and music, books and beer It wouldn't rate a spread in Ideal Home.

(K. Roken) Sweeping with lofty gaze each serried group Of cupboards, Mrs Peacock, queen of nobs, Grandly deploys her Filipino troupe, Gliding full-sail amid the glistening hobs.

Far other scenes surround the countless jobs Of Mrs Buggins' culinary lot.

Insistent terriers, muddy infant mobs Surge to and fro, soiling each new-cleaned spot.

Exclusive Mrs Peacock's sanctum: not One favoured guest receives approval's seal. Round Mrs Buggins' ever-brewing pot The neighbours natter on with tireless zeal.

In Mrs B's domain, smells from each meal, Fragrant and rare, would make the angels stoop. Great Mrs Peacock's gleaming doors conceal Pre-fashioned pizza, fetid packet soup.

(Chris Tingley)