COMPETITION I n Competition No. 1413 you were asked to translate

into verse the poem below faithfully, loosely or freely updated: Je t'apporte, 0 Sommeil, du yin de quatre annees, Du lait, des pavots noirs aux tetes couronnees, Veuilles tes ailerons en ce lieu deployer, Tant qu'Alison, la vieille accroupie au foyer, Qui, d'un pouce retors et d'une dent mouillee, Sa quenouille chargee a quasi depouillee, Laisse choir le fuseau, cesse de babiller, Et de toute la nuit ne se puisse eveiller; Afin qu'd mon plaisir j'embrasse ma rebelle, L'amoureuse Ysabeau, qui soupire aupres d'elle.

This charming poem, whose title is `Epigramme', is by Philippe Desportes (1546-1606), a successful courtier who eventually became the rich Abbe de Tiron, himself a patron of poets. He is probably twiddling in his grave now. 'Hi, Morpheus

Faithful or free

Jaspistos

. . 'Dear Sandman . . '0 slumbrous goddess . . .' the god was variously addres- sed. Alison was interpreted as a mother, an aunt, a landlady, a chaperone and, in two wild guesses, as 'an old croupier'. Nigel Bunker did it into Kiplingese (I've got your number, Morpheus, with your gras- pin"eathen ways. You want a bloke to cross your palm with bottles and bou- quets') and Peter Wingate ventured a calypso (Plenty Barbados rum in de milk . . . When de spectacle fall off de nose, She snore until de rooster crows'). Good offer- ings came from Jermyn Thynne, Peter Hadley, Berni Wellgell, Noel Petty and Mary Ann Moore. I have tried to choose the winners, who get £10 apiece, fairly balancing the faithful and the free. The bonus bottle of Champagne Victor Canard (Brut), presented by The John Milroy Soho Wine Mart, 3 Greek St, London Wl, gods to that very faithful competitor, Basil Ransome-Davies.

I am the suppliant of Sleep. I bring An offering of milk and mellowed wine And crowned black poppies. Let her spread her wing And lull asleep this enemy of mine, This old duenna, crouched and bent of thumb' Whose canines moisten the elapsing thread Upon the distaff. May her hand fall numb And drop the spindle. May she go to bed And slumber silently until the dawn, While I, uninterrupted, seek the charms Of her who now, impatient and forlorn, Waits sighing to be folded in my arms.

(Basil Ransorne-Davie

Ma and Isabel and me Sitting on the same settee . . . Ma is piggy in the middle, Ma is watching the TV, While her itchy fingers fiddle, Twiddle with her droopy knitting.

Quite as itchy-fingered, we (Isabel and me) are sitting Begging for the BBC Just to get a bit more boring, Just enough to keep her snoring Long enough to set us free. (Mary Holtby) If, Sleep, I bring you wine some four years settled, Milk, and your poppies dark and richly petalled, Please, please unfold your shading wings above - So that old Alison, crouched by the stove (She's nearly cleared the distaff's load, with comb Thoroughly moistened and her practised thumb), May drop the spindle, check her chattering tongue, Never to wake, not once, the whole night long: Then, with my warm and wayward Isabel, Who sits beside her sighing, I'll love my fill.

(Amy C. Old) Dear Mister Sleep, I'll offer you anything Black poppies, Jersey milk, '82 claret — If only you'll oblige me, shake a wing In this direction, and make Mrs Barrett, The old bag by the fire knitting like a spider, Teeth nipping, thumbs twitching, plain and purl, Plain and purl, the wool-ball almost gone, Drop her needles, stop rabbiting on, And nod off into an all-night-long trance; Which might give me, at last, at least a chance To get my arms around that difficult girl Isabel, panting sexily beside her.

(E. N. Trant) Slumber, for an offering Milk and four-year wine I bring, Sable poppies, kingly-crowned - Slumber, spead your wings around On this hearth where old and bent Alison spins on, intent, Mouldy-toothed and deft of thumb; Now her laden distaff's come To an end, make fall her spindle, Let her silly tattle dwindle To a sleep that lasts the night, Leave me free to take delight In the clasp of Isabeau, Who herself would have it so. (0. Banfield) Well, Sleep, I've got you all the gear you need: There's Horlicks, Spanish plonk, weird poppy weed -

That little lot is surely guaranteed

To knock out Tracy's mum. We'd thought that she'd Be snoring now, not knitting. We've agreed We can't go on like this. Her old settee'd Be better than back stalls at the Splendide. Sleep, stop the old bag nattering on, I plead. Then Trace and I at last can go too far It's chilly in the back of my dad's car.

(G. Townsend) Here's wine, 0 Sleep, trod four years back, And milk, and poppies crowned in black; Pray let your wings unfolded be That, crouched beside the fire, she

With gnarled, bent thumb and moistened lip

And flowing distaff may let slip Her spindle, hold her prattling tongue, And sleep till angelus is rung: Then I may find unfettered bliss In sighing Isabella's kiss. (David Cram)