COMPETITION

No. 564 : Language barrier

A recent police warning to surfers in Devon and Cornviall that a malibu board thief was at large was phrased in the following terms: 'Grip this. Some yhuk with a perch for boo boards has dipped plenty on this scene. If you're not formating with the weepies on a loss awareness of your boo board, nix out on the fade with it stashed on the moke or cooling on the salt grip.' (Official translation: 'If you don't want to be upset when you realise you've lost your board. don't leave it standing on top of a car or lying on the sea shore.') Following this remarkably inspired initiative competi- tors are invited to submit extracts from hippy (or any other jargon) versions of the Queen's Christmas Message. a school speech day address, a judge's summing up, or any other formal announcement or peroration. Maximum 100 words. Entries, marked 'Competition No. 564,' by 15 August.

No. 561 : The winners

Trevor Grove reports: Man's first landing on the moon, we thought, deserved poetic commemoration. Competitors were invited to provide this, in the style of any poet of their fancy, from Shakespeare to McGona- gall. A large entry and a veritable constella- tion of new competitors made the judging a delicate task this week. By far the greatest number of competitors opted for poets of the nineteenth century or earlier--a handy means of exploring the mythological im- plications of Diana's much-publicised defile- ment- and though there were a good few attempts at poetry in a more modern vein, these were on the whole less successful. Otherwise the choice of styles was bewilder- ingly wide-ranging, from G. J. Blundell's excellent Landor to numerous attempts at McGonagall, notably from Tim O'Dowda, Rosina Williamson, and J. P. Cook; also a splendid Nash from Nancy Perry. Meantime three guineas to Martin Fagg's Shake- speare.

Virginite, we see, is shunn'd by fashyoun; No maid now locks her treasure out of reach.

But, bowing to the hot besieger's passioun, Will all too ofte assist her Honoure's breach.

Now lusty Man, no longer to be sated By slaking of terrestriale Desyr, Doth pricke the very Heav'ns, his pryde inflated.

And to a Goddesse' favours doth aspire. The lunar Mistresse, once the Queene of

prey,

Is now become the Quarrie of the chase; Like mortal women, frailc, no more than

they Can she resist the Charme of male embrace. Now ev'ry earthlie Chastitie is strumpeted.

No wonder cold Diana's falle is trumpeted.

Three guineas to T. Griffiths, also on Shake- speare:

Thy face once lovely now is pocked and grey; Shall tides still turn with love of thee to swell? Pale madman wait for thee to come and nlay? Or shrill bat court thee where the spirits G

dwell?

O wanton Moon incestuously laid!

Artemis by Apollo thus undone, No more the hunter's virgin maid, Is but a strumpet bared for anyone; Ten thousand lines that once thy name adorned, Fool's silver, now are leaden dross, And many a poet's laurel leaves are horned, They charms all mapped for cosmonauts to Cross; No wonder that for seven and twenty days Thou halt for shame been shrinking from my gaze.

And the same to Adam Khan with a Pin- daric fragment in imitation of the Earl of Rochester: Let Ancients henceforth slight Their Goddess of the Night; That, damn'd eternal Prude, By great Apollo though pursued, Fled his embrace, still unsubdued, To feast her Eyes in lewd Delight On Latmos, o'er th'unconscious Shepherd bright.

Her Glory must yeeld place Now Sparks of Mortal! Race Have mounted without dread Like Gamecocks bold to board and tread That desiccated Maydenhead; And shew'd for ev'ry Eye to trace, The pox'd and scalded Ruine of her Face.

Three guineas to Ian Kelso and Kipling: You have won the first of races through the interstellar spaces, You have realised the mightiest of schemes; Excelling. the predictions of our visionary fictions, You have acted out the oldest of our dreams.

To the moon serenely riding, imperturbably deriding All flourish of unnecessary speech, Like all the world's great Doers, you have shown yourselves eschewers Of the words that crudely boast or coldly preach.

Though the moon will lose her mystery when Today is part of history, Your exploits will forever prove unique; So triumphantly declaring. in their transcendental daring The true apotheosis of Technique!

Mentions to Jim Powell. Edward Samson, R. L. Sadler, Peter Thornton, and a final four guineas to N. J. Rock for her Milton: Is this the Vessel, this the happy Crew Shall venture down the dark descent of Space And with cold Science subjugate the Moon? Fear not, Diana of the noiseless Spheres, —No longer void and formless as the Night But known and limned in every contoured

phase—

Apollo merely comes to pay thee court And woo thee, with such pure ethereal sense As solitary Saturn brought of yore To bright-haired Vesta ... Then to lift the veil And touch thy mantle with a reverent hand, Beholding thee in awe and majesty!

Gentle Diane, as yet the Unattained, rant that Apollo's landing may awake Fresh harmonies, true knowledge, concord sweet, To hymn the greatness of the Lord of all!