COMPETITION

Chesterbelloc

Jaspistos

IN COMPETITION NO. 1781 you were invited to write a 20-line ballade with the title 'Nostalgia'.

Purists were quick to point out that a ballade by definition must have three, not two, octets, but I had to be ProCrustean and fit the verse to the space, so there you are. Space allows me only to congratulate you on a very talented entry and to print the prize-winners below, who are awarded £20 each. The taker of the bonus bottle of Drummond's Pure Malt Scotch whisky is Geoffrey Riley.

There was a railway that crossed hill and vale On limestone, gritstone, peat-hags, sand and clay, Carving a shining, soaring iron trail That spurned all natural hazards in its way. The stalwart, sweating navvies of their day, Burrowing beneath the crag, bridging the creek, With Herculean effort toiled to lay The line that once meandered through the Peak.

From the broad meadowlands of Darley Dale It climbed to where the kestrel seeks its prey And drystone-walls and wind-swept moors pre- vail, Where, from the train, one saw great skies of grey And glimpsed the rocky stream below at play. But now no train curves round that upland bleak.

The line was axed because it did not pay — The line that once meandered through the Peak.

Late Prince of Railways, Lord of Disarray, Beeching! In future ages men will speak With scorn of you as he who threw away The line that once meandered through The Peak. (Geoffrey Riley) The paths were mucky round my childhood home;

Some games we played on them were ener- getic,

And some the sort the Opies in their tome Describe as arithmetic./alphabetic.

Now and again they verged on the poetic; The mud and dirt were not within our view. That perfect past — is it so theoretic?

Is mine the real nostalgic de la boue?

Our life was not entirely polychrome, But nor was it unpleasantly ascetic: My knees were black, I seldom saw a comb,

What passed for my ablutions were cosmenc, And yet throughout a life peripatetic

My days have never seemed so azure blue, My loves and friendships never so magnetic -- Is mine the real nostalgic de la boue? Prince, though I verge upon the homiletic, Be kind enough to keep it entre nous, And tell me, if you're feeling sympathetic, Is mine the real nostalgie de la boue?

(Paul Griffin)

o rosa mundi, eglantine,

Dog violets that have no peer, Wild honeysuckle on the vine, Elusive blooms of yesteryear, Heart's-ease and balm and maiden's tear — 1 dream of them, all passion spent; Some long-loved blossoms still appear, But where is all the heavenly scent?

In eager efforts to refine, The clever growers interfere With those sweet memories of mine, Those cottage borders once so dear. Perpetual flourishers they rear, Ignoring what the Good Lord meant: 'To each its season of the year.'

But where is all the heavenly scent?

Now TV gardening is here, New hybrids bloom in Chelsea's tent.

The colour's grand, the sound so clear, But where is all the heavenly scent?

(Alanna Blake) You should have seen me in me youth When I had on me Sat'day rig! Me strides all flares, me cheeks real smooth, Me hair slicked down (din' need no wig!). So long as there was booze to swig We never wanted Ecstasy — We `opped along an' crashed a gig.

Nah, things ain't what they used to be.

I tell you this, straight up, God's truth — You scratch a punk, you finds a pig: They shave their 'eads an' acts uncouth To make their little selves feel big Till one or two ends in the brig (They can't get topped no more, you see). But Happiness? They do not dig!

Nah, things ain't what they used to be.

Oh, I was merry as a grig Till age an' marriage done for me.

The game is up and up the jig.

Nah, things ain't what they used to be.

(Alyson Nikiteas) The past, the past! The house where I was born, Crowned with those melting snows of yester- year!

Like Ruth I weep amid the alien corn And welcome every sad occasion dear That takes my mournful soul from sordid here Back to that distant spot from whence I came: The village in my memory so clear . . .

A pity that I can't recall its name.

I see the winding streets, the cobbles worn

By rural folk in search of liquid cheer; Myself a lovesick lad, blighted, forlorn, Too young to drown those miseries in beer, At which my pitiless companions jeer.

Though once she joined them in their heart- less game, I conjure her, my darling, to appear . . .

A pity that I can't recall her name.

0 distant ghosts, so far and yet so near!

Love's not Time's fool, some poet used to claim; Such insights must have fostered his career . . . 'A pity that I can't recall his name.'

(Mary Holtby)

No. 1784: Disyllabic

Peter Duncan writes from California: 'I have found it very difficult to write even two sentences in words of only two syll- ables.' I gratefully accept his suggestion for a competition, and invite you to provide an entertaining piece of prose (maximum 150 words) consisting only of disyllables — with the exception of pronouns, which I allow for the sake of mercy. Entries to 'Competition No. 1784' by 18 June.