COMPETITION

The best intentions

Jaspistos

In Competition No. 1555 you were asked for a poem about New Year's resolutions.

In this very building I have just over- heard one person say to another: 'I've resolved to be a bit better — in every- thing.' A joke? Modesty? Or overweening ambition? Myself when young made re- solutions. The other night, from the bot- tom of an old cardboard box, I dredged an undergraduate poem entitled 'Resolutions' in which I theatrically demanded of the New Year:

Bring the burning of books, And the burning of boats, The removal of too many cooks, The throwing away of friends with equivocal looks.

They're all, I'm glad to say, still there. No more resolutions for me. 'Indeed, indeed, Repentance oft before/I swore but was I sober when I swore?'

The prizewinners printed below take £15 each, and the bonus bottle of Cockburn's Late Bottled Vintage Port 1982, kindly presented by Cockburn Smithes & Co. Ltd, goes to Laurence Fowler. The rest of you must resolve to be just a bit better.

'Subjunctive is a mood of will.' How curb the verb with tasks to fill Of shall and should (or may or might) If resolution loses sight Of can and could or must or ought? Such is the trap in which we're caught.

Shall we resolve to formulate Some less demanding predicate: Generic gerunds, less precise, Like 'helping', 'giving', `being nice'? What can we, should we, hope to be If future tense we can't foresee?

We might instead just vainly brood And stay in this subjunctive mood.

(Laurence Fowler) I do not lie or fornicate, Indulge in toxic tipples, And in this safe and golden state Despise life's moral cripples.

I do not smoke or wear striped shorts, Blaspheme or talk to strangers, I comprehend 'The Law of Torts', And life's more potent dangers.

I'm certain that the old and sick, Poor fools who press around me, Are part of some dark cosmic trick, To cast down and confound me.

While resolutions might assist The weak and vacillating, I face the future with a fist, Ecstatic in my hating. (Russell Lucas) I ought to watch my diet, Shun cake and sugar bun, Let Mrs Currie make me worry How my eggs are done.

I ought to get up early And take a daily run; But exercise, though it be wise, I'd hardly call it fun.

I ought to stop competing And get to bed by one, Not tax my brain with weekly strain But simply read the Sun.

But why make resolutions Before the year's begun?

If I don't make 'em I can't break 'em, So I'm making none. (O. Smith) Out my New Year I plan. January, I greet you! No eating unwisely; white meat, a lone potato. Each dour February day drink disciplined strict- ly, No wine, beer, spirits, liqueurs, Coke, Cinzano. In March and April exercise, air (scant sport;

No need to overdo it. Put not thine heart in danger.) Every May morning a smooth swim and subse- quent sauna. Endless disguising of years for my birthday in June. I shall try to save money and tiptoe through flaming July. Gazing through August fog and rain I may glimpse a cow. Harsh new term in September: 'must try to do better' — memo to me. Trusting October affords some mild fornication: Nights growing long; my bed is cold, too cold, / grow old — lots about, but nothing much ado. November damp, dank, dark. Doubtless into December I go Emaciate, thirsty and dead. Resolutions? Fall- ing off a log. (Richard Hills)

To err is human; to repeat

The fault is human, too—

Each vow, in its conception, Is twinned with self-deception: The search is on to find a wrong that's new.

Wipe clean your life of all mistakes,

Then make theM all again—

Each error's repetition Brought home by recognition Of a thorny, treadmill-worn, familiar pain.

(A. D. Gibbons)