COMPETITION calVAS REG4 4 12 YEAR OLD

SCOTCH WHISKY

YEAR OLD SCOTCH WHISKY

Epidermic lyric

Jaspistos

In Competition No. 1632 you were in- vited to write a poem in celebration of the skin.

While you are reading this I shall be walking along the Pembrokeshire Coastal Path, so I'll save my breath for that. An excellent entry, with two short-listed new- comers, Tom Adam and Kit Hennele. The prizewinners, printed below, get £.11 each, and the bonus bottle of Strathisla 12-year- old single malt whisky, presented by Chi- vas Regal, goes to George Simmers.

To call it alabastery

Is an insult to its mastery Of light and shade, of texture and of hue, As it runs from hill to hollow (How my fingers long to follow!) So smooth and oh so sinuous, So charmingly continuous That while to count each jolly Little follicle is folly, It's the one thing that I really want to do.

Some go mad for lips or wiggles, Some are nuts for girlish giggles, And eyelashes have done for quite a few.

But what drives me far insaner Is the undulant container So deliriously chock-a-block with you.

(George Simmers) The skin I'm in is watertight And fits me to a T; Apart from holes to let in light It covers all of me.

It keeps my insides in, as well As foreign bodies out; A self-renewing flexi-shell I could not be without.

Another of its functions is To map my inner life; Its wrinkles, scars and blemishes Record each stress and strife.

I can't escape — no more can you — These supple walls of leather; But what untold delights ensue When we rub skins together! (Peter Norman) We strip the ocelot and mink, We flay the fox and rabbit, Attempting to keep warm, we think, But really out of habit.

Upon our outer selves we grow, A coat that's neat and clever — What need have we to boast and show A surplus one of leather?

A waterproof unmatched by macs Is human epidermis, That never scuffs or peels or cracks, As warm as any furnace.

We own our own distinguished hide, To ask for more's a sin;

It keeps out all that is outside,

And inside all that's in. (Tony Konrath) The chicken's skin is pimpled and thin, The tapir's harsh and uncouth; The tortoise's fold looks a hundred years old, But you have the bloom of youth.

The hippo's hide is multiplied Till it falls about his toes; From flamingoes pink my fingers shrink, But your is the glow of the rose.

I hate the feel of a slippery seal Or the sliminess of the leech; I fear the spine of the porcupine; But you have the touch of the peach.

If you've ever felt a hyena's pelt Or stroked a snake by stealth, You'd appreciate the human state, For you have the bloom of health.

(Vicky Cornford) A beauty that's only skin-deep I admire, An all-over tan is my dream; I've a pretty good nose for a sweet English rose And a skinful of peaches and cream.

But what I like best is the old walnut skin Of the woman who lives up the lane; It's russet and apple, inclining to dapple, And washed by the wind and the rain. I do like those wrinkles, that network of lines, That cover her face and her hands, Where the skin has been stretched, and finally etched Like tide-ridges left on the sands.

Sometimes the lizard-skin creases and smiles, Often a beady eye twinkles; At age ninety-one, she's still full of fun And certainly knows all the wrinkles.

(David Heaton) What should we do without our skin?

How could we keep our insides in?

If we'd no skin you cannot doubt Our insides would keep falling out And, ankle-deep upon the floor, We'd paddle round in guts and gore.

0, praise the Lord who did invent

Our waterproof integument! (John Sweetman) Skin, skin, bountiful skin — Nothing quite like it for fencing you in.

From the top of your nob to the tip of your toes, It drapes you and shapes you, from navel to nose. Slash it or bash it, it stealthily heals, Erases the grazes, conceals all the weals; Banishes bruises and buries abrasions, Ever toiling to foil parasitic invasions.

Skin is so fluent, so flexile, so gentle, So sweetly, efficiently integumental — Each individual's singular vesture His own unique, extrinsic gesture.

So what if it's now a bit bloated and baggy, Blemished and blearied, decidedly saggy?

Still I salute you, congenial skin — You're doing your damnedest to sqeeze me all in. (Martin Fagg)