The Oldie: Strad Monorhyme
 

Bill Greenwell won £25 for a brilliant poem which I'm sure you'd all like to see. Bill, post it up. I was just out of the money. Damn! I have already wasted hours on this month's effort.

Competition No 119. Scientists have been seeking the secret of the Stradivarius violin. A poem, please, in which all the lines rhyme with 'Strad'. Maximum 16 lines.

Entries to 'Competion No 119' by 18th December. email comps@theoldie.co.uk - don't forget to include your postal address.

This is me saying that the thing doesn't SAY the poem has to be about the Secret of the Strad. But I suppose it might MEAN that.

John, was that the curse competition involving pedestrians, cars, and bikes? (Just making sure I have been skunked.)

Editing back: Maybe not--that was the Spectator; this is the Oldie. (Not skunked, perhaps, but not skilled in reading comprehension.)

The preference for Guarnieri fiddles was a fad,
for none of them had the quite the sound that Stradavari had;
they were to the violin as, to the camera, Hasselblad,
unlike the Dyson to the vacuum which was merely "not too bad".

The secret Stradivarius knew was passed on by his dad;
he learned to lacquer and to purfle when he was nought but a lad.
He died without divulging it, which made the scientists sad
and so a secret Strad symposium was held in Stalingrad.

Was it wood, or wax, or glue, or tacks? A special kind of brad?
Whatever could explain the plaintive beauty of the Strad?
They examined one with X-rays and a radio doo-dad,
but even ultraviolet light could not enlighten them a tad.

It's just a fiddle, faddle, fiddle, faddle, fiddle fad, the Strad.
You've got God's gift to mankind there beneath your chin - play it!. Be glad!

Philip

OK - Thomas Beacham's line was funnier and he got there first. To a lady cellist:

"You've got God's gift to mankind there between your legs - and all you can do is sit and scratch it"

I second this. Bill evidently wins enough of these contests to make a living at it, and we never get to see the results.

Straddle

Bob wrote a great sestina for his Strad,
and Edna often brought her handsome Strad
along on assignations, for the Strad
had such incredible appeal that Strad
afficionados liked to take their Strad
to bed with them; get naked with a Strad -
a girl I knew had threesomes with the Strad
as bait, her resonating box, her Strad.

But times have turned, as turn they must, and Strad-
ivarians now chant the Zen of Strad:
Become one with the Strad, the gladly Strad-
besotted drone. Be vibrant wood. The Strad
will sing to you, and as you hold your Strad
you'll learn at last the secrets of the Strad.

Michael

Damn - why didn't I think of that!

This has something (everything) of the Ghazal about it.

All hail.

Philip

The rules don't stipulate perfect rhyme. Might this have a chance if I enter it under the name Rowena Wilfred?

Stradegy

Just what he did’s the biggest rid-
dle. Every luthier’s tried
and failed. Too bad. We stalk old Strad,
but still can’t match his stride.

The way he glued? We’ve misconstrued.
The way he planed? We've strayed.
High tech and CAD might coax from Strad
the secrets of his trade.

We must succeed! His genius treed,
we’ll dance where genius trod!
The woods employed? Long since destroyed.
Our gold-spun hopes are strawed.

Now Philip, you are just being difficult. Enter it under the name Eileen Dover and YOU give the winnings to charity. Just don't forget to put your own name and address to the entry or they won't know where to send the cheque.

Michael. That is so good you have to try it.

Here is mine. It is brief, if nothing else. I shall enter it, if only because I ALWAYS enter if I have finished something. I have won with something I didn't much like and failed (as in this month's Oldie) with what i consider a masterpiece. Such is bleeding life.

Strad Jeremiad

My dad had
an uncle Vlad
from Petrograd
who gave the lad
a Strad (egad!)
and forthwith bade
him play – my dad,
was very glad.

But big bad Brad,
an utter cad,
purloined that Strad
from daddy’s pad,
which made him mad,
more than a tad,
and, we might add,
a little sad.

John

I obey - master! It is done. Eileen Dover and I. Tookit-Well

Philip

This was three lines longer until I noticed the line limit and had to forcibly excise the excess. It never made much sense, but it made more sense at 19 lines.

MUSIC HISTORY

A crowd can be deluded, even mad,
embracing every silly, passing fad.
One time, for example, my own dad
made a sort of bagpipe out of shad,
and though it smelled and sounded rather bad
(and dad looked quite ridiculous in plaid)
in my hometown his fishy bagpipe had
a year or two of making people glad
before they said, "You really cannot add
a fish to bagpipes. What's next? Oboe scad?"

The world's first violin was whiny, sad.
It won Gold in the Noise Olympiad.
Then to the rescue came Sir Galahad,
a man named Stradivarius. (Michael? Vlad?
No, Antonio). He fussed a tad,
until it sounded perfect, like a Strad!