[Jayne Osborn]

'Our John' is on a roll - teaset from The Oldie, now 2nd LitRev prize of £150 - well done, John! He and I are (sorry, were, now joined by Bazza's alter ego Iain Colley) the lone members of this exclusive little club. Let's hope once more for another spherian appearance next time. (I'm still pondering the validity of rhyming 'gait' with 'gate', though, but the judges' decision is what counts. And I don't get the 'drunk speak' of the last poem either.)

Here's the magazine report:

This month’s poems were on the subject of ‘party animal’. Iain Colley wins first prize and £300; John Whitworth’s entertaining tribute to groovy Drusilla wins second prize and £150; and the other two printed receive £10 each. Next month’s subject is ‘self-portrait’; poems must rhyme and scan as usual, and arrive at these offices no later than Tuesday 26 October.

First Prize – Party Girl by Iain Colley
She barely has a single inhibition.
Her attitude is not your maiden aunt’s,
Since her temperament’s impulsive, and her movements are convulsive
When at parties she performs her solo dance.

She never waits for anyone’s permission.
Some people find it shocking, even crude;
But she looks quite prepossessing while she’s teasingly undressing,
And she looks like heaven’s blessing when she’s nude.

It’s partly the tequilas that impel her
To sweep aside conventional taboos.
She will ratchet homely revels up to Dionysiac levels
As she pirouettes in nothing but her shoes.

It’s been known for a provoked hostess to tell her
To sling her hook and never come again.
Sometimes such disapproval will result in forced removal,
But she’s popular as money with the men.

Second Prize – Party Animal (1965) by John Whitworth
Groovy Drusilla, you girl in a thousand,
Sweet undergraduate fresher, so glad to get
Out of Saint Hilda’s and walking on air
Over to Merton, your white mini-skirt on,
Your white plastic knee-boots, your white cotton blouse and
Your black velvet ribbon in platinum hair!

Tripping by Magdalen with bag and umbrella –
The boy on the Cherwell, who plays his guitar well,
Blows you the smoke from his long panatella.
Was that the one chatted me up at lunch at
The War-on-Want party on staircase three?
Wonder when I’ll get invited for tea.

Drusilla, you’re making it, taking your chance.
The giant three-quarter’s a trifle distraught as
He sees you pavilioned, enthralling supporters.
And if he’s a Blue – why what’s that to you?
He’ll buy an Elizabeth dinner or two,
You’ll go the Teddy Hall Michaelmas Dance.

Turn past the Lodge then, past scholar and commoner –
Dour Engineers raise their eyes from their beers,
Muttering, spluttering, Look at the bum on her!
Boyfriends? Not boyfriends but just hoi polloi friends,
Drusilla, as sexy and sweet as can be,
Drusilla you’re coming to Merton, to me!

The Party Animal – Lord of Creation by Ted Giles
The Lord of all the Doorsteps with his condescending gait
Inexorably moved on and stepped through one more garden gate;
With much gesticulation spoke of problems he would solve
While submissive minions watched the party animal evolve.

The Lord of all Debates took on his most disarming stance,
And conferred on party members a conspiratorial glance;
By denunciations, challenges and outrage he contrived
To make his minions think that the messiah had arrived.

The Lord of all the Conferences had tried to lead the pack,
But bigger beasts were growling and he wisely feared attack:
When he built up his defences with a rabble-rousing speech
His minions saw no limit to the heights that he might reach.

The Lord of all the Ballots with his doting minions deigned
To watch the count and saw the huge majority attained
By other party animals: his party in defeat
Would not Naturally Select him then for any other seat.

Party animal by D A Prince
She’s through the closing doors, like wine
into a large glass, flailing, falling,
too drunk to hurt herself. Ssshh trine
fu Brn’m? and then she’s sprawling.

Don’t catch her eye. The daily grind,
the heading-home commute-routine
consoles the tired suburban mind.
We do not know the party scene.

Ssshh trine fu Brn’m? She’s beautiful,
that natural beauty no one gets
from early nights, being dutiful,
restricting drink and cigarettes.

No Smoking. But she still lights up
and no one says a word. May be
that gang she left are partying on.
She’s for the next, the fastest, free.

It’s out there somewhere, hot and loud.
Her party: it’s the place to go.
24/7, the usual crowd.
Ssshh trine fu Brn’m? We do not know.