When Gauguin was visiting Fiji He said things are different here, e.g. While Tahitian skin Calls for tan spread on thin You must slosh it on here with a squeegee.
Brian Allgar had this to say to Mr Conquest:Mr Conquest, your limerick’s cheaty — Stop writing mendacious graffiti! In Fiji? What rot, For the tropical spot Where Paul Gauguin arrived was Tahiti.
It was a record-breaking entry size-wise and there was oodles of wit, skill and originality on display (though I lost count of the number of times ‘Giotto’ was rhymed with ‘blotto’). Jill Green, David Cram, Paul Evans, Caroline Palmer, Andrew Duncan-Jones and Geoff Neden only just missed the cut. The entries below earn their authors £10 each.Chris O’Carroll In New Mexico, Georgia O’Keefe Found dry bones, stark sun, and relief From the Freudian gang With their thing for her thang And their eyes on her floral motif.
Sylvia Smith On a tour of St Peter’s in Rome, Van Gogh told the guide in the Dome: ‘Roman friend, I can’t hear; Could you lend me your ear? I seem to have left mine at home.’
George Simmers While staying in Venice, El Greco Got thoroughly pissed on prosecco. He told several gents, ‘My talent’s immense! Look — I’ll undo my pants — take a decko!’
Alan Millard When Hieronymus Bosch was eleven He boarded a barque bound for Devon. Said the people of Bude As he swam in the nude, ‘He’ll end up in hell, not in heaven!’
John Whitworth In New York there’s a modernist faction Thinks painting should always be action. Round here Jackson Pollock’s A load of old bollocks, But England’s the home of reaction.
Ray Kelley Had Gauguin sailed north to Hawaii, He’d have met with a local quirk, i.e. To comer and goer The same word ‘Aloha’ Sounds hello-y but can sound goodbye-y.
Robert Schechter There once was an artist named Klimt Whose paintings look best if you squimt. You’ll find an abundance Of samples in London’s Museums, and they all cost a mimt.
Philip Machin Michelangelo painted the ceiling Of a semi-detached in West Ealing Pope Julius phoned And politely intoned: ‘Can you come and paint ours, ’cos it’s peeling.’
G.M. Davis Georges Braque dreamed of flying to Mars And the faraway realm of the stars. There was nothing to do In the infinite blue Except painting those bloody guitars.
David Silverman In summer, the young Botticelli Could be found on the beach in Pwllheli, Painting fine aquarelles Of girls standing on shells, Till it rained, when he went and watched telly.
Alanna Blake When Rembrandt crossed old Father Rhine He thought ‘I am his, he is mine: If I come to great fame I’ll add him to my name.’ Now we know him as Rembrandt van Rijn.
C.J. Gleed When Rubens was visiting Chard, His efforts at painting were marred, The Somerset women Had taken to slimmin’ So he stuffed them with doughnuts and lard.
Martin Parker Rothko painted a girl from Bel Air with whom he had had an affair. Her breasts he had found to be perfectly round; but on canvas they both came out square.
Nigel Mace Had Rembrandt resided in Gouda, His colours would just have got louder, Until the Night Watch Resembled a swatch Of fabrics you’d hang on a howdah.
Mike Morrison When Victorian William Powell Frith Met his chums on a binge in Penrith They got utterly wrecked And could not recollect Where they were, why they went or who with.
Albert Black When Salvador Dalí saw Luton He traded his ’tache for a futon He drank Earl Grey tea Each morning at three And danced in the rain with his suit on.
Your next challenge is to submit a poem composed entirely of three-letter words (16 lines maximum). Please email entries, wherever possible, to lucy@spectator.co.uk by midday on 30 September.
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