In Competition No. 2915 you were invited to submit limericks featuring a well-known artist and a destination of your choice. This challenge was spawned by a limerick Robert Conquest wrote about Paul Gauguin:
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 penned this response:
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’). The entries below earn their authors £10 each.
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.
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.’
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!’
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!’
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.
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.
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.
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.’
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
No. 2918: Threesome
You are invited to submit a poem composed entirely of three-letter words (16 lines maximum). Please email entries, wherever possible, to firstname.lastname@example.org by midday on 30 September.