[Jayne Osborn]

Congratulations to Alison and Brian, and also to Peter for an HM. I wonder whether L8 of Mary Hodges' poem ought to read: ''And didn’t see the little children coming out to play.'' Also, the penultimate line is missing some punctuation. I've typed the page as it appears in the magazine, so any mistakes are theirs!

Next comp is “A Smell Recalled’’ (see new thread)

Jayne

The Oldie Competition
by Tessa Castro

In Competition no 191 you were invited to write a poem called ‘What the eye doesn’t see’. It was an excellent postbag. Peter Goulding’s catalogue of overlooked domestic flaws had a twist at the end.
Amid much misery, D A Prince was consoled by blindness to distress. Nigel Phillips typed deliberately error-strewn lines of some ingenuity. Commiserations to them and congratulations to those printed below, each of whom wins £25, with the bonus prize of a Chambers Biographical Dictionary going to Mary Hodges.

She didn’t see the sunrise lighting up the scene;
She was busy watching pictures on her iPad’s tiny screen.
She didn’t see the lovely views, the trees, the grass, the flowers;
She was editing her Facebook page, been doing it for hours.
She didn’t see me wave to her or hear my cheery greeting:
She had a ton of tweets to read and then do some re-tweeting.
She was tapping on her tablet in a thoughtful kind of way;
And didn’t see little children coming out to play.
She didn’t see the daffodils, the poet’s inspiration;
She was messaging and texting, head bent in concentration.
She was talking on her iPhone, some grave matter on her mind
She didn’t see the HGV. She was mown down from behind.
Mary Hodges

In the dim, curtained cubicle, firm hands
press a sensor hard against the ribs
in one place and another, then at last,
‘All right, you can get dressed.’ In bright neon
the shirt and sweater feel muggy and rough.

Part the curtain and find a large screen
on which a heart is palpitating fast.
The question must be asked. ‘Um – is that mine?’
‘Yes.’ She seems pleased by the interest.
‘This valve isn’t really opening. You’ll
need to see a cardiologist. We’ll write.’

Outside, the flat, white-frosted fields
seem to hold their breath in the cold air
and give no hint of seed that lies concealed,
slowly developing. It will emerge
when ready, ruthless and quite magical.
Alison Prince

I think that I shall never see
In grains of sand, eternity.

Nor do I think I’ll ever see
The genitalia of a flea;
The pleasures of polygamy;
The place I hid my front-door key;
A char who spurns a cup of tea;
A sight-unchallenged referee;
A cheese that’s quite as round as Brie;
A lunch that is entirely free;
A chocolate-covered anchovy;
A trumpet-playing bumblebee;
A whale nesting in a tree;
A wombat that can water-ski.

I think that I shall never see
A poet sillier than me.
Brian Allgar

To bed. Oblivious, I spend the night
With things invisible to mortal sight.
A million mites are living, working, dying,
Eating, sleeping, playing, multiplying,
In warmly human, welcome, musty places:
Mattress, blankets, pillows, pillow-cases.
Magnified five hundred-fold, these bugs
Resemble misshaped mammals, mutant slugs.
Headless pigs and scaly camels thrive;
Queen bee lobsters rule the hidden hive.
(If the room’s not cleaned, their microscopic faeces
May cause an itchy nose and sneezes.)
The mites are found, not only in the bed;
They also flourish on my friendly head:
Eyebrow-, eyelash-living, haunting hair and beard.
It is marvellous and weird.
Roger Rengold