[Jayne Osborn]

No Spherians in this month's line-up, but next month's topic is dear to my heart (I have one as a pet).

Here's the report from Literary Review's Deputy Editor, Tom Fleming:

Noel Petty wins first prize and £300 for his poem on the subject of ‘stalking’; Sheila Sims, in second, will receive £150; and the others printed will receive £10, sponsored by the Mail on Sunday.
The next subject is ‘snakes’; poems to arrive at 44 Lexington Street, London W1F 0LW
(email: editorial@literaryreview.co.uk) by 22 February. Poems must, as always, rhyme and scan (I’ve stopped adding ‘and make sense’, because it’s unnecessary: if a poem’s any good, it will make its own sense).

FIRST PRIZE
The Stalker by Noel Petty
I never should have smiled; I don’t know why
I did it, now. It wasn’t my intent
to lead the poor boy on, give him the eye,
offer him what you’d call encouragement.

But now he’s always there, always the same,
pale, rigid, silent, always on his own,
a bad sign, so they tell me. What’s his game?
it’s getting so I daren’t go out alone.

Perhaps he’s normal, but you wouldn’t know it.
I tell you straight, I think he’s really scary.
Francesca says he’s just a no-hope poet,
a harmless youth called Dante Alighieri.

Harmless? I’m not so sure: look at his gaze.
All right, he hasn’t made a move just yet,
but – girls can sense these things – one of these days
he may do something no one will forget.

SECOND PRIZE
Stalking by Sheila Sims
I’m ’er what picks the stalks off all the plums as they go by
On this conveyor belt in front of me.
Enid finds the dodgy ones that can’t go in a pie
And Annie sweeps the floor and makes the tea.

The factory ain’t a bad place and the wages is quite good
And boss, well ’e’s all right as bosses go
Every year we get mince pies and lovely Christmas pud.
It all could be much worse than this, I know.

But it’s not what I’d ’ave chosen to be doin’ every day.
If I could spell I would have wrote some books.
I should’ve been an organist, except I couldn’t play.
Or a model but I didn’t ’ave the looks.

There’s loads of things I could’ve done instead of what I do.
I wish I could’ve been some nice bloke’s wife
And maybe ’ad some kids but no, I’m sad to say it’s true
That stalkin’s ’ow I’ll spend me bleedin’ life!

Stalker by D A Prince
She’s smaller than the pheasant, yet
in her imagination she’s
a stalker, hunter, killer threat
to all and any bird she sees.

Look how she hunkers down, her ears
tense as antennae, curling tail
in signal sweep; she disappears
behind a blade of grass. To fail

is never a cat’s plan; intent
on killing she enacts the stalk
that’s programmed in her genes and spent
in every role-play, every walk.

Her concentration’s cold as death,
the clench of haunch defines her aim;
her soundless scentless softened breath
makes plain that this is not a game –

until she calls it off. The lawn
is witness to her stretch, her slow
satisfied shake of boredom, yawn:
a cat with somewhere else to go.

The Stalkers by Nick Syrett
They came for me one afternoon
A little after tea,
And pinned me in my easy chair
In front of the TV,
‘At last you’re in our snare,’ they hissed,
Through pointed little sneers,
‘For we are your misfortunes
and we’ve stalked you down the years.

Through the invigilators’ eyes
We watched you thrash and drown,
We hid behind the sofa
When Maria turned you down,
We loafed among the slumping stocks
That took you through the floor,
And sipped your rivals’ sly surprise
As you were shown the door.

Your wives have long since traded up,
There’s nothing on your shelf
But dust and we who, after all,
Are something of yourself.
Your squalls and brawls are relics now,
Irrelevance your road ahead’;
I grinned and raised my empty cup:
‘Just pass the Scotch,’ I said.