Competition: Lost

John Whitworth · #1 02-11-2010, 04:42 AM

Competition
Wednesday, 10th February 2010
Lucy Vickery presents the latest competition
In Competition No. 2633 you were invited to submit a poem lamenting the loss of a small but important object.
As I dart around like a headless chicken attempting to track down the latest small but seemingly crucial missing item, the words of ‘One Art’, Elizabeth Bishop’s powerfully understated villanelle, ring in my ears:

The art of losing isn’t hard to master
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster,

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master...

These flurries of panic seem to punctuate my day with increasing regularity as time passes but to judge by your entries I am not alone. Keys, contact lenses, remote control and glasses (they’re on your head!) all conspire to absent themselves at the most inconvenient moment on a maddeningly regular basis.
Appreciative nods to Jayne Osborn, Shirley Curran, Josephine Boyle, Martin Woodhead, Roger Theobald and P.C. Parrish. The winners, printed below, get £25 each; D.A. Prince gets £30.

Each time, I swear, each time I’ll keep it safe
and somewhere labelled, obvious: a jar,
perhaps, or tin, then the elusive waif
can’t disappear (again) or wander far.
WD40’s even found its way
into a poem: U.A. Fanthorpe’s lines
of maintenance, and love. She didn’t say
the wayward probe had got its own designs.
Somewhere, invisible, the scarlet wands
from every tin gang up together, free
from oiling, being useful; cheery fronds
that could have solved so much. But not for me.
The locks stay stuck, the secateurs stay stiff;
the gearing on the old clock’s lost the chime.
So, out to buy another tin. And if
I keep the wand safe, is this the last time?
D.A. Prince

I sought it up the stairs and down the drain,
I sought it in the pans and in the pots,
I searched the house from top to toe again,
I wrung my hands and tied my hair in knots;

A hundred times I scanned the scattered rugs,
Cleared out the cupboards, swept the shelving clean,
Felt behind dishes and upended mugs:
The blasted thing was nowhere to be seen...

O incapacitating blow of fate!
O loss so disproportionate to size!
Unnerved my glasses hang disconsolate.
Samson regained his strength without his eyes,

But Samson surely never read a book —
He had more ostentatious things to do;
Yet I could tear down temples as I look
For that despectacled and vital screw.
Mary Holtby

They sympathised in Oxfam, said
they always tried to check but ...hey!
(The ‘hey’, unvoiced, was what I read
between the words: when every day
there’s piles of stuff to sort and stack
who’s going to clock or care about
a bookmark in a paperback?)
‘But if you are insured, no doubt...’
Insured? Against the loss of what
has no more value than a thought,
a snapshot memory of the spot
where smilingly the thing was bought —
‘It isn’t much but lets you know
you can’t forget me in a book!’
Ironical it’s ended so,
when that’s where I forgot to look.
W.J. Webster

O, where is my plastic pocket comb?
It’s mass-produced and cheap,
But its loss costs me so dearly I
Can neither eat nor sleep.
Although musicians know a comb’s
More than a grooming aid
(A brisk tune hums between its teeth
When it’s expertly played),
Mine is no Euterpean grief;
My flown comb sings to me
Not of mere melody mislaid,
But of mortality.
The pocket’s empty where it dwelt,
My heart’s filled with despair:
I’ve lost my comb, so I can’t pretend
I haven’t lost my hair.
Chris O’Carroll

Forgetful Farrell: early Friday eve
He realised that he had lost the key
To his Toyota, so he couldn’t leave
For Fenway Park, and thus he couldn’t see

The Red Sox-Yankees game, where he’d have caught
A foul ball hit by Derek Jeter; wow!
And later, with the ticket he had bought,
He would have won a raffle. Holy cow!

While exiting the ball park, he’d have spotted
A pretty lady who had fallen down.
He would have helped her up, become besotted,
Then married her, had kids, and moved uptown.

But none of this occurred. Instead, on Friday
He simply watched TV and drank a soda.
His life continued: boring, humdrum, tidy,
Because he’d lost the key to his Toyota.
Mae Scanlan

I’ve lost my tiny little pin.
Disaster, I’m afraid.
Too bad I didn’t also lose
the whole damn hand grenade.
Robert Schechter

Jayne Osborn · #2 02-11-2010, 05:03 AM

John,

Ok so I didn't win, but to get a 'mensh' again in The Speccie is terrific; I'm happy with that, as I was beginning to think Lucy would never notice me!

Congratulations, Roger!

Susan McLean · #3 02-11-2010, 08:41 AM

Congratulations, Chris, Bob, and Jayne!

Susan

Roger Slater · #4 02-11-2010, 08:42 AM

Thanks, Jayne.

Chris O'Carroll is one of us, too, and marks yet another win (I've lost count). His winner here, by the way, is a persona poem. He still has need for a comb. And mine is a persona poem as well. My grenade is safe and sound.