[John Whitworth]

The TV Crit Competition wasn't attempted by many of us. Bill Greenwell still won of course. You can find the whole thing below under 'Competition'.

Here's something we can all try. In fact I've found a second-hand thing of mine to put in. I'll post it up.

No. 2633: Lost
You are invited to submit a poem lamenting the loss of a small but important object (16 lines maximum). Please email entries, where possible, to lucy@spectator.co.uk by midday on 3 February.

[John Whitworth]

Anyone else remember this?

The Lost Seebakrascope

Throw out my fangs, my stick-on boils,
My stink bombs, my potato-gun,
My fornicator’s unguent oils,
My exploding rat (just see him run!),
My itching powder by the ton,
My pubic wig, my black face soap,
My cornucopias of fun …
Just bring my old Seebakrascope.

Desires as sweet as chocolate mice,
Desires that nothing else can reach,
Want just this submarine device;
It offers more than books can teach:
Young girls undressing on the beach,
Breasts that would tempt the very Pope,
And bottoms downy as a peach …
Yes, bring my old Seebakrascope.

[Martin Elster]

I looked it up and here is what I found:

In the 18th century when opera going and masked balls were in fashion and monogamy was not, how did one keep an eye on one’s husband, wife, lover or mistress without appearing to do so? The polemoscope or ‘jealousy glass’ was one answer. Look through, as though peering straight ahead, and with the help of an angled mirror one can see goings-on to one’s left or right. Marketed as the ‘seebackroscope’ in the 1950s its suggested use was to eye pretty girls or boys on the beach while pretending to look out at sea!

[Spindleshanks]

This is an oldie, too, but may fall across the line with a polish:

Spent, Stolen or Strayed


How desperately I miss it. Though the joy
it gave was often countered by the pain,
what I would give to hold that strange alloy
of precious gold and blemished brass again.
Though slightly tarnished with the vexing stain
that reckless inexperience impressed
upon it, how I hunger to regain
the prize that I so long ago possessed.

So often it's belatedly we vest
our assets with a worth beyond their cost;
we estimate the gifts with which we're blessed
too loosely till they are forever lost.

Lambasted with the rod of self-reproof,
how wretchedly I miss my vanished youth.

oOOo

[Jerome Betts]

THE THING IN A SHEET

Beware, this drama’s quite unclean.
Cast: Undersigned, Defunct Sardine.

I opened up their tomb of tin
And turned out all the fish therein.

And then - oh shame, I hang my head -
I ate them, sitting up in bed.

Which fact, unsavoury but true,
Please blame on solitude and 'flu.

Alas, to loud convulsive oaths
One lost itself beneath the clothes!

After some frantic hide-and-seek
There still remained its haunting reek.

And so for days my room could boast
A faint elusive oily ghost.

[Max Goodman]

The diapers, wipes, and warmers are
all packed securely in the car,
with stroller, car seat, pacifier,
a hair-(spit-up-on-clothing-)dryer,
the breast pump and the nursing bra,
the burp cloths, bottles, formu-la,
the rattle, mobile, music box,
and lots of teeny, tiny socks,
shoes, shirts, pants, blankets--boyish blue--
of course, a change of onesie, too,
and hats and mittens, if there's snow.
We're ready. Where'd the baby go?


Probably too predictable and too full of Americanisms.
Maybe:


Alas, to this week's competition
I cannot contemplate submission.
I have, you see, a one-month son
(As I've been telling everyone).
It took, therefore, no time at all
For me to think about a small,
Important object I'd lament
The loss of. Should this heaven-sent
And infinitely precious prize
Be lost... The thought just horrifies.
All parents are aware my peace,
At such a loss, would fully cease.
Of this misfortune parent folk
Could never even think to joke;
The tragedy would be too dire.
(I mean, of course, his pacifier.)

Is "pacifier" what you folks call it in Britain, too?

[John Whitworth]

If it's the thing you stick in his mouth to shut him up, that's a dummy. I like the first one best.
And, Jerome, re fish, yes I think a sardine from a tin is an object.

[Roger Slater]

THE PIN

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

[Max Goodman]

Thanks, John. You Brits have always got better names for everything. I've been calling it his phony nipple, but "dummy" is much more succinct. I guess the ending should be

It's not a joke to Dad or Mummy.
(Of course, I'm speaking of his dummy.)

Of course, neither of my attempts is a lament, not for the lost object.

Bob/Roger, another gem from you!

[Roger Slater]

Thank you, Max. I liked both your poems but your second poem more than your first, though you had me worried since I didn't see the punchline coming. Congratulations on the baby! There's really nothing better.

One more try:


Lament for a Lost Rabbit's Foot

I've lost the lucky rabbit's foot
I bought when I was ten,
and though I must admit my life
has not gone well since then

(bad health, bad marriage, bad divorce),
make no mistake about it:
life's bound get a whole lot worse
in years to come without it.