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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
No. 2636: Win some…
You are invited to submit either a victory song or a loser’s lament composed by one who regularly enters this competition (16 lines maximum). Please email entries, where possible, to lucy@spectator.co.uk by midday on 24 February.
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