Week 43 – entries and results

Monday, 16 March 2015

Week 43 – Photograph by Chris Sims
Week 43


This week’s beautiful poems took me to unexpected places. The winner is a newcomer to Poetry Space, Glenda Brown with Leaving (poem 3). Many congratulations Glenda. Thanks to everyone who entered and voted.

Poem 1

Seeing Machine


Lines sharpen, far away things seem close,

What was blurred now clear

As land after rain. All that we might lose,

Choose to disregard, infuse

With unimportance just to cope,

All that once we could see,

Again appears much as it used to be.

Life once closed now runs with hope;

For sighted moments no fear


Holds us; all can be seen;

Things that once deceived

Us at distance mean,

Between there and here, something. Routine

Correctors of eyes,

Made fashionably bright

By designer frames, surprise.

We’ve seen, rejoiced, received.


Michael Docker


Poem 2

Without spectacles

one cannot hear   the silence

of the empty page.


Daphne Milne


Poem 3



She didn’t mean to leave

when she left; glasses

and paper accusatory,


abandoned on the cusp

of purpose; a sonnet,

a Jane Eyre, perhaps.


No scratched marks of life:

a refined, elegant fade,

often thought best. Truth,


a splayed mess, ought

never to be seen in public:

but death’s uncouth.


Glenda Brown


Poem 4

Another New Page


Another new page.
This time will be different,
The future starts here.

Martin John


 Poem 5

My Beautiful Eyes


Large eyelashes

irrigating eye colour

over-time vision

leaving eyes texture like grit

sand that made my eyeglasses.


Johanna Boal


Poem 6

In Absentia



No muse

No inspiration


Virgin paper

Mocks me


Like my life


Carol Mills


Poem 7


Mad As a Box of Frogs


Seen without my glasses, the blank page,

Bathed in pools of liquid lamplight, is just a blur:

Streaked with bubbling tadpoles not yet

Bursting from their jelly sacs;

No peeping bull-frogs, cheeping tree-frogs;

No charming princes here yet leaping.


Seen without my glasses, the blank page

Is the bleached white beech-wood timber

Of the ancient farmhouse kitchen table

Where first I learned to read and write.

It is as scoured, just as scary

As my empty, jumbled head.


Seen without my glasses, the blank page

(Even in this asylum’s quiet retreat

With the stagnant pool of lamplight over-spilling me)

Is empty of those popping, hopping frogs

Leap-frogging round my heated brain.

All words are slippery, in retreat.


Lizzie Ballagher


Poem 8

A Spectacle


As if his voice protested

To be in any way connected

To such a failure of a poet

Who can’t compose a simple sonnet

He tried

To think of what to write

He wanted art

And not some blight

Of scattered marks on worn out sheets

Just lines and nothing in between

He’d trashed his room and broke his chair

And yet that paper still lay there

Without a single ink-stained notion

It only smirked in the commotion

He closed his eyes and took a breath

Removed his cape; his writer’s specs

Prepared his brain to fill the page

He waited…

But nothing came

Hannah Southworth


Poem 9

Page Turned

The page fresh turned,
you laid down your glasses,
ran thick fingers through white hair,
pinched the top of your nose,
pen still in mouth,
coffee cup cooling adjacent.

At a stroke
you left
the cottage you loved,
as sun played on blackbirds
and dappled blue tits,
whilst wasps and bees
buzz the blackberries,
the diary of the gardener came to end.

Andrew Scotson


Poem 10

My Father’s Eyes


With mind and heart’s eye,

as clear as if he were here,

I see the beloved man

who passed




He recognised the ridiculous,

appreciated the surreal.

I hear his voice say,

‘Keep an eye



Stephanie Haxton