ISLE of

"

ISLE OF

COMPETITION

JURA

51,G11 WAIT 1(0101.1115K1

Reflective

Jaspistos

IN COMPETITION NO. 1858 you were invited to write a poem entitled 'On Looking in a Mirror'.

Here's Matthew Prior on behalf of the ladies: Venus, take my votive glass: Since I am not what! was, What from this time I shall be, Venus, let me never see.

And here's John Updike for the gentle- men, on shaving off a beard:

The scissors cut the long-grown hair; The razor scrapes the remnant fuzz. Small-jawed, weak-chinned, big-eyed I stare At the forgotten boy I was.

Another colossal entry, with male morale holding up rather better than female under the brutal test. The prizewin- ners, printed below, get £20 each, and the bonus bottle of Isle of Jura Single Malt Scotch whisky goes to Basil Ransome- Davies.

The mirror face is nice and wise, a lively visage, slightly lined, inclined to smile and sympathise. But there's a face that lies behind the face that lies. This face denies all kindliness. It's more inclined to hint at wiles and sly surprise, and thanks to this effect I find the surface face's slick disguise,

its false bonne foi, is undermined.

A doubleness, I realise: the first face is a fake, designed to fool and dupe. Contrariwise, its shadow is the candid kind, the naked Id. With icy eyes, I stare my own reflection blind.

(Basil Ransome-Davies) What, you again? My God, you've changed a lot Since we were partners on the tennis court,

And I would leave to you that backhand shot I couldn't play the way I wasn't taught.

Is this the frame that in the Thirties raced A slow ish mile around the Oxford track, Now somewhat more extensive round the waist And plagued by stiffness of the lower back?

Are these the feet that slogged those weary marches Along those awful cobbled roads of France, That suffer nightly cramp and fallen arches And can no longer bear to join the dance?

We both of us endure arthritic pain Despite the blessings of a metal hip: Meanwhile you can be sure we'll meet again Tomorrow on our alter-ego trip.

(Peter Hadley) The white hair still surprises, The bloodshot eyes appal, The chins of several sizes Cry out for overhaul.

Eccentric hairs sprout freely From eyebrows, nostrils, ears: An unkempt Denis Healey Undignified by years. I check the rearview mirror. Has she seen us?

And is that her face in the car behind?

And does she stare from Polos and Cortinas?

Or is it guilt that's playing with my mind?

And if so, why? It's not as though I've chucked her.

This lesson hardly constitutes a breach Of trust, I'm only with this new instructor While she is unavailable to teach.

But still, I should have said, I should have told her.

Is that her car, about to overtake, Or in the blind spot just behind my shoulder, In all three mirrors as I hit the brake?

And while I fight these visions, how the hell Am I supposed to learn to drive as well?

(Sophie Hannah) This Audenesque appearance Of crevices and crags Betokens an adherence To alcohol and fags.

A physical disaster At only forty-three!

How did I make run faster The law of entropy? (Peter Norman) Expecting to confront a photograph, it's always struck me how my face is foxed: the smile of recognition, or the laugh is lost: as if my memories were boxed and filed away, as if my former self were somewhere where, forbidden to belong, I waste away. The mirror on the shelf is at an angle, crooked, sends the wrong reflections back. I half-engage my eye, and squeeze them in an effort to recall the child who took the future by surprise. Of course, the picture's no surprise at all.

I never knew that mouth which, in its pink, expected to persist, to persevere.

I comfort it, and offer it a wink: at least it's there, and —probably — I'm here.

(Bill Greenwell)