The Poem of the Month for May is Mirror Image by Roger Higgins. The Commended Poem is Check-mate. Game! by Martin Christmas. Poems selected by Anthology Editors, Veronica Cookson and Lindy Warrell from submissions by FSP members read during May. You can read the poems below.
Mirror Image by Roger Higgins
The mirror stretches the full length of the wall
above twin sinks and a ledge cluttered
with skin creams and cosmetics.
You cannot help but see yourself
in excruciating detail from top to bottom,
by which I really mean buttocks.
Hair is thick but more grey than the brown it was
and too long for your age and demographic,
chest hair also grey and not a suitable camouflage
for dark brown barnacles and sunspots,
your heritage from a younger life
of beaches and back-yard games.
Your left shoulder sits a little higher than the right,
askew by a series of strains and sprains,
and you have an older man’s tendency towards breast fat.
A waistline is prominent and masculine if viewed straight on
but imperceptible from the side due to a stomach bulge
resistant to even a moderated consumption of a good life.
There is a shock of curly grey pubes just above the bench top,
then you lose the vision of your best features,
firm thighs and calves maintained by regular walking
which an app tells you averages six kilometres
and twelve thousand steps daily, including eight flights
of stairs, exercise that is more accidental than planned.
You could be a portraitist’s prototype for the phase
between middle-aged and old. Your cataract-encrusted eyes
don’t blur vanity, it seems, or memory,
and you can still see a pretty boy.
Check-mate. Game! by Martin Christmas
Man is full of wonder,
and Man is full of sin.
He never looks above him,
he never looks within.
He’s fond of too much loving,
and fond of too much sun.
He sees his own reflection,
but he’s the only one.
There is no time to think about,
the greatness of this Life.
Never time to query,
if he has caused the strife.
He never ever thinks that he
is partner to the crime,
of wanting too much hurry,
of wasting all his time.
But it really doesn’t matter,
in the long run it won’t count,
if Man has made his mark,
or riches he can mount.
For there never was a funeral,
without a coffin floor.
You never hear the sounds above,
when they’ve closed that last dark door.
Life is the only partner,
the only one who knows,
if you have reaped the harvest,
or lost the seed it sows.
But I hardly think it matters,
the result is still the same.
Death always wins the last round,
and it’s always CHECK-MATE. GAME!