In Competition No. 3138 you were invited to submit a poem entitled ‘Lines on a Young Lady’s Instagram’. Thanks to David Jones, who suggested this challenge, a nod to Philip Larkin’s 1953 ‘Lines on a Young Lady’s Photograph Album’ from the collection The Less Deceived (‘My swivel eye hungers from pose to pose —/ In pigtails, clutching a reluctant cat;/ Or furred yourself, a sweet girl–graduate…’).

There were echoes of Larkin-esque perviness in the entry, and stalkerish voyeurism, too, courtesy of Nick Syrett’s twist on Betjeman’s ‘A Subaltern’s Love Song’, which appears below. The witty and accomplished winners earn £25 each.

At last your smart account accepted me,
A newbie in the ranks of insta-snaps:
Nosey, I had a peek beneath its wraps —
The videos I had not thought to see:
All too amusing, or amused, perhaps.

Here you are, for instance, with a jaw
Drivelling blood — a horror-film prosthetic
That looks like death. Is all this weird cosmetic
Your vision of fun? Alas, I can’t ignore
The tattoo shots: they all seem so synthetic.

And are these piercings…? Now I feel I’ve spied.
I shouldn’t work myself in such a lather,
Should log out, or delete all, if you’d rather.
What is this retro filter you’ve applied?
I’d ask you, but of course I am your father.
Bill Greenwell

At last new images are on display!
I cyber-stalk you, feed on what you post.
Bikini pictures nourish me the most,
And this is your first batch since yesterday.
You play with which bare bits the site will host.

Some days you frustrate me with close-ups of
Cosmetics, restaurant meals and pairs of shoes,
So thank you for today’s more pleasing views
Of nearly everything there is to love.
Yourself, not just your stuff, is what I choose

To gaze on. Orate with your naked skin.
Paint words and pictures where your lovers touch.
Let your fans feel you feel for us that much.
Let us feel all the virtue, all the sin.
Flaws make us more whole, strength is just a crutch.
Chris O’Carroll

What Glories! Images from Instagram —
That Medium that proclaims the great I Am!
Behold your Kitten, brushed by careful Art,
A nimble Lover to ensnare a Heart.
See how this Minx extends her infant Paws
And simulates delight with shining Claws;
Her Eyes, wide pools of liquid feline fire,
Plead for the Satisfaction of Desire;
Her Limbs, extended in voluptuous sprawl,
Evoke the Paradise before The Fall;
Your Duvet, dimpled by her Wantonness,
Admits no bounds but lux’ry of Excess.
Oh, how your Choice of Post defines your Rôle
And animal abundance in your Soul.
Rejoicing Followers and Muse unite
To hymn your Instagrams of pure Delight.
D.A. Prince

Miss J. Hunter Dunn, have you hunted and won?
Jemima on Snapchat says he is ‘the One’.
In the tournament pics is it Face like a Stoat?
Or the one in the summerhouse, chewing your throat?

Janice, on Whatsapp, maintains that your squeeze
Is the one on the right of this shot on his knees,
And there’s you throwing up on some hideous mare…
She’s the Adjutant’s sister? Does anyone care?

Here’s one of the Hillman you borrowed from Dad,
And you and your subaltern scantily clad…
He seems a bit startled, perhaps that’s the flash,
Or it might just be cramp with his arse on the dash?

Here’s some shots of the church, yes you look a bit rough,
But nothing else shows that you’re right up the duff;
And reviewing your stalkers, it could have been worse —
Like that clown in the trilby, still scribbling verse.
Nick Syrett

Pictical spectacle,
Instagrammatical
See what she’s written
To humble old me.
Touchingly technical
Perfectly personal
Wondrously witty and
Splendid to see.

Soundly scriptorial,
Proudly pictorial
Using her medium for
Amorous art.
Awesome audacity,
Pure perspicacity,
Cuddlesome closeness
Though miles apart.
Max Ross

At last I reached your Instagram and found
A link that yielded up your username
And profile picture, edited, to claim
My heart: uploaded images abound
As tokens in the social media game.

I longed to touch your hashtag, as you shared
Your photographs and I, distracted, saw
Your features, bland, devoid of any flaw;
Faintly disturbing, yet at last I dared
To send a ‘like’ that promised so much more.

You live your life upon the internet,
Unvariably lovely, you depend
On comments posted by each virtual friend.
I fear to find that, if one day we met,
The real girl’s an illusion in the end.
Sylvia Fairley

No. 3141: sing a different song

In case we all get fed up with ‘Happy Birthday’, you are invited to compose a song to be sung during hand-washing. Please email entries of up to 16 lines to lucy@spectator.co.uk by midday on 18 March. />