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The Sun Should Be Run In
Quaking before the copper, she explains: “The sun, so low and bright this time of day, outshone the stoplight, made me look away.” That bloated bloom glints off the glass-strewn stains that decorate the intersection. Pains unloose a yowling from some boy. She may not drive again, end up in jail, replay this broken scene night after night. It rains five days a week, but sometimes heaven leaves a gap in the cumuli, through which the sun’s sharp talons terrorize our eyes. Now sheaves contain her record. Life’s changed in a breath. “Aren’t roundabouts much safer? No one runs a roundabout,” she says and says to death. |
Thanks guys! I'm sure it won't be The Oldie's cup of tea, but I might try elsewhere afterwards.
Peter, reserve me a seat for opening night! |
Martin,
Sorry, I've only just seen your question. There's no hard and fast rule, except they prefer the poem in the body of an email and not as an attachment (for anyone else who may be wondering about that too). My natural inclination (purely based on how I'd prefer it, if I were the judge) is to suggest that each attempt goes into a separate email. That way, Lucy can easily 'earmark' the ones she shortlists (and maybe print them out), whereas if the email contains, say, five or six poems for the same contest it would be a bit more hassle to locate a particular one. But that's only my take on it. Don't fret if you have sent multiple entries in one go, folks; I'm sure they'll all be read and given due consideration, whichever way they're submitted! :) Jayne PS. Martin, it might just be me but I can't quite make sense of this: That bloated bloom glints off the glass and stains that decorate the intersection. The blooms glints off both the glass and the stains? Am I reading it wrongly? |
Bright Start
Ingenious approach, Mary. The 'wouldn't-may' combination sounds a bit rhyme-driven? How about 'It wouldn't be surprising if, this May,/he's crushed . . . ?
Then adjust 'Autumn suns', if necessary, to July or August suns? Only one doctor runs him off to Italy, so they'll? Maybe 'That'll . . .' ? Good luck! |
Thanks, Jerome! I like your monthly murder plan. Summer rains and Autumn suns were quotes from the Keats sonnet, so I'd prefer to keep them, but your suggestion for May would work. My syntax was admittedly dodgy.
I'm afraid "They'll" referred to Italians....how about something like this? ...until his doctor runs him off to Rome. That ought to spell his death. |
Jayne - thanks for your advice about how to submit via email.
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But to make it clearer, I changed it to: That bloated bloom glints off the glass-strewn stains that decorate the intersection. Pains I have fiddled some more with the whole poem, especially the last 2 lines. Any thoughts? |
Yes, Mary, think we associate Keats with Rome rather than the country it's in. After this, you could even things up by writing a paean to Italy for the latest Spectator competition.
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Ann, Mary, kudos! This contest is like a Rorschach test. Fill in the blanks. Or the opposite of a Mad-libs. There is sure to be a winner here.
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The first line of this sonnet ends with "plains."
As you can see, the second ends with "day." Although I wish that I could rhyme away According to my whimsy, I say "stains," And then I end line five (this one) with "pains." It's March, but I prefer to speak of May. The rhymes of Keats are now a game we play, And so, let's all pretend the clear sky rains And that the bare trees brim with rustling leaves, That up above we're glimpsing seven suns, That anyone still uses words like "sheaves." Okay? Now let me stop to catch my breath. There's no way I can end this line with "runs." I know. I know. I beat that joke to death. |
The Vision
It flashed like a meteor above the plains, alighted near the brook at break of day, flustered a flock of geese, which flapped away, and left Hank staring from his porch. Loud stains fading before his eyes, he rose. Joint pains made walking stiff. He hollered, “Hurry, May, they’re back!” The breeze was busily at play tickling tufts of grass sporadic rains left brittle. “Honey, let’s hope to heaven it leaves with us on board this time around.” The sun’s cool morning rays lit up the cows and sheaves as they hobbled toward the vision. In a breath the field was bare. (The limpid brook still runs beyond the house, as safe as they from death.) |
Having spent far too long concocting an indifferent bouts thingummies about a bearded lady I think I may have hit on an easier, though probably not better, way of dealing with the problem. But since it took less than ten minutes to write -- That long? I hear you say -- it does mean that I can get back to my life at last.
Sod Keats Find a line to end in “plains.” Damn! No rhymed couplet. Next comes “day.” Good! Couplet after all -- “away.” Back to opening line rhyme -- “stains.” Easy-peasy. next it’s “pains.” Back to rhyme scheme b with “May” Followed rapidly by “play.” Now we’re back to a with “rains.” Awkward sod, his next is “leaves.” Bloody hell! And now it’s “suns.” Thank God, a rhyme again with “sheaves.” Tricky bugger! Here comes “breath.” At last! A rhyme for “suns” with “runs.” I’m done for, Keats. I welcome “death.” |
Doin't feel too badly about the ten minutes, Martin. We all slow down with age.
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Ooo, Martin, you little cheat! :p
It made me laugh -- but it had better not win!!!! ;) Jayne |
Jayne, I might just go with my bearded lady instead -- now marginally less unattractive with only a moustache! But I am keeping her under wraps at present
But I may not bother at all. Though I once won a bottle of their whisky I have only seldom tried the Oldie comp. of which I am no great fan. The odds against winning are very long with only four being published, and quite often I am surprised, puzzled and rather disappointed by them. Plus, I already have a fat dictionary. Anyway, I hate bouts whatsits. Plus, as the apparent expert, you are probably hatching a clutch of potential winners! |
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Music in the Thirtieth Century
The canyons and the mountains and the plains of lilting melody once made your day as bright as phlox, an age that’s passed away. This thirtieth-century gibberish so stains your nerves with noise and generates such pains deep in your ears, you feel as though you may go mad. You long to hear musicians play the dulcimers which call to mind the rain’s light peaceful droplets pinging on the leaves and viols that sound like thrushes in the sun’s caress. Where are the symphonists with their sheaves of tunes for flutes and horns in need of breath? The colorless cosmic background hum that runs through space is a harp in contrast to this death! |
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"Plus, as the apparent expert, you are probably hatching a clutch of potential winners!" I wish! But nay, not so; I'm not the "apparent expert" just because I've won the bouts rimés twice - it was ELEVEN and then SEVEN years ago! - and I've submitted just the one entry this time. Good luck with your bearded lady, and if you win another fat dictionary that you don't want, would you very kindly donate it to me, please? :) Jayne |
Jayne, I think you will find that the Spectator normally has six winners. It also has a much bigger readership than the Oldie which,alone, i reckon makes it a more worthwhile competition to enter.
The Lit. Rev. was worth winning on the grounds of kudos alone -- notwithstanding that it normally published only four poems. I got lucky. Some reckon that it was the nature of my stuff that induced the Sponsor's withdrawal! Is there any news of any sort of replacement comp? My feeling is that all competitions need more frequent changes of Judges. If this happens at the Oldie before their next copy date I might give my now-only-moustachioed lady a run. But she needs a bit of a trim first. |
My Brother Bob
I’ve never known a fellow who complains as much as does my brother Bob. Each day he blathers so, I want to run away. He walks a lot, though hardly eats, abstains from fish and milk and meat, and yet the pains he claims attack his gut he worries may be signs of something grave; and then the play he labels life — in which the vernal rains rally the spring peepers, and the leaves furnish oxygen, and summer suns stir the birds — will blow away like sheaves of newsprint in a gale. With every breath he utters, I grow weaker. Yet he runs his mouth as if he longs to see my death. |
Prophecy
Maned wolves hunt pacas on the plains, white rhinos forage free all day, while flying foxes flap away in search of nectar. Gruesome stains from wounds, shrieks caused by piercing pains have vanished with the dawn of May, where tamarin and tiger play (though not together!) in the rains that strum the jungly forest leaves or underneath savanna suns. No more do Nature’s glossy sheaves broach doom. Now I can take a breath of pristine air, for she who runs the world thinks more of life than death. |
When Plains Collide
Down here, the children watch the verdant plains out of second story windows each day. The teacher steps out for a few, away from view with issues, wipes mascara stains from her eyes and returns with covert pains, a remembrance of lost love this past May. At recess, the children go out to play until the thunder chases them. It rains here in June before school lets out, the leaves tremble with drops; a thousand Aztec suns couldn't dry her tears any more than sheaves of tissues could, or make the babies' breath come back to life or slow the clock that runs for cover under attack to its death. |
Some bloody good entries here. Charlie, I'm not sure they'd allow airplains!
I crawled desert plains by night and by day, till sun burned away my badges of stains and moon soothed my pains. Hail, Queen of the May! Once more, let me play in warm, mellow rains that nourish crisp leaves and shimmer young suns and glisten bound sheaves. And I rode her breath on the wave that runs from the whorl of death. |
Thanks Peter,
I read Jayne's post really late last night about airplanes, after I posted, but I already had contingency line to fix it and did a minute ago. I don't like it as much. It will pass muster. charlie. |
Microchiroptera
No microchiropteran ever complains when the rawness of autumn creeps into the day, his arthropod prey having fluttered away. With his pals he piles into a cave, then abstains from all food while he hangs like a fuzzball. The pains he’s taken to gain a few grams in the May of his bug-catching bustle will, hopefully, play in his favor, reviving him after the rains and the blizzards retreat. Then, with luck, when the leaves begin to uncurl in the bright vernal suns, diaphanous pinions unfurl, and the sheaves of packed bodies disperse into twilight’s cool breath. Moths and beetles, look out! For exuberance runs intense in his blood as he seeks for your death. |
Not tried writing one of these before. They're buggers, aren't they?
You might imagine that the sound of planes Would carry over from Heathrow all day, But no, not really. People stay away In droves because the name’s so awful: ‘Staines’. Since I moved here last year I’ve taken pains To try and talk it up, and if I may I’d like to tell you all that too much play Is made of Ali G. It often rains And roads and paths get clogged with soggy leaves, But then I’m no admirer of the Sun’s. No poet past or present’s written sheaves Of verse in praise of us or wasted breath Exalting what is here-the bias runs So deep you’d think this place meant living death. I presume that the singular of bouts-rimés is 'bouts-rimé', can anyone confirm? |
Yes, they're buggers all right, Rob, and it always staggers me how many good ones turn up here (damn those clever so-and-sos :rolleyes:)
Loosely translated bouts rimés means "rhymed ends" but it wouldn't really be a poem in the singular! Your entry made me smile; I'd be inclined to italicise Sun 's, as you mean the newspaper. I also thought it sounded as if you'd moved here from another country, which I think you could play up to for even greater effect! How about: Since I moved from the States I’ve taken pains To try and talk it up, and if I may... Not sure whether "Staines" will be permitted but it's worth a punt! Jayne |
Actually Jayne, it's all true, I really have just moved to Staines!
And I most certainly don't mean the newspaper, but the big hot thing in the sky. Thanks anyway. |
If you mean the sun in the sky, Rob, then you don't need a capital 'S'. I think it's better if you allude to the newspaper, though. (No, maybe not, it doesn't make sense. I just read it wrongly, sorry.)
You may have moved to Staines, but I was referring to where you'd moved from ; a bit of poetic licence wouldn't hurt ;) |
I like yours, Rob.
I'm surprised Jayne overlooked "planes." I thought homonyms like that weren't allowed. I've been avoiding them myself. |
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And thanks Jayne for your tips about submissions in emails! |
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Pioneer
I scan the barrenness of arid plains;
I test them well. Mercurial long day Follows deep night: I send my song away On its remotely-answered flight. Heat stains My skin and bakes my heart; I have no pains To speak of, but report my health. May People come to live - their children, play - Upon this land where heavens send no rains? I, vanguard sentinel who never leaves But watches seasonless the arching suns, Know naught of harvesting of sheaves; Hard wealth men seek, from world of furnace breath, So here I am. The data through me runs, Informing whether aught is here but death. |
Graham - good one about Mercury (the least explored inner planet)! Although it's slightly reminiscent of my Mars Rover (post #29), I think in some ways it's more poetic. I like the fact that it's in first person — the "vanguard sentinel" (a robot?) is personified with "I send my song away ..." and "heat stains my skin and bakes my heart." Love it!
If the automaton stands on the day side, it would be cooked of course, but if on the dark side, where it is freezing, it would be safe from the sun's heat. Do you need that comma after "seek" (L12)? Also, L11 is tetrameter, but perhaps that was intentional. Perhaps we'll eventually explore all the planets of the solar system in this bouts-rime challenge. |
In the Oceans of Europa
Beneath Europa’s glazed and crazed ice plains, I bathe in a balmy sea. My day-to-day routine is swimming to and then away from thermal vents, where mineral-smoke stains the deep, and tube worms ease the hunger pains inside my seven stomachs. Come what may, I’ll roam the oceans, watch the interplay among the limpets, clams, and shrimp. Space rains its cosmic rays upon these waters, leaves it full of oxygen. No need of suns for warmth. The algae grow in towering sheaves, providing more than ample air for breath. Although I’m in the dark as my moon runs around her world, it never feels like death. |
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I get agoraphobic in the plains;
out in the flat expanses of the day it feels as if my soul will drift away and join the rainbow's pastel blur of stains that fade into oblivion. It pains my sense to see the buds reborn in May and know how brief the game it is they play. So hide the sun and wash me in your rains, bury me protectively in leaves, cocoon me safely from the far-off suns, wrap me in a thousand loving sheaves, for only when I'm trapped can I draw breath; chain my heart, for only then it runs; death alone can cure my soul of death. |
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