Bishop:
Get good at losing early on,
And you'll not miss things once they're gone.
I treat this as an art I've mastered --
I'm even over you, you bastard.

Trees (Kilmer)

Poems are made by fools like me,
But only God can make a tree.
But God, as far as I can tell,
Unlike me, can’t rhyme that well.

Au Lecteur (Baudelaire)

Of all the foul things you could mention,
pestilence, war and dissension,
it's easy to see that the demon Ennui
is the worst. Or at least in contention.

Brendan, your Bishop may be a winner.

Glad you like it, Roger, though clearly the competition is going to be fierce.

One more before I force myself to give it up:

Shelley:
A giant statue used to stand;
It's toppled now. There's naught but sand
In each direction one may look.
(Worst charter tour I ever took.)

Khan

An artificial pleasure dome,
a fountain chugging through the rock,
a chordophonic damsel's home,
a secret to the — knock knock.

Orwn, this was a LOL for me on a bleak morning. I hope Lucy accepts your extra-textual punch-line!

"... book of New Statesman winning entries (from way back)"

Hah! You call that way back? I once actually got into such a book (by the skin of my teeth) back in the '70s, when the NS competition was run by Julian Barnes, in those days still a mere stripling. Now that's what I call 'way back'.

As for pseodonyms, "Brian Allgar" is not very promising material, but I've managed to come up with a few anagrams - though they've never actually won anything - including "Blair Raglan (no relation to either)".

My Candle

My candle burns at both ends.
It's lovely, yet I frown,
For though I do enjoy the light
I cannot put it down.

Leaves of Grass

A child asks, "What is the grass?
"The handkerchief of the Lord?"
I say, "It helps the time to pass.
Go smoke some if you’re bored."