[Maryann Corbett]

Okay, folks, special deal here. The Northampton Literature Group is running its annual competition, and the honorable judges are our own John and Jayne. This presents us with an interesting challenge and problem. They, and the Sphere, would like you all to be able to workshop poems for the contest with each other. The stumper is that they mustn't learn who wrote any given poem.

So here's what we're going to do. This is the thread where you can workshop those poems--but don't just put the poem up yourself!

Instead, send it to me. [Originally, this read: send by e-mail. I'm changing that. Send by PM.]


I'll post all the poems under my own logon, so no names will be attached to any of the poems. (And no, I won't be submitting.)

Make sure you check out all the other contest requirements, which are given on the page I've linked to.

I think John and Jayne will look in here for a day or so, in case you have questions for them. If you have questions about sending a poem to me, or can see some problem I haven't thought of, ask away.

[Maryann Corbett]

And we've got our first contestant!

Chicken

As in the movies when the traffic swerves
and skids to miss the hero in its way,
he ran among the cars as if to play
a game of chicken with his mothers nerves;
She wept to see him standing there across
the other side, her perfect, smiling boy,
all rosy-cheeked with death defying joy,
an icon of her momentary loss.
It wasn`t quite a miracle: not quite,
but close. Not Lazarus, or snake and rod,
or water into wine. But who`s to say?
She held him up just like an acolyte
would make an offering and thanking God
fell down upon her knees as if to pray.

[John Whitworth]

Whoever wrote that sonnet, let me tell you it's not only good it's a damn sight better than 90% of what I see in competitions that I judge, have judged. You just would not BELIEVE the dross people think will win them fame and money. Some of it in green ink. I joke not. Of course the good people of Northampton may be much better than that, particularly if they are beefed up with the good people of the Sphere and the WORLD!!!

Good start then.

[Jayne Osborn]

I second that, John.

Just to reiterate Maryann's splendid intro, this is a great, genuine comp, folks (with better prize money than The Speccie and The Oldie!).

It's kicked off well (thank you, whoever you are) and we hope ALL of you will enter!

Free verse, Rhyming AND Humo(u)r - a category to please everyone.

[Maryann Corbett]

Contestant No. 2

“Look at Me— Look at Me” a Verse Maker Said...



“Look at me, look at me”- a verse—maker said

conjunctions proffered- as though by— rarities bred.

As he strode through intent- with mind’s— purpose of stride

Who, from amongst you, - gives a damn what I chide.



Poetry’s fine voice- is what we seek to append

its broken line tells us, - how it‘ll all end.

Though we are still gifted -with wit’s graceless pretence

cognition still poses -its own daedal of —sense.



Scènes à faire of free verse- its canvas crowded with prose

how vers libre does love— deconstruction of rows.

As retourner’s sub-verbal— lay voice on its vector.

A’vant gives its views based -on garde’s -trite —jecture.



So my fake Märchen ends-as my—metric verse do

Where caesura’s problems- presents quite a clue.

Though its seems I’ve lost -that wise poet’s repetend

I have yet to give up -mind’s patient and friend...



So let us not forget that- which our puirtith beget

as we cast there for pŏēsis, - with most versed of net.

Or—nurous path some- stoic readers endure

when we vainly search hope, - for some rich—sinecure.



Yet we will go to our grave- behesting naught

what strange symptoms- be ours if life’s vita needs taught

Where— raconteur’s worth, - saved ne’er sighted- a tale

whose fortunes are fed ill, - by glib— fervours and rail.



So thereon mason’s stone, - its marble slabb’d and bare

what fine minded words -will he cold chisel there

‘ad partes’ bold utterance- would he so it— dare

beseech them stay lusting— in Dante’s shared lair.



So who’d take Virgil’s hand- in such— journey of pain

to man’s deepest evil- and re-compass of Cain

Where dead poets sit- they- thorn- headed a lone

penning ever- their purpose- their prosed— propone.



With ne’er reason’s aether -or causes seek to complain.

when life’s endless search -it gave of verse little gain

and grieves a poets heart -with its own long searched cry

How can they now say that -such— makers words die...



When we through great auras -of our times living past

recall treasured moments- no others surpass

Or corrupts so an image, - own making fair cast.

we see worldly sins,-truth its— dark so a mass.



Sadly obolary—of -our promised lot

sees fabliau deprived -of its velour so sought

where once silken stature- could come to our aid

It’s now prose’s flatted cap-that they so parade.



Loud— shouting is theirs –and new ventures they claim

though we see little sense- in those lines they— rename

When mulct’s malediction -is rough thought we abhor

what use they. - To them- that reads— poetry no more.

[Jayne Osborn]

I must give a gentle reminder to please read the rules, folks, before you actually submit your entries. This one would be disqualified as it exceeds the '40 lines max'.

[Spindleshanks]

Originally Posted by Maryann Corbett

Chicken

As in the movies when the traffic swerves
and skids to miss the hero in its way,
he ran among the cars as if to play
a game of chicken with his mothers nerves;
She wept to see him standing there across
the other side, her perfect, smiling boy,
all rosy-cheeked with death defying joy,
an icon of her momentary loss.
It wasn`t quite a miracle: not quite,
but close. Not Lazarus, or snake and rod,
or water into wine. But who`s to say?
She held him up just like an acolyte
would make an offering and thanking God
fell down upon her knees as if to pray.

If the competition was restricted to sonnets, the judges may question the lack of a clear volta with this, but as that's not the case, that's no issue. It certainly passes muster as a poem. It's well-constructed, metrically sound though lacking in surprises, simply told, easily accessible, but there are a few small issues with punctuation and syntactical logic. Parsing the opening sentence, the simile has the traffic as the subject, wheras the boy becomes the subject in the parallel. Nitty, perhaps, but it gave me pause. The other logic issue lies with the close: "thanking God, fell down upon her knees as if to pray." If she is thanking God, she is praying, surely.
As to punctuation, I would suggest a period to conclude L4, hyphen for death defying, "thanking God" bookended with commas.
Favourite line: all rosy-cheeked with death defying joy."
Nice. All the best with it.

Peter

[Spindleshanks]

A question Maryann, or John, or Jayne; anyone:
How does one submitting by proxy pay the entry fee? We can hardly expect Maryann to cover the costs.

Peter

[Jayne Osborn]

Hi Peter,

The link in post #1 will take you straight to the competition site. You simply email your poem(s) and pay by Paypal.

We tried to get Maryann to stump up for everyone but she wouldn't play ball

[Spindleshanks]

Thanks Jayne. I misunderstood Maryann's role. All clear now.

Peter