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Life is an infinite continuum, feeding on its own death. Our mortality, real and imagined, lives within. We can always see these truths with a discerning eye. The mirrored images that seem like two, are but one, a parallel universe whose paths cross like a wisp of wind, we are all of one time, like prose and poems written in separate centuries, but of the same struggle. There, always there, truth never hides, except for those who don’t seek it  for fear of what they might find. From light to dark we fly in different directions though toward the same destination. What matters is what we do on our flight. Do we see the paths of leaves as they float on the pond, the reflection of the sky beyond, and the trees, who have now shed their leaves but will reflect full in the spring; beneath the leaves, the roots of the lily pads  and the stare of a wary carp who looks from his world as we do from ours? We must find time on our journey to read, play a game, or simply sit and wonder at the marvels around us, for death will come in its own time…

UK National Poetry Contest 2013


Blog Posted:5/1/2014 8:37:00 AM
This the UK--check out the awards in Pounds--multiply X 1.35 for dollars

The National Poetry Competition 2013

Congratulations to Linda France, who has won the National Poetry Competition with her poem 'Bernard and Cerinthe'

Linda France

The judges said  "‘Bernard and Cerinthe’ is as much a pleasure to read on the page as it is on the tongue, and as such was the unanimous choice of the judges for first place in this year’s National Poetry Competition." Click here to read more. Read the Press Release here.

Image: Linda France, by Hayley Madden 

 

 

Winning poems

First Prize: 'Bernard and Cerinthe' by Linda France (£5000)
Second Prize: 'Among Barmaids' by Paula Bohince (£2000)
Third Prize: 'Love on a night like this' by Josephine Abbott (£1000)

Judges

  • Julia Copus
  • Matthew Sweeney
  • Jane Yeh
     

Winning Poem

Linda France

Bernard and Cerinthe

If a flower is always a velvet curtain
onto some peepshow he never opens,
 
it’s a shock to find himself sheltering
from the storm in a greenhouse,
 
seduced by a leaf blushing blue
at the tips, begging to be stroked.
 
He’s caught in the unfamiliar ruffle
of knickerbockers or petticoat, a scent
 
of terror, vanilla musk. If he were
not himself, he’d let his trembling lips
 
articulate the malleability of wax;
the bruise of bracts, petals, purple
 
shrimps; seeds plump as buttocks,
tucked out of harm’s way, cocos-de-mer
 
washed up off Curieuse or Silhouette.
But being Bernard, he’s dumbstruck,
 
a buffoon in front of a saloon honey
high-kicking the can-can. Can’t-can’t.
 
He attempts to cool himself, thinking
about sea horses, Hippocampus erectus,
 
listening to the rain refusing to stop, 
soft against the steamed-up glass.
 

Click here to read more about Linda and the winning poem, and watch the 'Bernard and Cerinthe' filmpoem by Alastair Cook

 

Second Prize

Paula Bohince

Among Barmaids

There was a metal door that took both hands
of a strong man to open
 
but we did it daily. Inside were our charges, sealed in
submarine darkness. We swam
 
through their booze, past the pool
table’s alien island, darts that thwacked the pricked wall
 
like failure itself, spinning like downed ducks
to the filthy tile. Like good dogs, we fetched them.
 
In a windowless silence, we watched our drunks
bend like sycamores in an all-day snowstorm.
 
When they slept, we let them, then shook them
with the tenderness of mothers.
 
They woke and smoked, still dreaming, wore their trade
on their fingers—coal or dirt or grease.
 
On the jukebox, five songs repeated, each a lament
about cheating women. We hummed along,
 
bore the plodding joke, slurred compliment,
nodded at creased photographs of estranged children.
 
The beer rose in gushes. Our forearms bulged.
One girl, what she wanted before she died
 
was to see the ocean. Froth pillowed up
from subterranean barrels, through pipes and pulleys.
 
We wore out our pity, watching men stroke the bar
like the hardened brushed hair of a daughter.
 
We wore ours in scarves. Our hoop earrings swayed
on the downbeat. We held rags
 
or tucked them in jeans, tattooed the names
of ex-husbands, first lovers, into our skin
 
in script so thick and Bible-elaborate as to be illegible.
One wore her drugged-out son’s childhood face
 
on her wrist, his doomed grin following us.
Men brought their kids when the wives needed peace.
 
We gave them Cokes and bowls of cherries,
let them draw on napkins and pinned up the drawings.
 
Sometimes we spun them on the make-believe dance
floor, trying to turn despair into a party.
 

Click here to read more about Paula and her poem, and to watch the 'Among Barmaids' filmpoem by Idil Sukan

 

Third Prize

Josephine Abbott

Love on a Night Like This

Outside, air is balancing itself. We can hear
branches in motion, some twigs breaking,
 
wires like violin strings, trees breathy as bass flutes.
The acoustics of friction. The science of equilibrium
 
isn’t at all easy. Effort is needed
to walk against the wind. Love isn’t easy.
 
Something – a plastic pot or a chair –
skitters on a path. A bin tips over.
 
Tonight, things are on the move:
leaves, dead and alive; seeds; fences;
 
flying insects and spiders new-worlded;
birds made helpless as plastic bags;
 
dust, sand, water, all turned to spray
and spread. Small trees blow over.
 
We are skittering on a path
though we’re heavy with flesh, bone, eyes, tongues;
 
we’re sea-birds in the teeth of a gale
trying to anchor ourselves in place;
 
we’re storm-petrels, called little Peters because
we only look for a while as if we can walk on water;
 
Mother Carey’s chickens;
oiseaux du diable.
 
Somewhere else, seas heap up and crests break.
Here, we’re ditching meteorology for myth:
 
the wind’s a creature broken out of a cave;
a wolf, and this is Ragnarök.
 
Glass breaks; a car alarm sounds; trees wrench.
There’s a science and a logic to loving you,
 
but there’s superstition on a night like this 
and all the stirring of the world to settle first.
 

Click here to read more about Josephine and her poem, and to watch the 'Love on a night like this' filmpoem by Kate Sweeney. 

 

Commended

Elaine Gaston

Push-bike

She wrapped a tea-towel around buns or a brack,
packed sandwiches into a bread-bag
and strapped me into the seat on the back.
 
I pressed against her, arms around her waist,
her strong swimmer’s legs pushing us up the brae,
(legs that had saved a child from a whirlpool one day
 
in Donegal). Long grasses, cow parsley
crowded us as she worked and swayed
and sang, ‘then up she goes to Antonio
 
with his ice cream cart’; on evenings in summer
we called with neighbours,
Annie’s sick brother, Jamesy’s mother.
 
One August evening, daylight almost gone,
she clicked the dynamo on, I heard its secret song,
‘up we go, up we go, oh Antonio’,
 
the lamp flickered in time with the pedals
when she stood up in the saddle for the hill.
Down the other side it was all freewheel,
 
midges, swallows, hedges flitted past
till we spun faster, faster,
her blowing hair and laughter
 
were all a blur,
as the warm air and wheels’ whirr 
lulled me to sleep against her constant back.
 

 

Commended

Carolyn Jess-Cooke

Hare

I kept you in bed with me so many nights,
certain I could hold the life into you,
certain that the life in you wanted to leap out, hare-like,
go bobbing off into some night-field.
For want of more eyes, more arms
I strapped you to me while I did the dishes, cooked, typed,
your little legs frogging
against the deflating dune of your first home.
Nested you in a car seat while I showered, dressed,
and when you breastfed for hours and hours
I learned how to manoeuvre the cup and book around you.
Time and friends and attitudes, too.
We moved breakables a height, no glass tables.
Fitted locks to the kitchen cupboards, door jammers,
argued about screws and pills someone left within reach.
I’ll not tell you how my breath left me, how my heart stopped
at your stillness in the cot, and who I became
when at last you moved. There is no telling
what skins of me have dropped and shed in the fears
I’ve entered. What I will say is that the day
beyond these blankets, beyond our door
is known to me now, fragile as moth-scurf,
its long ears twitching, alert, 
white tail winking across the night-field.
 
 
 

Commended

Debbie Lim

Gift of the Sloth

To live like this demands a talent for hanging
by toenails curved as a Balinese dancer’s
 
for over a decade. For clinging the soft pendulum
of your body to a tree (in wind, hail or heat)
 
because your life depends on it. Even though your muscles
are weak as ribbons, your eyes sightless buttons.
 
It means improvising for rain: growing fur backwards
so torrents sheer off you like a rock in a stream,
 
then allowing yourself, over time, to green
in empathy (for what is there in life, really, to envy?)
 
with algae and photosynthesis. Your coat will provide
a travelling luxury for beetles, moths and mites. Let it.
 
You must appear to be a handbag of dripping moss
with a face (that someone left behind in the forest).
 
Of course, there will be the skill of forgetting
babies whose grip was not enough. Avoiding jaguars
 
during weekly visits to the ground. But most of all,
shall be the gift of knowing your one modal tree,
 
leaf by leaf, like the slow lover you are 
high up in the canopy.

 

Commended

Danica Ognjenovic

Birdfall

We were three hours at sea
 
When the birds began to fall;
 
Tired from the fog and cold,
 
Some rested on the decks
 
While we fished for food
 
In that blind rolling water;
 
Specks of beating life
 
In a world too big to picture,
 
They took off once more
 
Into the mist and rain. We said
 
A prayer for them, and we
 
Prayed for ourselves again.
 
 
 

Commended

Ken Taylor

crepuscule with nellie (take six)

we make choices. sometimes it’s watching phoebes erase moths
from clover months after the family jaunt across texas: weather
 
parroting miles & miles of trouble. dirt roads going nowhere or
to a lozenge pattern: evidence of local color hiding something all
 
over the place in the same kind of building. other times, we find
ourselves on a plane over a large body of water & the headphone
 
jack defective. yet, if we complain, compensated only with a wink
& reminder our seat cushions float. was it late afternoon saturday?
 
you were wearing the t-shirt we both like: i can’t, i’m waiting for
godot & the kid on the bus asked, what’s go dot? we can choose
 
to loiter in the past: munich, on some straße, trying to decode
menus to avoid eating der blaue reiter for the 4th time this week.
 
breathing a shade of cinnamon we weren’t sure existed. & birds
again, only this time crows, rowing in an iron· sky & mispronouncing
 
klee! klee! klee! ten-thousand foot view is the distance we want
to be seen by: not a river wandering to find more river. scar tissue
 
passes for meaning. gristle: gist. police talk to their shoulders instead
of using them to brachiate. we all chose to throw rocks over arboreal
 
locomotion. a trifle that springs to mind is catching fish with balls
of white bread. we wonder if there’s pond life with this shape
 
that hasn’t been discovered & can be named for a relative who
botched their days. eventually we succumb to tabula rasa & sell
 
the suburban. love is noticing the eyes of another being picked 
up in a tie. everyone improves in the proximity of our affection
 
 
 

Commended

Tom Warner

CCTV Central Control

Eight-hour shifts on rolling nights wouldn’t suit some
– people with kids and a wife – but the money’s okay
and I’m my own boss, in a way, or at least it feels like that
when I pan across girls stamping their feet in the taxi rank,
 
zoom in on men squaring up in the street between bars,
or watch a woman sat against the glass of the Turkish Kebab,
head lolling between her bare knees, all her long hair
covering her face. They never look into the camera.
 
The Eye in the Sky, that’s the game I play in my head,
but this job takes serious discretion: Outside of work,
you must never discuss what you see on your screens.
I switch between twenty; the others work ten at the most.
 
Some stick it out for a year or so, then leave or get asked to go.
Darren I know fell asleep on the job. His phone was flashing
and flashing and flashing on the desk next to mine.
Operatives must demonstrate excellent concentration, Darren.
 
Ashley in Archives was sacked for leaving a door unlocked.
Most of the time nothing much happens, just the silent film,
the roll of drunken friends hanging from each other’s necks.
My colleagues find ways to pass the time. I don’t join in.
 
Never record over a shift. I liked Ashley, but sometimes the film
tells it wrong and I’ve been doing this job long enough to know
what’s a crime and what’s just two people fooling around.
These things would be better with the sound turned up.
 
My dad always said I’d never amount to anything
staring at a screen all night, but here I am, doing just that:
a free man with a one-bed rent on the seventh-floor
of that mirrored-glass tower he hated. I’m my own man
 
and when I get home after a shift, I pull a chair up to the glass
like it’s some massive VDU on which I watch the sun
and all those city workers rising from the ground, 
changed, wiped clean, as though nothing was ever as it was.

 

Commended

Patricia Wooldridge

I Stop Wearing the Mini-skirt, 1972

I listen to Jimi Hendrix, Foxy Lady, in the dark, drink milk
in chilled cartons on Victoria Station. Beyond the factory
hours of vacation working, I don’t know what I’ll do.
 
The two of us deep in the forest, summer
under two-man canvas, the tearing rasp of cows
at night and will they see the guy ropes?
 
I don’t know if I want a baby.
 
I review my life:
I love The Nutcracker Suite, being at the ballet –
my neighbour’s treat – still dreaming the dancer.
 
Does my English teacher want her poetry books back?
Twenty more years before I know she told them
I’d be a writer.
 
How will I survive being away from you, behind the door
of this university room?
You hitch-hike all the way to see me.
 
They would have loved a proper wedding – dad
to give me away, mum fussing round the bridal gown,
petting the grandchildren already born.
 
I stop wearing the mini-skirt.
I don’t know that I do love you is not forever. 
I read Rachel Carson and believe the sea is dying.

THIS IS THE 2012 WINNER__LOVE IT

Winning Poem

Patricia McCarthy

Clothes that escaped the Great War

Not the familiar ghosts: the shaggy dog of Thorne Waste
that appeared only to children, the chains clanking
from the Gyme seat, nor the black barge at Waterside.
 
These were the most scary, my mother recalled: clothes
piled high on the wobbly cart, their wearers gone.
Overalls caked in dung, shirts torn from the muscle strain
 
of heavy hemp sacks, socks matted with cow-cake
from yards nearby, and the old horse plodding, on the nod.
Its uneven gait never varied whether coming from farms
 
where lads were collected like milk churns, or going back
with its harvest of dungarees scented by first fags,
notes in pockets to sweethearts; boots with laces undone,
 
jerseys knitted – purl, plain – around coke fires.
And the plod, plod, quadruple time. Then the catch
in the plod from the clank of loose shoes, from windgalls
 
on the fetlocks of the horse, each missed beat on the lane
a missed beat in a heart. As a small girl she could see –
at their windows – the mothers pressing memories
 
too young for mothballs into lavender bags, staring out
propaganda posters, dreading the shouts of telegraph boys
from lines of defense and attack. As the harness creaked
 
and the faithful old horse clopped forward and back,
the lads were new-dressed in the years never to be had,
piled higher than high over the shafts of the buckling cart.
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  1. Date: 5/3/2014 12:15:00 AM
    I tried about ten times posting something on this blog...with tears streaming down my face....and somehow I couldn't do it on my mobile. Divine intervention? Now my post will be less desperate and passionate, but.....my dream has died! This blog, the previous one, the comments....all make me see that I don't have what it takes to get anywhere REAL with my poetry....my simplistic, old fashioned, infantile poetry. My last last dream......gone up in smoke. It was all I had to keep me going at times. Poetry, my last passion...Now, I can't put "pen to paper"..."fingers to keyboard"...knowing...what the intellectuals, what the editors, what the WORLD OUT THERE reads. It's not me, and I'm devastated.

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    Manassian Avatar Eileen Manassian Date: 5/5/2014 9:21:00 AM Block poet from commenting on your poetry

    Craig...I wrote this in my denial and mourning phase. I'm better now, and can come back and thank you! I sense you are out of sorts with me...I surely hope not! I surely hope not! Hugs
    cornish Avatar craig cornish Date: 5/3/2014 8:33:00 AM Block poet from commenting on your poetry

    Eileen Ghali---oh ya, isn't she on poetry soup----Linda France, not a clue? lol---keep your chin up
    cornish Avatar craig cornish Date: 5/3/2014 8:31:00 AM Block poet from commenting on your poetry

    Hundreds perhaps thousands!
    cornish Avatar craig cornish Date: 5/3/2014 8:30:00 AM Block poet from commenting on your poetry

    You keep working on it just like me Eileen and all will be okay. Anyone anywhere near normal will never know the names of these people when hundred know your name here!! XXOO
    Manassian Avatar Eileen Manassian Date: 5/3/2014 12:20:00 AM Block poet from commenting on your poetry

    How could any of you understand what this means to me? I have to be working on my thesis on collaborative writing as a means to enhance motivation and I've been spending my time HERE...HERE with poetry...with words floating around in my head...being thrilled with some contest results...hoping...dreaming....having some tell me that I should pursue my "talent". So, either all these people are disillusioned or simpletons as I am! I know this is meant to EDUCATE, but no amount of head knowledge can make one adept at this form of writing. I've lost my passion and my will to write. You have no idea how heartbroken I am. I feel lost...absolutely lost in this world. I do write free verse. Surprisingly, on the link that says Best Eileen Ghali poems, most of them are free verse, but slant rhyming, enjambment are not me...nor will they be. Kiss it all goodbye, Eileen, you silly silly goose.
  1. Date: 5/2/2014 9:23:00 PM
    Craig, I am going to have to study up on all this so I can blog about it. I think there is a difference in the way people perceive the world and the world of art. true intellectuals crave the type of poetry that is here in the top three. Simpler people might prefer the ones here lower on the list. I think it has to do with the way our brains are put together. haha! Don't know how to explain it, but the way some of the free versers here write, it is something i could never do in a hundred years!! I cannot see an object and think of a way to express it with words that do not make sense to me, so when I read this kind of stuff, it's too difficult for me to enjoy it. Does that make sense?

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    cornish Avatar craig cornish Date: 5/3/2014 8:25:00 AM Block poet from commenting on your poetry

    We share much in common that way, if I have to read something10 times to translate it I lose interest although I respect the art their audience is restricted to a very small group. I can, however, appreciate what Charlotte and Cyndi and Debbie write and Chris and Catie and Marlon and others but mostly they do not go as far off the map as some of these poets do and those on Cyndi's blog.
  1. Date: 5/1/2014 11:06:00 PM
    Craig, this is nice to show us. My favorite is not among the top three. I read about halfway down this list, and found my favorite near the middle was the commended "push bike" poem. To me it is simply easier to read. I like the format better and it does not feel so "high brow" to me. I guess I am a simple girl with simple tastes. What the poem SAYS is stuff I can really relate to also. The third place is the most difficult to understand. I liked the first two but the weird enjambment between couplets is not to my liking. For me a verse, a couplet, are contained Thoughts. Why carry them over? not my fave style to read or write. I was born in the wrong century! (many Soupers were!!!)

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    Dietrich Avatar Andrea Dietrich Date: 5/2/2014 8:22:00 PM Block poet from commenting on your poetry

    it's all about lucidity for me, Craig. I am not really all that "literary." I enjoy authors like Stephen King, they are very realistic. The way I think is very logical and ordered. I can't fathom the surreal nor can I write that way. I can appreciate it the way I appreciate Picasso, but I do not really like looking at modern art. I prefer the romantic period of art and realism.
    cornish Avatar craig cornish Date: 5/2/2014 6:41:00 AM Block poet from commenting on your poetry

    Also Push Bike has all kinds of end rhyme-interesting?
    cornish Avatar craig cornish Date: 5/2/2014 6:39:00 AM Block poet from commenting on your poetry

    I agree Andrea, it is an uncomfortable writing form that seems to be popular, but I do like poem #3 like Charlotte says and the poem you picked Push Bike could have easily come from the soup among others--we're not totally out of the loop here.
    Puddifoot Avatar Charlotte Puddifoot Date: 5/2/2014 5:22:00 AM Block poet from commenting on your poetry

    andrea, andrea, how can you dislike poem #3? I LOVE that one! lol I also love enjambed couplets! oddly it reminds me of one I've been trying to finish for about 3 years called 'eye of the storm', it deals with the same subject really, but mine's not a patch on the one above!
    Dietrich Avatar Andrea Dietrich Date: 5/1/2014 11:12:00 PM Block poet from commenting on your poetry

    Love Birdfall too.
  1. Date: 5/1/2014 9:52:00 PM
    I remember years ago putting up the poetry of Poet Laureates in the USA I don't think their verses used end rhyme either, it seemed to have no affect at all on what's being written or asked for on Soup ...

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    Dietrich Avatar Andrea Dietrich Date: 5/1/2014 11:09:00 PM Block poet from commenting on your poetry

    Many of us are old fashioned, Debs. I enjoy seeing the new stuff, but honestly, what I prefer most is really WELL written "form" poetry and lucid free verse. I guess that makes me middle of the road!! And I will never publish and get paid for it unless it might be in some magazine that caters to the middle of the road styles I adore.
  1. Date: 5/1/2014 8:57:00 PM
    It's interesting, I can't tonight because of company but if you click on the click here up to the right of her picture you can see all the winners every year going back to 1978 it is an interesting transition! Back tomorrow.

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  1. Date: 5/1/2014 8:22:00 PM
    couplet simply means a "grouping' of two lines - I for one would need a valid? reason for grouping? I really don't care the number of lines grouped that way but WHY? [and it looks neat on the page doesn't count?]

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    MacMillan Avatar Cyndi MacMillan Date: 5/1/2014 10:54:00 PM Block poet from commenting on your poetry

    Ps... I'm crazy. I now am going to make Verity's lunch. It is midnight. Ugh...
    MacMillan Avatar Cyndi MacMillan Date: 5/1/2014 10:53:00 PM Block poet from commenting on your poetry

    It is to put emphasise 'solely' on the words. It is to create a formal template for the reader so that the reader's eyes simply travel without prejudice. The reader is forced to give all the attention to the content. The breaks become less significant -- although, even when I do this I frequently edit so I am happy with the break, how that line ends and where the next begins.
  1. Date: 5/1/2014 8:08:00 PM
    Awesome blog, Craig. And I will upset the boat by pointing out the amount of internal rhyme in the first poem. MOUTH MUSIC. Oh, its like a little brook! Buffoon/ saloon, for one. Then, the alliteration.. oh, blushing blue/ bruise of bracts, petals, purple... dreamy piece. There is a duality to it, which holds me there. It wants to be crasser, it wants to say more, yet it keeps to its genteel language. I really like what you are showing, here. I will be getting some literary journals in the mail. One had some end rhyme. If the next edition has another "less free" ;) poem, I promise to share it, here. The poems I have read that rhyme use slant rhyme and lots of enjambment. Rhyme is still loved

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    MacMillan Avatar Cyndi MacMillan Date: 5/1/2014 10:50:00 PM Block poet from commenting on your poetry

    :) Sis, I understand. People like what they like. I like assonance and euphony and consonance... I like the occasional cacophony and staccato (lol. As you are aware) You want to show them all the other delights at the buffet table. They keep going for the ham, potatoes. You want to show em the starfruit flambé and the bisque seasoned with Irish Crème.
    Guzzi Avatar Debbie Guzzi Date: 5/1/2014 8:24:00 PM Block poet from commenting on your poetry

    what bothers me is those who say they only wish to write rhyme & then avoid all the major forms which do RHYME, you can even rhyme in blank verse ... what they seem to mean is all they wish to write is couplets & quatrains with end rhyme
  1. Date: 5/1/2014 6:47:00 PM
    I'm with Charlotte in saying this is my favorite kind of poetry also! Such talent !! A pleasure to read!

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  1. Date: 5/1/2014 5:11:00 PM
    Interesting. All three top winners employed that non-rhyming couplet style, were lines continue into the next stanza/couplet(do you know wot that technique is called?), with enjambment too. Most of the top 'famous' Canadian poets who are actually going places, are doing the same thing. The judging panels are choosing poems with that style, which then obviously prompts entrants to steer towards the style, causing a windfall. But I find the poems very interesting to read; they keep my attention. Hey, that is a nice award purse!

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    MacMillan Avatar Cyndi MacMillan Date: 5/1/2014 8:17:00 PM Block poet from commenting on your poetry

    :D I have been thinking for quite some time now that if the "dead poets" had been born in 1892 instead of 1792, that THEY would be have been the FIRST to write free verse poetry, what is considered avant garde by today's standards. They would not be conventional. Each "classic" poet was an upstart in their own rights. (I think ;) )
    MacMillan Avatar Cyndi MacMillan Date: 5/1/2014 8:10:00 PM Block poet from commenting on your poetry

    Man, talk about poor grammar. Second try. Recently, I came across a brilliant article about this subject and I sent a link to this article to Debbie. Would you like to take a gander at that article, as well?
    MacMillan Avatar Cyndi MacMillan Date: 5/1/2014 7:57:00 PM Block poet from commenting on your poetry

    I sent a great article about the "stanza approach" to free verse which I sent Debbie. Interested?
    MacMillan Avatar Cyndi MacMillan Date: 5/1/2014 7:55:00 PM Block poet from commenting on your poetry

    :D Debbie and I have discussed this style of couplet (or triolet) style of free verse. I find myself using this style when I am writing a theme which is more... universal? A less personal/more general piece? I have no idea WHY! And I love the enjambment between stanzas... the hook, the sinker feel of it.
    MacMillan Avatar Cyndi MacMillan Date: 5/1/2014 7:55:00 PM Block poet from commenting on your poetry

    When I write "me" stuff, I can't seem to constrain my lines the same way. They won't listen to me. LOL.
    Aechtner Avatar Chris D. Aechtner Date: 5/1/2014 6:29:00 PM Block poet from commenting on your poetry

    Craig, I find your statement about cliques and fads to be a bit ironic and intriguing. Cliques and fads/trends are part of our human nature? Don't get me wrong, I don't like to follow trends .... but sometimes it can almost be a matter of social survival. I find the Soup to be very cliquey too. At least the styles have broadened beyond the mnemonically repetitive bubblegum poetry which is seemingly written in such a way that has me wonder if the person is either high, 'simple', or 7 years old.
    Aechtner Avatar Chris D. Aechtner Date: 5/1/2014 6:18:00 PM Block poet from commenting on your poetry

    Robert Stein ? -- "Hommage de M. Erik Satie à Soi-Même" Do you mean that poem? I found it to be very entertaining. Notice the merging of wot could have been a darker, more brooding "poor me" poem, with some quirkiness. Quite Brilliant.
    Aechtner Avatar Chris D. Aechtner Date: 5/1/2014 6:12:00 PM Block poet from commenting on your poetry

    Hullo, Craig. I am a bit surprised the 2012 winning poems weren't in that style, because it truly is very prevalent now(has been for a good handful of years already).
    cornish Avatar craig cornish Date: 5/1/2014 6:08:00 PM Block poet from commenting on your poetry

    Check out the 2012 winner at the bottom--great poem
    cornish Avatar craig cornish Date: 5/1/2014 6:05:00 PM Block poet from commenting on your poetry

    None of the 2012 top 3 did that
    cornish Avatar craig cornish Date: 5/1/2014 6:01:00 PM Block poet from commenting on your poetry

    I noticed the same thing, is it a moment to think and absorb, a couple of the commended ones doing the same. I have to say that I'm not a big fan of fads, especially clique related ones but it is interesting. Some here on the soup would insist that couplets have to rhyme when they have never had to rhyme but usually do.
  1. Date: 5/1/2014 10:50:00 AM
    Also, highlight click here and then 2012 winners at the site and read last year's winners, especially #1. I have to admit Cyndi and you guys are winning me over except ones too much like converted prose.

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    Puddifoot Avatar Charlotte Puddifoot Date: 5/2/2014 5:30:00 AM Block poet from commenting on your poetry

    dear craig! I read the winners, but I'm not keen on #1 lol I much prefer #2! yeah we're working on you...:)
  1. Date: 5/1/2014 10:08:00 AM
    this is my sort of poetry! that 1st poem is stunning, I also love the 2nd and 3rd poems and 'hare' - such talent there is out there! poetry for the 21st century, yayy! you can see how these poets get right down into the detail, they really do 'see a world in a grain of sand' as william blake wrote :)

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  1. Date: 5/1/2014 9:50:00 AM
    OMG that's some inspiring poetry, and not an END RHYMER among them, rhyme is 1 tool in your tool box - look at the unique metaphors look how they SHOW common people, places and times in UNCOMMON WAYS to show all there is beauty even in the small, the harsh, the ugly, the old, the sick etc.

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    MacMillan Avatar Cyndi MacMillan Date: 5/1/2014 7:48:00 PM Block poet from commenting on your poetry

    There is a great deal of rhyme, hon, end rhyme but not perfect rhyme. Delightful slant rhyme. Check out first place. Curtain/open, ruffle/purple (though several lines between), buttock/dumbstruck, and the last ones...erectus/glass. Thumbs up on what you say about poetry.

My Past Blog Posts

 
You Were There
Date Posted: 9/21/2014 12:54:00 PM
Lyric Contest Judged
Date Posted: 9/1/2014 12:48:00 PM
Something Special
Date Posted: 8/27/2014 9:05:00 PM
Special Stuff
Date Posted: 8/18/2014 4:18:00 PM
Lauren Bacall
Date Posted: 8/12/2014 8:10:00 PM
Inspired By Our Rose
Date Posted: 8/10/2014 9:07:00 AM
Contest Edits
Date Posted: 7/13/2014 2:30:00 PM
Goethe Stanza Contest Judged
Date Posted: 7/11/2014 10:41:00 AM
Our Cover Girl !!
Date Posted: 7/7/2014 4:53:00 PM
A Rainy 4th in New England--some fun
Date Posted: 7/4/2014 12:30:00 PM
Thanks Coach Cyndi
Date Posted: 6/28/2014 5:25:00 PM
Debussy Contest Judged
Date Posted: 6/17/2014 2:17:00 PM
New Contest and Update
Date Posted: 6/15/2014 9:53:00 AM
Some of the "Modern" sonnets
Date Posted: 6/6/2014 10:05:00 AM
Contest Inspiration Debussy
Date Posted: 5/24/2014 8:41:00 AM
Memorial Day
Date Posted: 5/23/2014 5:55:00 PM
Get Creative Contest Judged
Date Posted: 5/22/2014 12:30:00 PM
Get Creative Contest Last Update
Date Posted: 5/16/2014 9:14:00 AM
Get Creative Contest
Date Posted: 5/15/2014 2:23:00 PM
What Say You - Not Mine
Date Posted: 5/2/2014 7:57:00 AM
UK National Poetry Contest 2013
Date Posted: 5/1/2014 8:37:00 AM
That'll Teach 'em!
Date Posted: 4/13/2014 3:01:00 PM
Cornish Sonnet Contest Results Posted Shortly
Date Posted: 4/11/2014 10:24:00 AM
Just a Couple Thoughts
Date Posted: 4/4/2014 11:17:00 AM
Another 16 Year Old
Date Posted: 4/3/2014 8:16:00 AM

My Poems

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Date PostedPoem TitleFormCategories
9/21/2014You Were ThereRhymedeath,love,
9/19/2014The Light KeeperVerselife,
9/19/2014southward, wing on wingHaikuimagination,seasons,
9/14/2014Poetry Is BornFree versemother,
9/7/2014On the Cusp of WinterFree verseautumn,
9/7/2014The Old ManRhymelife,nature,
9/5/2014I'll Leave You My TearsRhymelove,lyric,song,
9/5/2014Peal the BellsBlank versetime,
9/2/2014The Looking GlassRhymeintrospection,
8/31/2014How Could I KnowTrioletfunny,
8/31/2014Autumn AlouetteVerseautumn,
8/26/2014A Note To My SisFree verselife,
8/21/2014Morning's VeilOttava rimamorning,nature,
8/19/2014FoodlesFootlefunny,
8/18/2014The LadyRhymefantasy,love,
8/16/2014No Matter Where I RoamRhymetravel,
8/13/2014a tropical mornHaikunature,
8/9/2014Perfectly Imperfect PoemsFree verselife,
8/9/2014The Muted RoseIambic Pentameterinspirational,
8/8/2014Until I Hold You NearRhymewar,
8/6/2014Night OwlRhymenature,
8/4/2014The Final CallVersedeath,
8/4/2014AlaudaVersenature,
8/4/2014A Conch Shell CallsQuatrainintrospection,
8/3/2014Lyrics to Peter White's Life StoryRhymesong,
12345678

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ViolinPersonificationdeath,love,rose,
Evening WalkFree verseintrospection,life,nature
The Sowing Free versedevotion,
Why I WeepItalian Sonnetnatureme,
LONG DISTANT DREAMRhymenature,
An Invitation to DanceSonnetmusic,nature,
Secrets of the StreamFree verseintrospection,nature
GrandpaCoupletchildhood,loss,sadold,chi
Double PhantasyFree verseloss,mystery,sad,
Something of a DreamerFree verselife,
Silver StrandsBiolove,mother,me,silver,
Montage PoetryLyrichappiness,history,uplifti
A Mutual passionBlank verseromance,longing,longing,l
Spring ReturnedRondeauhappiness,love,people,sou
Her Name Is JanuaryPersonificationimagination,nature,new ye
Wind PowerRhymenature,
Gold StarNarrativechildhood,war,war,star,bl
Circle of LifeRhymedeath,introspection,life,
New EnglandRhymenature,seasons,
If EverSonnetfaith,hope,inspirational,
BewitchedVillanellelove,passion
FIRST CHERUBIC CHANCELyricmystery,uplifting
Wait Raven,I am comingFree versedeath
Embroidered DreamsRondeauart,childhood,mother,sad,
THE HOURSSonneton writing and words,time
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