Poetry competition CLOSED 1st November 2019 4:57pm
WINNER
PoetsRevenge
PoetsRevenge
RUNNERS-UP:
Jade-Pandora
and Heaven_sent_Kathy
Classic Corner Championship - Female Division
Poetry Contest Description
2019 Queen of the Classics
Co-hosted by Ahavati & JohnnyBlaze
Welcome to our first annual Classic Corner Champion Female Division
challenge, of which the winner will be crowned our 2019 Queen of the
Classics! Why in October? Because we are taking November and December off
to enjoy the holidays and focus on NaPo 2020 before next year's mad rush!
We will be kicking off January's CC with winners of our last polls, Langston Hughes and Louise Glück.
The winner will be awarded a specially designed trophy.
Firstly, only participants of previous Classic Corner comps
qualify to receive any award. If your name is on the lists below, you
qualify!
Imperfected_Stone 👑 Jade-Pandora 👑 eswaller 👑 mel44 👑 PoetsRevenge 👑
Heaven_sent_Kathy 👑 nightbirdblue 👑 jemac 👑 Amorous_tryst 👑 summultima
👑 yelluw_always 👑 Rachelleundrgrd 👑 Black-kwacha 👑 sophie_ericson 👑
Sky_dancer 👑 DevlinDLC 👑 imogeequeen 👑 MysticalRose 👑 delanee 👑
PandoraUnleashed 👑
Vandel_Viaclovsky 👑 Hepcat61 👑 Josh 👑 Blackwolf 👑 Oshinome 👑 KGERICD 👑
ReggiePoet 👑 Taurus385 👑 Slipalong 👑 AdamW 👑 Switchblade 👑
runaway-mindtrain 👑 wallyroo92 👑 snugglebuck 👑
gothicsurrealism 👑 SatinUGal 👑 NewBeginnings 👑 blinkers55 👑
JusTim_ 👑 nomoth 👑 highlyfunctional 👑 badmalthus 👑 Commentonly 👑
rabbitquest 👑 AspbergerPoet56 👑 _boybrains 👑 BobbyJames 👑
Secondly, wait ... why the two lists above?
We want you to feel comfortable participating in the comp of your
choice. If you are on either list, but identify with being a female,
then this is your comp.
If you identify with being male, then only submit entries to the Male
Division comp posted by JohnnyBlaze here:
https://deepundergroundpoetry.com/forum/competitions/read/11020/
Thirdly, you are allowed to submit a maximum of 2 entries
emulating any of the following poets you choose to honor:
Elizabeth Bishop
Emily Dickinson
Mary Oliver
Denise Levertov
Sharon Olds
Kim Addonizio
Agnes Torok
Anne Sexton
Maya Angelou
Rupi Kaur
Arthur Rimbaud
Rainer Maria Rilke
Jellaludin Rumi
Robert Frost
Dr. Seuss
Pablo Neruda
Federico Garcia Lorca
Ralph Waldo Emerson
Kahlil Gibran
Wendell Berry
E.E. Cummings
T.S. Eliot
We will judge which is the best of your two entries to ensure that three
individuals have an opportunity to qualify for the Crown and placements.
Fourthly, what does it mean to emulate? We want YOU to
make everyone believe your poem was written by one of these poets. Write
as though you were that poet!
Fifthly, the RULES! Each entry must NEW and
1) be linked to in the forum, NOT copy/pasted.
2) be tagged with the theme of the poet being emulated ( for example,
#MaryOliver ).
3) have links or titles to poems belonging to said poet being
emulated that inspired yours. Put this information in your poem's Notes.
We use this to determine if you were truly inspired or simply swapped
fresh words into an existing poem ( which is a form of plagiarism
).
4) NOT contain any erotica; this is open to all ages and can't be
viewed with an ECW ( Extreme Content Warning ).
5) contain a minimum of 50 words in the body, but try to keep it no more
than 250 - 300.
Comp will be judged by Ahavati & JohnnyBlaze.
You have one month; best of luck to all entrants!
If you have any questions, please post them to the Classic Corner Discussion thread in the Speakeasy forum:
https://deepundergroundpoetry.com/forum/speakeasy/read/10855/
Little Exercise
( After Elizabeth Bishop )
—for Clewless and those suffering anxiety
Poison oak grows beautiful on the vine
its lush leaves inviting to the touch,
think of this as life, at times: biting.
Behind that velvet green lies a subtle itch—
its urushiol blood birthing blisters that will not last,
yet, stake their claim in pain nonetheless.
For everything there is something—
nature ensures that, Calamine eases
the stinging of rash, Moringa a restless fever.
For everything there is something—
including that wasp’s nest expanding its hive
in your chest, the heart now a mangled roost;
your bloodstream, an angry swarm of drones
stampeding from all contact, seeking survival
in pocketed passages of isolated capillaries.
For everything there is something—
brown bag of L-theanine curbing hyperventilation
of your vascular organ, balancing blood pressure;
Passionflower hypnotizing nervousness into submission,
Lavender’s anti-inflammatory Shamans
sacredly shrouding fathoms of doubt with scent.
For everything there is something—
Nature being the conduit, soiled hands
embracing her thick trunk, bare feet
sinking into dirt and grass, breathing in time
with her natural algorithm, whispering,
“Think on this little exercise—repeat:
For everything there is something;
emotional uprisings are defeated by relief;
its war party poised to strike any given moment.”
~
—for Clewless and those suffering anxiety
Poison oak grows beautiful on the vine
its lush leaves inviting to the touch,
think of this as life, at times: biting.
Behind that velvet green lies a subtle itch—
its urushiol blood birthing blisters that will not last,
yet, stake their claim in pain nonetheless.
For everything there is something—
nature ensures that, Calamine eases
the stinging of rash, Moringa a restless fever.
For everything there is something—
including that wasp’s nest expanding its hive
in your chest, the heart now a mangled roost;
your bloodstream, an angry swarm of drones
stampeding from all contact, seeking survival
in pocketed passages of isolated capillaries.
For everything there is something—
brown bag of L-theanine curbing hyperventilation
of your vascular organ, balancing blood pressure;
Passionflower hypnotizing nervousness into submission,
Lavender’s anti-inflammatory Shamans
sacredly shrouding fathoms of doubt with scent.
For everything there is something—
Nature being the conduit, soiled hands
embracing her thick trunk, bare feet
sinking into dirt and grass, breathing in time
with her natural algorithm, whispering,
“Think on this little exercise—repeat:
For everything there is something;
emotional uprisings are defeated by relief;
its war party poised to strike any given moment.”
~
Written by Ahavati
Go To Page
So much for asking questions in the Speakeasy's CC Discussion thread, located in the speakeasy.
Yes; you CAN enter the Championship if you've never entered a Classic Comp before; however, only those who have previously entered qualify for awards.
For everyone's benefit to learn, we would urge you direct all questions there in the future.
https://deepundergroundpoetry.com/forum/speakeasy/read/10855/
Thank you and onward!
Yes; you CAN enter the Championship if you've never entered a Classic Comp before; however, only those who have previously entered qualify for awards.
For everyone's benefit to learn, we would urge you direct all questions there in the future.
https://deepundergroundpoetry.com/forum/speakeasy/read/10855/
Thank you and onward!
Dark Love, Sleepless Night
( a double Sonnet )
I stand before this soul of mourning stars
That drift within the bound’ries of my heart.
To ever show the light my open scars,
And keep desire stilled when we’re apart.
To separate the nature of my pain
While even in a crowd I am alone.
Forbidden tears ignite and fall as rain,
But never will they see a love that’s flown.
Determined, the inclusion of my truth,
The heaven-sent of you is ever near.
And driven by the beauty of our youth,
A reckless, hopeful, carefree, happy year!
I only hope for love, I won’t pretend.
To have it for a day, to never end.
It was the moon that overflowed with milk,
And kept the atrium of night awake.
While pouring out my grief in shades of silk,
You looked on mockingly then turned away.
A chrysalis, I bled with every sting,
A deity, the dignity you bore.
And yet, from pillars of each broken wing,
I heard you weep across a barren shore.
A morning rise of oranges from a tree,
The moon becomes an apple as it sets.
Below, among the shells of sand’s debris,
The stillborn tides of day will soon forget.
When love is dark it blends in with the night,
So when love cannot sleep the moon is bright.
Written by Jade-Pandora
(jade tiger)
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The City, The Forest and Other Bird Songs
( after Mary Oliver )
It is everywhere—
the echo
overlapping upon itself
as the sweet, lilting
songs of birds
in the
stiff, stately pines
standing thick,
dark and tall
between, among
the bleached high-rises,
their sterile glass eyes blink
from early shifting light
in the nip of dawn,
suddenly begin to herald
the new day—
and, with the vocal trills
lifting up from the
council of trees,
the span of a
disgruntled owl emerges,
leaving me
quelled of speech,
and only a single thought
of hope
following its flight,
as I wait for permission
to cross
a wide intersection
that is yet to be
inundated with the day’s
humanity.
It is everywhere—
the echo
overlapping upon itself
as the sweet, lilting
songs of birds
in the
stiff, stately pines
standing thick,
dark and tall
between, among
the bleached high-rises,
their sterile glass eyes blink
from early shifting light
in the nip of dawn,
suddenly begin to herald
the new day—
and, with the vocal trills
lifting up from the
council of trees,
the span of a
disgruntled owl emerges,
leaving me
quelled of speech,
and only a single thought
of hope
following its flight,
as I wait for permission
to cross
a wide intersection
that is yet to be
inundated with the day’s
humanity.
Written by Heaven_sent_Kathy
Go To Page
The Deep (Deeper And Furthur)
"Be not the slave of your own past - plunge into the sublime seas,
dive deep, and swim far, so you shall come back with new self-
respect, with new power, and with an advanced experience that
shall explain and overlook the old.”
― Ralph Waldo Emerson
Don't fear the deep;
it is what you fear that
will ultimately free you.
It might be full of sharks,
but you learn to avoid them.
It might be dark, but in this
your vision will improve.
The unpredictability of it
will prime your creativity.
Let it float you by being still
and letting go and you will find
your own buoyancy and equilibrium.
Your fears of the unfathomable depths
will subside in the midst of your
own pioneering strength.
The parts of you that float away
are like story-laden words shared;
the more you let out, the more
come to mind to take their place.
Just let thoughts go, be free
and the words will order themselves
like coherent water molecules
wrapping your skin in their affinity,
enveloping you and reaching
to infiltrate your every crevice
in which doubts of yourself lie.
Go deeper and further and you
will befriend the unknown spectre
of the undiscovered and yet unwritten
story within yourself.
You will form the words and they
will become your flotation vest
in stormy seas of your turbulent self.
Be the eye of your own storm
and be still within it; you will become
weightless and worryless;
you are connected to divine, unbiased truth
and in stillness, you will hear its secrets:
Your words will reveal what others
long to know.
.....
(a non-entry in the 'Classic Corner Championship, Female Division')
dive deep, and swim far, so you shall come back with new self-
respect, with new power, and with an advanced experience that
shall explain and overlook the old.”
― Ralph Waldo Emerson
Don't fear the deep;
it is what you fear that
will ultimately free you.
It might be full of sharks,
but you learn to avoid them.
It might be dark, but in this
your vision will improve.
The unpredictability of it
will prime your creativity.
Let it float you by being still
and letting go and you will find
your own buoyancy and equilibrium.
Your fears of the unfathomable depths
will subside in the midst of your
own pioneering strength.
The parts of you that float away
are like story-laden words shared;
the more you let out, the more
come to mind to take their place.
Just let thoughts go, be free
and the words will order themselves
like coherent water molecules
wrapping your skin in their affinity,
enveloping you and reaching
to infiltrate your every crevice
in which doubts of yourself lie.
Go deeper and further and you
will befriend the unknown spectre
of the undiscovered and yet unwritten
story within yourself.
You will form the words and they
will become your flotation vest
in stormy seas of your turbulent self.
Be the eye of your own storm
and be still within it; you will become
weightless and worryless;
you are connected to divine, unbiased truth
and in stillness, you will hear its secrets:
Your words will reveal what others
long to know.
.....
(a non-entry in the 'Classic Corner Championship, Female Division')
Written by PoetsRevenge
Go To Page
[ CC ] The Milestone
In my body these days
rarely a poetic bone
to date; I feel terribly
calcified
hardened in ways by
harrowed happenings of late
yielding fewer marrowed
words per stride
Plodding onward, trodding
to what's plotted ahead---
our story's allotted 'The End'
around the bend
of this stepping stone path;
without you, somehow
the steps farther apart
seemingly steeper now
my love, my darling
dearest dead Sylvia Plath
You suffered for your art
no need to suffer it anymore---
be relieved at having achieved
that final stone
before me
Written by MaryWalker
Go To Page
Anonymous
<< post removed >>
Thank you to everyone who has braved this championship so far! We just realized that we failed to stress New Writes Only, and have amended the guidelines of the competition to reflect such going forward. Sky, we are going to accept your entry because we dropped the ball, not you. So don't worry about removing it. We do hope you'll write a second entry though!
Anonymous
<< post removed >>
Just Once (Living River Of Hell)
'The trouble with being a woman, Skeezix,
is being a little girl in the first place'
'If this is Hell, then Hell could not be much,
neither as special or as ugly as I was told.'
-Anne Sexton
I am diagnosed dragging on a Camel,
staring at the river, full of all the selves
of detachmemt from my actual one.
They used to be me as one self when I was
fused into the wall of my mother,
before I came here to this bridge.
I am deranging like the splitting haloes
of car headlights as they rush on that
great freeway to somewhere, nowhere.
The river is a subway and the trains are
stories of the dead derailed there.
There are pale orbs like faces saying,
we told you of such, you cannot be
cured of this indifference;
I have become the Horrid I always was,
child of a stranger, refolding into that mystery.
The house is gone with its fine bone china
and good silver, replaced with pills and notebooks.
The river swallowed the rest of it, husband, children;
the oily tragedy floats in a slick of remnants
in the same shade of black it always wore
when I dreamed of it, musing Nana with her
afternoon tea, saying, I am supposed to be
someone who cares, why can't I love this
like a great inhalation of medicine
so as not to destroy it.
The river is a great swallower of
fate's shortcomings, I figure,
if I shoot my last hopes into it
I will be that much wiser;
why can't I be the depths it reaches?
Am I so shallow in my forty years of life,
drawing on feelings that come and go,
where is the great accomplisher
to reveal my wounds and bleed them dry?
To only know, to only know.
To only be that solace I seek,
to throw myself into it, or to be
the tossed stone that sinks
into this river of memory
as if it were Hell on Earth
glistening under the city lights
flickering its dim reminders,
dead faces loving me back
as my child self loved them
wholly, once.
But now, at last we meet,
that great Mother of reunions,
I see her glaring in the forming mists
which forewarn me in a tragic welcoming.
Just once, I saw it:
The corpse I am destined to become.
.....
is being a little girl in the first place'
'If this is Hell, then Hell could not be much,
neither as special or as ugly as I was told.'
-Anne Sexton
I am diagnosed dragging on a Camel,
staring at the river, full of all the selves
of detachmemt from my actual one.
They used to be me as one self when I was
fused into the wall of my mother,
before I came here to this bridge.
I am deranging like the splitting haloes
of car headlights as they rush on that
great freeway to somewhere, nowhere.
The river is a subway and the trains are
stories of the dead derailed there.
There are pale orbs like faces saying,
we told you of such, you cannot be
cured of this indifference;
I have become the Horrid I always was,
child of a stranger, refolding into that mystery.
The house is gone with its fine bone china
and good silver, replaced with pills and notebooks.
The river swallowed the rest of it, husband, children;
the oily tragedy floats in a slick of remnants
in the same shade of black it always wore
when I dreamed of it, musing Nana with her
afternoon tea, saying, I am supposed to be
someone who cares, why can't I love this
like a great inhalation of medicine
so as not to destroy it.
The river is a great swallower of
fate's shortcomings, I figure,
if I shoot my last hopes into it
I will be that much wiser;
why can't I be the depths it reaches?
Am I so shallow in my forty years of life,
drawing on feelings that come and go,
where is the great accomplisher
to reveal my wounds and bleed them dry?
To only know, to only know.
To only be that solace I seek,
to throw myself into it, or to be
the tossed stone that sinks
into this river of memory
as if it were Hell on Earth
glistening under the city lights
flickering its dim reminders,
dead faces loving me back
as my child self loved them
wholly, once.
But now, at last we meet,
that great Mother of reunions,
I see her glaring in the forming mists
which forewarn me in a tragic welcoming.
Just once, I saw it:
The corpse I am destined to become.
.....
Written by PoetsRevenge
Go To Page
[ CC ] There's a certain slant of morbidity
tabeled behind curtain for autopsy
Enabled, I'm giddy, soon in swoon
n even topsy turvy as if heavy bosomed
Warm, curled up with rigored spined book
Probed, each nook - now cold body of work
Such my depravity, virtually on all fours
entering, gleaning from each organed cavity
meaning from sheltered half-life of yours
every clue regarding its (c)hastened demise -
one's poetry career dearly departing
much too early from this world, Emily
Enabled, I'm giddy, soon in swoon
n even topsy turvy as if heavy bosomed
Warm, curled up with rigored spined book
Probed, each nook - now cold body of work
Such my depravity, virtually on all fours
entering, gleaning from each organed cavity
meaning from sheltered half-life of yours
every clue regarding its (c)hastened demise -
one's poetry career dearly departing
much too early from this world, Emily
Written by MaryWalker
Go To Page
Non-entry
Body Love Letter (Rupi Kaur Tribute)
Dear Body,
Thank you for giving me a body that is only mine
And no one else’s. You are taught to be skinny
Or curvy because there is no place in between.
Why should it ever be a boy or man to intertwine
With to make your soul more whole? It is a pity
To be taught you need a man’s love to be a queen.
You are no one’s pit stop or someone’s temporary
Home. Thank you for your kindness and for carrying
Life into tomorrow as well as for many years to follow.
You deserve a multitude of rest when you are weary
And bone tired. Your secrets try to hide, but burying
Them is no way to live. You are not empty or hollow.
You are a ship and a vessel that has survived every
Storm. You have taken every bullet like a soldier in
War. The world thinks you need to add some bells
Here or there. They may even think you are too deadly
Or natural to survive, but you have grown into your skin
From a tiny poppy seed. You are my protective shell.
So I thank you.
Sincerely,
Me
Thank you for giving me a body that is only mine
And no one else’s. You are taught to be skinny
Or curvy because there is no place in between.
Why should it ever be a boy or man to intertwine
With to make your soul more whole? It is a pity
To be taught you need a man’s love to be a queen.
You are no one’s pit stop or someone’s temporary
Home. Thank you for your kindness and for carrying
Life into tomorrow as well as for many years to follow.
You deserve a multitude of rest when you are weary
And bone tired. Your secrets try to hide, but burying
Them is no way to live. You are not empty or hollow.
You are a ship and a vessel that has survived every
Storm. You have taken every bullet like a soldier in
War. The world thinks you need to add some bells
Here or there. They may even think you are too deadly
Or natural to survive, but you have grown into your skin
From a tiny poppy seed. You are my protective shell.
So I thank you.
Sincerely,
Me
Written by eswaller
Go To Page
Keeper Of Time
'Time past and time future
What might have been and what has been
Point to one end, which is always present'
-T.S. Elliot
Keeper of Time for whom the clock winds,
keeper of all things misaligned,
Keeper of one, two and three,
times of which are Time's decree.
Striking clock we strain to hear
stridently to end all fears.
Where is the one whom time keeps still,
what are such needs you only fill?
Timely, though, you all but know
rushing not toward Fate's furlough,
Hastening on to keep us near
this perilous world we hold so dear.
Feverishly, we walk in step
along to your pace with no regrets
Knowing we can ne'er retreat;
Time, the decider of all we meet.
Where is the clock that so unwinds
into our fate to enter blind?
Midi, le soir, le nuit, bonheur,
you tell us all we need to hear.
They say you keep us all in line,
they say our allegiance must be a sign
That all we owe to you, our minds,
Keeper of rhyme, keeper of Time.
.....
What might have been and what has been
Point to one end, which is always present'
-T.S. Elliot
Keeper of Time for whom the clock winds,
keeper of all things misaligned,
Keeper of one, two and three,
times of which are Time's decree.
Striking clock we strain to hear
stridently to end all fears.
Where is the one whom time keeps still,
what are such needs you only fill?
Timely, though, you all but know
rushing not toward Fate's furlough,
Hastening on to keep us near
this perilous world we hold so dear.
Feverishly, we walk in step
along to your pace with no regrets
Knowing we can ne'er retreat;
Time, the decider of all we meet.
Where is the clock that so unwinds
into our fate to enter blind?
Midi, le soir, le nuit, bonheur,
you tell us all we need to hear.
They say you keep us all in line,
they say our allegiance must be a sign
That all we owe to you, our minds,
Keeper of rhyme, keeper of Time.
.....
Written by PoetsRevenge
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