Sad news

*sob* I didn't get the Poet job. But I was up against people who've done this sort of thing before, so I'm not too downheartened. At least I tried for it. I now await with interest the arrival of the successful candidate through the doors of the Eye Pavilion (with a fully loaded, semi automatic sonnet!)

Poet wanted

Gasp! The Eye Pavilion is looking for a poet, and they didn't ask me!
Midlothian Council regularly send me information about writing events. As I cast my eye over their latest missive, the words 'Eye Hospital' leapt out at me. Here's the letter.
Art in Healthcare - Poet for Eye Hospital Project
Area: Edinburgh
Deadline: Wednesday 6 February 2008
Art in Healthcare - a leading charity organisation that provides arts services to the healthcare community - requires a poet to create new poems for the Princess Alexandra Eye Pavilion in Edinburgh. Poems will be presented in Braille/text and will explore or engage with the issues surrounding visual impairment.
As well as a good portfolio of work and creative talent, it is desirable that poet has one of the following:
Direct experience of working on creative projects in a community, public or healthcare environment:
Awareness of all the issues facing individuals who have gone through, or are experiencing visual impairment.
The project is due to be completed by May 2008. For more information e-mail: rstrang@artinhealthcare.org.uk or tel: 0131 555 7638
I reckon that I qualify for this. I think I'll check it out.

The Very Best Christmas of All

It's Christmas.
You must not miss this

Merry old Christmas.

So come one and all

We're having a ball

It's the very best Christmas of all.

Sleigh bells chime.

Our guests they are on time

To drink of this mulled wine.

So come one and all
We're having a ball
It's the very best Christmas of all.

The clock in

The hall is tick-tocking,

So hang up your stocking

And come one and all
We're having a ball
It's the very best Christmas of all.

Children banter

As bedwards they canter.

They mustn't miss Santa.

So come one and all
We're having a ball
It's the very best Christmas of all.

Best wishes

And mistletoe kisses

To master and missus

And come one and all
We're having a ball
It's the very best Christmas of all.

Worst verse

I have come across the worst poem ever written, and, surprise, it wasn't by Macgonagall. It's called A Tragedy, and it's by Theophilus Marzials. It was published in 1874.
Warning! Before clicking on the link, clear your desk or immediate vicinity of hot or cold beverages. Any fluids currently residing in your mouth are liable to exit via your nasal passages on reading the first lines of this poem.
OK? If you think you can handle it, click on this link.

The triple crown

I am now officially an undisputed world champion poet. I've just won my third competition as set by JanieBelle. It was called the Watcher in the Window, and followed on from the previous two competitions. The prize, as always, is a guest post on her blog.
Keep an eye open for the next one, and get your entry in. I have now retired from the fray, and will not be entering, (though it'll probably kill me to stay aloof from the proceedings) There's some good poetry out there, and the more that can be produced through competitions like this, the better. I would love to see a revival of poetry as a major art form.
To read my chilling entry, click on the link above.

The Founding of Gremandir

“Father. Listen to thy son,
and mark this well.
What my brother, Gremus hath done
Is turn to treason. He incites
The common people to rebel,
against you, their sovereign overlord
You must not heed their talk of rights
They seek to put you to the sword!”
Thus, good name by evil twin defiled,
Was Gremus, Prince of Taere exiled.

“Oh my brother! Gromul beware!
I will return.
By mighty Mabegon I swear
I’ll leave no place for you to hide;
You and yours will surely burn.
Know how I yearn to see you dead
For your attempted fratricide!”
Thus saying, Gremus eastward sped
To mighty Castelmar, wherein he sought
The shelter of the Llindaan court.

King Merkh listened to his plight
With passions strong.
“I cannot aid you in your fight.
No troops have I, please understand,
To help you right your grievous wrong.
The Borphyr press us from the north
And soon we must, to save our land,
Leave our defence and sally forth
And fight no matter what the cost.
For if we fall, Llindaan is lost.

“My proposition, if you’ll agree
Perhaps you should.
I offer you a captaincy.
I need new men to lead the ranks.
Though dangerous, the pay is good.
It needs to be, to fast replace
Those fallen by the Sibher’s banks.
What’s your reply? Time moves at pace.
I want your help, I will confess.
All I need - a simple yes.”

By battle’s blaze his glory flamed,
This warrior prince.
Throughout the land his deeds acclaimed,
From mountains sharp to rocky coast.
Llindaan morale was flourishing, since
His assumption of command.
Within a year the Llindaan host
Drove the Borphyr from their land.
Morale increased with each attack,
To Akhna-Vaer they forced them back.

The Borphyr mourned their loss, aggrieved
At this humiliation
This turn of fate was scarce believed
That they, proud warriors faced defeat
From the arms of a backward nation
They plotted, planned. It was agreed
This time revenge would be complete,
Llindaan would fall… But who would lead?
Then into the hall a leader came -
Godwulf Squinteye was his name.

“Give me men! In sixmonth time,
Or maybe four,
I will crush this Llindaan slime!
I’ll bring you Gremus’ head!
We will hold the south once more.
We’ll sack the towns and raze the spires,
Then hack and stack the Llindaan dead,
And light the darkness with their pyres!”
From Akhna-Vaer the Borphyr swarmed,
And down towards the south they stormed.

Now Gremus knew the Borphyr’s plan
He had his spies
He knew their number, to a man
And knew he could not win the fight
And so, to both sides great surprise
He ran. The Borphyr gave pursuit
Jeered and mocked with great delight
But reckoned not the Llindaan’s route
The Borphyr plan was thus perverted
Their thrust against Llindaan diverted.

He led them through the Eastern plain
To far Barrani-Sarq.
And nightly raids left Borphyr slain.
A handful at a time, though few,
They came to fear the coming dark.
In wakeful torment, sleep deprived
It tore their minds, and tempers flew,
When food and arms had not arrived.
For Gremus was a bold tactician
Who fought a battle of attrition.

He brought them through that hellish gash
The Manakh rift.
He planned their numbers there to slash
In fetid swamps he’d bring them down,
The spirits of his troops to lift.
But Gremus, still, was full of doubt.
Many Borphyr didn’t drown,
And options now were running out.
The time for battle was at hand.
Somewhere, he must make a stand.

On Sibher’s banks there is a mound,
An ancient barrow.
Bow-shaped, eighty rods around
From where an archer, shoulders broad
Near half a girdh, can fire an arrow.
Here did Gremus kneel and pray
“Great Mabegon! Oh mighty Lord!
Grant us victory on this day!
I swear that if we win this fight
I’ll build your temple on this site.”

At morning’s break, with fearsome roar,
The armies clashed.
The ground was soon awash with gore.
Formations fell to disarray,
As soldiers hammered, clawed and slashed.
Gremus watched them cruelly die
As, battling grimly through the fray,
Blood streaming from a shattered eye,
He finally stood face to face
With the bestial marshal of the Borphyr race.

“Does your head hurt, little man?”
Godwulf drawled,
The cure for it is in my hand.”
He swung his sword at Gremus’ head,
Who parried - fell - in red mud sprawled.
Twas then the Borphyr saw his chance,
He lunged to kill, but slipped instead
And was impaled on Gremus’ lance.
He watched his blood flow, horrified.
A final laugh and then he died.

Gremus lay there, bruised and battered,
Limbs awry.
His eye was gone, his leg was shattered,
But knew the prize was his to snatch,
So Godwulf's sword he lifted high
And like a wave the murmer spread,
Like fire through a burning thatch,
Became a shouting, “Godwulf’s dead!”
The Borphyr army now broke ranks
And lost the battle of the Sibher’s banks.

This barrow, marking fair Llindaan’s
Most northern point,
For countering the Borphyr’s plans
King Merkh, from here to Manakh mouth
Did Gremus, governor anoint.
He built a sepulchre as vowed
And fortress to defend the south.
With what name would it be endowed?
They asked. Gremus replied with candour,
“After myself, tis called Gremandir.”

Let's make it a threesome

I've won again! Another of JanieBelle's poetry competitions. This time the seed phrase was 'Quietly naked in the pouring rain'. You can see what I did with it here.
And the best bit, as well as getting a guest post, is that my poem is the new starting point for the next competition. If you want to have a go, read the poem, and then write about the same event from a different point of view. The closing date is 30th June at midnight in the States, or in the wee small hours over here.
That's three poems now that wouldn't have existed were it not for these competitions. The second one didn't win, so I don't get it all my own way. It's important when writing to have something to focus on, such as a seed phrase, or picture, just to get you started.
So have a go! It's fun!

Song of the Foolish Ones

BEHOLD.
The world is a plaything.
And the doors of the world are open.
O foolish ones.
You play unheeding of the gathering evil.

They create such marvels.
Great palaces. Golden chariots. Devices wondrous to behold.
O foolish ones.
Your playthings will bring you no comfort.

There is one who seeks knowledge.
And He sets Himself in authority.
O foolish ones.
Beware the one who sets Himself in authority.

He says:
We must know the measure of this world.
Its width. Its height. Its depth.
He sets Himself apart to watch and learn
O foolish ones.
Do not scorn He who has set Himself apart.

He returns to them saying.
I will bind you to this land.
I have its measure.
I have its width. Its height. Its depth.
Its beginning. Its end.
His death tears the veil that separates them from this world.
O foolish ones.
You can never leave this world.

You are bound to it by His death.
And like Him you must also die.
For His is the first death.
By His death all who dwell in this world must die.
And He has dominion over them.
O foolish ones.
See how you have fallen.

Your palaces are hollow shells.
Your chariots are broken.
Your devices are ashes.
O foolish ones
You are dust.

How was your weekend?

I've never known a weekend like it. First I win the Green, Green hills of Earth poetry contest. My guest post is now up at UDreamof Janie - go read it! Second I find I'm a Shaggy Blogger, and I'm helping to raise money for Comic Relief. At the moment, we've sold 307 copies of Shaggy Blog Stories, making over £1400 for the charity - and that's just in the first 40 hours!
I want to appeal to all my readers across the ocean. Lulu, the publishers, are quoting the price in dollars, which suggests that the book may be obtainable in the USA. Be the first on your block to possess this work of literature. I know it's British humour, but so is Monty Python and Benny Hill. But I ask you, please blog about it. There will be other charity blooks (blog books) in the future. But this is the first - it's special! We'll never get an opportunity quite like this again to show the world that bloggers can make things happen. We are the only truly international medium of communication - even more so than television or radio, and if all of us act together, we can do a lot of good.
All you have to do is press a few keys on your computer. If you can afford to give $16, even better. Half of it will go to help people in Africa, and you will get a book that will put a smile on your face. Just don't be drinking soda at your computer when you do read it.