Sunday, April 29, 2007


For the first time in my life, thanks to the wonders of this web thing, I have judged a poetry competition. Here are my winners and here my judgments.


  1. Poetry is all about words put together to create a pleasing impression in the mind of the reader or indeed hearer of said poetry. And to awaken a sense of social injustice.

  2. Well yeah, i guess so, if it's about social injustice, but the manifestos are so much more effective.
    On another matter - and hear i register my unbridled admiration for you Bryan - I find it so very difficult to judge poetry. I can't imagine a more difficult task. Filosofy is peanuts in comparison.

  3. 'here'. (blimey)

  4. What do you mean, "if it's about social injustice"?
    I've done me fair share of poetry though I am a little ring-rusty. Anyway I'll try and come up with something off the cuff, so to speak.

    Pushkin's Boots

    Synaptic circumlocution
    sub-consciously prompts
    Efficient production.
    Sub-continental proletarian
    rationally espouses
    the brotherhood of man-
    dark-skinned and

  5. Juat to add, I'm looking forward to Bryan's judgement on my piece.

  6. Wow, you should have won the comp. That has really instilled in me a sense of social justice. I feel like chucking some beans at someone.

  7. Thanks, Concepta. I regard my work as a victory for both literature and the common man.

  8. The first verse and the last two lines of Winterset are very good.

    Otherwise the sonnet is the best. Anyone can write free verse, virtually nobody can write it well, so if you're not a genius, be a craftsman.

  9. It seems I must ascribe Mr Appleyard's timidity in offering a critique on my work to a sense of inferiority and intimidation as a result of my magnificent beard. Disappointing.
    Anyway to show how I rise above such slings and arrows, I'll essay another attempt at the poetic art, unaware as to what inspiration "will flow from my gargantuan intellect, but confident that inspiration it will indeed prove to be.

    A Prophecy

    I sit alone in humble majesty
    Surveying the expanses of Time.
    Of what time, say you.
    Of Man's Time, say I, and
    I call it History.
    And smile.
    An intellectual pugilist, I-
    Devouring the tribal
    and the feudalist.
    Under my beard, I
    Smile. My gaze expands into
    Future Time-
    I call it
    Prophecy. And
    I see a man. I call him
    the Future Man. A machine
    of Reason- a little flesh, a little breath O it make take a lot of Death
    to make this Future Man
    But what of it?

  10. You've got a great sense of humour, Karl. But you're a bit of a copy cat.

  11. Hi Bryan,

    Great work. Thanks very much.

    I have been waiting for About Poetry to post the results. Bob Holman and Margery Snyder always do it up right. Here is their article, which points to more of your commentary:

    Winners chosen in the April InterBoard Poetry Competition.