Bridport Prize 2017

I received some great news in September, but was sworn to silence!

However... the Bridport Prize shortlists are now out, so I'm allowed to say I managed to sneak onto the Poetry shortlist this year!

And I also managed to get not one but TWO flash fiction pieces onto the Flash fiction shortlist!

Naturally it's a bit disappointing that my work didn't get picked for one of the prizes, but it's great to be on the shortlists alongside some excellent writing talent. Fingers crossed for next year!

[The rest of this post involves maths, so you'd be advised to stop reading now!]

The Bridport Prize is one of those competitions that has a "sifting" stage... in that a first set of judges create the shortlist, and then there's a further judging process to pick the winners. When the "congrats, you're on the shortlist!" email arrives, it also tells you how many entries there were this year... and I couldn't resist playing around with the numbers!

This year there were 4,258 poetry entries and 1,343 flash fic entries. (This was possibly a quieter year for the Bridport, because I've heard the usual number of entries is closer to 7,000 for poetry and 2,500 for flash fic.) And from what I've heard (e.g. anthology comments from past judges), the poetry and flash fic shortlists are 200 and 50 respectively.

The poetry shortlist consists of 200 pieces, which means that 4.7% of the entries made it through the sifting stage (200/4258 = 0.04697 = 4.7%).

The flash fiction shortlist is 50 pieces, which means that 3.7% of the entries made it through the sifting stage (50/1343 = 0.03723 = 3.7%).

Obviously there's a quality aspect to getting picked, but I still find it interesting to see how tricky it is for a piece to sneak through that first stage of judging. I have no idea how many sifting stages there are, or if any of these numbers help us, but when I enter a competition, my twitchy little brain quite likes knowing the odds!

Best of luck to everyone for next year! The Bridport is a tough competition but definitely worth it :-)

Said the doctor...

Spilling Cocoa Over Martin Amis have accepted Said the Doctor!

It's a silly/surreal poem that's vaguely in the style of Lewis Carroll's "You Are Old, Father William" :-)

A poem about Crimble

Dragon Eye, by Rossana Castellino

The talented poet, Sophie Daniels (daughter of the almost-as-talented poet, Stephen Daniels) has written a poem about Crimble! (Crimble is a character of mine; she's a dragon with a broken wing.)

Pain in

my wing.

Can't fly

any more.

Dragging

it down

on the

dirt floor.

Thank you, Sophie! I love it! :-)

Insomnia

Thank you to Your Daily Poem for publishing my fun little poem "Insomnia"!

Here's the text, in case the link isn't working:

Wide awake at 5 AM

And lo, the Brain is ticking

In the mind, a keyboard taps

And a mouse is clicking

Brain is doing overtime

It makes me want to weep

Brain is up and wants to work

When I just want to sleep

Go to bed, you silly Brain

Rest your weary head

You've been working through the night

While Body is in bed.

Brain trying to be helpful, by theawkwardyeti.com

The Circus Comes to Town

I'm very pleased to announce that Verse-Virtual accepted my daft circus poem! Exciting! :-)

Recommended reading: the editor of Verse-Virtual, Firestone Feinberg, wrote the wonderfully random No Cow poem which makes me chortle :-)

Generating ideas

Last night's writing class involved a brilliant idea-generating exercise! We had a big box of random objects and the idea was to pass each object in turn around the class. As each object arrived on your desk, you had to scribble down the first thing that popped into your head.

Some of the lines I ended up with are wonderfully surreal... here's a sample:

• Tinkle like a gypsy bell
• Bleach the skull of Jefferies
• An English shade of blue
• Hedgehog by air mail
• Crushed beneath a marble shell
• Call yourself when young
• Snap the slate of life

After all the objects had been passed round, we all ended up with a lovely long list of random lines. We then chose one of the lines to use as a basis for a poem. I'm still a kid at heart, so I chose the item that generated the "Hedgehog by air mail" line, namely a tobacco tin bearing this picture:

Christmas hedgehog postman by Molly Brett

We then had to write a list of ten facts about the item we'd chosen. Here's mine:

1. The postman is a hedgehog.
2. The hedgehog is wearing a dark blue hat.
3. Birds are perched all around, being nosy.
4. The hedgehog is delivering parcels to a family of rabbits.
5. There are three kids in the rabbit family.
6. There are three parcels being delivered, so presumably that's one per rabbit kid.
7. The hedgehog can drive.
8. It's a bright sunny day.
9. It's been snowing. Lots.
10. The entrance to the rabbits' burrow is *huge*.

... and then we needed to write a list of five feelings we got from the item:

1. Pleased for the young rabbits, because I'm assuming the parcels are their presents.
2. Hopeful for the hedgehog that this is his last job of the day. (He looks a bit sleepy, poor guy.)
3. Worried the rabbit children may bicker over their presents (e.g. the green parcel's a lot smaller than the yellow one, which might cause a bit of jealousy).
4. Amused at the birds being so nosy.
5. Impressed how the hedgehog has managed to drive his little van over a snowy field (there's no sign of a road).
6. (Bonus feeling! 6 for the price of 5!) Worried the rabbit construction workers have not considered how easy it would be for a fox to fit through the massive entrance to that burrow.

The final part of the exercise was to write a little piece about what the item would say if it could speak. I forgot to do this bit (oops) but I'm sure Postman Hedgehog would be unable to speak as he climbed that hill - he'd be all puffed out. The rabbit children are, no doubt, squealing in excitement, and the parents are whispering to each other about how they're hoping Amazon hasn't screwed up their order.

So with all these facts and feelings and ideas, it was time to write a poem. Come on Brain, let's hear it! Give me assonance and alliteration! Give me consonance and rhyme!

Actually, no, not rhyme. We weren't allowed to rhyme. Sad face :-(

Brain rummaged in its poetry suitcase and decided it didn't know what to do. So it gave me this:


The blue hat
of the hedgehog
is dark.
Here is a line
break.
Line breaks show you're good
at poetry.


Thank you, Brain. I will print that out and put it on the wall... as a reminder not to try and write poetry any more.

Brain then decided it wanted to rhyme (it really likes rhyming), so off it went and I was forced to follow along:

The postman is a hedgehog!

Imagine, if you can,

Him dealing out his presents

From his bright red van.

The rabbits in their burrow

Peer delightedly

Out at Mr Hedgehog

Coming round for tea.

Thank you, again, Brain. I asked for something deep and you gave me something daft. And why is the hedgehog postman suddenly coming for tea? Was that just to make the last line rhyme? Yes, I thought so. Sigh.

I think that's enough poetry for now. Brain, go back to sleep.

I don't understand poetry

It's time for another writing class update! Tonight's lesson was an introduction to writing poetry. I've always assumed I'm only capable of producing daft poems (which are apparently better known as "light verse")... while posh poems (the ones that use clever words and imagery to talk about feelings) are probably not the sort of thing my brain can cope with.

One of the poem we read was "The Red Wheelbarrow" by William Carlos Williams. It's very short, with lots of line breaks. Here it is:


So much depends
upon

A red wheel
barrow

Glazed with rain
water

Beside the white
chickens

Whenever I read something like this, I imagine it must be full of deep, meaningful, wonderful things that I'm simply too dumb to understand. Other people think it's great so I can only assume I'm missing something. The poem's considered one of Williams' most important works. It has the honour of having its own wiki page (!) and was recently used as a title for an episode of Homeland so it obviously still resonates with modern writers. What I never understand about poetry like this, however, is why it's been picked out as something for literary types to point and nod intelligently at, while other poems (that sound similar, to my ears) are dismissed as "trite". In this respect, as someone in the class pointed out, poems like this are a lot like Jackson Pollock's splatter paintings: the arty types tell us they're amazing, but there will always be someone (probably me) standing there saying "a five year old could do that." Perhaps it only counts as "art" if you're the first person to get noticed doing it?

So what do I get from "The Red Wheelbarrow"? I'm not a literature student so I don't know what to say, but here's a few thoughts:

• I can see the poem paints a very specific picture, and I'm guessing most readers will find their mind conjuring up much more than just the wheelbarrow and the chickens (because it's not a huge leap from that image to seeing the entire farmyard). Any writing that creates a strong image in the reader's mind is definitely doing a good job... but I can't help feeling it would be nice if something actually then *happened* with that image. What holds the reader's interest after he/she's looked at this pretty little farmyard scene? Is the wheelbarrow full of human skulls? Is one of the chickens hiding a Kalashnikov under its feathers? Where's the action?!
• The line breaks are interesting, I guess... they change the meaning as you read, e.g. you see "the red wheel" and your imagination conjures that image, then you reach the next line and have to adjust your mental image to "the red wheelbarrow". But does that count as clever? Or is it just odd?
• The first line is a good way of making you read on, and I suppose you're left wondering why the wheelbarrow is so important. So is that the secret to good poetry? Leaving everything open-ended so that literary types can sit and discuss meaning/symbolism for hours on end?

Anyway, the lesson was fun and I think I learned something... but I'm still very confused!

The chickens are confused too

The random man's arse

I received some random text messages from a friend today:

A random man on the tube called me a f***ing smartarse this morning

This is very true

A random man on the tube called me a f***ing smartarse this morning

Because I touched his shoe

Maybe it's just me, but this sounded like a daft poem. My brain immediately decided it had to try and join in. I didn't really get a choice in the matter - my brain just seems to like daft poems.

The random man’s arse was not so smart

It hung below his knees

He swung it up between his legs

To give a cooling breeze

I asked him not to swing his arse

But he ignored my earnest plea

Instead he swung it round his face

And said he could not see

To try and stop that swinging arse

I grabbed a-hold his shoe

I tied it to its neighbour

With a clever knot I knew

He tripped and fell upon his arse

(still wrapped around his head)

He cursed and yelled and bawled my name

And me... I turned and fled.

Apparently the original messages weren't meant to be a poem - the repeated line was just my friend's phone screwing up. Thank you, friend's phone, your mistake gave me another daft poem to add to my collection. And that brings to mind a Neil Gaiman quote I kinda like:

I hope you'll make mistakes. If you're making mistakes, it means you're out there doing something. And the mistakes in themselves can be useful. I once misspelled Caroline, in a letter, transposing the A and the O, and I thought, "Coraline looks like a real name..."

(from http://www.uarts.edu/neil-gaiman-keynote-address-2012)

Sing a song of marbles

This is one of the really daft poems that my brain randomly chucks into my head from time to time. Thank you, Brain. This is just the sort of thing I need during a conference call.

Sing a song of marbles,

Marbles are so fine

I'd sing of marbles daily

But I haven't got the time

Instead I sing of toadstools

And toast, and tea and cake

Which have one thing in common

Good songs and meals they make

Except of course the toadstools

But that's not quite their fault

This song is very silly

So perhaps I'll call a halt

Do It Yourself

Some friends turned into DIY experts. Silly poems in their honour quickly followed.

DIY Poem One

Mary, Mary, Queen of Glamour

Grabbed a nail and grabbed a hammer

She aimed the hammer at the shelf

But poor Miss Mary hit herself

Mary's hubby kept so calm,

He ran to grab some soothing balm

He fixed her thumb, then fixed the shelf

All are now in perfect health.

DIY Poem Two

Matt and Mary made some shelves

They fixed them to the wall themselves

Laws of physics don't apply

To this King and Queen of DIY

The shelves stood strong. The shelves stood tall.

There was no chance they'd ever fall

All who saw them gave three cheers

For Matt and Mary: Engineers!

Harry Potter and the Revolting Rhyme

Hermione demands you enjoy this daft poem.

I started work on a revolting rhyme based on the Harry Potter books. Here's how it begins:

There's a lad I think you know

You see him everywhere you go

In every town, in every store

There's Harry Potter books galore

The first three books were normal size

But the fourth caused some surprise

I couldn't lift that mighty tome

I bought a truck to get it home

The rest of them were sized the same

And though they all deserve acclaim

Some say the books can try their strength

Due to their enormous length

But worry not! For now, you see,

I've written out a summary!

Don't buy the book, put back your purse

The story's here in comic verse

Now Voldemort was feeling grumpy

A prophecy had made him jumpy

It said he'd die. That made him worried

So up he got and out he hurried

He cried, "That boy's a dirty rotter"

"I'm off to kill that Harry Potter!"

His pals applauded this decision

Then turned back to the television

So Voldemort set off alone

To curse a boy before he'd grown

Poor Harry's Dad (his name was James)

Was burnt to death in greenish flames

Then Lily (she was Harry's mum)

Gave her life to save her son

And her love was so immense

That it formed a strong defence

For when the Dark Lord said farewell

And, at Harry, cast his spell

The curse bounced back off Harry's head

Affecting Voldemort instead

The Kedava curse, it should be mentioned

Is not what I'd call well-intentioned

It's meant to kill and hurts like hell

Voldemort was quite unwell

He didn't die though. No, not him

The Dark Lord's past is very grim

Over death he'd gained control

By making mincemeat of his soul

He chopped it up and hid each bit

(A sneaky plan, you must admit)

So he survived, but only just

His human body was now dust

Then Hagrid took the orphaned tyke

Across town on a motorbike

Some bikes fly and others can't

This one flew to Harry's aunt

But Petunia (Lily's sis)

Was not the type to hug and kiss

A new born wizard in a nappy

She and Vernon were not happy

A decade later, Harry P.

Didn't like his family

Dudley and his mum and dad

Made life hard for the wizard lad

The Dursleys travelled to the zoo

Harry was pleased they took him too

He met a snake from Brazil

And set it free to maim and kill

Then came the letters - first just one

Then two and three and then a ton

Terror was the order of the day

The Dursleys tried to run away

But Hagrid found them in their hut

And grew a tail on Dudley's butt.

Harry laughed and without stopping

Caught a boat and went off shopping.

... to be continued... 

(maybe)

Merry Christmas!

Christmas is coming,

I'm feeling very fat.

Wobbling through Sainsbury's,

In my Christmas hat.

Turkey, ham and bacon,

Trifle, cake and beer.

I'm filling up my trolley,

With lots of Christmas cheer.

Christmas is coming (whether you like it or not)

It's only October,

But all through the stores,

There are shelves full of baubles,

And fake snow on the floors.

It's not really Christmas,

But the shops disagree.

In every bright window,

Is a huge Christmas tree.

So break out the tinsel,

And dig out the cheer.

Sing out those carols,

because CHRISTMAS IS HERE!

[EDIT: This poem was accepted and published by Your Daily Poem on 25th Oct 2015. Sorry if the link doesn't work - the site sometimes gets overloaded!]

The Cat and the Shat(-ner)

This poem ended up on facebook a while ago in reply to one of George Takei's posts which in turn was inspired by this picture:

The first three verses (in italics) are by George and the rest are by me. Be warned, there's a bit of naughty language!

[EDIT: The poem makes much more sense if you're familiar with the relevant items of pop culture, namely: Tard, Nyan Cat, The Cat in the Hat, William Shatner and the original series of Star Trek]

#

The Cat and the Shat

The stars did not shine. I was horny all day.

There were no boobs to play with the whole Milky Way.

I sat there with Spock. We sat there we two.

And I said, “How I wish we had gals like Uhuru here, too.”

Too wet for torpedoes or phasers or shields.

So we sat in the bridge, stared at nebula fields.

So all we could do was to Sit! Sit! Sit! Sit!

Or maybe we shat. Hell, I don’t give a sh*t.

And then something went GRUMP!

How that grump made us jump!

He transported in past our shields just like that!

The Internet Meme, the ol’ Grumpy Cat...

... Tard gave a growl. Tard gave a roar.

Tard rolled right over and crapped on the floor.

Spock gave a yell and leapt in the air.

And I dived for cover under my chair.

The cat - she did glare. The cat - she did pout.

Then the cat took the conn and turned us about.

The ship - it did rattle. The ship - it did roll.

But Tard didn't care. She just wanted control.

So now Tard was steering. Tard knew how to drive!

She cranked our warp core up to Warp Factor Five.

We cried out in terror - she flew us so fast.

We knew this Tard-driven mission must be our last.

But look! What is that? What's happening now?

Can you see through the window? Near the port bow?

Is that a cat? Or a Pop-Tart? No - look at its face!

It's a cat sh*tting rainbows, flying through space.

It's Nyan Cat of course. He's come to our aid.

He's brave and he's brazen and he's quite unafraid.

Poor Tard wasn't happy - she looked most annoyed.

Then she leapt out through our shields and into the void.

The two cats - they wrestled. The two cats - they fought.

I've never seen two cats look quite so distraught.

Spock and I hid. We were well out of sight.

We didn't dare try to join in this fight.

Our ship was still flying at a rather fast pace.

Spock turned us around and we fled back to base.

What became of those cats, I don't want to know.

If they ask me to fly again, I boldly won't go.

The Lawrences and Lambs

My mum and Pat, her best friend, have known each other all their lives. Even when they were babies they were pushed around together in their respective prams. This is the poem my mum asked me to write for Pat's 70th birthday card, based on various memories they have of their lives together. I guess the references in the poem won't make much sense to anyone else, but it was fun to write so here it is anyway!

#

Here they come!

The Lawrences and Lambs!

Doreen and Margery

Are pushing the prams.

Eleven years later,

Jean and Pat were cool.

Biking up the Brampton Road,

To the Grammar School.

Lovely, dark-green uniforms,

With knickers for P.E.

Pat enjoyed her country run

While Jeanie stopped for tea.

Perfect Pat the Prefect

Managed all the tuck.

Jeanie got free chocolate

And didn't believe her luck.

Down the Nickel Coin they went

At the end of every day.

Pat had all the money

So Jeanie let her pay.

Coins went in the jukebox.

The egg and chips were hot.

Pat and Jean went jiving,

While revision went to pot.

Through happiness and laughter,

Through life and love and tears,

Jean and Pat together,

Friends for 70 years.

A limerick for Pete

Today is a good day for a daft limerick.

There was a young laddie called Pete

Who picked up a girl off the street

He gave her some money

And they did it in honey

And we all think that’s really quite sweet.

Narrow road

Random poem of the day.

Narrow road

Trees overhead

Silent world

The night is dead

Darkened sky

Ruptured heart

The end of love

Devil’s part.

Soppy Bastard

Have you ever really liked someone but been too shy to tell them? Well, why not sit at home and write a long poem about it? And then still not actually tell them how you feel? Yes, that will work. Then, years later, you can find the poem in an old notebook and post it on your blog.

If I asked you really nicely

If I begged you on my knees

If I sent you chocolates and roses

Or if I just said “please”

Then perhaps you’d grant me

My one and only wish

I’m asking really nicely

How about a kiss?

I’d like to be romantic

But I’m afraid I don’t know how

I really want to ask you

But I’m scared to do it now

I’ve got a spot upon my nose

And a spare inch here and there

I’m sure I’ve got my good points too

But do you really care?

I think about you every day

You’re always on my mind

But, before I ask you,

Some courage I must find

I’d need a private moment

With no one else nearby

I hope to God that you’ll say yes

If you don’t, I think I’ll die

I suppose it’s now or never

I hope you’ll hear my plea

I’m asking you right here and now

Will you go out with me?

Hungry Wilbur

Here's an unbelievably bad poem I wrote years ago. It was published in the school magazine but, strangely, fame and fortune did not follow!

Kentucky fried chicken

Fried eggs on toast

Sausages and bacon

And of course a Sunday roast

Cakes with lots of icing

Lots of bread and jam

Beef with Yorkshire pud

Or boiled eggs and ham

These are the foods that Wilbur likes

And this is only his lunch

For pudding he has rock cakes

Munch, munch, munch.

Image from firebox.com

Melancholia

Depression is a weird thing. I've been fighting it for years. Sometimes it results in daft poetry, and sometimes that poetry ends up on this blog. This particular poem was written when I was 15. Don't be offended - this poem's not meant to trivialise suicidal thoughts - it was just my way of dealing with them at the time.

I want to commit suicide

I want to do it today

I want to do it quickly

I want it over straight away

I'd like to slit my wrists

But I haven't got a knife

I've got to do it somehow

I really hate my life

I could jump out the window

And land right on my head

I've never been quite so depressed

It's gonna be great to be dead

It'll be the end of all my problems

Life is so mundane

There's just too many hassles

Too much emotional pain

It's time for an act of self-destruction

Oblivion, here I come

I'm staring into blackness

It's the barrel of a loaded gun

My finger's on the trigger

I'm squeezing it real tight

It's time to meet my maker

It's time to say goodnight

Farewell to all my problems

Farewell to my sad past

My heart has beat its final beat
And I

have breathed
my last.

Teen Depression by Robert Carter