(A photo of a couple of old friends of mine,
celebrating their recent widowerhood
with some delicious chilled champagne, and
looking forward uninhibitedly to inheriting their
dear late wives' money and worldly chattels.)
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Many of you will have been reading my wonderful "Memories" series of poems.
If you have not read them, I can only suggest you do so. There are 43 to date (but maybe
more by the time you read this, the words just flow off my pen like phlegm from a
consumptive's chest, or pus from a mighty, ripe and oozing boil).
Now what I want you to do is to write a poem in the style of my "Memories" sequence.
It will obviously help if you have read some of them (preferably all). Naturally
there is no requirement to comment on any of my poems (although most people of taste
and discernment will obviously be hard put to resist, unless you have already done so).
Extra kudos for: humour, satire, local colour,
originality in terms of volume and nature of deaths involved.
Illiterate crap will be removed with relish (mine, not yours). Do not enter if you
can't take sensitive yet harsh criticism. Extra points added for works of genius.
Contest will be cancelled if only dross entered.
Off you go, dear poets of doom.
celebrating their recent widowerhood
with some delicious chilled champagne, and
looking forward uninhibitedly to inheriting their
dear late wives' money and worldly chattels.)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Many of you will have been reading my wonderful "Memories" series of poems.
If you have not read them, I can only suggest you do so. There are 43 to date (but maybe
more by the time you read this, the words just flow off my pen like phlegm from a
consumptive's chest, or pus from a mighty, ripe and oozing boil).
Now what I want you to do is to write a poem in the style of my "Memories" sequence.
It will obviously help if you have read some of them (preferably all). Naturally
there is no requirement to comment on any of my poems (although most people of taste
and discernment will obviously be hard put to resist, unless you have already done so).
Extra kudos for: humour, satire, local colour,
originality in terms of volume and nature of deaths involved.
Illiterate crap will be removed with relish (mine, not yours). Do not enter if you
can't take sensitive yet harsh criticism. Extra points added for works of genius.
Contest will be cancelled if only dross entered.
Off you go, dear poets of doom.
Contest is Over
- Contest was judged on November 20, 2007
- Rewards: Gold: 300, Silver: 200, Bronze: 100, Honorable mention: 3 people
- Final notes: It was INCREDIBLY hard to choose between Gold and Silver here and I literally tossed myself off for it. Bronze was goddam close too. And I like the others so everyone gets a virtual cup and some few pathetic points. I hope I have uncovered a few more fans of my "Memories" poems and those of you who are not on my faves list will be put thereon. Also anyone who has not has a "Memories" poem dedicated to them is due for a dedication, so send in your birthplace and I shall write a lovely poem to commemorate how my daughter Berthilde was crucified near there.
Contest Winners
- Error: Unable to find finalist item 3612074, it seems to have been deleted :( [remove]
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Look at these punks
all grinning and shallow• Commented on by judge. [remove] -
Many people (well, few, actually, really, if I were totally honest) have rushed to this bijou seaside resort to bask in the ample greyness of its pathetic environs. I was drawn south in order to trip delightedly over the dog• Commented on by judge. [remove]
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• Commented on by judge. [remove]
Gold trophy winner
Bronze trophy winner
Honorable mention
Entries [6]
1 - 6 of 6
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1 - 6 of 6
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Bookmarking! Good luck with the contest
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Mongo's Planet
I would have said I stumbled into Mongo's Planet, & maybe I did, because I had been "hanging out" as one says of loitering, on Beale Street in old Memphis town, the Bluff City on the Mississippi. A bargeman from Australia led me to Mongo's, which is or was the name of one of the most notorious bars or clubs in the Delta, which is what we call the flat alluvial plains of the lower Mississippi and its tributaries.
Mongo never wore shoes. He had feet like hobbits, with skin hardened by wear and exposure to the elements. He didn't even wear shoes or socks or sandals, as far as I saw in the few years I came to know him, even when the sleet came blowing from "the hawk" as folks call the cold cold wind that swoops from the Ozark Mountains or hills.
Mongo's real name was Robert Hodges. He hailed from Virginia Beach, from the great Commonwealth of Virginia. Maybe he had been a frat boy at one time, maybe a beach bum. Whatever he was, he styled himself Prince Mongo of the planet Zambodia. Mongo, wherever you are, if you are reading this, my hat off to you, good sir. Remember me, X_________, the vagabond eldest son of the Creole lady from New Orleans?
In Mongo's, without exaggeration, at the old western style rough wood hewn saloon, one could find thieves, pimps, whores, gamblers, rich sons and daughters of plantation owners and the old monied rich white families of western Kentucky, Tennessee, northern Mississippi and Alabama, and the Bootheel of Missouri and the eastern cotton lands of Arkansas. You could also meet undercover cops, bounty hunters, ex-special forces, homeless and vagabond and bohemian men and women, blacks free from their onerous working class lives (middle class Blacks would not deign to enter Mongo's for propriety's sake).
Mongo was kind enough to let this young free lance journalist stay in the warehouse he owned on Union Street, which today is approximately across from some oyster bar, and next to some parking garage, between South Main and Front Street where the Cotton Exchange still stands and where merchants and dealers still buy and sell and trade shares of cotton.
More later; I think I will also tell you about how certain men were raping poor and homeless women in an abandoned warehouse, how I put a stop to that, and how a few of them threatened to kill me dead as they say in the South, with guns and shit. I will tell you how I escaped on the back of a Suzuki driven by an acquaintance at the bar, and how I sought help from the KKK in the Boston Mountains but how instead I was rescued from a cold cold dark dawn by a Franciscan abbott who had come to open up the chapel for matins, and took me to breakfast after Mass.
Until the next time, I remain, cordially and anonymously yours,
X. -
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I feel you could turn this into a Memories poem I would be envious of, dearest CGZ.
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Memories of the Berlin Olympics
Although on this occasion I will accept this tawdry bronze medal gracefully
I would like to recount what happened at the 1936 Berlin Olympics.
I had just been bettered by two Poles in the vaulting event
And was swallowing my pride on the podium. As Herr Hitler
Placed a bronze medallion around my neck, and kissed me on both cheeks
I grabbed the Luger from his shiny leather holster and indiscriminately fired
Into the ranks of the Reich. A stray bullet actually
Clipped the ends from the Fuhrer's moustache. He dived beneath
The body of Herr Goering in a cowardly manner. To avoid
Repercussions, I jumped onto the strong shoulders
Of Jesse Owens, and together we ran from the arena into the sunset.
I only recount this tale to warn you that in future
A gold award would be safer for yourself and other contestants. -
What is an Asbo? Referring back to your profile. I am OK with the rest of the Brit lingo, since my British extraction is only one generation removed (and I watch Coronation Street).
lol even though you don't like the Internet slang. -
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An ASBO is an "Anti-Social Behaviour Order". A court can (for example) order that a teenage yob who keeps breaking windows on an estate may not go within (say) 1/4 mile of the estate. If he does, he is liable to prison. Equally it could be used to stop an estranged husband from bothering his wife by whining phonecalls at midnight. Basically a good idea which doesn't work.
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