V Awards for
The Tipsy Muse Poetry
And the envelope
Tipsy Muse Poetry Contest guidelines
Up to 14 lines (any form) ascribing human behavior
to animals or animal behavior to humans.
the envelope please...
— Here' the award speech from Topic #5 Judge,
customary to say when judging a contest that
it was hard to choose the winners from among
so many good entries—and so it was. But with
many re-readings, certain poems kept their heads
above the others, like onions in a stew. These
were the poems that were both finely crafted
and amusing, and had points to make as well,
beyond their verbal cleverness. So I am pleased
to inform you that the WINNERS ARE (trumpet
Prize goes to "Trout Catch", a skillful
sonnet with a surprise twist at the end, as
we learn who is actually trolling for whom.
If you've read Leight Hunt's three sonnets on
the Man and the Fish—this one belongs right
up there. To me, this was the outstanding entry.
other three awards are equal, but if there were
a Second Prize it would go to the author of
"Beerwolf" for having the audacity
to attempt Anglo-Saxon verse, and giving us
a portrait of the hung-over hero who awakens
to find Grendel in his mirror. Other readers
appreciated this one as well.
remaining two awards go to "Mrs. Goose
Complains", the funniest example of animals-acting-human
in an all too familiar situation—I really laughed
at this one. And to "Philosopy and the
Food Chain", for giving us a situation
unique in literature: a lizard contemplating
the works of Milton.
congratulations to you all, dear winners, and
I hope it won't be long before the Muse can
afford to send you your prizes. But she's been
broke for a good while now, and contributions
are still appreciated.
The Grand Prize Winner ($100.00)
— By John Beaton
here today. The one I mean to fool
is settled upstream of the sun-glazed drift
that forms the middle of the Mirror Pool.
I must stay hidden so he will not shift -
that flow below him hides sunk trees which line
its smooth veneer with branches. My position
is downstream of him now. He's nearly mine;
his instinct cannot match my intuition.
snagged a lot so far - he'll break my record.
The sun has slipped behind a cloud; I like
the breeze that's whipping up. The run is checkered
with sliding ripple patches. Time to strike.
I make my move - a splash! This isn't luck.
He takes. He casts his fly. His hook is stuck.
— By Nigel Holt
brash drums of dawn
out the morning,
The head thrums around
Where are the wrappings
welcomed night’s awning?
Oh! the beat of the blood
eyes is strong!
And stripped in the sedge
scratches and lesions
that ale and adventure
nicked in the night,
he shudders and shakes
the roar in his regions
and chills at the changes
frizzled by fright.
slowly he stands
and diverts his disgrace,
for morning has magicked
many his way.
He howls in his horror
the familiar face,
down in the dust,
and now seems to say
taste for the tawdry
will take and enfeoff us,
you wolf, who’ll whistle
for whisky and heifers.’
— By "sam"
ought to plan our trip I said
migration time is near.
But you just read your newspaper
pretending not to hear.
need to finish molting, Earl,
it's almost time to go.
But you just sat there on the couch
and watched your TV show.
should be basking in the sun
like other winter Texans.
Instead we're stuck in Newfoundland
'cause you won't ask directions.
and the Food Chain — A Vignette
— By "Sharon"
green anole was contemplating Milton
and bobbing at the legs, as lizards will,
his eyes half-shut, his thoughtful head was
A thought occured to him. He grew quite still,
and came to this conclusion: Milton lied!
He knew not God, and would not know until,
the same as Sin and Death, personified,
he left this plane. He darted up the wall
and nodded to himself. Thus satisfied,
he ventured heedless off the windowsill
and caught off-guard, was eaten tail and all
(and here, lament the lizard's foolish will)
by grackle. Answering his Fate's cruel call,
Sufficient to have stood, though free to fall.