Here are the results:
Wanda McCollar nominated Doc FTSE as the winner of this round for his poem "Osprey Returning"
' It has a lilt which juxtaposes the very essence of the message in a most marvellous way - like the flap of a wing. The poem clearly seeks to answer a daunting puzzle - it's a poem that should have always been written - and now it has been. '
Lawrence Gladeview nominated Barbara Young as winner of this round for her poem "Pseudopod"
'Pseudopod is poetically experimental, utilizes word economy successfully and includes all of the word choices...very much enjoyed the full circle connection of the first and last lines.'
Both judges awarded Pamela Villars second place, so all three contestants can go through to the finals.
FINALS
There are 25 words
To win ...all words must be used and the poem must not exceed 20 lines. I did one in 16 lines so
it's possible.
Wordle prompt:
ardent clink moon discreet ruffles
finger chandelier sparkle cloud jealous
pattern trellis presentiment divan midnight
foreboding whisper fleck scrunch consummate
chill amber room frisson marble
Good luck to all. Poems should be submitted by Friday 19th March ... your northern hemisphere time.
Oh, go on then!
ReplyDeleteShe is ardent.
There is a chill clink from the amber chandelier
Above her discreet divan.
He senses a frisson of foreboding;
A familiar pattern of presentiment.
The midnight marble moon
Casts a fleck across her finger.
A jealous whisper ruffles the room
As they consummate.
The cloud clears
The stars scrunch and sparkle
And the trellis waits.
Hi Rallentanda. Thanks so much to you and the judges for the place in the Final. I will wash and iron my thinking cap. Are you interested to know where the "Osprey" idea came from? I was pairing up your wurdle words at random, hoping for inspiration . . and happened to match "IT" with "wings". And BINGO! Was immediately reminded of the website which tracked the female osprey home to Scotland from Guinea in Africa. (Never thought I'd get away with turning "Bells" into the Scots National Drink!)
ReplyDeleteYou can get the general idea HERE . . but sadly, the website showing her day-by-day flights has been taken down.
You know, it's possible to do this with no added words. Of course that does require some extraordinary intuition on the reader's part. How-ever, as this is a contest, I've added a bit.
ReplyDeletewhile he, impatient in the moonlight, waits
an ardent clink on moon-warped glass
she stops, discreet behind the curtain ruffles,
elation, jealous of discovery, delays her
such is her pattern, to cling to pride's trellis.
with the rose's presentment of the sharp knife
she will know the divan at midnight in foreboding
the single finger tap, repeated, thrills her
fills her with the light of chandelier cascades
his whisper is a sparkle cloud of swarming heat
a bonfire could ignite from such a fleck of sound
if she should scrunch her eyes just so
and let the glass and marble melt from sight
his voice alone might consummate their tryst
without the need of opening her amber room
to flame to frisson or to chill
Oh, dear, I've been on vacation. What pressure to come back to. I'm honored to be in this company, and will try my hardest.
ReplyDeleteNo pressure Pam..This is all light hearted fun..Looking forward to your poem..
ReplyDeleteNow why am I not surprised to learn that you're a bird watcher and fancier Footesque?
ReplyDeleteI like a person with a nice clean thinking cap!
Marguerite Gauthier
ReplyDeleteShe lay on the divan under
the sparking chandelier
moonlight threw a trellised pattern
across the marble floor
her ardent affair had been conducted discreetly and without jealousy
her happiness was consummate as she fingered
the midnight blue ruffles of her gown
her amber bracelets flecked with gold clinked
like miniature halyards
A cloud crossed the moon
a chilled frisson a presentiment
a foreboding whisper circled the room
she scrunched up her eyes and closed her ears
to make it all disappear
Loved the sound of those miniature halyards - spot on interpretation! Go to the top of the class.
ReplyDeleteLoved the sound of those miniature halyards - spot on interpretation! Go to the top of the class.
ReplyDeleteHello again Rallentanda.
ReplyDeleteHere is my wurdle word attempt for the Final. You handed me my subject on a plate this time by juxtaposing "amber" and "room" in the wurdle list. Maybe that bit of WW2 history was in your mind?
Pillage , 1941.
Frissons, forebodings and presentiments
all come too late. Or the invasion
comes too soon . . . ?
While cloud patterns ruffle a baleful moon
thugs in grey uniform at midnight come
to Petersburg, to Russia’s Amber Room.
No need to be discreet. No need to whisper.
Yell - “We have raped all Europe!
We - consummate in all Destructive Arts,
we shall be victors. And
victors, rampant, jealous, get the spoils.
So yours is ours now!”
There is no chill marble here. Each wall
seems spun from a sunset’s ardent glow,
a gold-brown sparkle flecked with gems –
but men weaned on drivel cannot comprehend
such splendour, so -
every panel, every trellis, each divan
and clinking chandelier – every last trace
is scrunched into boxes and is hauled away.
There is no backward glance, and no-one lingers,
but yet more warm, gold blood drips from their fingers.
I felt a bit dramatic today. Also, the formatting may not keep, so apologies in advance.
ReplyDeleteDarling, I had a presentiment:
It was midnight.
You drew your ardent finger in a discreet pattern
along my arm (we were sprawled on the divan).
Perhaps you were tracing a rose on my amber
trellis. But then I felt a chill that turned my flesh to marble,
and my foreboding grew like the cloud on a jealous husband’s brow.
As you gazed at me, a fleck of chandelier sparkle vanished
from your lingering eyes. It was then I heard his whisper in the room,
and the frisson of our consummate midnight dalliance fled
as we heard the scrunch of his footsteps.
He boldly entered the suite, the clink of his stirrups
now proclaiming his despair, and tossed our loveless marriage
into the fire where the flames and ruffles ate it whole.
We were free, darling, we were free.
Thankyou Jinksy for you generous comment on my poem. You would make a good judge for the next competition .
ReplyDeleteRall - can't help thinking 'Judge not, lest ye be judged'! Well, it is Sunday, after all!!! LOL
ReplyDelete"Blessed are the forgetful:for they get the better even of their blunders"...Nietzsche
ReplyDelete