Nov 302010
 

NC judges are rarely photographed. In this instance, they appeared in disguise in order to conceal their identities. The man second from the right is obviously Gary Garvin.

The judges emerged briefly from their humid, smoke-filled grotto and handed over a smudged and much crossed-out and rewritten list of rondeaus. Across the top of the page, someone had written in pencil the word: FINALITS (sic). They offered a terse no comment to the international cadre of journalists, TV cameramen, and absinthe-sipping literary celebrities gathered for the announcement. Two of the judges escaped into the crowd and have not been seen since. The other three were rounded up by security guards and pushed back into the cave with much weeping and gnashing of teeth.

Herewith, the list of finalists. As one has come to expect, the entries were witty, surprising, affecting and crafty, all at once and all of them. The finalists seemed ever so slightly, to the judges, to fly above the rest. Printed in a group like this, they are a delightful bunch of poems.

(The management wishes to thank all the entrants, especially the ones new to Numéro Cinq, many of whom no doubt wandered here by mistake and entered without realizing the consequences. Someone did write to complain that he thought he was buying a rondelle of Edam cheese on Ebay. His poem was tactfully withdrawn. One finalist, Jodi Paloni, happens to be a newcomer to NC. Go democracy!)

dg

Read the Finalists here!

Nov 292010
 

 

 

Play while you read the following.

 

To be slightly serious about this for once, dg wants to say what a pleasure it is to observe the élan and enthusiasm you all demonstrate in these contests. It’s fun to compete and win, sure, but this would be a waste of time if that’s all anyone thought about. It’s just hugely pleasurable to watch people try a little form, try something outside their normal routine, try at the risk of falling flat (or, worse yet, finding yourself changed in some unexpected way). DG loves the good-humoured banter, the camaraderie & commentary, the false steps and lightning bolts of creativity. Steve Axelrod goofed on his first try, then came within an ace of winning another NC contest on his second try. Vivian Dorsel entered once, misread the contest end-date, then, at the last minute, dashed off her birthday rondeau which also nearly won the people’s choice award. This time we had several entries from people we’ve never heard of before which is great. The thing to remember is, as Gary Garvin once wrote to dg in an email  (see growing list of testimonials on the About page), there are no failures on Numéro Cinq.

You can all count the votes. You all know the winner this time, by a hair, is Anna Maria Johnson for her absolutely gorgeous and astonishingly robust “Kitchen Ostinato.”


The Way To A Man’s Heart is Through His Stomach, or Kitchen Ostinato

By Anna Maria Johnson



In the kitchen, eating avocado,
Sits a housewife and a desperado.
He weeps gently while she peels a carrot.
“Things are not what they seem!” squawks her parrot,
then with his beak, pecks an ostinato.

The housewife drinks some amontillado
then scoops a handful of turbinado
to sweeten the tea before they share it
in the kitchen.

The cowboy, trouble aficionado,
tells her that his name is Leonardo.
He’s wasted years on things without merit.
Would he settle down now? Could he dare it?
He gives her a stolen carbinado
in the kitchen.

 

Nov 222010
 

 

Entries for the First Annual Numéro Cinq Rondeau Writing Contest have officially closed. As usual, as is customary, comme d’habitude, the esteemed and sapient judges will retire to a place of retirement to focus their immense and weighty brains on selecting the official winner, a difficult and painful task, necessitating many visits to the NC wine cellar. For now, it is the duty of every NC reader to vote in the People’s Choice competition. This is where you get to express your opinions, vent spleen, complain about the management, complain about the general decline in rondeau-writing, impose your taste, convince your fellows, cheer on your favourite, and otherwise pretend you really know what a rondeau is. This is where you get to defy the voice of authority and received opinion—the People’s Choice is the Tea Party of Numéro Cinq. It’s the ultimate democracy. Anyone can vote. You don’t have to be a regular NC reader. Aliens are welcome. Vote and vote often.

All the entries for this year’s contest are here.

Read them over, inspire yourself with a whiff of Talisker, and vote by indicating your favourite poem and author in a comment box beneath this post. In the past, we have had some confused individuals, writers mostly, who tried to vote God knows where. You vote here, on this post–just hit the reply/comment button. Can I be more clear?

Voting will close midnight, Sunday, November 28.

dg

Oct 272010
 

 

 

ENTRIES ARE OFFICIALLY CLOSED

Entries close midnight Sunday, November 21.

 

The First Annual Numéro Cinq Rondeau Writing Contest opens for entries November 1 (midnight tonight as of this writing). The rondeau is a slightly intricate little form (see preamble and definitions below). You should not attempt to write one under the influence of intoxicants or while using a cell phone (unless you are writing it on your cell phone). Also do not attempt to operate heavy machinery while composing your rondeau. Don’t shy away from trying a rondeau just because you consider yourself a rhyme & rhythm-challenged prose-writer. Fiction and nonfiction writers always need a dash of form in their lives, something to make them sit up straight (or just to jar the gears loose). As with all the NC contests, there is a method behind the madness. Beyond the discipline of form, we discover the freedom of aesthetic space. Every contest is a teaching moment, a formal lesson, and a moment of unleashing (paradoxical as that seems). Also, if you look at our previous contests, you will see that they are fun. Submit entries by typing them into the comment box beneath this post.

Continue reading »

Oct 262010
 

lieutenant-colonel-john-mccraeThe first poem I can recall, aside from nursery rhymes, was a rondeau written by a Canadian artillery officer (and medical doctor), John McCrae, in 1915. It’s also the first poem I ever memorized. I can still remember the words written on the blackboard. This was a different world. We still sang God Save the Queen before classes started and recited the Lord’s Prayer, and there was always a Union Jack and a picture of the Queen prominently displayed. And every November there would be men or women in blue blazers and berets at the bank door in Waterford with trays of poppies. I remember being very proud of myself for memorizing the poem. And on Remembrance Day, we were all (brothers & parents) going to town for the ceremony at the cenotaph. We stopped to pick up an elderly neighbour who lived alone in a little house at the edge of our farm. He was a retired teacher and classicist, living quietly with his books. I was sitting in the backseat with my father and brothers and cheerfully began to rattle off the poem in a boyish singsong. My father gave my arm a squeeze and shushed me and whispered: “Not now. His son died in the war.” I shut up, confused, suddenly aware, acutely aware, that literature isn’t just words on a page but somehow rooted in our personal lives, in our deepest feelings about love, loss and death. I think it hadn’t occurred to me before that people actually died in the war. I didn’t, of course, know the poem was a rondeau, but the form itself has sunk deep into my brain. McCrae was born in Guelph, Ontario, a university town about 50 miles from where I grew up. He had fought with the Canadian artillery in the Boer War but spent his civilian years as a pathologist in Montreal. When the First World War broke out, he went back into the artillery. He was still with the guns when he wrote the poem (the story goes that he wrote it sitting in an ambulance after watching a friend die). But soon after he was called to hospital duty where he subsequently died of pneumonia at the age of 45.

dg

In Flanders Fields

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.