A CONTEST OF VERSE

[TH3GHOSTWAFFL3 489]

A CONTEST OF VERSE

 

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I, DIETRICH VAN JUNGINGEN, a royal poet of Hanseti-Ruska and the greatest writer in Oren and indeed all Arcas, would like to announce a poetry competition to encourage the art in not only my Haense but in Oren also, with the support and gracious royal patronage of his royal majesty King Andrik IV of Hanseti-Ruska and her royal majesty the Queen-Consort Maya Valeriya Barbanov

 

For too long, I have slaved almost alone in my efforts to spread the light of poetry and whilst this has brought me graciously received recognition, it is a hard burden to bear knowing that Haense alone is apparently the only province capable of producing moving and powerful verses. It would please me greatly to see others take up the art, if only to experience the pleasure of composing poetry for themselves. It is truly one of the few arts capable of revealing one’s heart in an honest, uncorrupted and significant way, whilst simultaneously moving the hearts of others; poetry is a simple yet mighty thing - I do not believe mankind could bear to live without it.

 

I invite even the most amateur of poets, even the simplest of peasants yet also the noblest of lords to enter my competition, to shine the light of Orenian culture across the realm.

 

Any applicants must please send their poems to Black Street V, Reza((*)) within two Elven weeks. I shall then choose a winner and runners-up.

 

Happy writing, and I wish you all the best of luck!

 

 

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 Signed,

 

HIS ROYAL MAJESTY, King Andrew IV of Hanseti-Ruska, Grand Hetman of the Army, Prince of Bihar, Dules, Ulgaard, Lahy, Sorbesborg and Slesvik, Duke of Carnatia and Videus, Margrave of Rothswald, Count of Graiswald, Karikhov, Baranya, Kvasz, Kavat, Karovia, Kovachgrad, Torun, Turov, and Kaunas, Baron of Rhysburg, Venzia, Esenstadt, Krepost and Kralta, Lord of Alban, Reza, Markev, Lord of the Westfolk, Protector of the Highlanders, etcetera

 

HER ROYAL MAJESTY, Maya Valeriya Barbanov, Queen-Consort of Hanseti-Ruska, Baroness of Antioch

 

Dietrich van Jungingen

 

 

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((*Please don’t bother to actually send me your poems in Minecraft, this line was purely for flavour.))

 

 

((OOC INFORMATION))

Spoiler

 

-Announcement of Winners Ceremony-

Date: February 8th

Time: 4pm EST

Location: Weeping Wick Theatre, Reza, Haense

 

Please feel free to enter even if you cannot make this time/day! An organiser will read out your poem for you if you win!

 

Please contact Ghost_Waffles#1729 on discord to enter your poem - one entry per applicant, and they must be in by February 7th. Acrostic poems will be heartily mocked. I don’t think I need to say that plagiarised poems will be disqualified but I shall anyway. There are no set themes or guidelines, but war, love and patriotism are all popular choices and very suitable for the setting, in case you need some inspiration. All poems must be written from an in-universe perspective of course - so no mentions of modern technologies or real-life people or places. Judging will be based off of reader impact. Please do not hesitate to ask me any of your questions via my discord or my forum account. Good luck!

 

 

((OOC ADVICE))

Spoiler

 

Poetry is something very dear to me. It’s cathartic and therapeutic - it can really help you to let out your emotions and channel your feelings, positive or negative, into something productive and worthwhile. Poetry is a joy, and it’s not hard either; it doesn’t take very long to ‘squirt’ out a poem, as I’m fond of saying. Remember, poems can be short. Poems can be long. Poems can be structured or free-verse. Poems can rhyme, poems can not-rhyme. There seems to be a perception that poems are ‘better’ if they’re structured and have a clear rhyme scheme - this is false. People quite rightly have preferences, but they can’t tell you that your free-form poem is objectively bad; John Donne’s Meditation XVII, some of the most powerful words in the English language and one of my personal favourites, is most often presented as a poem despite being originally written as a prose meditation. And it’s more stirring and memorable than the rhyming poems of Byron, Keats, Shelley and the like.

 

So go write your poems - really put your emotions on the page. Write from your heart. Write as much or as little as you feel like. Write a poem with whatever form you want (actually, no acrostics please!).  But more than anything - just write! You may take fifteen minutes in total, you may take days thinking over a single line. But just do it. Who knows? Maybe you’ll find yourself a new and relaxing hobby. And if not, you’ll have the pride to look over your work and think, ‘I did something productive today.’

 

[Guest]

Goldgrabba scribbles down his lines of verse with a lump of charcoal he found among his scrap heap. Indeed, his poem would take the form of a Krugmarian sonnet– fourteen lines,  one octave and a sestet, and a slight spattering of blood from those naysayers who had been klomped verily for their dissatisfaction with the Rag’n’bone ork’s verse. From here the words of the romantic, orkish scrap collector were read aloud within the Uzg, carried by the wind, until to a hook nosed Hulphonite with a recognition of the profits that could be made from such wonderful material they arrived. Unto paper, printed with the milled elegance of wooden letter-blocks, were the words rendered, and for Haense – enveloped neatly – did they embark

 

--+--

 

O R K I S H   S O N N E T

Geldmeister Publishing House Ltd.

 

(Transcribed)

Anon.

To ash fe-uruk, wif love:

 

Shall mi kompare lat to ash piece of skrap?

Lat is more shiny agh in da sack less krap:

Rain agh snow duz rust dat wot treasure ‘ave been found;

For it too shall ash day return to da damp unda’ground;

Sometimes too sharp is da edge ov trash;

Agh often duz itz lustre stray;

Agh soo too does shinies wear from da sedge;

But da wealf ov lat byooty shall neva fade,

Nor will it be misplaced,

Nor shall Kor laff dat lat in ‘is shade;

Not whilst orkses can breath or orkses can peep--

Mi just joking lat is aktually ugly as skah, mi much prefer to kompany of my skrap, trash, junk agh treasure. In fakt, mi is doing a massive disservice to mi skrap by comparing lat to it. Me peep’d prettier ologs. Me peep’d elves wot is less ugly. 

 

(Translated from the Blah)

 

Shall I compare thee to a piece of scrap?

Thou art more lustrous and in the sport of marriage less crap:

Rain and snow does rust that what treasure has been found;

For it too shall one day return thence to the damp underground;

Sometimes too sharp is junk’s edge;

And often does its lustre stray;

And so too does gold wear from the sedge;

But the wealth of thou beauty shall’t never fade,

Nor shall it be misplaced,

Nor shall death revel that you may wander in his shade;

Not whilst men can see or men can breathe--

(Line omitted)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

[Erilobar 139]

 

Vorion Sturmholm sees the notice of a poetry competition, nailed to one of the town notice boards. He excitedly grabs it, ripping it down from the boards, and runs into his house. A couple of minutes later, he comes sprinting back out of his home, bundles of parchment and paper wrapped in his arms, running for the library.

 

He finds a quiet, isolated section downstairs, and starts to pull books off the shelves, seemingly looking for something. Finally he's found it-a small, unassuming book, looking something closer to a hand-written journal that any published leather tome. On the cover are the words 'Collection of sonnets, by Tharik Cloudhome'

 

He stays up all night, lit by dim candlelight, studying the book, and scribbling words of his own onto a blank page.

 

Vorion wakes at dawn the next day, head laying on the table. Hurriedly stacking up the pages, he carries them to Black Street, to the same house he lived in for just a couple of years, and posts the papers, tied together, through the door.

 

---

O Father

By Vorion Sturmholm

 

O Father, years have passed since fall of void, 

Yet I am left to sit and weep in prayer 

In days of freedom, Grief I have enjoyed 

Not, for that was the gift you chose to bear.

 

O father, son of the herons marine 

Will you still love me as you once did then? 

To be a stouter son of meager means 

Or born a lesser prince of greater men?

 

O father, torn from life, curse me now, 

words born from an acid, venomous tongue, 

Will far outstip those that no longer vow 

To those who one you genty, softly sung.

 

They say the blood of covenant should wear 

Pains fierce; yet still I weep for water's share

[ydegirl 2357]

reserved … mm

[Birdman 286]

Reserved 

[kipps 726]

Mike starts to imagine an orchestra, humming the rythm as he starts to write his poetry .

 

KORT NO VASELINE

 

Got damn I'm glad y'all set it off

Used to be hard now you're just wet and soft

First, you was down with the OK

 

And now I see you as an idiot with Margrave?

Lookin' like straight bozos

I saw it comin' that's why we went solo

And kept on stompin'

When y'all motherfuckers moved straight outta Reza

 

Livin' with the Chevs one big house

And not another peasant in site

I started off with too much cargo

Dropped all Korts now I'm makin' all the dough

Markus just rulin'

The Korts with titles, who ya foolin'?

Y'all Korts just phony

I put that on my mama and my dead homeys

 

Otto Boy's on your team, so you're losin'

Ay yo Kort, stick to usurpin’'

Callin' me traitor, but you Been-a-****

Rodrik saw your ass and went in it quick

You got jealous when I got my own piracy

But I'm a man, and ain't nobody helpin' me

Tryin' to sound like Reza's Most

You could yell all day but you don't come close

 

'Cause you know I'm the one that flown

Ya done run 100 miles, but you still got one to go

With Doomsday, you’ll dismay to be in our highway

'Cause peasants gettin' fucked out of their gold by a Kort boy

With no Vaseline

 

 

 

The bigger the Kort, the bigger the peelin'

Who gives a **** about a punk-ass villain?

You're gettin' fucked real quick

And Rodrik's ****, is smellin' like Markus ****

Tried to tell you a year ago

But Dixie told me to let a hoe be a hoe, so

I couldn't stop you from gettin' ganked

Now let's play big-gang-take-little-gang

 

Tried to diss Blackhill, it wasn't worth it

'Cause the broomstick fit your ass so perfect

Cut my head and I'll cut them balls

'Cause I heard you're, givin' up to Alimars

Gang-banged by your Palatine, fella

Gettin' gold out your ass, like a motherfuckin' Ready Teller

Givin' up the golden minas

Now they got the Villain with a purse with the high dwellers

So don't believe what Kort say

'Cause he's goin' out in Reap Day

But I got a whip for ya Korty

Used to be my homey, now you act like you don't know me

 

It's a case of divide-and-conquer

'Cause you let your viebreak up my crew

House Kort gotta run and hide

Yellin' Reza, but you moved to Rubernside

So don't front, Markus, 'cause I remember when you rode a 9 horse

Broke as a mothafuckin' joke

Let you on the scene to back up the Jerk Team

 

It ain't my fault, one Kort got smart

And they rippin' your ******* apart

By takin' your gold, oh yeah

The Villain does get fucked with no Vaseline

 

I never have dinner with the King

I never have dinner with the King

 I never have dinner with the King

 

And when I see your ass again, you’ll be my plaything

 Now I think you a snitch

 Throw House Kort in a ditch

 Half-pint *****, fuckin' your homeboys

 

You little maggot, Markus turned ******

 With your Kovachev fella

 Fuckin' Barclay, Ruthern, and their yellas

 But if they were smart as me

 Markus would be hangin' from a tree

 With no Vaseline, just a match and a little bit of gasoline

 Light 'em up, burn 'em up, flame on

 Till that greedy **** is gone

 

On a permanent vacation, off to Helena station

 Heard you Korts got the same Kovachevs around

 Dumb Korts, what you thinkin' bout?

 Get rid of that Kort real simple, put a bolt in his temple

 'Cause you can't be the Humble 4 Life crew

 With a greedy Kort tellin' you what to do

 Pullin' golds with his scams, now I gotta play the Silence of the Lambs

 With Chev who's a punk too

 

Tryin' to **** me, but I'd rather **** you

 Mikael Chev, punk, always into somethin', gettin' fucked at night

 By Mista Shitpacker, bend over for the goddamn Kort, with no vaseline

[AnonymousAlexa 3890]

Mother hen, mother hen

Oh how she did niet want her little ones to leave her pen.

But they grew, and they grew, 

And they flew, and they flew.

 

Oh how she missed them every day,

But she knew they had to live their own way.

As the sun goes up, the moon comes down,

For the chicks have a smile and the mother a frown.

 

Oh, poor mother hen, 

How she missed her darlings in her pen.

But she knew she had to say good-bye,

As it was finally time for them to fly. . .