The Special Category

Anagrammy Awards > Voting Page - Special Category


An optional explanation about the anagram in green, the subject is in black, the anagram is in red.

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801

'HAPPY NEW YEAR'
by ABBA

No more champagne,
And the fireworks are through,
Here we are me and you,
Feeling lost and feeling blue;
It's the end of the party,
And the morning seems so grey,
So unlike yesterday,
Now's the time for us to say ...

Happy New Year
Happy New Year
May we all have a vision now and then,
Of a world where every neighbour is a friend,
Happy New Year
Happy New Year
May we all have our hopes our will to try,
If we don't we might as well lay down and die,
You and I.

Sometimes I see
How the brave new world arrives,
And I see how it thrives,
In the ashes of our lives;
Oh yes, man is a fool,
And he thinks he'll be okay
Dragging on, feet of clay,
Never knowing he's astray,
Keeps on going anyway ...

(Chorus)
Happy New Year
Happy New Year ...

Seems to me now,
That the dreams we had before
Are all dead, nothing more
Than confetti on the floor;
It's the end of a decade,
In another ten year's time,
Who can say what we'll find,
What lies waiting down the line,
In the end of eighty-nine ...

Happy New Year
Happy New Year
May we all have a vision now and then,
Of a world where every neighbour is a friend;
Happy New Year
Happy New Year
May we all have our hopes, our will to try,
If we don't we might as well lay down and die,
You and I.

ON AN ERA IN DANGER
(A Whingeing-Old-MP Reunion)

No more campaigns,
Now the lying work is through,
Here we are me and you,
Labour red and Tory blue;
It's the end of the Party
Well, at least for you and I;
Now our life has gone by,
Let's at least see eye to eye ...

Happy New Year
Heavy With Fear
May we fulfil one hope, one destiny,
Of a world where preaching hate is history;
Happy New Year
Happy New Fear
May we all have an inner honesty,
If we don't we may as well all be MPs,
You and me.

Oh, how I've prayed,
A new Savior will arrive,
If the world's to survive,
If mankind's to stay alive;
Yet the world's run by fools,
Thinking things are, yeah, ok,
Hand in hand, day by day,
One by one, they lose the way;
No, don't believe a word they say!

(Chorus)
Happy New Year
Happy New Fear ...

Oh, now I see,
Wooden promises we made,
Were a game, a charade,
Winning votes and getting laid;
It's the end of an era,
And the stakes are now much higher,
Heaven knows why man's ire,
Needs to see the world on fire,
What a good thing we retired!

Happy New Year
Heavy With Fear
May we fulfil one hope, one destiny,
Of a world where preaching hate is history;
Happy New Year
Happy New Fear
May we all have an inner honesty,
If we don't we might as well all be MPs,
You and me.

803

On the first day of Christmas,
my true love sent to me
A partridge in a pear tree.

On the second day of Christmas,
my true love sent to me
Two turtle doves,
And a partridge in a pear tree.

On the third day of Christmas,
my true love sent to me
Three French hens,
Two turtle doves,
And a partridge in a pear tree.

On the fourth day of Christmas,
my true love sent to me
Four calling birds,
Three French hens,
Two turtle doves,
And a partridge in a pear tree.

On the fifth day of Christmas,
my true love sent to me
Five golden rings,
Four calling birds,
Three French hens,
Two turtle doves,
And a partridge in a pear tree.

On the sixth day of Christmas,
my true love sent to me
Six geese a-laying,
Five golden rings,
Four calling birds,
Three French hens,
Two turtle doves,
And a partridge in a pear tree.

On the seventh day of Christmas,
my true love sent to me
Seven swans a-swimming,
Six geese a-laying,
Five golden rings,
Four calling birds,
Three French hens,
Two turtle doves,
And a partridge in a pear tree.

On the eighth day of Christmas,
my true love sent to me
Eight maids a-milking,
Seven swans a-swimming,
Six geese a-laying,
Five golden rings,
Four calling birds,
Three French hens,
Two turtle doves,
And a partridge in a pear tree.

On the ninth day of Christmas,
my true love sent to me
Nine ladies dancing,
Eight maids a-milking,
Seven swans a-swimming,
Six geese a-laying,
Five golden rings,
Four calling birds,
Three French hens,
Two turtle doves,
And a partridge in a pear tree.

On the tenth day of Christmas,
my true love sent to me
Ten lords a-leaping,
Nine ladies dancing,
Eight maids a-milking,
Seven swans a-swimming,
Six geese a-laying,
Five golden rings,
Four calling birds,
Three French hens,
Two turtle doves,
And a partridge in a pear tree.

On the eleventh day of Christmas,
my true love sent to me
Eleven pipers piping,
Ten lords a-leaping,
Nine ladies dancing,
Eight maids a-milking,
Seven swans a-swimming,
Six geese a-laying,
Five golden rings,
Four calling birds,
Three French hens,
Two turtle doves,
And a partridge in a pear tree.

On the twelfth day of Christmas,
my true love sent to me
Twelve drummers drumming,
Eleven pipers piping,
Ten lords a-leaping,
Nine ladies dancing,
Eight maids a-milking,
Seven swans a-swimming,
Six geese a-laying,
Five golden rings,
Four calling birds,
Three French hens,
Two turtle doves,
And a partridge in a pear tree!

Dear Vivian,

I'm sending a private note, in person, in thanks for all the stunning gifts you've given me. I'm, as ever, undeserving.

When you said you planned giving me presents in the manner of the song, "Twelve Days of Christmas", I was delighted. I never ever imagined this was meant in a literal sense. I never appreciated you were giving me all the gifts, each day of Christmas, arriving as mentioned in the song.

Final gift count: A massive three hundred and sixty four presents!

Twelve partridges and twelve pear trees:
Partridges are ground birds and were falling from the fruit trees. Fixing the animals to the branches, strung up using garden ties, seemed distressing to the birds. I'm freeing them.

Twenty two turtle doves:
These avians love visiting the pear trees far more than partridges, except living with twenty two of them is noisy. I'll attempt to endure it.

Thirty French hens:
After having done some research, I discovered that "French Hens" never existed. On further inspection, I found they are normal domestic hens wearing amusing small berets.

Thirty six calling birds:
Despite a fondness for bird calls, the noise level from them is downright unnerving, causing the neighbours to complain.

Forty gold rings:
Averaging a pair for each finger and toe!

Forty two geese a-laying:
I'm unsure of eggs laid, given some grand lords and grand ladies (see under) are eating omelettes.

Forty two swans:
These are large, strong, savage, mean animals (aggressive, too). The pool seems like the best natural living place for them.

Forty milking maids:
Actually, I'm rather glad these teenagers managed to forget their cows, as arranged.

Thirty six dancing ladies:
These dancing ladies didn't look as I'd imagined. Several of them informed me they were Pole dancers and Lap dancers. Confusing! They didn't seem to come from Poland or Lapland, as they are rather scantily clad girls.

Thirty springing lords:
More frigging evasive gang I've never met. I'm not really impressed that all these fine chaps are uncrowned royals, except, for example, a man called Lucan.

Twenty two pipers and twelve drummers:
These Indian gentlemen informed me that they are vets from the Second Highlander Pipes and Drums. Performing "Scotland the Brave" seems to the only tune they knew.

And in return,

True everlasting love,

from,

Rene.

803

It ain't no use to sit and wonder why, babe
If you don’t know by now
An' it ain't no use to sit and wonder why, babe
It’ll never do some how.
When your rooster crows at the break of dawn
Look out your window and I'll be gone
You're the reason I'm trav'lin' on
Don't think twice, it's all right

It ain't no use in turnin' on your light, babe
That light I never knowed
An' it ain't no use in turnin' on your light, babe
I'm on the dark side of the road
Still I wish there was somethin' you would do or say
To try and make me change my mind and stay
We never did too much talkin' anyway
So don't think twice, it's all right

It ain't no use in callin' out my name, gal
Like you never done before
It ain't no use in callin' out my name, gal
I can't hear you any more
I'm a-thinkin' and a-wond'rin' walkin’ down the road
I once loved a woman, a child I'm told
I give her my heart but she wanted my soul
But don't think twice, it's all right

So long, honey babe
Where I'm bound, I can't tell
But Goodbye's too good a word, babe
So I'll just say fare thee well
I ain't sayin' you treated me unkind
You could have done better but I don't mind
You just kinda wasted my precious time
But don't think twice, it's all right

It ain't no use to sit and wonder why, babe,
If you dont know by now,
It ain't no use to sit and wonder why babe,
It'll never do somehow,
When your system crashes, on load or boot,
Look out your Window, be in the mood,
You're the reason I'm trav'lin' on,
Don't think twice, it's all right.

It aint no use installing the firewall, no,
That moon brick, you never knew,
It aint no use installing the firewall, no,
Hello, me went in through the door,
Wish there was a bit you could save today,
Try and change the admin login, hey,
You never did much tweaking anyway,
But don't think twice, it's all right.

It ain't no use in backing up your data,
Like you never done before,
And it aint no use in saving all your data,
Oh my, it's bad and nearly gone,
I'm a lookin' and mimin', crawlin' down the web,
You once had a database, but it's all wrecked,
You wanted the meek movie, but a worm you did get,
So don't think twice, it's all right.

So long, honey babe,
Where I'm bound, I can't tell,
Immoral's too hard a word babe,
Sorry,no, I'm just an internet mail,
I ain't sayin' you treated me unkind,
Hello, you didn't notice me, but I dont mind,
You just kinda terminated your own files,
But dont think twice, it's all right.

804

The five poems below are all anagrams of each other, formed from the same set of 624 letters. There is also a secondary constraint which influences their construction; this is described in detail below, after the poems.

Autumn Aubades

[1]

On a grey country road they stand
discussing trifles
under nineteen flimsy branches
of a scrawny birch,
impotently loitering.

You louse! says one with sarcasm.
Performers? Ah! says old Estrago, commenting
on personal spite unmasked,
unfit piety, and retrograde fears.

Twilight:
lowly mankind in his decline,
Theater of Unsettling Dreams,
cachet and cliche both the worse for wear:
impoverished stranger and homeless sojourner,
frail chaser of exotic things,
always deceived beneath the ultimate metaphor of truth.

Might we think? they wonder aloud.
Lamentation's voice arises,
bleating loud its olden song
of the Short Way.

Flame-parched, haunted and worthless, they retreat,
to escape from His vicious abandon,
to tumble toward the knife-edge pain.

Ils ne bougent pas.

[2]

What if you, mindlessly raking silt and pasture
Suddenly hear a verse of your Mother's song wafted on the wind,
Catch her glimmering eye, still bed-cased but achingly glad?
  And if you don't?
  Accept. Pretend.

What if summertime whims melt to reason,
Syllogisms or nation-favoring themes leave wholly,
And loneliness, her immovable censor, besets no more?
  And if not?
  Accept. Pretend.

What if executioners forsake shadowy obligations to Islam and tyranny,
Heroics' adherents courageously use idealism, the chosen guide-arm,
Therewith finely rooted-on but enclosed in honor?
  And if not?
  Accept. Pretend.

What if a feather-whitish light jarring the sky
Turns out to be harmless? (Not an aggressor's weapon: rather,
The outbreak of peace, or the star Sirius.)
  And if it isn't?
  Accept. Pretend.


[3]

Grass seeds lying in permanent crags coyly open,
Cormorants sweep amid leafy lotus rings;
  A boy wakes

Long afternoons, summer trees up in the forest;
Concentric bands spring and spread
  from sunflower heart

Dusk on the path: mystic firefly dances and glitters;
A man's silhouette, eerie color-sprinkled hand,
  blood in the mouth

Handwritten embrace, worst thoughts, tedium within;
Lines on the highway, motels, restaurants:
  Itinerant veracity

Moody soul in exotic cafe wants a change of clothes;
Nation where truth hourly defers to might:
  Impoverished paradise

Migration by day urges on new idea, to leave fate its usual injury;
The ice comes hard on his heel -
  A new shipwreck

Behold, floating aft, a dead lobster.
Irony-defiant, he endeavors to the last
  (Come, belated flight)


[4]

As lyrics from a half-remembered tune
Go meaningless travails and transient times
Into the thin fall air, and past the moon,
Discharged by cosmic-luck-appeasing rhymes.
Confronted by its ever-rude display,
Constrained by anguished moonlight, plague and tears,
We curse at fate, who, scuttling away,
Extorted thrills from twice-forgotten years.
Forestalling one's inhuman tone stripped fast,
We clothe our voice in Psyche's heartache-song.
Raise wine to wealth, to coarse unbridled youth,
A maiden's oath and new-found memory.
Unthinking when we olden precepts lost,
Years hardened as the bitter Irish silt,
Transforming plan to heart of woe embossed,
Securely on its core, with knighthood's guilt.
  At eve I think of our most-blessˇd end:
  A joyful heart, a cheery home, a friend.


[5]

With cruel ordinates and weary abscissas,
  like a monologue of pent-up thought,
His fractured, immoving cube-world
  determines habit, tensely prefacing tragedy with
  anthems to the faithless man
(disenchanted as he is modern),
  a cool theory-poem of litanies more dense than ethereal.

Upon his child-like brow sits plainly
  one thought yet not formed:
Old exits and new entrances, forming and dissolving,
  their automated thrum steady and stochastic.
Projectors paint lines (so angular, bleak)
  on the bulkheads of reality,
  everywhere empty images with cryptic intent,
  foreshadowed fury of...who?

Tangerine light rays,
  slice of dawn once seen eternal,
  wages of absurd hysteria,
Overt drudgery strains after noble thoughts
  of places, corners, laminations.

Nascentes Morimur.


In addition to being an anagram, each poem also contains instructions for constructing a simple cartoon relating to its theme.  The rules for building each cartoon are as follows:

(1) Cartoons are composed of lines, human figures, and speech bubbles placed on a 20x20 coordinate plane with (0,0) in the lower left.

(2) The "value" of a word is defined as the letter sum of the word (with A=1, B=2, etc.) modulo 20 (i.e., the remainder when the letter sum is divided by 20).

(3) A ten-letter word means to draw a line.  The values of the next four words immediately following the 10-letter word represent four numbers (x1, y1, x2, y2) and signify that the line goes from the point (x1,y1) to the point (x2,y2).

(4) A twelve-letter word denotes a figure/speech-bubble pair.  The value of the next word (the one after the 12-letter word) gives the X position at which to place the figure (the Y position is always 0), and the evenness or oddness of the last letter in that word (using A=1, B=2, etc.) says whether to face the figure left (if odd) or right (if even).  For the contents of the speech bubble, begin with the first letter of the next word (i.e., the second word after the 12-letter word).  Take that letter, the 7th letter after it in the text, the 7th letter after that, and so on.

For example, in the final poem the sequence

determines habit tensely prefacing tragedy

starts with a 10-letter word and thus represents a line.  Taking the letter sum mod 20 of the other four words gives

(determines) 0 0 19 0

So this represents a line from (0,0) to (19,0) - namely, a horizontal line at the bottom of the frame. 

The 12-letter word foreshadowed indicates a figure.  The following word (fury) has value 10, so the figure is located at X=10; the last letter of fury, Y, is odd, so the figure faces left.  Taking every 7th letter of the succeeding text gives the contents of the speech bubble ("Only one way out"):

of...who? Tangerine light rays, slice of dawn once seen eternal,
wages of absurd hysteria, Overt drudgery strains...

Here are the poems again with the resulting cartoon shown next to its corresponding poem.  Each 10-letter word (beginning a five-word line sequence) is shown in blue, each 12-letter word (beginning a sequence of words for a figure and speech bubble) in purple, and all the "data words" and speech-bubble letters are shown in red.

On a grey country road they stand
discussing trifles
under nineteen flimsy
branches
of a scrawny birch,
impotently loitering.

You louse! says one with sarcasm.
Performers? Ah! says old Estrago, commenting
on personal spite unmasked,
unfit piety, and retrograde fears.

Twilight:
lowly mankind in his decline,
Theater of Unsettling Dreams,
cachet and cliche
both the worse for wear:
impoverished stranger and homeless sojourner,
frail chaser of exotic things,
always deceived beneath the ultimate metaphor of truth.

Might we think? they wonder aloud.
Lamentation's voice arises,
bleating loud its olden song
of the Short Way.

Flame-parched, haunted and worthless, they retreat
to escape from His vicious abandon,
to tumble toward the knife-edge pain.

Ils ne bougent pas.

[2]

What if you, mindlessly raking silt and pasture
Suddenly hear a verse of your Mother's song wafted on the wind,
Catch her glimmering eye, still bed-cased but achingly glad?
  And if you don't?
  Accept. Pretend.

What if summertime whims melt to reason,
Syllogisms or nation-favoring themes leave wholly,
And loneliness, her immovable censor, besets no more?
  And if not?
  Accept. Pretend.

What if executioners forsake shadowy obligations to Islam and tyranny,
Heroics' adherents courageously use idealism, the chosen guide-arm,
Therewith finely rooted-on but enclosed in honor?
  And if not?
  Accept. Pretend.

What if a feather-whitish light jarring the sky
Turns out to be harmless? (Not an aggressor's weapon: rather,
The outbreak
of peace, or the star Sirius.)
  And if it isn't?
  Accept. Pretend.


[3]

Grass seeds lying in permanent crags coyly open,
Cormorants sweep amid leafy lotus rings;
  A boy wakes

Long afternoons, summer trees up in the forest;
Concentric bands spring and spread
  from sunflower heart

Dusk on the path: mystic firefly dances and glitters;
A man's silhouette, eerie color-sprinkled hand,
  blood in the mouth

Handwritten embrace, worst thoughts, tedium within;
Lines on the highway, motels, restaurants:
  Itinerant veracity

Moody soul in exotic cafe wants a change of clothes;
Nation where truth hourly defers to might:
  Impoverished paradise

M
igration by day urges on new idea, to leave fate its usual injury;
The ice comes hard on his heel -
  A new shipwreck

Behold, floating aft, a dead lobster.
Irony-defiant, he endeavors to the last
  (Come, belated flight)


[4]

As lyrics from a half-remembered tune
Go meaningless travails
and transient times
Into the thin fall air, and past the moon,
Discharged by cosmic-luck-appeasing rhymes.
Confronted by its ever-rude display,
Constrained by anguished moonlight, plague and tears,
We curse at fate, who, scuttling away,
Extorted thrills from twice-forgotten years.
Forestalling one's inhuman tone stripped fast,
We clothe our voice in Psyche's heartache-song.
Raise wine to wealth, to coarse unbridled youth,
A maiden's oath and new-found memory.
Unthinking
when we olden precepts lost,
Years hardened as the bitter Irish silt,
Transforming plan to heart of woe embossed,
Securely on its core, with knighthood's guilt.
  At eve I think of our most-blessˇd end:
  A joyful heart, a cheery home, a friend.


[5]

With cruel ordinates and weary abscissas,
  like a monologue of pent-up thought,
His fractured, immoving cube-world
  determines habit, tensely prefacing tragedy with
  anthems to the faithless man
(disenchanted as he is modern),
  a cool theory-poem of litanies more dense than ethereal.

Upon his child-like brow sits plainly
  one thought yet not formed:
Old exits and new entrances, forming and dissolving,
  their automated thrum steady and stochastic.
Projectors paint lines (so angular, bleak)
  on the bulkheads of reality,
  everywhere empty images with cryptic intent,
  foreshadowed fury of...who?

Tangerine light rays,
  slice of dawn once seen eternal,
  wages of absurd hysteria,
Overt drudgery strains after noble thoughts
  of places, corners, laminations.

Nascentes Morimur.


805

[Oscar Wilde's sonnet 'E Tenebris' is anagrammed into 2 sonnets: one deals with heaven and the other with hell. The 3rd sonnet, which deals with the state of Man, is interwoven - which means it's comprised of the odd-numbered lines of the first anagram and the even-numbered lines of second; however, it ALSO is an anagram of Wilde's original poem.]

Come down, O Christ, and help me! Reach Thy hand,
For I am drowning in a stormier sea
Than Simon on Thy lake of Galilee:
The wine of life is spilt upon the sand,
My heart is as some famine-murdered land
Whence all good things have perished utterly,
And well I know my soul in Hell must lie
If I this night before God's throne should stand.
'He sleeps perchance, or rideth to the chase,
Like Baal, when his prophets howled that name
From morn to noon on Carmel's smitten height.'
Nay, peace, I shall behold, before the night,
The feet of brass, the robe more white than flame,
The wounded hands, the weary human face.

What splendid model of our Lord's honed art
Is Heaven, home to holiness and laughter;
Some, homely brethren and the pure of heart,
Toil often with their minds on this hereafter.
How harsh of Him to band some feelings shared
By few ones, while the sinning humans brace
The hollow need, the wrath and the despair -
And know no calm and no eternal grace!
Yes, human folk maintain duality,
But only one who'd master it shall heed
The chimes of angels, preaching piety
And species blooming from the cosmic seed;
These forces whole, in their most primal shape,
Will greet the faithful 'neath the milky cape.

Ah, deep within the mammoth core of Hell
Are human souls, their own fate contemplating;
Some - foolish slobs, whipped daily in a cell,
While others - heathens, chiefly bent on hating.
Among these halls roam watchers, who are feared
By holy man and hostile fiend alike:
Enormous hounds and pythons, always near;
All hidden, waiting for the cue to strike.
The mud, the fire and the shouts of men
Forever caught between these elements -
They feed the Tempter, roaring in his den
And demons' hollers, brimming with dissent.
The brink of Hell - this parted, horrid gape -
Shall form a doom which noone can escape.



What splendid model of our Lord's honed art
Are human souls, their own fate contemplating;
Some, homely brethren and the pure of heart,
While others - heathens, chiefly bent on hating.
How harsh of Him to band some feelings shared
By holy man and hostile fiend alike:
The hollow need, the wrath and the despair -
All hidden, waiting for the cue to strike.
Yes, human folk maintain duality,
Forever caught between these elements -
The chimes of angels, preaching piety
And demons' hollers, brimming with dissent.
These forces whole, in their most primal shape,
Shall form a doom which noone can escape.