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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[[A few words regarding this anagrammatic puzzle --

1. All the 20 answers COMBINED are an anagram of the popular four-line poem.

2. Each picture merely "suggests" a possible answer, e.g., an image of roast beef (for a four-letter answer) could be MEAL, MEAT, DISH, DINE, FOOD or simply BEEF.

3. An answer can be a person, place or thing; or even an adjective, adverb or verb.

4. All are one-word answers EXCEPT for No. 20 [6, 8].

5. While the 19-letter title of this piece, THE NEW YEAR NIGHT POEM, is NOT part of the anagram, it serves as an aid in solving the puzzle. All the 19 answers in the '2009'-shaped diagram either BEGIN or END with one of the letters in the title. Each of the 19 letters is used only ONCE; and these have been placed in the proper squares to assist the solver.

6. After the '2009'-shaped diagram is correctly filled in, the remaining 14 letters can be anagrammed into a very relevant two-part answer [No. 20].

Have a great 2009, Anagrammy aficionados!

Ring out the old, ring in the new,
Ring, happy bells, across the snow:
The year is going, let him go;v Ring out the false, ring in the true.


1 _ _ _ N
2 _ _ T
3 A _ _
4 _ _ _ E
5 M _ _ _ _
6 H _ _ _
7 I _ _ _ _ _ _ _
8 _ _ _ _ _ _ _ Y
9 _ _ _ E
10 _ _ _ R
11 G _ _ _ _ _ _ _
12 W _ _ _ _ _ _ _
13 _ _ _ O
14 N _ _
15 _ _ T
16 _ _ P
17 _ _ E
18 _ _ _ E
19 _ _ _ _ H

20 _ _ _ _ _ _ / _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _]

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The solution (opens in a new window/tab)

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[Shakespeare's sonnet is anagrammed into a sonnet with 2 Valentine's Day constraints: it specifies the martyr celebrated in that day down each 1st letter (in bold), and also includes a kind of rose in each line (in italics), relating to the theme in the subject sonnet.]

Shakespeare's Sonnet LIV

O, how much more doth beauty beauteous seem
By that sweet ornament which truth doth give!
The rose looks fair, but fairer we it deem
For that sweet odour which doth in it live.
The canker-blooms have full as deep a dye
As the perfumed tincture of the roses,
Hang on such thorns and play as wantonly
When summer's breath their masked buds discloses:
But, for their virtue only is their show,
They live unwoo'd and unrespected fade,
Die to themselves. Sweet roses do not so;
Of their sweet deaths are sweetest odours made:
And so of you, beauteous and lovely youth,
When that shall vade, my verse distills your truth.

Why Tour The World Without You?

So monstrous was the mountain that I've scaled,
And yet, it felt so depthless climbing it.
I cherished no French shore - however hailed -
Nor Turkey's tea-house breaks, I should admit.
The muse starved on the youthful field that showed
Vast flowerbeds of baby-blue and red,
And musk-like odours that they have bestowed
Led to some sense of sulphur in my head.
Eventful hours at evergreen oases
Now bored me, as some worthless moss nearby;
The heart's put out to pasture at those places -
I crave the shade of chestnut in your eye...
No matter what the wild terrain or view,
Each seems desert when it's devoid of you.

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[This sonnet by Shakespeare was anagrammed into a sonnet for Spring with an unusual constraint.]

William Shakespeare's Sonnet 86
From you have I been absent in the spring,
When proud-pied April dress'd in all his trim
Hath put a spirit of youth in every thing,
That heavy Saturn laugh'd and leap'd with him.
Yet nor the lays of birds nor the sweet smell
Of different flowers in odour and in hue
Could make me any summer's story tell,
Or from their proud lap pluck them where they grew;
Nor did I wonder at the lily's white,
Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose;
They were but sweet, but figures of delight,
Drawn after you, you pattern of all those.
Yet seem'd it winter still, and, you away,
As with your shadow I with these did play.

Neat Feel Without Heat...
When dawn came to my window with a chill,
The sun's unsteady ray appeared impeded.
The avid rain had my one prayer fulfilled -
The hearty rinse was what our meek house needed.
The flowers their inviting flair did tout -
That lavish spray relieved our yard's faint woe.
Some purple asters, numb with drink, shot out;
A thorny rose did humbly bloom and grow.
When thrushes rose up, but, in stormy rush,

Swooped, fairly ruffled, too wet to resettle -
I trod the shore to see, in finest hush,
Grey ripples multiply like flower-petals.
There, on the windy bay, in early rain,
I glimpsed the timely hint of Spring again.

[All of the anagram's b's, y's and r's, representing blue, yellow and red accordingly, were arranged to create flowery patterns:]

Feel Neat Without Heat...

When dawn came to my window with a chill,
The sun's unsteady ray appeared impeded.
The avid rain had my one prayer fulfilled -
The hearty rinse was what our meek house needed.
The flowers their inviting flair did tout -
That lavish spray relieved our yard's faint woe.
Some purple asters, numb with drink, shot out;
A thorny rose did humbly bloom and grow.
When thrushes rose up, but, in stormy rush,
Swooped, fairly ruffled, too wet to resettle -
I trod the shore to see, in finest hush,
Grey ripples multiply like flower-petals.
There, on the windy bay, in early rain,
I glimpsed the timely hint of Spring again.

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This is a text of a letter from an excited young army-recruit from Eromanga, to Mum and Dad. (For those of you not in the know, Eromanga is a small town, west of Quilpie in the far south west of Queensland )

Dear Mum and Dad,

I'm very well. Hope youse are very well too. Tell me big brothers Doug and Phil that the Army is better than workin on the farm - tell them to get in bloody quick smart before the jobs are all gone! I wuz a bit slow in settlin in at first, because ya don't have to get outta bed until six in the mornin. But I like sleeping in now, coz all ya gotta do before brekky is make ya bed and polish ya boots and clean off ya uniform. No bloody cows to milk, no calves to feed, no feed to stack - nothin! Ya haz ta have a shower though, but I've decided it's not too bad, coz there's loadsa hot water and even a light so's ya can see what ya's doing!

At brekky ya get the choices of cereals, fruits and eggs but there's no kangaroo steaks or possum stew like Mum makes. Ya don't get fed again until noon and by that time all the pansy city boys are buggered because we've been on a 'route march' - but, jeez it's only like strollin to the old windmill in the back paddock!

Oh, yeah - this one'll kill me brothers Doug and Phil with laughter. I keep gettin bloody medals for shootin - I dunno why.

They reckon I'm good as any top marksman! But the bullseye's as big as a possum's bum and it don't move away and it don't fire back like the Wallmans did when our big scrubber bull got into their prize cows before the Ekka last year!

All ya gotta do is just make yourself comfy, aim and hit the target. It's a piece of piss! Ya don't even load your cartridges, they come in little boxes, and ya don't have ta steady yourself against the rollbar of the roo shootin' truck when ya reload!

Sometimes you gotta wrestle with the city boys and I gotta be real careful coz they break easy - it's not like fightin with Doug and Phil and Monkey and Joe and Kenny and Wozza all at once like we do at home after the muster.

Turns out I'm not a bad boxer neither. Looks like I am the best we got in our platoon at the moment, and I've only been beat once, by some bloke from the Engineers squad - he's six-foot-four tall and weighs nineteen stone and he's three pick handles across the shoulders. As ya know I'm only five-foot-five, and seven stone wringin' wet, but I fought him till the other blokes carried me off, still punchin, to the boozer.

I can't complain about the Army - tell the lads ta get in the queue quick before word gets around how bloody good it all is.

Well, gotta go now, Mum and Dad.

From your loving daughter,


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William Shakespeare's Sonnet 24

Mine eye hath play'd the painter and hath stell'd
Thy beauty's form in table of my heart;
My body is the frame wherein 'tis held,
And perspective it is best painter's art.
For through the painter must you see his skill,
To find where your true image pictured lies;
Which in my bosom's shop is hanging still,
That hath his windows glazed with thine eyes.
Now see what good turns eyes for eyes have done:
Mine eyes have drawn thy shape, and thine for me
Are windows to my breast, where-through the sun
Delights to peep, to gaze therein on thee;
Yet eyes this cunning want to grace their art;
They draw but what they see, know not the heart.

The True Source of the Morning Radiance

When one dawn nears the house, I wake to view
These frenzied rays, which through the window stream;
The tidy room appears too young and new
When freely, gaily lit by gorgeous beams.
I see them style a crystal vase and plinth
With dots of golden-white, and then I gaze
As they play in the tiny labyrinth
Within the dew-wet primrose in the vase.
But as the rays run by the pure white sheet,
Then softly hit my peachy bride's fair shape,
I fondly think it might stay praised and sweet
Were I to raise my hand to shut these drapes.
It's not the sun that makes these things here bloom;
The sleeper near me - she lights up the room.

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[A double acrostic get-well anagram to Mick Tully]

My glass shall not persuade me I am old,
So long as youth and thou are of one date;
But when in thee time's furrows I behold,
Then look I death my days should expiate.
For all that beauty that doth cover thee
Is but the seemly raiment of my heart,
Which in thy breast doth live, as thine in me:
How can I then be elder than thou art?
O, therefore, love, be of thyself so wary
As I, not for myself, but for thee will;
Bearing thy heart, which I will keep so chary
As tender nurse her babe from faring ill.
Presume not on thy heart when mine is slain;
Thou gavest me thine, not to give back again.

How can one fight off the unhealthy fear,
Each day of bothersome examinations,
As humble howls, so hurtful to the ears,
Leave one with silent hopes of liberation?
It might be very wise, though, to be bold,
Not merely for this brief and hasty ease;
Good cheer without that bleakness, truth be told,
Pays off abundantly at times like these.
Remember, then, that everywhere on earth,
One mighty remedy was proven real:
Cure any inner aching with your mirth;
Elation is a potion that's ideal.
So laugh, my friend - all maladies combined
Shan't ever wholly hurt the soul that's kind.

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There is a house in New Orleans
They call the Rising Sun
And it's been the ruin of many a poor boy
And God I know I'm one

My mother was a tailor
She sewed my new blue jeans
My father was a gamblin' man
Down in New Orleans

Now the only thing a gambler needs
Is a suitcase and trunk
And the only time he's satisfied
Is when he's on a drunk

(Organ solo)

Oh mother tell your children
Not to do what I have done
Spend your lives in sin and misery
In the House of the Rising Sun

Well, I got one foot on the platform
The other foot on the train
I'm goin' back to New Orleans
To wear that ball and chain

Well, there is a house in New Orleans
They call the Rising Sun
And it's been the ruin of many a poor boy
And God I know I'm one.


There is a house in Windsor, Berks
A noble sight to see!
And it's been the mansion for many a long year,
Of a Royal Family.

The mother rules a kingdom,
Oh, England is its name;
The father is a moaning man,
And he's a Royal pain.

Now the only thing with kingdoms is,
They cost a lot to run,
So, we're the ones who foot the bill,
While those ninnies have the fun.

(ease-in solo )

Ma'am, now let me tell you,
About the credit crunch,
And how we dwell in penury,
As you folks eat your prawns for lunch.

Oh, I got one hand round a pistol,
The gun's held to my brain,
The mortgage lenders have foreclosed,
My job's gone down the drain.

That mansion-house in Windsor, Berks
Is where I wanna be,
A Royal union rules within,
And we're nonentities.

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[Milton's epitaph anagrammed into a poemæfor the 12th anniversary of Princess Diana's death with a special constraint: A relevant image appears when all of the anagram's S's are marked...]

On Shakespeare

What needs my Shakespeare, for his honoured bones,
The labour of an age in piled stones?
Or that his hallowed relics should be hid
Under a star-y-pointing pyramid?
Dear son of Memory, great heir of Fame,
What need'st thou such weak witness of thy name?
Thou, in our wonder and astonishment,
Hast built thyself a livelong monument.
For whilst, to the shame of slow-endeavouring art,
Thy easy numbers flow, and that each heart
Hath, from the leaves of thy unvalued book,
Those Delphic lines with deep impression took;
Then thou, our fancy of itself bereaving,
Dost make us marble, with too much conceiving;
And, so sepulchred, in such pomp dost lie,
That kings for such a tomb would wish to die.

An ode in honour of the bleak death of Diana

How odd it felt to watch our media
Overtly harness sassy trivia
To make this darling seem plain and uncouth -
While fans revered the springtime of her youth!
No bogus profiles and no sloppy claim
Would snuff the solemn worship of her name;
Each soul resists suspicions of her peak,
When so much trashy flack is proven weak!
Let us remember still that soothing charm
(The spark - those avid eyes which knew no harm)
Then stop and muse on the astounding doom,
That set that beauty in this bloody tomb...
Why is our hero bound to lose our love?
And is that urging the demise thereof?
Ah yes, I found the high cost of new fame;
A candle burned, and we blew out the flame.

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by Robert Frost

O hushed October morning mild,
Thy leaves have ripened to the fall;
Tomorrow's wind, if it be wild,
Should waste them all.
The crows above the forest call;
Tomorrow they may form and go.
O hushed October morning mild,
Begin the hours of this day slow.
Make the day seem to us less brief.
Hearts not averse to being beguiled,
Beguile us in the way you know.
Release one leaf at break of day;
At noon release another leaf;
One from our trees, one far away.
Retard the sun with gentle mist;
Enchant the land with amethyst.
Slow, slow!
For the grapes' sake, if the were all,
Whose elaves already are burnt with frost,
Whose clustered fruit must else be lost--
For the grapes' sake along the all.

Forefathers hear my voice as
I bless nuggets that were cast.
Like folks before me,
I see books of the past.
Photos tell about aches,
I dream of a better now.
New blood fills the instant;
Old age lines the brow.
As faultless and bowed
Memories will follow me...
Engaging the heartbeats
Remember to be free.
I long for a mother's country
Cradled in my fallow love,
Anchored deep in her roots,
Nurtured by the sun above,
"How full was my heart?"
I hear the subtlest call.
Soon forgotten, look ahead...
The shadows grow so tall.
Oh, the awkward thoughts
Return to my youth.
Yesterday is forever lost;
My future is the truth.
On the edge, beyond the sea
Never near, always far.
Traditions will remain...
Home is where we are.

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Don McLean

Starry, starry night
Paint your palette blue and gray
Look out on a summer's day
With eyes that know the darkness in my soul

Shadows on the hills
Sketch the trees and the daffodils
Catch the breeze and the winter chills
In colors on the snowy linen land

Now I understand
What you tried to say to me
And how you suffered for your sanity
And how you tried to set them free
They would not listen, they did not know how
Perhaps they'll listen now

Starry, starry night
Flaming flowers that brightly blaze
Swirling clouds in violet haze
Reflect in Vincent's eyes of china blue

Colors changing hue
Morning fields of amber grain
Weathered faces lined in pain
Are soothed beneath the artist's loving hand


For they could not love you
But still, your love was true
And when no hope was left in sight
On that starry, starry night
You took your life as lovers often do
But I could've told you, Vincent
This world was never meant
For one as beautiful as you

Starry, Starry night
Portraits hung in empty halls
Frameless heads on nameless walls
With eyes that watch the world and can't forget

Like the strangers that you've met
The ragged men in ragged clothes
The silver thorn, a bloody rose
Lie crushed and broken on the virgin snow

Now I think I know
What you tried to say to me
And how you suffered for your sanity
And how you tried to set them free
They would not listen, they're not listening still
Perhaps they never will.

Final Torment Of A Princess.

Starry Paris night,
In that wrecked Mercedes car,
A body, broken, torn and marred,
Whose gaze rests on the dirty tunnel walls.

Frenzy at the crash,
Strangers shout and the cameras flash,
To film her lying in that smash,
As the light forever fades in those blue eyes.

The Royals never knew,
What you tried to say to them,
How you suffered, lonely, shy, in vain,
And they all ignored your pain,
They did not listen, no they weren't aware,
Maybe they didn't care.

Classy, classy sight,
In the Ritz, you looked divine,
You didn't know Death's grand design
Was lurking in that sad French tunnel's gloom.

How it stunned the world,
When they heard that fateful news,
No one could believe it true,
No, not our Princess, no, it cannot be.


Yet they strived to save you,
They did all they could do,
But, though you'd shone so very bright
On that sorry, sorry night,
You lost your life and we lost something too,
Now I guess we all know Princess,
There'll never be another soul as beautiful as you.

Starry, sorry night,
Why did fate not let you live?
Why should one with more to give,
Be snuffed out like a candle in the wind?

So, what's life all about?
If soon over in a twist of fate?
From being there, wrong time, wrong place,
With no eternal plan to light the way?

Will we know the truth?
Why that driver lost control?
Did that man's penchant for strong alcohol
Take its harsh and senseless toll?
Now Princess you've found immortality,
For all eternity.

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William Blake.

Tiger, tiger, burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand dare seize the fire?

And what shoulder and what art
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand and what dread feet?

What the hammer? what the chain?
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? What dread grasp
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?

When the stars threw down their spears,
And water'd heaven with their tears,
Did He smile His work to see?
Did He who made the lamb make thee?

Tiger, tiger, burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

(That Hanky-Panky, Lawn-Stud Yank).

Tiger, Tiger, in a whirl,
Had a fair way with the girls,
Now that game has run its course,
He's in the rough - maybe divorce?

What a swinging time he'd had!
What a ball! Hah! What a cad!
Swedish wife, blonde, bright and trim,
Why wasn't that enough for him?

Wife is harsh, the man's in tatters,
Lost the trophy that most matters,
And every birdie that he met's
An albatross around his neck.

From far and wide they all appear,
Strewth! How many are there here?
One, two, three, four... huh?... nine ten!
When did he find time for them?

Ruffled Tiger, shrewd yet green,
The aftermath he hadn't seen,
Nor remembered he was wedded
When each pretty bird he bedded.

Zesty Tiger, in a whirl,
Had a fair way with the girls,
All that effort to be Master,
Frittered, shattered, what disaster.