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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Edgar Allan Poe

Romance, who loves to nod and sing,
With drowsy head and folded wing,
Among the green leaves as they shake
Far down within some shadowy lake,
To me a painted paroquet
Hath been a most familiar bird
Taught me my alphabet to say
To lisp my very earliest word
While in the wild wood I did lie,
A child with a most knowing eye.

Of late, eternal Condor years
So shake the very Heaven on high
With tumult as they thunder by,
I have no time for idle cares
Through gazing on the unquiet sky.
And when an hour with calmer wings
Its down upon my spirit flings
That little time with lyre and rhyme
To while away forbidden things!
My heart would feel to be a crime
Unless it trembled with the strings.

William Wordsmith

Anagramming's a way of life,
Not meant to be a cause of strife
Or quirky craze pursued by geeks
To fill dull moments in the week;
Harsh are they who think this so, and
Even harsher when they crow, "Get
Real, you've other things to do!"

But fiddling with the alphabet
Leaves very little time in hand,
Oh man, why don't they understand?
Or see we might be budding poets, a
Dante, Wordsworth, Whyatt, Wilde,
Yet we are quietly shy and mild.

And if we're loons then we don't know it.
Collectively, we're highly styled,
Ready, at will, to do our thing,
Open wide our anagram wings;
Simple idioms, homilies, dramas,
The odd hit; we rehash anything,
In alphabetic panoramas;
Come on in, ooh, have a fling!

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Lines on Titanic: Hardy

And as the smart ship grew
In stature, grace, and hue
In shadowy silent distance grew
the Iceberg too.

A new giant sailed that sorry night
Crew's maiden trip crossin' the sea
Unaware the end in sight
Could be this ocean tragedy.

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Harry and Peggy met whilst on a singles cruise and Harry fell hook, line and sinker for her. When they discovered they lived in the same city only a few miles apart, he was delighted and immediately asked her out on a date when they got back home.

Within a couple of weeks, Harry had taken Peggy to dances, restaurants, concerts, movies and museums. By now, he had become sure that Peggy was indeed his soul mate and every date had seemed better than the last.

On the first month's anniversary of their dinner on the cruise ship, Harry took Peggy to a high-class restaurant. While having cocktails, he said, 'I guess you can tell that I am very much in love with you, and I'd like a serious talk before our relationship continues to the next stage. So, before I get this box out of my jacket and ask you a life-changing question, it's only fair to warn you, I am a total golf nut. I play golf. I watch golf. I read about golf. In short, I eat, sleep and breathe golf. If this is going to be a problem, you'd better say now.'

Peggy took a deep breath and responded, 'Harry, that certainly will not be a problem. I love you just as you are and I'm also mad keen on golf; but, since we're being honest with each other, you need to know that for the past five years I have been a hooker.'

'Oh, I see,' Harry replied. He looked down at the table, and was quiet for a moment, deep in thought, then he added. 'You know, it's probably just because you're not keeping your wrists straight when you tee off.'


It was a hot Saturday evening back in nineteen-sixty, and teenager Rory was off to a first date with Peggy Sue.

He arrived at her house at seven o'clock and rang on the doorbell.

'Come on in!' invited Peggy Sue's mother as she greeted Rory. 'Take a seat in the living room. Would you like something to drink? Orange juice? Coffee? Tea?'

'Coffee, please,' said Rory.

'So, what do you and Peggy Sue plan to do tonight; any idea?' she enquired, pouring the coffee.

'Oh, probably watch a movie, and then maybe grab a bite to eat at the milk bar, maybe take a quiet walk on the beach too.'

'Peggy Sue likes to screw, you know,' announced Mum out of the blue.

'Really?' he gasped, eyebrows raised.

'Yes,' she said. 'When she goes out with friends, that's all they enjoy doing!'

'Wow! Is that so?' asked an incredulous Rory.

'Ooh yes!' replied Mum. 'As a matter of fact, she enjoys it so much she would probably screw all night if we let her!'

'Well, thank you for the tip-off!' Rory said as he began thinking about an alternative plan for that evening.

A moment later, Peggy Sue came down the stairs looking pretty as a picture in a pink blouse and a hoop skirt, and with her fair hair tied back in a bouncy ponytail.

She said a shy 'Hi' to Rory.

'Ok, have fun, you two!' mother said as they left.

Half an hour later, a very dishevelled Peggy Sue burst into the house and slammed the front door behind her.

'The Twist, Mum!' she yelled angrily to her mother in the kitchen. 'The bloody dance is called the...Twist!'

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[The four sonnets below are mutual anagrams. The first two (headed "#1" and "#2") are "found sonnets", constructed from 28 single lines from 28 different sonnets by 27 different authors (alas, one author appears twice). These 28 lines have not been altered in any way, except for punctuation, yet sonnets #1 and #2 scan reasonably well and are perfect anagrams. (Of course there is little rhyming, due to the nature of their construction.)

The next two anagrams, "Herald One" and "Herald Two", are original sonnets inspired by #1 and #2. Besides attempting to reflect some of the qualities of their parent sonnets, each line in these contains the initials of the authors of the corresponding lines of #1 and #2, arranged in columns when displayed in a mono-spaced font. In Herald One the two columns of initials are placed close together in an attempt to suggest the roman numberal I; in Herald Two they are spread apart so they look more like a II.

Five of the 56 author initials are J but there are no J's in the text, so I used the rule that a space in the appropriate column always represents a J.]


It rained three autumn days, then close to frost
Passing from thence, a local tincture drew
With eye so practised in each form around:
Of wheels, and Mr. Rounding's neat post-chaise.

Living, the oak-leaf wreath his temples bound,
Which yields to men and angels pleasant fruit,
And where the vane upon its crest is bold,
With round completed on the grass it lay.

Roar forth a challenge in the world's despite,
Of a material creed and risen to heights sublime.
The neighbours at their shady doors swept clean,
Lost in the night, have ceased to pray for dawn.

The morn is cold. A whiteness newly-brought
Brings down the curtain o'er the play of life.



When I, as fast as e'er my pen could trot,
As wandering lonelier than the Poet's cloud,
When I behold, upon the night's starr'd face,
And russet cincture thy loose pale-tinged hair,

Wilt thou my cares forget in heaviness
And trouble deaf Heaven with my bootless cries?
And will thy presence dim that glorious sphere,
So clear as in no face with more delight?

In scorching splendors that my earth-life burned,
At the round earth's imagined corners blow;
Standing with arms out-stretched and flower-like face,
Send out their inmates in a happy flow,

That hath over blue seas strayed in hope to find
This song of "Peace on earth, good will t'ward men,"


Herald One

O muse worn thin by chance's hellish hand,
Your poems base and foolish I disown;
Negate the dictum of the whitewashed stand
That tenet-honed recruits arranged alone.

Acclaim to hearts somewhere up in the chaff
This point profound to Rome, while given ways
Bend comic style to ease, unite and laugh:
Harpoon of kingdom's bitter-weather days

Forget now dormant scriptures, cunning tale,
For narrow, witless creeds their fools reveal;
Transplant its heart intact, let tongues prevail
Of sounder highs and teachings forged in steel.

Repel anew all childish myths portrayed,
As yet the blind watch-builder plies his trade.

Herald Two

As countless summers hereto passed away,
With potent love and moonlit gentle train,
The river white unearthed its silky spray,
Through contours of renown beset by pain.

Transformed between sun-legacies by thought,
Availed of pathways trimmed in nascent pine,
Outshone this earth of elsewhere-bordered haunts
Along this epic coil of loathing mine.

Men scrapped a doctrine grown of childish hate
That ere did go constrain this sudden glance,
And heretofore adored the guiltless fate
In principles of law and random chance

Around the wistful, lower hills of gray
Then thrice I heard the bells: 'twas Christmas day.

[Here are two pictures in which the columns of author initials are highlighted. On the right are the details of which author each set of initials refers to, and where that author's line in #1 or #2 comes from. All 28 source sonnets can be found in various places online, should you wish to examine them more closely.]

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The Scathing Nausic Lingle

Punce a time whilst scambling
along a wendling way,
warbling nausic lingles
To parse the rhyme of day

I slivvied in a squishel
emprattling my pride
while splatlets on my nattiness
bumbled up my stride.

My peekers angled sighways
'Who bungled me?' I bay.
'Who skid this risky squishel
along my wendling way?'

T'was sillig for a second
then a brachy voice interth
'Your nausic lingles scathe me
gerroff and wendle firth.'

'Who peaches me' I gargle
'Who pratts my nausic lingles?'
but never nother slight is slewn
Twixt bramblers and bingles.

Switch It, Swell Gig, Eh?

I'll anagram most anything from spam to poems it seems.
the challenge unimaginably galvanising teems

with discipline distilling gems, sublime equals absurd
watch well for likely matches, verse and spillikins of words

paraphrase synonymity, explore the syllabary
wondering what's cached within the language library

flawlessly stow letters, web the rhythm, glibly winning
the sudden nice advance by the shuddering final inning

why do we blog quirky poems with messages obscure
spanning and inciting a re verse subculture?

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[Shakespeare's Sonnet 11 - preserving oneself through ones children - is anagrammed into a sonnet with a similar theme, and an acrostic: What little girls are made of.]

As fast as thou shalt wane, so fast thou growest
In one of thine, from that which thou departest;
And that fresh blood which youngly thou bestowest
Thou mayst call thine when thou from youth convertest.

Herein lives wisdom, beauty and increase:
Without this, folly, age and cold decay:
If all were minded so, the times should cease
And threescore year would make the world away.

Let those whom Nature hath not made for store,
Harsh featureless and rude, barrenly perish:
Look, whom she best endow'd she gave the more;
Which bounteous gift thou shouldst in bounty cherish:

She carved thee for her seal, and meant thereby
Thou shouldst print more, not let that copy die.

That Hot Unheedful Shout Of Youth Afoot!

Elapsed, thawed moments while away the sand;
Vicariously should thou stem that march,
Endowing thee, unlike whole copy scanned;
Resembling thou? Oh, only thou in part!

Youth shows swathed newborn heroine unmatched,
Tomorrow's strengths yield of thee but a trace;
Heredity is but death's surface scratched,
Inscribed tho thou be on her flawless face.

Naive despair looks out as we try to
Genetically overshadow death;
Nostalgia showed them wanderlust that flew:
Immortal; tho strained mouths breathe last swooshed breath.

Conserved, fresh heartfelt fatherhood soothed thee;
Ensure thy shrine in youthful memory.

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April Showers
by B.G. Desylva and L. Silvers

Life is not a highway strewn with flowers,
Still it holds a goodly share of bliss,
When the sun gives way to April showers,
Here is the point you should never miss.

Though April showers may come your way,
They bring the flowers that bloom in May.
So if it's raining, have no regrets,
Because it isn't raining rain, you know,
It's raining violets.

And where you see clouds upon the hills,
You soon will see crowds of daffodils,
So keep on looking for a blue bird,
And list'ning for his song,
Whenever April showers come along.

Spring, I beg you to stay
Please bring your primroses too.
O'er sweet flowery fields we'll play,
As the skies offer sunshine anew.

Spring, elusive moody child,
In lavish fashion of violet and white,
When robin choirs sing robust songs
And bold swallows take vigorous flight.

Spring, soothe our shivers
Relieve our homes of winter chills.
Abate rain, hail, and high whirling winds
And glorify the countryside hills.

Spring, we know you won't stay -
You need to leave 'til another year.
We'll always honour the season of May,
Which brings His blossoms most dear.

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by Ogden Nash

Praise the spells and bless the charms,
I found April in my arms.
April golden, April cloudy,
Gracious, cruel, tender, rowdy;
April soft in flowered languor,
April cold with sudden anger,
Ever changing, ever true --
I love April, I love you.


Grab a gorgon and mug the wife;
I have snagged April in my life!
April errors, April silly;
Muddled, hungry, willy-nilly;
April unnurtured, sorceress-old,
April pregnant princess, carcass-cold,
Ever wretched, ever so blue --
Oh, I hate April ... men, don't you?

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[Here are 2 short poems about Fall and Spring, anagrammed into each other:]

Tree in the Fall

Great plants in leafy suits galore
Shed all, surprised by nasty rain;
November wind's ecstatic roar
Shall be its ode to Fall again.

A Lost April

A live ballet of roasting rays
Established April's yellow flare;
Nights, ending faster, turn to days
And cleaner scents imbue the air.

[As an extra twist, I've also *ambigrammed* these poems into each other, which means that one turns into the other if its picture is turned upside down:]