The 1st Annual
Crypt & Quill
Poetry Invitational
Where the dead find their voice — and really won’t shut up about it
It began, as all great literary movements do, with a noise complaint. Specifically, a rattling. Specifically, from underground. The graveyard committee of Whispering Pines Memorial Park had long tolerated the restless dead — a bump here, a phosphorescent glow there — but when six separate tombs began producing what can only be described as competitive creative output, something had to be done.
Thus was born the 1st Annual Crypt & Quill Poetry Invitational, the world’s first (and let’s be honest, only) literary competition in which 100% of contestants are skeletons, 0% of contestants have functioning lungs with which to perform spoken word, and the prize is a solid-gold femur trophy that the winner cannot feel, grip, or display in any meaningful way. Truly, art for art’s sake.
Below, our esteemed panel of decomposed critics weighs in on each entry. Grab a shovel, pour yourself something murky, and enjoy the finest poetry to emerge from beneath the earth this century. Possibly any century.
⚰️ Meet the Judges ⚰️
“The most genuinely romantic poem submitted. ‘Click-clack your jaw in a tooth-to-tooth kiss’ made Madame Ossifère clutch what remains of her chest. Three of the judges wept. The fourth doesn’t have tear ducts anymore, which he felt was relevant to mention.” — Panel Consensus
“A classic. Raw. Unfiltered. Desperately in need of hydration. ‘A wild itch in my calcium spine’ was immediately adopted as the official motto of the competition and is being embroidered on zero tote bags because none of the judges have hands that work properly.” — Professor Xyloph
“Shakespeare’s estate has been notified. They are deceased and therefore unavailable for comment. We award full marks for audacity, perfect marks for scansion, and a special bonus mark for ‘tucked in,’ which is somehow both tender and deeply unsettling. The line ‘So long as rats can crawl or sockets see’ will haunt us. It will haunt all of us.” — Unanimous Panel
“Five lines. Perfect. An entire tragedy in limerick form. The physics of this poem were independently verified: whiskey does, in fact, pass straight through a ribcage. This was tested. We lost a very good Jameson. Professor Xyloph is still upset about it.” — Lord Bonsworth, wiping nothing from his eye socket
“We were not prepared. No one was prepared. The contestant entered the judging crypt doing what can only be described as a pelvis rotation with 30% fewer parts than the original choreography required. ‘You ain’t never caught a beetle’ is a devastating diss in skeleton society, equivalent to calling someone uncultured. Minus two points for making Madame Ossifère spit out her grave water laughing. Plus twelve points for the same reason.” — Unanimous Standing Ovation (none of them could stand, but the spirit was there)
“Our investigators searched the crypt, the shed, three adjacent plots, and what turned out to be a badger den. The head was eventually located behind the stone angel on Row 4. The angel refused to comment. This poem wins the special award for Most Autobiographical Entry, as the author was, for the entire judging period, living proof of its central thesis.” — Security Report, filed simultaneously with judging notes
The 2nd Annual Crypt & Quill Poetry Invitational is scheduled for next Halloween, assuming everyone can find their various parts. Entry forms are available at the groundskeeper’s hut. The groundskeeper does not know about the competition and has asked that everyone stop leaving parchment under his door at 3am.
If you are a skeleton reading this: we see you. We hear you rattling. Your suffering has been documented, your poetry has been judged, and your longing for a cool, muddy drink has been recognized by an international panel of your equally decomposed peers. Keep writing. Keep rattling. The worms may be sleeping, but literature never sleeps.
…unless it’s been buried for 300 years, in which case, fair enough.
“Magnificent. The phrase ‘worms are dull conversationalists’ is the most accurate thing written in any century. We gave this poem top marks, then immediately questioned whether worms heard us and began composing a rebuttal.” — Lord Bonsworth