Kudos for chaingun-pace responses; I am out for a day and have half a dozen of people to answer to (yes the syntax could be different to avoid the preposition at the end of the sentence, shut up imaginary philological troll).
Anyhow, in general I can both understand the reasons to hold competitions and -in some cases- the logic behind the criticism and decisions, still I could never agree in a comparison of quality beyond a simple conundrum of taste. Thus, should a critic incorporate elements of proper and "scientific" literary analysis, they can't really deem quality. On the other hand, if they rely solely on personal opinion, then no actual benefit can be derived from their word.
While the use of prompts and time limits in retrospect appear interesting, the notion of creating art with the thought of the maximum universal appeal possible seems absurd. First of all, for lack of equality in the skills of lack appreciation and familiarity background. Furthermore, because an artist, more so a poet, functions as a voice of their era, constituting an alternate interpretation -in lieu of science for example- of reality (this would even be applicable for fantasy and science-fiction as brainchilds of this time of faceless machinery and desperate escapism).
All in all, I am not really opposed to the idea of this poetry contest, however I feel the structure could be changed, even in deviation from the "Iron Chef" of its namesake. My suggestion would be keeping the number of contestants open, the prompt and time limits remaining unchanged, but all participants are given the same prompt and are solely subjected to constructive criticism of their work, or for the sake of competition, score being kept on a 1-10 scale instead of the current single elimination.
As for the suggestions to participate, I have been writing myself, though I do not feel confident enough to share with the playground at the moment. Also, I am currently in the middle of moving from Greece to the Netherlands for my phd, and barely have time to keep track of my pbp campaigns, let alone concentrate on writing. However, I would be glad to be a judge in the next competition, whenever that might occur.
I leave you with 4 poems from some of my favorite greek poets. In posted order: Giorgos Seferis (Literature Nobel prize laureate, a beloved of analysts and readers alike, though amid the latter popularity has waned over the last decades, I believe), Konstantinos Kavafis aka Constantine Cavafy (regarded as one of the greatest in modern greek literature), Nikos Kavvadias (sailor and poet, not as highly acclaimed but a great storyteller and raconteur nonetheless) and Katerina Gogou (anarchist, contemporary poet, greatly ignored by the eldest, immensely praised in politically-savvy circles). Notice the fluctuation of critique depending on the crowd and their backgrounds?
[Poems have been pulled from various sources on the internet and the translations might not be perfect]
Giorgos Seferis- Our Sun
Spoiler
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This sun was mine and yours; we shared it.
Who's suffering behind the golden silk, who's dying?
A woman beating her dry breasts cried out; `Cowards,
they've taken my children and torn them to shreds, you've
killed them
gazing at the fire-flies at dusk with a strange look,
lost in blind thought.'
The blood was drying on a hand that a tree made green,
a warrior was asleep clutching the lance that cast light
against his side.
It was ours, this sun, we saw nothing behind the gold
embroidery
then the messengers came, dirty and breathless,
stuttering unintelligible words
twenty days and nights on the barren earth with thorns only
twenty days and nights feeling the bellies of the horses
bleering
and not a moment's break to drink rain-water.
You told them to rest first and then to speak, the light had
dazzled you.
They died saying `We don't have time', touching some rays
of the sun.
You'd forgotten that no one rests.
A woman howled `Cowards'. like a dog in the night.
Once she would have been beautiful like you
with the wet mouth, veins alive beneath the skin,
with love.
This sun is ours; you kept all of it, you wouldn't follow
me.
And it was then I found about those things behind the
gold and the silk:
we don't have time. The messengers were right
Konstantinos Kavafis- Ithaca
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When you set out on your journey to Ithaca,
pray that the road is long,
full of adventure, full of knowledge.
The Lestrygonians and the Cyclops,
the angry Poseidon -- do not fear them:
You will never find such as these on your path,
if your thoughts remain lofty, if a fine
emotion touches your spirit and your body.
The Lestrygonians and the Cyclops,
the fierce Poseidon you will never encounter,
if you do not carry them within your soul,
if your soul does not set them up before you.
Pray that the road is long.
That the summer mornings are many, when,
with such pleasure, with such joy
you will enter ports seen for the first time;
stop at Phoenician markets,
and purchase fine merchandise,
mother-of-pearl and coral, amber and ebony,
and sensual perfumes of all kinds,
as many sensual perfumes as you can;
visit many Egyptian cities,
to learn and learn from scholars.
Always keep Ithaca in your mind.
To arrive there is your ultimate goal.
But do not hurry the voyage at all.
It is better to let it last for many years;
and to anchor at the island when you are old,
rich with all you have gained on the way,
not expecting that Ithaca will offer you riches.
Ithaca has given you the beautiful voyage.
Without her you would have never set out on the road.
She has nothing more to give you.
And if you find her poor, Ithaca has not deceived you.
Wise as you have become, with so much experience,
you must already have understood what Ithacas mean.
Constantine P. Cavafy (1911)
Nikos Kavvadias- A knife (not quite his best but vastly known)
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I always carry tightly under my belt
a small african steel dagger
-- like those that blacks are used to playing with --
that I bought from an old merchant in Algiers.
I remember, as if it were now, the old shopkeeper,
who looked like an old oil painting by Goya,
standing next to long swords and tattered uniforms,
saying in a hoarse voice the following words :
"This here dagger that you want to buy
legend has surrounded with eery stories,
and everyone knows that those who owned it at some time,
each has murdered one close to him.
Don Basilio murdered Donna Julia with it,
his beautiful wife, because she was unfaithful.
Conte Antonio, one night, his wretched brother
was slyly murdering with this here dagger.
A black his young lover out of jealousy
and some Italian sailor a Greek boatswain.
From hand to hand it passed and into mine.
Many things my eyes have seen, but this one makes me quiver.
Come close and look at it, it has an anchor and a crest,
it's light, why take it, it's not even a quarter,
but I would advise you to buy something else."
-- How much? -- Seven francs only. As long as you want it, take it.
A small dagger I have tightly in my belt,
that a whim made me make it my own;
and because I hate no one in the world to kill,
I am afraid lest some day I turn it against myself ...
Katerina Gogou- Some times
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“Some times the door opens slowly and you enter.
You wear an all-white suite and linen shoes.
You bend, you tenderly put 72 coins in my palm and you leave.
I have stayed in the same position where you left me, so that you can find me again.
But a long time must have passed because my nails
Have grown long and my friends are scared of me.
Every day I cook potatoes.
I have lost my imagination.
And when I hear ‘Katerina’ I am scared
I think I have to denounce someone.
I have kept some newspaper clippings about a man they claimed was you.
I know the papers lie, because they say they shot you at the feet.
I know they never aim at the feet.
The mind is their target.
Hold it together, eh?”