Back in January, we announced a contest that would run in conjunction with Kate Day, held on Monday, February 9, at the Portsmouth Brewery. Here are the winners of that contest, selected by an independent panel of judges from among more than a hundred entries. We'll post all of the entries over the next several days, but in the meantime, enjoy:
Winning Limerick
Royal Stout Kate
by Pamela Malandro
Royal stout Kate a lady who pleases
When you have her your senses she teases
Her taste is so bold
No need to be told
Your desire for her never ceases
Winning Haiku
by Chris DePesa
Foamed lines on the glass,
like a growth chart in reverse,
show a refill need.
Winning Free Verse Poem & Grand Champion
Catherine and Kate
by Adam DiCenso
Catherine, Dear Catherine
Savvy and sound,
Tsarina of Russia,
Your conquests abound
Kate, oh Kate
Both Balanced and bold,
Your chocolate aroma,
All should behold
Your majesty, my dear
You are the one,
Who expanded the empire,
And had lots of 'fun'
Kate, like your namesake
You're one of a kind,
Your impact far-reaching,
Quality refined
It's you that we honor,
On this special day,
To experience your appearance,
Yourflavor and bouquet
The greatest of styles
The imperial stout,
Full-bodied and creamy,
And malty throughout
Kate the Great
From Portsmouth you hail,
Complex yet smooth,
A most exceptional ale!
Winning Sonnet
To Quench: A Sonnet
by Ilene Bauer
When life does parch one’s throat and soul,
And every thought’s consumed with thirst,
The overwhelming, frantic goal
Is just to quench it – or you’ll burst.
Though some may reach for water’s ease,
And others seek a soda sip,
I scoff at those iced tea will please
Or those in juice or cider’s grip.
As for those spirit lovers – fine!
I’ll grant to you my deep respect.
You’ll get some help from scotch or wine
Or gin or vodka, I expect.
But as for me, it’s crystal clear:
Life’s only bearable with beer!
Winning Ballad
The Ballad of Gravy (Clock It)
(to the tune of “Davy Crockett”)
by Ilene Bauer
This is a story ‘bout a pioneer:
Nothin’ in life could ever interfere
With his ambition – let me make this clear –
To be the quickest one to chug a keg of beer.
Gravy – Try to clock it – Zing, goes another beer!
Gravy was his name and he was strappin’ strong;
Loved to argue and thought he was never wrong.
Met a lot of folks but never’d quite belong,
But everywhere he went he would attract a throng.
Gravy – Try to clock it – Zing, goes another beer!
He’d challenge all newcomers just to have some fun;
Many were defeated when they’d just begun.
Gravy’d chug so fast he’d beat them one by one;
He’d end it with a belch to prove that he was done.
Gravy – Try to clock it – Zing, goes another beer!
Well, Gravy liked to travel – he’d go town to town.
He’d chug-a-lug from mornin’ till the sun went down.
He was the king of beer, had the official crown,
Until that fateful day he lost his world renown.
Gravy – Try to clock it – Zing, goes another beer!
Gravy was a chuggin’ in a new saloon;
Hadn’t slept much night before – ‘twas a full moon.
Suddenly he woke up right from his cocoon;
Saw a sight so beautiful it made him swoon.
Gravy – Try to clock it – Zing, goes another beer!
She was called Miss Polly and was dressed in pink.
She looked at Gravy, sized him up, and gave a wink.
Slinked up to the bar and said, “I’ll have a drink,”
And guzzled down that beer so fast she didn’t blink.
Gravy – Try to clock it – Zing, goes another beer!
Well, Gravy’s mouth hung open – he was at a loss.
But still – he’d show Miss Polly he was still the boss.
He took his mug and quick as lightning gave a toss;
He’d never lose to somebody who wore lip gloss!
Gravy – Try to clock it – Zing, goes another beer!
Miss Polly whispered to the barkeep and he poured.
Gravy knew he’d win and never be outscored.
Just as he was contemplatin’ his reward,
He saw Miss Polly swig one and the crowd just roared.
Gravy – Try to clock it – Zing, goes another beer!
She was chuggin’ faster than he ever could.
Man, he did admit it – she was really good!
Soon he heard a sound that he misunderstood:
A tiny burp from Polly stole his livelihood.
Gravy – Try to clock it – Zing, goes another beer!
Gravy was a gentleman down to his toes.
He got down on one knee, that’s how the story goes.
Polly did accept as soon as he proposed,
And they toasted their good fortune with a Smuttynose!
Gravy – Try to clock it – Zing, goes another beer!
Winning Short Story
Attack of the Beer Zombies
by Jess d'Arbonne
When the beer zombies attacked, we were ready for them. They came in hordes, swarming over parked cars and the hapless sober, but we were ready. They staggered onwards relentlessly, driven by their mindless need to consume that which we held most dear: Our beer. While the moans of the thirsty undead echoed through the night, we fortified the brewery, nailing tables and bar stools against the doors and windows, digging trenches in the sidewalk. We placed snipers on the roof of the brewery, the best beirut players among us, chosen for their accuracy with a ping pong ball. We faced the coming onslaught with grim determination. There was no way those beer zombies were getting anywhere near our pints.
By morning the brewery was secure, and we few survivors huddled inside, tense and prepared to defend the fort to the last keg. We could see the wreckage of other bars and lesser breweries whose patrons had not been so daring, so resourceful, so dedicated to their libations as we. Through the morning mist we could see the beer zombies stumbling among the bars, lapping up what suds were left spilled on the counters when the victims fled for their lives. Last call for undead fiends! You don't have to go home, but you can't stay here.
At high noon the beer zombies attacked. They came for our porters, our pilsner, our stouts. They sounded their ghoulish howls for our ambers and our hefeweizens. They clawed forward for our finest ales. It was a Thursday, and the beer zombies were thirsty. They would stop at nothing in their mindless quest for that sweet nectar of the gods, that liquefied perfection of hops and barley, known simply as “beer”. We had seen them rip apart bouncers, bartenders, and patrons alike, innocents making a last stand to protect their most precious resource. We were ready for them. We refused to be next.
In a howling mob they rushed the brewery, screaming not for our brains but our brews. The beer pong snipers fired from the roof, aiming for head shots with several old muskets that until recently had decorated the bar room walls, and slingshots loaded with bottle caps and ping pong balls. Dozens fell, but still they came. We set a crack team of hardened regulars to defend the barrels of our most precious brew: Kate the Great Imperial Stout, nestled safely in the back room. They were armed with two by fours and a will to defend to the death our sacred libations. The rest of us found what weapons we could and braced for the onslaught, for the fortifications could not hold forever. Pool cues and bar stools, ice picks and cocktail shakers, a decorative old-fashioned snow shoe and the head of a bull moose, taxidermied and mounted above the bar. Someone wielded a stuffed Smuttynose seal. Our battle cry we borrowed from the illustrious verses of Tennyson: “To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.”
That’s when Stacey the waitress spotted a decomposing arm thrust through the barrier over the front window. It probed doggedly for a pint. The alarm went up, but it was too late—the beer zombies were breaking through. We slashed at limbs, bashed in heads, and still their unearthly moans grew louder. Their low cries of “beeeeeerrrrgh!” were enough to make even the staunchest among us fear for the safety of our brews. Then Jimmy the bartender, in an amazing display of heroism and courage, threw open the front door and stepped out amongst them. Though armed only with the shotgun he kept under the bar, Jimmy was unstoppable. He mowed them down like daisies in a hurricane. He was a force of nature, a zombie-slaying prodigy. It seemed as if the god of beer had finally heard our prayers when suddenly, and quite tragically, the horde got the better of Jimmy, burying him under a pile of undead drunkards who would never, ever tip.
With Jimmy gone, our defenses down, and beer zombies in the bar, we were forced to retreat to the back room, where our strongest fighters defended the last few kegs of Kate the Great. We watched in despair as the beer zombies raided the taps and annihilated our supply of bottled beer. They tore through the Winter Weizen, guzzled the Flanders Red, and slammed back the Old Brown Dog with reckless abandon. The sound of their demonic slurping and quaffing chilled us to the core. It seemed all chances for survival were lost as we crouched there, waiting for them to discover the back room and relieve us of our last hope for salvation.
When suddenly, Chuck the weekday regular had an idea. He stood and rallied our meager troops with words fit to rival the Saint Crispin’s Day speech.
“We happy few, we band of beer lovers! We are not defeated so long as we have our greatest asset! Beer is what has brought us together, and beer is what will see us through the dark times! Those undead fiends, reanimated with the suds of lesser brews, have no idea what fate awaits them! For we aren’t simply guzzlers of some watered-down, substandard canned beer, left to skunk on an un-refrigerated shelf! No! We are connoisseurs of the finest hops and barley known to man! Our beer’s froth is the stuff of gods! One sip of this brewery's finest stout, and a man can move mountains, end world hunger, save the whales, and certainly beat back an army of the undead! We shall overcome! They may take our lives, but they’ll never take our brewery! Rage, rage against the spilling of the beer!”
With that, he tapped the nearest keg. “Come, friends! Let us drink, and find the strength of ten bawdy drunks! Let’s give those rotting soulless heathens what they came for.”
At his first sip of Kate the Great stout, Chuck began to glow with inhuman strength. He passed the beer stein and we all shared in the strength-inducing ambrosia that is the legacy of Russia’s great lady. We had the strength of twenty zombies and the iron will to defend our beer with our very lives. Not since Popeye the sailor man took his first bite of spinach had human beings experienced such rapid strength. Each of us burned with an inner fire that was more than just a warm beer jacket on a cold winter’s night. It was the flame of victory, the legacy of millennia of mankind coming home from a hard day of building the pyramids or balancing other people’s checkbooks, to sit down in their chairs and demand of their wives and barmaids, “Get me a beer, wench!”
Armed with the moose head and rejuvenated by the mystical powers of the stout, Chuck the regular let loose a primal war cry to strike fear into the hearts of the inebriated undead. When we opened the door from the back room, it was not the charge of the light brigade. It was not Custer's last stand. We were gods among men, super human lovers of beer. The zombies didn’t stand a chance.
When the smoke cleared and the beer zombies lay in dismembered piles, we raised a toast to beer, the miracle brew that saved our lives, because without it there would be no life to live.
Winning Essay
Hopalong Caskiddy
by Tracy Schultz
Interacting with Younger Brother generally entails him calling me a baboon, making whale noises (communicating to me in my native tongue), or waxing on about the effects of my gravitational pull. Sigh. How sweet it is that once confronted with a literary contest and a distinct lack of talent he called yours truly. An avid brewer and some would say mildly obsessive beer lover he begged, threatened, and moped until I agreed to draft a submission for him. We’re talking about a five o’clock shadowed rube who is wrecking havoc on my mother’s stove while he brews his own concoctions. Someone who takes weekend trips simply to sample a particular beer.
“So, grass-hop-per,” I cackled, “you’ve finally decided to come back to the Master.”
Actually, I said nothing of the sort, but I generally write fiction. I’m granting myself a little bit of artistic license.
Denim bedecked, straw covered and unfortunately mustached country musicians twang on about the allure of Kentucky’s darling in a bourbonic plague. Hip hop (no association with hops) with its rhyme and reason instruct the blinged up masses regarding the proper method of conduct if one ever suddenly finds oneself in the legendary champagne room. Pop music just tells us that the singer is inebriated but refusing to resist the rhythm, to hell with the details.
Spare me the bells and whistles. First, a disclaimer: If beer is done badly it can suddenly transport the drinker back to the frugality and unchecked excess of college days. That fateful night involving the heaving up of no-doz and ramen noodles that are swiftly spewed off of a fraternity porch in a personal tribute to a certain toga and parade float containing movie I would really rather not name.
However, if beer is done correctly, and more importantly, done well, well then, that is a completely different beast. Or yeast, rather. Good beer should have the same intrinsic qualities of a beloved friend. Good to unwind with after a long day, generally around at some of the best nights of your life, never unpredictably sour, and smooth. If you prefer your friends have a dry sense of humor-this essay is not for you. Good beer is an experience. It is sitting around a table with everyone locking eyes after that first exploratory sip and then proclaiming, “Dude, you have to try this!” It is something to get excited about. Beer enthusiasts know-it’s never “just” a beer. It’s a complex combination of carefully selected ingredients that have been passionately combined for your drinking pleasure. Soccer moms trade sale locations, tweens trade inane gossip, high school students trade mono, beer lovers trade beloved recipes and brand names of extra ordinary quality.
Don’t believe me? Go ahead, pinch your little fingers around that flimsy martini stem, order your straw containing drinks named after prolific jam bands or sandy locations of fornication. I want a heavy glass that I can peer into and block everything out for a moment and bask in the contents. Anyone can order a diet and rum (omitted brand name for obvious legal reasons) every time the barkeep raises an eyebrow. I want something special. Something novel. Something that has been crafted with heart and soul.