mystiommer
New member
Please submit your poems and club name here!
SCHECC 2025 Poem Competition
- Thread starter mystiommer
- Start date
haz_lefrazzle
New member
Adventure and Expo - Plymouth Uni
Swildons hole:
There once was a caver so brave,
Who dropped into swildons hole cave.
Through waterfalls tall,
And sumps - cold and small,
Just hoping for beer on the way.
The dry ways were wetter than wet,
The wet way was worse, don’t forget.
They splashed and they swore,
Got soaked to the core,
Regretting last night’s big bet.
But water rushed over their head,
Woke them up like a shock from the dead.
The hangover’s gone,
Though the journey was long,
Now time for a pint, like they said!
At last to the hunter’s they ran,
Still dripping, still cold, but the plan
Was butcombe in hand,
To the warm where they stand,
And next week go back there again!
Swildons hole:
There once was a caver so brave,
Who dropped into swildons hole cave.
Through waterfalls tall,
And sumps - cold and small,
Just hoping for beer on the way.
The dry ways were wetter than wet,
The wet way was worse, don’t forget.
They splashed and they swore,
Got soaked to the core,
Regretting last night’s big bet.
But water rushed over their head,
Woke them up like a shock from the dead.
The hangover’s gone,
Though the journey was long,
Now time for a pint, like they said!
At last to the hunter’s they ran,
Still dripping, still cold, but the plan
Was butcombe in hand,
To the warm where they stand,
And next week go back there again!
BigDyl
Member
Based on a failed attempt of Grand Circle in Agen Allwedd with @Standard Unit of Tom and Basir, after we had to turn back due to Biza passage being sumped. The poem is based off of 'War Photographer' by Carol Ann Duffy.
Cave Photographer - Cardiff Uni Caving Club
In Agen Allwedd finally alone
with passages winding to and fro.
The headtorch light is white and softly glows,
as though this were a church and he a
priest preparing to intone a mass.
Ogof Pasg, Nant Rhin, Gofan, all flesh is grass.
He has a job to do. Stony sand litters
beneath his hands, which did not tremble then
though seem to now. CSS Whitewalls. Home again to
ordinary pain which simple weather can dispel, to
passages which don’t collapse beneath the feet
of running cavers in a nightmare heat.
Something is happening. The way on faintly
start to twist before his eyes,
a sumped passage. He remembers the cries
of his friends, how he sought approval
without words to do what someone must
and how the sweat stained Aggie’s dust.
A hundred agonies captured on his phone
from which he will pick out five or six
to post on the group chat. The reader’s eyeballs prick
with tears between the bath and the post-cave beers.
From the high traverse he stares impassively as where
he had just backtracked and they do not care.
Cave Photographer - Cardiff Uni Caving Club
In Agen Allwedd finally alone
with passages winding to and fro.
The headtorch light is white and softly glows,
as though this were a church and he a
priest preparing to intone a mass.
Ogof Pasg, Nant Rhin, Gofan, all flesh is grass.
He has a job to do. Stony sand litters
beneath his hands, which did not tremble then
though seem to now. CSS Whitewalls. Home again to
ordinary pain which simple weather can dispel, to
passages which don’t collapse beneath the feet
of running cavers in a nightmare heat.
Something is happening. The way on faintly
start to twist before his eyes,
a sumped passage. He remembers the cries
of his friends, how he sought approval
without words to do what someone must
and how the sweat stained Aggie’s dust.
A hundred agonies captured on his phone
from which he will pick out five or six
to post on the group chat. The reader’s eyeballs prick
with tears between the bath and the post-cave beers.
From the high traverse he stares impassively as where
he had just backtracked and they do not care.
Jackal
Member
Southampton Uni Caving Club
Homeward Bound
O, great gaping maw!
Fathomless corridor of nature's craft.
Roots outstretched, tracing the tumult of streams and rivulets.
Looming hunks of grey abound.
Vast chasms, cathedrals of austere scale.
Beneath, a cacophony of spewing torrents concealed.
But peer down,
Look here!
Steps and crenellations etched by the fortunate few who splashed and galumphed.
Jovial and ruddy-faced into new frontiers.
And here!
A hint of marbled perfection,
as if enchanted by some spritely spirit.
Appendages of celestial desire,
longing to intertwine their fellows below.
Up! Up!
The lengthy cord of the heavens.
A tango with clattering alloy and gritted teeth.
The safe bosom of a ledge.
Later, the wet drudge of marsh and mud.
Chilled palms, slathered visages.
Casques aloft and beams bright,
slicing fog and petrichor.
A trundle of wheels, crackle of log fires.
Hoppy aromas of delight aloft.
Scrawny midnight creatures jigging and jiving.
Then to polyester-coated downy embraces,
the still of the night swallowing all.
Homeward Bound
O, great gaping maw!
Fathomless corridor of nature's craft.
Roots outstretched, tracing the tumult of streams and rivulets.
Looming hunks of grey abound.
Vast chasms, cathedrals of austere scale.
Beneath, a cacophony of spewing torrents concealed.
But peer down,
Look here!
Steps and crenellations etched by the fortunate few who splashed and galumphed.
Jovial and ruddy-faced into new frontiers.
And here!
A hint of marbled perfection,
as if enchanted by some spritely spirit.
Appendages of celestial desire,
longing to intertwine their fellows below.
Up! Up!
The lengthy cord of the heavens.
A tango with clattering alloy and gritted teeth.
The safe bosom of a ledge.
Later, the wet drudge of marsh and mud.
Chilled palms, slathered visages.
Casques aloft and beams bright,
slicing fog and petrichor.
A trundle of wheels, crackle of log fires.
Hoppy aromas of delight aloft.
Scrawny midnight creatures jigging and jiving.
Then to polyester-coated downy embraces,
the still of the night swallowing all.
jollypudd
Member
My submission! For Aberystwyth! In the style of Roald Dahl’s Revolting Rhymes.
The Rift of the Oil King
The chairman cried, ‘we haven’t caved!
You lazy slobs, sit down, behave:
the drinking’s gone on long enough,
I know you’re made of better stuff,
we’ll band together, make a plan—
don’t make that face, I know we can—
we’ll venture out to hill and gorge,
and let’s find cave yet unexplored!’
So they gathered, beneath the moon
performing rituals in the gloom
where they listened for the sound
of the dormant god, underground
to whom they asked for generous aid
promising he’d be repaid,
and when he spoke, the air went cold
a voice rang clear, and this god told
the group about an ancient rift
created by tectonic shift.
He murmured where to go and dig,
what holes to gouge out, and how big,
to turn left at the helictites
and keep the torch on nice and bright.
They took this in, as dawn arrived,
watching pink colour stain the sky,
then suddenly, freed from this trance
scrambled together at this chance
that they’d been given by this thing,
this god, the spirit, the… Oil King.
They scrounged a bag and donned their kit
(hoping that their suits still fit),
trading wellies and sourcing slings
and rifling through the outdoor bins.
At last, faff done, the group marched forth,
crossed a river on their way north,
then found, below a grassy knoll,
the Oil King’s promised entrance hole.
The walls all glittered; calcite glowed;
somewhere far off, a streamway flowed;
with eager bounds they set the pace,
exploring the tremendous place.
But it was far, the caving tough:
soon members whined, ‘we’ve had enough!’
as, stumbling over rough terrain,
the group’s good mood came under strain.
The chairman hoped the rift was near
‘We have no choice but persevere!’
she said, though having doubts herself,
and worrying for one fresher’s health.
Another awful hour elapsed.
(During which some friends collapsed—
Not to worry, they’re still alive
A hip-flask’s sip had them revived.)
In the end they reached a hall
with a trapdoor in the wall.
Could this be the Oil King’s gift?
Was this long room the fabled rift?
What secrets had he he hid behind
this wooden hatch for them to find?
They ran to it and clambered through,
piling in, two by two, and then,
each cavers’ mouth fell open wide.
The group scarcely believed their eyes—
the god had tricked them! They now stood
in a building, on varnished wood;
the place was full, and people stared
at this muddy bunch, almost scared,
gripping pints in their gnarled old hands,
looking to where the barman stands.
This ‘rift’ of the Oil King
spat them out at their local inn!
‘Alright there lads?’ someone did sneer,
‘You look like you all need a beer.’
This Oil god’s legend soon spread wide.
Eyewitnesses all testified,
but no one since can find again
the entrance to the Oil King’s den.
And, I think, like this it might stay
until more drinkers lose their way
and proclaim that caving be
more of a priority.
But if you’re trying it, like them,
and go off searching for his den,
do not forget that this group took
an object many overlook.
Bring it too! It’s rather odd—
A tribute to this curious god
a sacred offering, a war spoil:
a little bottle of baby oil.
The Rift of the Oil King
The chairman cried, ‘we haven’t caved!
You lazy slobs, sit down, behave:
the drinking’s gone on long enough,
I know you’re made of better stuff,
we’ll band together, make a plan—
don’t make that face, I know we can—
we’ll venture out to hill and gorge,
and let’s find cave yet unexplored!’
So they gathered, beneath the moon
performing rituals in the gloom
where they listened for the sound
of the dormant god, underground
to whom they asked for generous aid
promising he’d be repaid,
and when he spoke, the air went cold
a voice rang clear, and this god told
the group about an ancient rift
created by tectonic shift.
He murmured where to go and dig,
what holes to gouge out, and how big,
to turn left at the helictites
and keep the torch on nice and bright.
They took this in, as dawn arrived,
watching pink colour stain the sky,
then suddenly, freed from this trance
scrambled together at this chance
that they’d been given by this thing,
this god, the spirit, the… Oil King.
They scrounged a bag and donned their kit
(hoping that their suits still fit),
trading wellies and sourcing slings
and rifling through the outdoor bins.
At last, faff done, the group marched forth,
crossed a river on their way north,
then found, below a grassy knoll,
the Oil King’s promised entrance hole.
The walls all glittered; calcite glowed;
somewhere far off, a streamway flowed;
with eager bounds they set the pace,
exploring the tremendous place.
But it was far, the caving tough:
soon members whined, ‘we’ve had enough!’
as, stumbling over rough terrain,
the group’s good mood came under strain.
The chairman hoped the rift was near
‘We have no choice but persevere!’
she said, though having doubts herself,
and worrying for one fresher’s health.
Another awful hour elapsed.
(During which some friends collapsed—
Not to worry, they’re still alive
A hip-flask’s sip had them revived.)
In the end they reached a hall
with a trapdoor in the wall.
Could this be the Oil King’s gift?
Was this long room the fabled rift?
What secrets had he he hid behind
this wooden hatch for them to find?
They ran to it and clambered through,
piling in, two by two, and then,
each cavers’ mouth fell open wide.
The group scarcely believed their eyes—
the god had tricked them! They now stood
in a building, on varnished wood;
the place was full, and people stared
at this muddy bunch, almost scared,
gripping pints in their gnarled old hands,
looking to where the barman stands.
This ‘rift’ of the Oil King
spat them out at their local inn!
‘Alright there lads?’ someone did sneer,
‘You look like you all need a beer.’
This Oil god’s legend soon spread wide.
Eyewitnesses all testified,
but no one since can find again
the entrance to the Oil King’s den.
And, I think, like this it might stay
until more drinkers lose their way
and proclaim that caving be
more of a priority.
But if you’re trying it, like them,
and go off searching for his den,
do not forget that this group took
an object many overlook.
Bring it too! It’s rather odd—
A tribute to this curious god
a sacred offering, a war spoil:
a little bottle of baby oil.
Billy Evans
Member
My submission for UBSS
Piss-wet
And the powerstretch stink awakens.
It leaks into others; pale like submariners.
Drops on their blue skin and
faces curl up and retreat into balaclavas.
Sat shivering. Red Light.
Six to a bivvy. Time of our lives.
Mum'll never get it.
Half smiles crack hard countenance.
Hungry eyes pierce stale air
miles from it.
And the ceramic song of boulders
And endorphins alone get you out.
A hot shower feels cold
And brown gathers between your toes.
Journey to the centre of the plughole.
Bodily harm - broken fingers downprod red
ripe knees.
Laughter fills the cubicle.
Piss-wet
And the powerstretch stink awakens.
It leaks into others; pale like submariners.
Drops on their blue skin and
faces curl up and retreat into balaclavas.
Sat shivering. Red Light.
Six to a bivvy. Time of our lives.
Mum'll never get it.
Half smiles crack hard countenance.
Hungry eyes pierce stale air
miles from it.
And the ceramic song of boulders
And endorphins alone get you out.
A hot shower feels cold
And brown gathers between your toes.
Journey to the centre of the plughole.
Bodily harm - broken fingers downprod red
ripe knees.
Laughter fills the cubicle.
Standard Unit of Tom
Well-known member
Cardiff uni caving club
My poem is called Leaving Aggy and represents my pure hatred for the cave and its also how I remember getting through the entrance series
When entering Aggy
You should've already LEFT
And exiting the cave
Is the RIGHT thing to do
My poem is called Leaving Aggy and represents my pure hatred for the cave and its also how I remember getting through the entrance series
When entering Aggy
You should've already LEFT
And exiting the cave
Is the RIGHT thing to do
The oil king
Active member
Wow this oil king figure must be super cool sexy and funny if only I could meet them
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