The Enigmatic Art of the Rhyming Riddle

Scales of Justice representing the balance of a riddle

What has no subject one can tell,
Yet tries to make it ring a bell?

The Society of Classical Poets once posed a challenge that sits comfortably between the tavern and the library: the rhyming riddle. It is an ancient form, dating back to the Anglo-Saxon Exeter Book and beyond, requiring a poet to mask the mundane in the robes of mystery. A good riddle does not merely obscure; it transforms the ordinary object into a strange, magical artifact until the answer is spoken.

In the spirit of the 2018 contest that sparked a flurry of wit from poets across the globe, we explore three common themes found in those submissions—gravity, wind, and ink—reimagined here through fresh verses.

The Anchor of the World

Caroline Bardwell approached the subject of physics with a sonnet, touching on Sir Isaac Newton and the falling of apples. The concept is ripe for wordplay: a force that is undeniably heavy yet possesses no mass of its own. It is the invisible chain that binds the feet to the clay.

I possess no hands, yet I hold you down,
From the pauper’s boot to the king’s heavy crown.
I am the reason the apple must rot on the grass,
And why the wine spills from the tipped-over glass.
You cannot escape me, though birds try to cheat,
I am the relentless lead in your feet.

Answer: Gravity

The Wandering Ghost

Amy Foreman tackled the element of air, describing a force that slams windows and remains unseen to the eye. This elemental force is a favorite among riddlers because it is felt but never witnessed, a ghost that batters the world without a body.

I have no lungs, yet I howl and I weep,
I rock the tall pines in their wintery sleep.
I shatter the calm of the glassy blue lake,
And steal the hat for a mischief’s sake.
I can kiss a cheek or tear down a wall,
Yet cut me with knives, I won’t bleed at all.

Answer: Wind

The Staining Memory

The poet Monty offered a clever history of the writing instrument, tracing its lineage from the bird’s feather to the squid’s dark fluid. The tool of the poet is itself a paradox: it is mute, yet it speaks across centuries. It spills its dark blood so that history might remember the names of the dead.

Born in a well, or the belly of beast,
I arrive at the page for the intellect’s feast.
I am dark as the night, or blue as the sea,
The thoughts of a nation are anchored in me.
Once held by a goose, now trapped in a tube,
I stain the finger of the scholar and rube.

Answer: Ink

The Joy of the Puzzle

The rhyming riddle demands a specific kind of mental gymnastics. It asks the reader to look at a candle and see a dying sun, or to look at a shadow and see a twin born of light. The participants of the contest—from those describing the iris of an eye to the humble marshmallow—proved that poetry need not always be solemn. Sometimes, it is simply a game of hide and seek played with words.