Thanks Renate. That poem is so... icky. But as far goes that thing on fiction, I didnt know if they would be receptive to it. But if it gets positive feed back I will show more, its for an up and coming show I am writing.

Throwing down the gauntlet here. The awful thing about this one is I thought it was good...

GHOST/SLIDE/BY

Did you feel that ghost slide by,
lover mine?
slide by as cold damp air
outside the room we shared
not long ago?

Did you feel that ghost slide by?

We are not young, lover mine,
nor ever will be
again,
never again will be,
but do we care?

Feel the ghost slide by, shadow upon us here.

Will you greet or turn from him?
Smile or fear?
All things, say ghosts, yet live, and he is ours.

Shadow upon us here.

Spirit and ghost and shadow, take us, here.

Now take us, lover mine,
if we would go.
How can we know?
Do you feel our ghost slide by
as we love here?

There is no time, and yet all time is ours.
Lover mine, accept me now.
Our ghost is me.
Feel my gauzy breath,
this dark night of your heart
and know that I am near.

Lover mine,
shadow upon us here,
feel your ghost slide by
and know that I am near...

(music)

Robt,
I kinda like it, but the gauzy breath, that reminds me of someone...............halitosis problem.
Renate

Now, this is a truly embarassing exercise. Luckily, I started writing less than a year ago, and so still haven't burnt all my beginner mistakes (and still have time and ability to make new ones). I have many to choose from, but I truly thinks this one is the most embarassing. Will you look at me with the same eyes after this? Especially considering that I was quite convinced this equalled Poe at his best when I wrote it:

Ashes inside ashes

Water upon water, I see
Ocean, you give me embraces
Waves, you come from foreign places
Surface over surface - and me

Air over air over air - oh
Heaven, why are you receding?
Clouds, will you take me on your wing?
Death under death under death, so

Far away from far away I
Drown in water under water
Deep, you lead me to the slaughter
Up under down and the wrong way

Surface is not surface, I see
Mirage, the upside-down is me
Lost, in a labyrinth at sea
I am not me, no never me

Paper inside paper - they must!
Folding my brain inside itself
Me, I was my own dark little elf
Brain inside brain I turn to dust

= = =

Was there any prize money for crappiest poem? I accept Amazon gift certificates.

----

-Svein Olav

[This message has been edited by Solan (edited May 15, 2002).]

So here we have the Leonard Plinth Garnell anthology of bad poetry. (Some will no doubt remember Dan Ackroyd's Leonard from the old Saturday Night Live; he brought us Bad Opera, etc.)

I wish I could find my early opus on boiling water. ("Gazing into that potential/water soon to boil/one can hardly recognize/the sizzling fluid coil...") Oh dear.

Here's an early poem by a Catholic school virgin pretending to be sexy:

The Hungry I


Craving somthing gushy and rare--
like a burger oozing catsup, dripping oil,
is nothing to keep secret on today's day.

It's fall.
Time to gulp in something luscious--
like the leaves
or someone's skin
or even drooling redmeat on a warm bun.

Mud too might be delicious.
Mud and marshmallows,
pillow slips, and
gooey candy apples topped with tongues!

Ah ha, you're laughing!
Does that mean you're ripe?
And just crave to sink your teeth
in warmth and wetness?

There's no surprise: it's me.
And there's nothing warmer, wetter
or as free.

So on this oozy, candy day
consider eating
me.

-----------

This is one contest I could win.

Hrmf. This isn't what I call bad poetry. It's what I call "candidates for vanity press publication"!

Are double entries allowed? Here is a poem that is quite recent, 2 months old, and posted at Met 1:


Squaring the circle

The circle and the square,

the twin
perfections of the human nature.
The ancient
mathematicians sought submission of

the one, endeavouring to make a square to match the circle's area;
to "square the circle"
with a compass and a ruler. Leonardo
da Vinci found the circle's square when looking

at the human body's
proportions. But construction proved soon after
to be impossible. But still men tried to make the circle kneel
before the square's dominion. And still men try to make the human nature kneel

before reduction to mechanic properties. But squares
can never fill the circle. Many tried, and many are the men who now
have found: There's always something
left behind.

----

-Svein Olav

[This message has been edited by Solan (edited May 15, 2002).]

Tooth Hired Tooth Inc.

Deadeye, here! You write.
Percussive pajamas been rotten
all whores be gone, A warsby gun
For half gone is stan
They're F's, U's, G's, R's , darling!
The ref's Eugeez Arsdarving?
Rough you, geez!
Worth inking a draw pen food?
Deadeye ear Psalm One's mother?
A rub's domelight peen it bother.
Don't draw---pin it better!
Worthing king of draw-pin food.
Don't draw---pin it better.
A rub's domelight pin it better.
Did I hear you right?
Because of Osama bin Laden
a war's begun,
For Afghanistan
Their refugees are starving.
We're thinking of dropping food.
Did I hear someone mutter.
Arabs don't like peanut butter.
Don't drop peanut butter.

Originally posted in General Talk (as if the poem's not bad enough, I had to go and embarass myself by mistakenly posting it there too!):

You asked for it, Carol. I don't know if this is the worst I've ever written (how could I possibly choose just one), but it's a sample from a whole collection of bad poems I wrote when I was about sixteen.

Swallowed

Her feet hit the floor gently
it's been a long, short time
since there's been such an absence
no waking to screams
and dreams that speed the heart
no hands trembling, no memories
It rains
without the sweet tippity-tap
that attacks the roof
hanging stagnant in the air
there's a silent, opaque
sea of water
Into the closet she reaches
chooses one of thousands
of long, straight, black dresses
that hang for miles and years
without disturbing the complacency
Night clothes fall from her body
slowly melting, dripping toward the floor
which neads itself into a soft dough
a thick paste
a watery batter
swallows the garment
and becomes whole again
the shower yields only
thick, soft, clouded air
her black hair unchanged
unmoved, unpolluted
by difference
everything swallows everything
and dictates no requirements
her run becomes a trot
becomes a shuffle
is a drift
asleep is awake is asleep
no happy, yellow, tortured sunshine
no green death fields
no blue screaming skies
no violet crocus hope


Now I flat-out dare anyone to do worse than that!!

Ginger

Ginger, it will be a long, short time before anyone tops that one!

But, expanding on Einstein's theory of time, I believe that a poem can get so very bad that it actually starts to get good again. If you make this slightly worse, you may end up with a very good poem!

Roger,

This must mean I'm worse than Ginger, since I'm not bad enough to be good? Something like that anyway...

(robt)