Bob, I have to disagree with Janice. It's pretty bad. Not as bad as it could be. But you're getting there. Don't give up.
****

How's this?

For Love

Love's what sets your heart on fire,
It's song is like a ghostly choir.
But though Love's ways are dark and dire,
Love's all that human hearts desire.

Love cuts you like a kitchen knife,
With endless sorrow Love is rife,
But though it's full of pain and strife,
For love I'd glady give my life.

Bob, you know it is against the rules to defend your poetry, and I am quite upset that you are trying to do so.

But since I am fair-minded, you are right that mine is so bad it is not good, and won't win in a competition wanting poetry that is reasonably good, yet bad.

Also since I am wishy-washy and easily coerced, your bad poetry is the best and Wendy is runner-up and I will be satisfied with a dishonorable mention. But if Wendy protests, I may reverse the order!!!

And now I see that Marion has entered the fray while I was on the phone. And her closure takes the Art to New Heights. She is a Bad Poet when she puts her mind to it.

Thank you, Janice. I'm glad I've descended from the mediocre to the Bad. I'm especially proud of the monorhymes--that's an easy thing to do Badly, don't you think?

The hard part is finding new ways to be bad, since the field has been thoroughly mined by far worse poets than ourselves. (Forgive me if you feel unfairly praised by this remark, but it's not ad hom, since I haven't mentioned anyone in particular even if the good poets know exactly who they are).

Janice, encouraged by your praise, I devoted the last five minutes to this one. What do you think? Am I getting Worse?


Spring Depression

I walk through the fields,
the birds sweetly sing,
but as I walk on,
for me there's no spring.

The treetops are green,
the sunlight is gold,
the world seems so young,
and I am so old.

Sorry, Marion, there are some good spots you'll need to tweak.

This one occupied my last seven minutes:


ANGEL SONG

When angels sing, it's music.
Compared to angel song,
the scratchy voice of humans
is like an ugly gong.
When angels sing, it's music.
When humans sing, it's wrong.

Mankind may praise Caruso.
Despite the cheering throng,
Caruso's voice was whiney
compared to angel song.
Caruso's voice was tepid.
When angels sing, it's strong.

So if you're bound for heaven,
could I please come along?
Just take me to the doorway.
I'll ring the bell, ding dong,
a lovely sound, but grating
compared to angel song.

Bob, that's exquisitely Bad!:p

Thank you, Marion. It's liberating to write with the intention of being bad. It removes any fear factor.

I think that I'm finally understanding the mission here. At the risk of stating the obvious, the goal is not really to write a "bad poem," but to write a good parody of a what a typical bad poem sounds like.

You are both in a class by yourselves (Wendy too).

The Bad-Ass-Bad Class.

I know when to just step aside and applaud my betters. :eek:.

Now, how does the Wergle Flomp competition work? I'm not sure I understand. The most important question is whether you need to use your own name to submit to poetry.com or other vanity sites (I'm guessing you don't). But I'm also curious whether the outcome of the contest depends on how well your poem does on the vanity site, or whether the Wergle Flomp judge will simply pick his or her own favorite bad poem from those that have been entered.

Too bad you can only enter one poem. I'm not sure which of mine to enter, though I'm always inclined to think that my most recent poem is the worst, so I'm leaning toward "Angel Song."

SAY A PRAYER FOR GRANDMA

"Say a prayer for grandma,"
my mother told me. "Pray."
I don't have perfect grammar
but I did so in my way.

I said, "It's me, God. Hear me?
My mom says you are there
and sometimes do kids favors
if they ask nice in a prayer.

"Now can you keep a secret?
Between just you and I,
there are things I want more
than for grandma not to die,

"a little list that I prepared
but Santa Claus ignored.
So how about it? Won't you help?
I'm counting on you, Lord!"
 

I do think, Bob, all things considered (for better or verse), that you have gotten worse as you go along, not a huge improvement, but a perceptible one.

I would suggest using a pen name. Like Fernando Pessoa, you can have a multitude. But we know who you are and where you live.

Where is John W? I'm thinking he is in Agony.

Thirty Below


"It's cold", you say,
"Ice eternal."
"Let me tell ya:

Ain't a good day
for external
genitalia."

-o-

FEELING SORRY FOR GOD

In heaven I believe that God
 and all the angels weep
when they look down on earth to find
 the good men fast asleep

and all the evil men awake,
 well rested, and alert.
Since God's so fond of peace and love,
 you know that's got to hurt.
 

For Love (inspired by Marion's poem by the same title)

Love, I say, is like a flame,
  but when hate's water splashes,
love keeps burning just the same
  and does not turn to ashes.

Love, I say, is like a knife,
  but there's no need to hone it.
It will last throughout your life,
  if that's how long you own it.

Love, I say, is like a stone,
  but softer than a feather.
It's hard to lift love all alone
  but not that hard hard together.
 
 

Clearly -- Bob's just competing against himself now, despite valiant efforts and new signs of deterioration on the part of Marion (really bad love song there, Marion) Janice (that King & Queen thing is certainly bad), RLC & Winaka, etc. ,and I still think "Suicide Sounds" is pretty awful, but --

Between "Say a Prayer for Grandma" and "Feeling Sorry for God" -- it's real close. Which to send in? They're both so truly horrible, I can't say. "Grandma" is more offensive -- but that's not the only consideration. "Feelilng Sorry for God" might be a bit subtle, but I love it too.

Checking out Bob's link of previous winners -- Tina Bivens' "Sonnets to Mayo" series -- did she get to send in a whole bunch of sonnets by casting them as part of a series? Anyway, they're kind of "fractured" sonnets, in a way, and definitely good (as well as bad).

Thanks, Wendy. I was leaning toward submitting "Angel Song," but "Grandma" is in contention. Probably not this one, though, but I can't stop:


THE ANSWER

I went down to the valley
and I viewed the mountainside
as I floated in the river
with my two eyes open wide.

All at once, it thundered
on the dust the sun had dried.
I wondered, truly wondered,
if I'd find a place to hide,

and then I had my answer
as a bolt of lightning fried
the raft on which I floated
for, alas, I drowned and died.
 
 

suggestions for Marion
 

Marion,

Wouldn't this be worse if your last line were

For love I'd gladly give my wife.

ps. One typo is bad, but three would be so much worse.

For Love

Love's what sets your heart on fire,
It's song is like a ghostly choir.
But though Love's ways are dark and dire,
Love's all that human hearts desire.

Love cuts you like a kitchen knife,
With endless sorrow Love is rife,
But though it's full of pain and strife,
For love I'd glady give my life.[/quote]

Really too good, Bob--a childlike version of the Songs of Experience! Are you sure this wasn't written by Jon Stewart when he was six? Only an innocent in the first flush of Experience could feel sorry for God.

Wendy,

If it weren't for "oscillating consciousness," this could be a winner.

You could even have a second movement that occurs after the suicide. Called "Epilogue," something like

And so I partied on. And on. And on.
Till I was the last one breathing.
But not for long. And yet I party on...
in the cemetery
in a box
with the worms.


"Suicide Sounds"

Trapped, in this dim orb of oscillating consciousness,
trying to lift the stillborn shards of our one-time love--
Party on.

Party on, they said --
You can hear,
through the dull drift of anemic orifice
Still.
Party on.

No -- no more.
No more of the drill,
the shrill
soft heart of paralysis.
No!!!!

But it will
end.[/quote]

Er, Terese -- what's wrong (or, should I say, right) with "oscillating consciousness"? Not sophomoric enough for y'?

Love your suggested revision ("wife" instead of "life") for the last line of Marion's poem!

But, yeah, really -- "Feeling Sorry for God" -- it's special, as Gilda used to say.

Where am I, Janice? Like God I am everywhere and nowhere, noting that most of the bad verse you people produce still rhymes and scans and makes sense, whereas the really bad stuff generally does none of these things. Here is a stanza by Sidney Dobell (of the Spasmodoc School).

Oh the wold, the wold,
Oh the wold, the wold,
Oh the winter stark,
Oh the level dark,
Oh the wold, the wold, the wold!

Theer's something about these old-type guys!

I've been following this thread with intense interest. This one has got to be the winner! I am cracking up!

Oh the wold, the wold,
Oh the wold, the wold,
Oh the winter stark,
Oh the level dark,
Oh the wold, the wold, the wold!

I was trying to write a sad limerick and came up with this little beauty:

To lose Paula White was a blow,
she was sorry for letting me go,
I was ok in bed,
but not brilliant, she said
and she thought it was right I should know.

Inspired by Holly:

To lose Paula White was a blow,
I was sorry for letting her go.
I'm willing to bet
that if we'd used a net
she wouldn't have died down below.

Wendy,

Here's one definition of "oscillate":

Mathematics. (of a function, sequence, etc.) to tend to no limit, including infinity: The sequence 0, 1, 0, 1, … oscillates.

It's too good for the BAD. I wonder if you had the mathematical connotation tucked away inside your hypothalamus all these years.

Oh, Terese, I want to be pedantical. The use of oscillate in your citation refers not to a function or sequence’s endless & effortless extension (tireless because mathematical), but to its behavior while so continuing. Conventionally, that means that its up-and-down y value moves between two limits (as you depict). On the complex plane, a similar sequence would be 0, i, 0, i, … .

If a different sequence were defined after rotating all values exactly 90 degrees [say, by multiplying by the square root if minus one (or “i”)], thereby using the usual vertical axis in place of the usual horizontal axis, one could define a sequence (but not a function), that would oscillate along the vertical between zero and a generalized horizontal value: 0, x, 0, x, 0, x … .

But I digress.

Allen

The Travelling Wanderer

She climbs aboard her horse, Old Sue,
They set their course for going to
A distant land, so far away.
They ride, some nights, most every day.
Like a swift arrow they range and roam
Until her mouth is flecked with foam,
Her muzzle's snorting like a jet,
Her flanks and withers soaked and wet
Behind, her tail, waves like a hand,
Their footprints clatter on the sand.
If asked to stop, though, each would say
In answer, just a gentle, Nay!

Frank

Editing in to thank Janice in advance - you guys may be good, but I'm confident I could win this contest without even trying!

Frank, that is beautiful. Seldom have I read worse. Your old nag will give Bob & Co. a run for their money. I can tell you have put a lot of work into your poem.

I just write it down as it comes to me (my angel muse, I guess) and I don't want to change a single pure word of my inspiration. My themes are less sophisticated, but they do express my deep thoughts.


Thoughts on the Sad Passage of Time

Oft fly my thoughts to that sweet Time
When I was but a child
To Mother dear and Father kind
Our humble cottage mild.

These modern Times with strife and pain
Have seldom silver linings shown.
My tears oft flow like autumn rain
For joyous days now flown.

(I thought that was rather clever in S2L3-4 to use both "flow" and "flown", echoing also as you probably immediately noted, the "fly" of S1L1 and alluding to the old proverb, "Doesn't time fly!"

TIME TRAVEL

Time doesn't fly. It takes a train.
It chugs along the track
and makes 'good time' when it sets out,
but bad time coming back.

No matter how you try to stop
the train, it is no use.
All its cars must share one fate,
from engine to caboose.

And when the final stop is reached,
there are no taxis waiting.
Time lies down upon a bench,
all done procrastinating.
 
 
 

Roger, your Time Travel is far better than should be allowed here. Compared to it, what's Updike? (PBUH)

I also think your My Heart Has Ears is also very funny in a bilobar way.

I feel like procrastinating right now.

[Withdrawn for submission]

A real (worst poem contest) winner -- Julie!!!
Rock on.

I think the bad poems really should be good poems, but Julie's poem overdoes it a bit and is far too good to be considered a bad poem. I think it's fabulous, actually.

Yes, it is fabulous, and so is Bob's one about time taking the train.

We are sure to see both of them gracing highly reputable sites.

Some people just can't write a bad poem no matter how hard they try,

Bob, I'm afraid you're regressing. I think you peaked with the frog poem. Your recent efforts, especially Time Travel, are far too good. It's possible you're just a flash-in-the-pan Bad Poet. Better get back to your comfort zone.

Not being rude, just being honest.

FLOWERS

I think that I shall never smell
a perfume sweet as asphodel

or roses in their well-tilled bed
whose air-borne pollen fills my head

to overcome my soul's great shyness
while doing damage to my sinus.

But that's a price I gladly pay
for smelling flowers every day.

Fools like me can blow their noses,
but only God can give us roses.

The Pain in My Heart

I was looking for something in the garage
And I found your dusty golf-cart.
Your fishing rod leans in the corner
Like this lonely pain in my heart.

In the closet your shirts still hang
Like a memory that will not depart.
Some of them have long collars like
This longstanding pain in my heart.

In the drawer I found a metal bracket
That must be a spare part
To something. It reminded me
Of your loss, this pain in my heart.

Wherever I look in the house
I feel love's wounding dart
And it hurts me as sorely as
Angina, the pain in my heart.

Sam, is it just my imagination, or do you keep on getting worse every day? Bravo!

HERO

My wife and daughter think I'm brave,
but no, I'm just an average Joe
with populations I must save.
And when I save them, I will go.

I'd like to take a bow, of course,
but that's not what I do it for.
I'm not John Wayne upon a horse.
I'm just an average Joe at war.

Let politicians fight their fight.
Democracy, you know,
makes all decisions come out right
in the life of an average Joe.

Bob, here's the bad news: "Flowers" is good. The last two lines are, I'm sorry to say , brilliant. The good news is, "Hero" is bad.

Sam's "The Pain in My Heart" is a gem. Or should I say 'lump of coal'?