The Mediocre Poet's Lament

I would do anything
even roll in the muck,
if I could write one poem
that really sucks.

Yes I would poke my eyes out
with a red-hot poker,
to write one poem that's really Bad,
not just mediocre.

If this isn't Bad, I'll throw in the towel.

Though I Don't Have a Locket

Though I don't have a locket shaped like a heart,
To wear beneath my collar of lace,
Though I don't have your picture, it matters not.
My heart is a locket with your face.

Why the Queen Missed Obama's Inauguration


The Secret Service agent laughed
at all the years he'd honed his craft.

"I've mastered judo, gun and knife
to stop a hit.
You're asking me to risk my life--
to sacrifice what's dear to me--
defending...corgi number three?

"Fuck you. I quit."

-o-

OK, I'm in. Poetry.com has already sent me an email.

http://www.poetry.com/dotnet/W026584...1/display.aspx

Fame!

It's pretty bad till the final line, Sam. The spare part is also too fine for this...If only Angina could also be the name of the lost love! Wouldn't that be perfect?

You're on a roll, Marion! Did you by any chance write this after watching King Lear? :eek:

If Sam is getting worse every day Bob, you're getting worse every hour. Congrats! Suggestion? Put S2 first, S1 second, and write a new S3 expounding upon your final destination...:D

SANDWICH OF THE GODS

Birth and death are sandwich bread,
and life is sandwich meat.
I wonder who prepared the plate
and when he plans to eat?

LOVE

If love is good, as poets claim,
and feverish lovers clamor,
why does love make wise men fools
and wreck their perfect grammar?

Take me, for instance. Once I cried,
"Me loves you!" in my passion.
It's not my way to mangle words
or grammar in this fashion,

and yet I couldn't help it. No!
Love crushed me so abjectly,
my love alone was all I wished
to conjugate correctly.

So ask me truly, is love good
as poets have been crying?
Clearly not, if grammar is
the standard you're applying,

since love may conquer everything,
as poets often stammer,
but is that good when "everything"
includes my perfect grammar?

SONNET XXLCCV

Who said that time heals all? Oh what a liar!
In fact I think that time heals less than half.
Time's like pouring gasoline on fire.
Did you think that would douse it? What a laugh!

Oh no! The gasoline will egg it on!
Believe me, I have burns that say I'm right.
It's now been seven weeks since she's been gone.
And yet I couldn't sleep that well last night.

Perhaps tomorrow I'll be sleeping better.
If so, I will admit time's good at healing.
But when I think about her Dear John letter,
I doubt I will. It's just a sneaky feeling.

Time heals? Time makes a hurt heart copacetic?
That's nonsense, brother. Time's an awful medic.

I think the poems posted here so far are all too good. They make far too much sense. Here's the original Wergle Flomp poem:

http://www.winningwriters.com/contes...background.php

I notice, though, that the organizers seem to say contest entries should be parodies.

I posted the following on another workshop site a year or two back.


Appointment

The lake water shimmers like a blessing
and I see you waiting by the
shore like a
promise of patience
as though you are
an eternal among the reeds
from which now, as evening
settles to a breeze,
comes the beginning of a hint
of a faint whistling
like a presentiment,
as if a kettle were half-
flirting with the notion of
edging leisurely a little nearer
the destiny of boiling.



That was supposed to be a parody of a certain type of modern poem, specifically the type which makes simile and "as if" constructions into a verbal tic. I said so, but that didn't stop somebody telling me that it was in fact a good poem and I just didn't know when I'd written one! Whether it's Wergle Flomp material is another matter.

But merely writing a bad poem, such as you actually find in poetry.com, doesn't seem to be what they are looking for. Many of the winning bad poems seem to be by pretty good poets who were writing parodies of the "real" bad poems. The secret seems to be not to take the mission of writing a "bad poem" at face value, but to write a really good poem that has many of the trappings of a classic, genuine bad poem.

PS--
Henry, the judge of the bad poem contest apparently writes things like that in all seriousness. Check out

http://jendireiter.com/2009/02/20/poem-zeal.aspx

She has other poems there as well. I'd advise people to just send your best stuff. She's likely to think it's very bad.

I think a mother comes from God
to cuddle all the tiny tots
and when the darlings start to nod
she tucks them in their little cots.

An angel in a dressing gown
who sings sweet lullabies and prays,
and when the darlings nestle down
a mother's loving presence stays.

A mother's kiss is sweet and pure
as rays of sunlight from her eyes,
and little ones may sleep secure
in lovelight shining from God's skies.


Howzat?

I broke it into stanzas to look more poetical.

No, Janet, you have to crank it down a notch. Try this:

A PARENT'S LOVE

A mother's love is gold.
A father's love is golder.
They warm you from the cold.
They offer you their shoulder.

A father's love is gold.
A mother's love is goldest.
They wrap you in their arms
when winter's at its coldest.

Who cares if it is sleeting?
I laugh when there is snow!
My parents say the sun will shine!
I trust them. They should know.

Ooh here's one:

A Tree Gone

A tree gone
By grief replaced.
Soaring shelter
For birds and insects.
Decades of beauty,
A morning prayer
Is mourning there.
This gap once glorious,
Is sky and tile.
And can they take the sky as well?
These humans
Without mystery
Who own things
And do things
And smash things;
Have they never paused to wonder?
NASA must be for them.
No mystery here,
Just out there
With Man winning, winning, winning.
Down here earning, owning, winning.
Olympic Gold
And better cars
Than their neighbours.
A tree gone,
By grief replaced.


Or does it have to be deliberately trying to be funny? A bad funny poem? Not a poem that is so bad it's funny?

Sorry John I must disagree "Ern Malley" did not write bad verse. The boys were too good for that, they sucked in Harris and the Yank, Shapiro inter many alia.

Sam,
It won't accept my submission. Says my email is not in the correct format. I've followed the letter of the form. I think they lie about poems from any country. Unfair. I emailed it to them.
THE EMAIL BOUNCED!!!!!
Janet

My poem:

Missing


I miss my dog, it died and went
to where good dogs go when they die.
I miss my dog. Some angel sent
it down to please me from the sky.

I see its collar and its leash
and hear it bark to go outside.
I sadly put aside my quiche
and weep to know my dog has died.

I miss my dog’s confiding head
the friendly paw I used to shake,
but now I know my dog is dead
I walk alone beside the lake.

At night it lies beside my bed
but in the morning it has gone.
Each morning I look down with dread
to see the rug it lay upon.

The loneliness that gnaws my heart
will last until I join my dog.
We never more will be apart
united in our epilogue.


I think this means I'm in too.

Puppy Love

If dogs were people I would wed
my dog, but he's a thoroughbred.

Beyond all ands or ifs or buts,
our kids would be a bunch of mutts.

This troubles me. His noble breed
is one that all God's children need.

If dogs were people, though, I guess,
this fact would mean a good deal less.

I confess I don’t know what to write
And admit that this verse is a blight;
I am killing some time
And you’re wasting your time:
It’s unlikely to bring you delight.


Another limerick:

The devil appeared as I breathed my last
and his cast by his side had a blast:
“You’re a sinner, you’ll burn
And this gutter attorn;
There’s no end to the heat we forcast.”

(I've also got some highly execrable "anaphrodisiac" material, I'm not sure I should post them (rated R).

DO NOT GO LUNAR INTO THAT GOOD NIGHT

"I am the moon," my father said.
"I shine on you from overhead."

And sure enough, his glow was full.
The sea and I both felt his pull.

My father aged, and with a laugh,
said, "Still the moon, but now just half."

The years went by, and in short order,
"Still the moon, but now a quarter."

And "still the moon," my father said,
a crescent waning in his bed.

"Father, do not wane too soon!"
I cried. "Remain a crescent moon!"

But cried in vain. My father died.
The sea pulled back for want of tide.

Roger,

This is a delectable take on Dylan Thomas' villanelle :cool: Here's mine on a passage of Dr. Faustus, where I was trying to inflict maximum damage with the slightest stroke:

Was this the face that lunched on thousand chips,
And burned the topless vowers of Ilium?
Sweet Helen, make me immoral with a kiss! -
Her lips suck forth my Saul; see where he flees!-
Come, Helen, give me my Saul again
Here will I dwell for heaven, in these lips,
And all is dross that begot Helena.

MY POETIC CREDO

If I could write the poems that made the young girls cry,
the first thing I would want to know is "Why?"

If someone stole some candy from a young girl, we
would call them dirty scoundrels . . . justifiably.

We wouldn't say, "Good work! You made a young girl cry!"
Let other people write that kind of evil poem, not I!

For if my poems were powerful enough to bring forth tears,
I'd write them for marauders, criminals and buccaneers!

For the aspiring musician for the new Vanity CD collection

Dismiss the scales, declare them stale,
Down with the sharps and flats!
Harmonics suck, so pluck amuck,
Just play it pit-a-pat;
Archaic chords are for old lords
The morgue's where they belong
Ignore the band, be in command
And freely sing your song.

Smash your guitar on your armoire,
Down with constraining strings!
Drink lots of beer, shed tears my dear,
And play it ding-a-ling;
I can relate you are so great,
So play it to the hordes;
A month at most and you will boast
A platinum record.

GOOD GRIEF

"Good grief!" cried Charlie Brown.
But he was just a boy.
No grief is ever good,
no sorrow is a joy.

You'd think that he would learn,
when Lucy pulls the ball,
it's only fun to fly,
it's never fun to fall.

Bob,
How about this for the last two lines?

But cried in vain. He rose on high.
We watched him moon us from the sky.

You're not much of an editor, Marion. Your suggestion only makes its better.

LOVE POEM

It's lucky Shakespeare never knew
a lovely woman quite like you,
since even he, the Avon Bard,
might well have found the task too hard
of mining with his magic pen
the spell you cast on mortal men,
and failing thus, he might have lost
the will to write, which could have cost
the world his Hamlet or his Lear.
I'm glad he didn't know you, dear.

Brilliant stroke on that last editing job, Marion.
And Bob -- what can I say? You're getting better ... !!!!!

The Road of Life

The road of life is like a river
That runs down to the sea.
It forks and twists and tumbles
And is not straight, you see.

Those who wander down it
Must wade in to their knees
And make an uphill journey
As slowly as they please.

They must follow its direction signs
And stop at ev'ry light.
The current is against them
From early morn ‘til night.

When they reach its beginning,
Its pure and lofty source,
The road of life has ended
And they are home, of course.

This may be what I go with (we're up against the deadline). I posted the first stanza yesterday, but this is the expanded version:



LOVE POEM

It's lucky Shakespeare never knew
a lovely woman quite like you,
since even he, the Avon Bard,
might well have found the task too hard
of mining with his magic pen
the spell you cast on mortal men,
and failing thus, he might have lost
the will to write, which could have cost
the world his Hamlet or his Lear.
I'm glad he didn't know you, dear.

It's lucky that Bob Dylan met
Miss Joan Baez, not you, my pet,
who gave him shelter from the storm
but never truly kept him warm,
or else the answer might have blown
not in the wind, but you alone,
and he'd have made a duller rhyme,
"You did not waste my precious time,"
and all his songs would burst with cheer.
I'm glad he didn't know you, dear.

It's lucky that the road Frost took
did not afford him one good look
at you, or he'd have quit his pen
and joined the ranks of rhymeless men
who all their lives would never know
the urge to lie down in the snow
or what it's like to pick and pick
so many apples you grow sick.
You could have ruined a great career.
I'm glad he didn't know you, dear.

Oh no! I truly think it's best
that you met me, and not the rest,
since I have nothing on my plate
your beauty would adulterate,
and if it's me, my love, you choose,
the world has nothing much to lose.
So for the sake of timeless art,
won't you let me in your heart?
From worthy souls, you should stay clear.
I'm glad they do not know you, dear.

I dunno, Roger. It's just too skillful to be really bad.

.
Composed While Walking Through the
Woods Without My Beagle


I wandered down the forest path
enjoying nature’s gentle hush
when suddenly I heard a sound
and it disturbed me very mush.
And looking up I chanced to see
a downy redhead woodpecker
that tap-tap-tapped upon a tree.
A noisy pest...But what the hecker,
I knew that God must love that bird
as He does you and He does me.
The forest is for one and all –
a Kingdom of the Wild and Free!
.

APPROACHING GOD

Though God, I know, is everywhere,
and one can't misdirect a prayer,
I still prefer my prayers to rise
to heaven through the endless skies
so wordly matters won't intrude
and God, found in a better mood,
with angels singing hymns to Him,
might be disposed to grant my whim.

Marion, my fav of your baddies so far, Though I Don't Have a Locket
Janet, if you want it to look poetical, you will have to reconsider your stance on introductory caps.
Petra, delightful. Only (s)he who writes good good verse can write good bad verse.
Sam, congratulations, brilliant bad verse, of cerse.
Roger, you have a chapbook already yet. The new Ogden Nash. You gotta do it.

It's a bit late in this thread tobe bringing up a question about what bad really means, but nevertheless I do. Are we talking about McGonagall here, incompetence raised to the nth degree, the sort of thing I come across often enough among my students, scansion awry etc etc, or are we talking about Richard Crashaw, where a considerable degree of skill is involved in producing something truly dire, as in the famous couplet about crying eyes:

Two walking baths, two weeping motions,
Portable and compendious oceans

It taakes a whole history of art to produce the latter. I must say I have always thought Pound's Hugh Selwyn Mauberley to be a winning example of Crashaw-ism, but I know some people like it, just as some people like the paintings of Jackson Pollock. There's nowt so queer as folk. Sam seems to me to be producing mock McGonagalls with considerable art. Here's something of mine constructed by cutting up an advertisement. Is it bad? I hope so but it took quite a lot of trouble.

Poetry Dot Com

Dear John,
I am excited to inform you
That, in addition to your selection for inclusion
In a hardbound anthology, you have also been chosen
As one of 33 poets whose artistry will be recorded
Professionally as a special part of a new collection,
The Sound of Poetry.

I am writing to get your permission
To include your poem ‘My Cat and the Moon’
In this highly acclaimed and internationally distributed
Three-album collection scheduled to be released
SOON!

John, our editors have personally selected
This group of poems whose expressive quality
Would best exemplify the art of poetry
Through the spoken word.

The fact that your poem is among them is a testament
To the diversity of your poetic talent.
We feel your poem can be appreciated
Not only in print, but can also be enjoyed
By people listening to it presented aloud
By a professional reader.

Just imagine, John, how your friends and family
Will feel when they hear your name… your words…
Presented as part of this exclusive collection.
This album will instantly become a treasured keepsake
To all who hear and enjoy it.

The Sound of Poetry will become a major addition
To the body of poetic recordings that are available
Through retail and online book and music sellers
Today.

And, as with all our projects, although
You are under no obligation to make a purchase
Of any kind, if you wish to own a copy
Of this three-album set, it is available
Directly from us at A REDUCED PRICE
NOT AVAILABLE TO THE PUBLIC and, as always,
Your satisfaction is assured with an unconditional
Money-back guarantee.

* * * * * * *

Dear Poetry Dot Com,
Yes. Yes. Yes.

Yes I wish to own The Sound of Poetry Collection
(Featuring the poetic artistry of John Whitworth)
At the special pre-release discount price
Of just $59!!!

Yes I wish to own The Sound of Poetry De-luxe Hardbound Edition
(Featuring the poetic artistry of John Whitworth)
At the special pre-publication discount price
Of just $49!!!

Yes I wish to own The Sound of Poetry walnut-finished plaque
(Featuring the poetic artistry of John Whitworth)
At the special published poet’s price
Of just $38!!!

I enclose my cheque for $146.

John, our editors have personally selected
This group of poems whose expressive quality
Would best exemplify the art of poetry
Through the spoken word.

The fact that your poem is among them is a testament
To the diversity of your poetic talent.
We feel your poem can be appreciated
Not only in print, but can also be enjoyed
By people listening to it presented aloud
By a professional reader.

John, how could you pass up such a testimonial? A professional evaluation of "the diversity of your poetic talent" is beyond pearls and rubies. Please fork over! I, I must admit, have received no such encomiums. Encomia. Whatever.

Bob, I have to agree with Sam. A trifle too much wit for my distaste. The original Love Poem was Bad. The additional stanzas keep getting better, I'm afraid.

Petra, that's Dreadful! Congrats.

I'm afraid the only way to dissuade Bob is to adopt the Cantor approach: Quit stinking up this thread with your miserable excuses for bad poetry. There are forums specifically designed for folks who operate at your level - I've got two words for you, pal: Deep End.

Frank

Guys, with all respect, you wouldn't know a bad poem if it bit you in the ass! Sorry to be all defensive, but I didn't casually toss this off without a moment's thought only to be told my laziness didn't pan out. I used to look down on your guys, but no longer.

(Thanks. It is somehow liberating to be encouraged to write badly. It's a no-lose situation when the worst case scenario is writing something good).

MY BACK PAGES

I always thought, when I was young,
that age was just a song that's sung,
a ship that's sailed, a door that's closed,
a cat-less bag, a verse that's prosed,
a denoument, a curtain drawn,
a sad farewell before we're gone,
disgruntled, angry, scared and bitter.
But now that I'm old, I'll reconsider.