unfortunately unforgettable uniquenesses
glittered in his pitch-hissing vision:
ce rending and subsequent refusion
stressful at times electric morphogenesis,
seasonance which seldom now he echoed
with the certi-conchly blwd of memory.
"why then? is metatwain, is hymmaning
to Either-O,or skinning of the Gecko?"
BANNED POSTBANNED POSTBANNED POSTBANNED POSTwe have buried the city's cries beneath a foghat
hoarsely spun by random twinkless stars;
the Milky Way has fled,and scrawled our ogham
across DNA's rain-bowdlerized text
till here Utopia grins starkly fleshed
and you and I find shelter in our cars

Of course, we could rise to the occasion by writing a bad poem on purpose, like this one, inspired by one in the aformentioned Pegasus Descending.

My Boyfriend is My Skate Key

My boyfriend is my skate key.
He locks me tight so I can roll.
Every day I insert him.
He’ll never leave me
‘cause no one but me
uses skate keys
anymore.

Don't know, Kate. That sounds like social commentary to me. http://www.ablemuse.com/erato/ubbhtml/smile.gif

This is the worst poem I ever wrote.


I, THE FIRST NAMED


I, the first named, am the ghost of this sir and Christian friend

Who writes these words I wrote in a still room in a spellsoaked house:

I am the ghost in this house that is filled with the tongue and eyes

Of a lack-a-head ghost I fear to the anonymous end.

Pushing this thread up to its rightful prominence.

Thanks, Carol, for pushing up this thread. I have documentary proof as to my worst poem. In a recent "Bad Poetry Contest" sponsored by a local newspaper my entry (following) won the Grand Prize, which was called the Walt Whitman Armpit Award.

Juan Or The Other

A woman once gave birth to twins;
A tragic story thus begins.
She gave them both up for adoption;
In tears she had no other option.

One went to Egypt, still quite small,
And there received the name, Amahl;
The other boy to Spain had gone
Where he was duly christened Juan.

Years later, Juan sent her his photo
Which pleased her well but not in toto;
When she beheld it, wept the mother,
"Oh how I long to see his brother!"

Her husband, bothered by her dolor,
Attempted lightly to console her;
“They’re twins, my dear, you must recall;
If you’ve seen Juan, you’ve seen Amahl.”

jtb




[This message has been edited by jtb8817 (edited December 20, 2002).]

That's too funny to qualify on this thread. Humour is only permitted if it was intended to be serious!

Quite good, actually.

Jerry

I was going to post my cringe-inducing "desertification" poem that I wrote when I was 18 -- no punctuation, all lowercase, random line breaks, pretentiously dark and pseudo-existential -- if I'd read it at an open mike I undoubtedly would have worn all black -- but I think the point here is to truly humiliate ourselves for the amusement of others, right? So, given that it's not really that embarrassing to have written an awful poem at age 18, I've decided--as a penance of sorts--to submit the sonnet I wrote *last night*. I think what makes it worse than my teenage efforts is the way it's dressed up just enough to be pretentious, but there's no disguising the fact that it's teenybopperesque sludge written by someone old enough to know better.

After this I may change my login name.


In the basement, where they can't be found,
my bones are stacked against the wall
like firewood. Parts are strewn around,
disjointed by the animal
who gnaws my limbs. He's finicky,
rejecting pieces that he deems
too tough or fatty. Smeared with sticky
blood, his canines rip fresh seams
in organs sorted on the floor.
He sniffs and rolls them with his nose,
tests with a timid tongue before
he wolfs them down--then off he goes,
leaving the scraps, to have a drink,
the untouched heart still clean and pink.


Now I ask you -- who is the speaker here? A head in a jar of brine? L10 is unintentionally funny--and the whole "tearing me apart and scorning my poor lil heart" metaphor -- ugh! what the **** was I thinking? Shoot me now! The fact that it's in reasonably correct sonnet form, IMO, only makes it that much worse, because it shows I put more effort into it than it deserved.


[This message has been edited by RosaRugosa (edited December 20, 2002).]

I have to admit that the comments are almost as funny as the poems. I think you're missing out on a huge moneymaking venture, though. You could probably sell a few of these to Beck for lyrics on his next album. He's a great example of a guy that got filthy rich off bad poetry...

I've been revisiting old poems and discovering how little I've changed even if my poetry has advanced. (I hope.) LOL. I found this one, written when I was nineteen:

<dir>Searching for God, but Finding a Man

Heavenward I cast my eyes -- at varied skies
immersed in Storm's tumultuous roars
or Summer's empty, cloudless guise;
I see the stars at horizon's shores,
of Night's entombèd ocean floors,
but have not found since I began
aught more than I through Heaven's doors:
searching for God, but finding a man.

I reduce my gaze is scope and size
and see those gods a poet adores,
those greats who write, philosophize,
Thoreaus and Poes, the Frosts and Moores
our world has known and knows, the Thors
who forged their words with mortal hand;
yet above them all, Emerson soars:
searching for God, but finding a man.

Waldo's gone -- a prophet dies --
and, sightless, I hold his lores
and teachings tight to fight the lies
of proselytizing carnivores,
to navigate the murky moors
of being, of life; I cross that span,
discover there my Self, my core:
searching for God, but finding a man.

In all of Earth, through peace and wars,
all souls may rest better than I can,
who forever pores through Wisdom's stores,
searching for God, but finding a man.</dir>

***

One day earlier, I had written this little thing:

<dir>A Dead Poet

A vision dark, bedeviled heart
paved his ways and stole his days,
bent his rays and shaped his art,
became his bride, a Mr. Hyde.

Lord
Lord help
Lord help my
Lord help my poor
Lord help my poor soul.

So said Poe,
and so he died.</dir>