What's the worst poem you ever wrote? Here's my candidate. Can anybody top it?

Fido

He lay beside his master's feet, the picture of devotion,
Forever faithful, conscious of his place;
Recognizing every mood, he shared the man's emotions,
And licked the salty tears from off his face.

He waited on the step outside and kept the day's long vigil.
Through rain or snow or melting sun he sat,
To look on that beloved face, and wag his tail and wriggle
For one kind word or absent-minded pat.

There might be days on end when Fido didn't see his master,
But day and night he waited, standing guard.
There might be days when he would wait with neither food nor water,
The man's approaching footstep his reward.

And when there was no food to eat and both of them were hungry,
The dog went out and brought a rabbit home.
His master cooked it in the pot with garlic, salt, and onion,
And ate the meat and threw the dog a bone.

Sometimes against the chill of night, or being sick or lonely,
The master reached to take him in his arms.
He curled beside the man to lend the comfort of his body.
And asked no more than just to keep him warm.

And other times, from temper, taking out his own frustration,
The man would slap or kick him with his boot,
Or send him out into the cold in anger and impatience,
And yell at him for being underfoot.

So Fido lay upon the step, big brown eyes hurt and grieving,
For love withheld; not knowing how or when,
But hoping, longing, needing, although never quite believing
That happiness and trust would come again.

At last there came the day when all he had to give was given,
And in his wounded heart love merged with hate.
And 'though he had no place to go or will to keep on living,
He bit his master's hand, and ran away.


Carol Taylor

Carol, you call that bad! You obviously don't know much about writing truly bad poems, I'm afraid. I've written countless poems far worse than what you posted here.

In fact, not to be too insulting or anything, but you need to make this poem a lot, lot worse. I'd do a line-by-line, showing you exactly how you can butcher the syntax and the meter further, and identifying spots where the meaning came across a bit too clearly, but you didn't post your poem for critique but to invite others to post their own bad efforts.

With all modesty, though I have a vast selection to choose from, I'd say that the following poem is hard to fault for being too good:

OVILLEJO

Are you one who can guess the plot?
I'm not,
even when the play's been played.
Afraid,
I laugh at what the bows imply.
To die
is just to sleep on stage then fly
on lofty currents of ovation.
On the whole, a fine sensation.
I'm not afraid to die.

It feels like cheating to dredge up something I wrote in high school, but you did say "ever," Carol, and I still cringe to remember this one (some things are impossible to forget). On the other hand, I probably could find something even worse if I went back further.

Elegy for Good Old What's-His-Name

Like an electrical outlet
the same color as the wall,
except when he was needed
no one noticed him at all.

I suppose his friends were grateful
for the trials he gladly bore,
but who would thank a doorstop
every time it stops a door?

Carol, Susan, you people are cheating! These are actually good poems. Susan, that's really not bad at all, and it's not surprising that the high school student who wrote that grew up to be such a good poet. Come on, you must have written something worse than this, something without humor or wit or thought? Am I the only one who is brave enough to post something that is truly bad?

The thing is, Roger, at the time I wrote this I wasn't trying to be funny. I was simply indulging in some cheap therapy (read wallowing in self-pity), and while I knew it wasn't a good poem, I didn't realize its potential as a spoof until years later. That qualifies it as a Classically Bad Poem of the first order. I agree that Susan's is good as light verse. Even the title shows irony. Yours? Well, it's just not in the same league with mine.

Carol

PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT:

<dir>What you are about to read was not only submitted to a major poetry competition (which shall go nameless), but it was also submitted as one poem of a book-length collection of similarly styled poems submitted to that competition (guess which one.) Any similarity between this poem and recent poems submitted for critique at Eratosphere by this author--in whole or in part--is completely coincidental. That the author has not yet burned every copy of this poem (and every copy of that book-length manuscript) in no way implies an abiding love, nor a fetish, held by this author for this poem or its alleged aesthetic--He merely keeps this poem as a reminder of "what might have been..." and thanks God nightly that it wasn't. The following lines were written by a purblind amateur; under no circumstance should you attempt this kind of writing at home, nor should you let your children attempt this, nor should you let your dogs attempt this. And, for God's sake, don't send something like this to the **** ******* ***** poetry contest, should you find the previous warning too difficult to heed!</dir>

NOW WE RETURN TO THE (UNFORTUNATELY) REGULARLY SCHEDULED PROGRAM...
BANNED POST
BANNED POST
BANNED POST
My first, of only two written, parody:

<dir>Homage to Millay

I will write Chaos into fourteen lines
and wallow there; and never more will seek escape.
If I am lucky, I will writhe and strain and ape
pleasures where Chaos bends by right designs
into something I can bear. Within these confines,
I will not stray, nor will I fail to rape
from his sweet essence and dimorphous shape
all joys, all madnesses his spirit combines.
Past now: BANNED POSTthe age of my abandon, my sad duress;
I have him. And I will force him into servitude
of what I want and how I want it: BANNED POSTno less.
Though he weep, though he moan—This be understood:
I am a thief whose crimes the gods confess
but do not answer; and I will do him good.</dir>
BANNED POST
BANNED POST
CRISIS PREVENTION HOTLINE:

<dir>1-888-EYE-BURN</dir>

END TRANSMISSION.

Oh my. You think you guys are bad. I have more crappy poetry then most anyone. I am a prime example of what good can come out of teenagers who write. It almost scares me, its really strange reading stuff more than like four months old. Because most of it is crap. And by crap, it is infamously crappy. Like overtly disgustingly crappy. On that note, I would like to share the first poem I had ever written, minus one from when I was in second grade. This was my first serious poem. I think you will be moved to your toilettes on this one. It is roughly 3 years old now. So what you see here, will shock you. It is also probably the last poem I will post on Eratosphere for a period of time, because a long needed break from poetry, and a long needed exploration into other forms of writing, ie playwrighting as you will see on the fiction board. But anyway on with the poem.

Lia
By Mickey Gray (copywrited sometime in the 1990s)

When I had lived so many a year ago

I had loved for one

Lia

For I was her beau
-------------------------- (this is how I structured it)
The ground on which she would walk

People would kiss

And all would talk

Of her glorious bliss
-------------------------
Her beauty devine

Like the finest wine
--------------------------
Many men moved

towards my sweet Lia

But she always proved

that her love was for me (in the original version it was me-ahh)
--------------------------
When night fell upon us

She was moved from me

Faithfully I trust

In a better place she will be
--------------------------
I sit and ponder

Of my sweet love

Lia, far and yonder

Lia my sweet dove
---------------------------
Painfully this day

I stand before thee

with nothing to say

Silent
----------------------------

For those who feel they have suffered permenant brain damage. Fear not. I had to suffer through the time that I thought this was good. So you have had nothing this bad.

By the way I think I win.

Pah! Doggerel amateurs.


The money I hid in my cache
Was stolen, which gave me an ache.
"Will someone not help me?" I said,
But nobody came to my aid.
I think that it might be the devil,
Or somebody equally evil.
Perhaps I should ask all the women
If they think that it might be an omen,
Or maybe 'twas merely a mover
Who'll return when the usage is over.
"That's sage," I considered it simply,
"It's zany if any imply
That a thief would come down
Either there, or to here where I own
My house, so I'm sure that I know
It will show up some how even now.

So my story I bring to a close,
Secure that my funds I won't lose.

since it may seem that I have never written any good poems just yet... here is what I consider my worst:

to the highest light, of that night,
the smoke was rising.
to the face of that one, insight,
the mist was clinging.
the smoke was rising,
and the mist was clinging,
and the night was made by
a single moment.
the incident was ideal.

ick

and I don't even get the gratitude of you guys tearing that one apart...

------------------
zz

Well, I think mine is unpardonable because I knew how bad it was as I wrote it, but couldn't stop myself. It's "pathological"(that's the word the doctor used).

I feel for you Heroin Bob. BTW I liked your fiction!

When life is dull and boring,
I still have my mind
and for nearly all of us
no truer friend can find.
I always listen to myself
and never am unkind.
I only have myself to blame
If I get in a bind.
I treat myself with courtesy
and rarely do I find
someone quite as agreeable
who thinks I am sublime.

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)

Having read several of my poems here, everyone probably has their own idea of which one was worse, and each one could probably be argued on its own [lack of] merit. Not too many weeks ago I woke sometime after midnight with the ultimate inspiration. I grabbed the PDA from my nightstand. wrote furiously, and promptly went back to sleep. Here's the result of that inspired 180 seconds.

*** Please do not attempt this poem if you are pregnant, have a heart disease, or are subject to bouts of depression ***

On Opposite Banks

We are olives in the trees
clinging to branches
protected by leaves
as our ancestors were

the presses of our neighbors
would squeeze the oil from us
to fuel their own lamps

the teeth of brethren
would dessicate our meat
for their pleasure and need

The feet of righteous and unholy alike
trample us, grinding our seed
into the nurtureless sand

never pausing
to marvel at the trees themselves
thirsty roots
flowering buds
or the way their branches
reach to the sky.

p.s. I showed this to The Editor, who has been lovingly supportive for over 25 years, and she cried so hard she laughed.....

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

h'm. good title for my next poembook.

All right, I dug out my old journals that I've kept since I was 13 (my GOD I'm going to have to burn these!) Here's one:

Check out the line breaks: Remember I was 13 when I wrote this! (I kept the same spelling too!) Everyone might as well bow to the victor of worst poem!


I just want to sleep
for at least
part
of forever.

Not sleep and die
but sleep and dream.

I want to feel the truth lie
in my heart,
not in my head.

I want to believe this whole crazy world
is for the living, not forever dead.
I want dreams of truth
to become clear and sweet

I don't want dreams to lie and ferment
at dark destinies feet.

Games, damn games we play
Waisting! Waisting!
Life away
Why can't truth be told
but in dreams forever hold
hidden behind that wall of doubt
shouting, dying, begging, crying
"let me out."
Oh sweet sorrow of our own device
no reality I know can suffice
for the time spent on just one dream
is time not lost to an unthinking scheme.

Ha HA ha HA HA!!!!!!!

I think I win. What's sad, is I actually kept my journals and have two FULL of this kind of stuff. Oh I was convinced no one could write poetry like I could!

*roflmao*
http://www.ablemuse.com/erato/ubbhtml/biggrin.gif

Here is the beginning of the worst poem you have
ever read, absolutely insufferable. This will
convince your children to not write poetry.
The 3-4 lines of each stanza have the impossible
meter of /././/././ the others rough iambic.
I was 20 years old.

Venus and Adonias

When dawn and early love of light first came,
Fine mist droplets sailed wieghtless through the air,
Gently pushed by wind soft and eyelash tame,
Which filtered golden beams to blue's deep fair.
Here Time approached and opened wide his eyes,
for he knows beauty makes the curious wise.

Dark night made earth loose earthly hold,
Leaves and grass once dry rose and touched high clouds,
Gently greeting rain drops in baby mold,
Though with enlightening dawn earth keeps the shrouds.
In such a blue and airy sea all life
Is simplified and freed to honest strife.

A knoll some silloetted weeds make home
Is the worldly end flat against a wall,
As if night induced gravity to roam,
So steps go slow, not seeing heights to fall.
The sky swoops down and ankles hurried feet,
But minds horizonless see no retreat.

Tall evergreens grow holy temple halls,
Silent, where the birds fear attention kills.
Crickets sleep and rest tired from noisy brawls,
While amassing light moves closer over hills,
Replacing colors darkness took away,
So rainbow eyes may see their matinee.

Thus it proceeds over 1,500 lines, retelling the story
of Shakespeare's Venus and Adonias, with Adonias being a race car driver who gets killed in a race, rather than hunting boar. Can I claim it the worst AND longest poem?


TJ

(another from High School)

THE WILLOW TREE

As I lay 'neath the old willow tree
down by the brook, just being me,
the church bells rang, caressing the day.
The notes danced around me and floated away.

As I pondered the lingering sound
I got up and danced, and danced all around.
It thrilled me so much that I ran through the grass
and came upon fruit all made of glass.

I looked with awe on the marvelous gems
and picked two up by their delicate stems.
I looked even closer and what did I see?
It was me as I lay 'neath the old willow tree.

But it wasn't just me, there was someone else there.
He had sun in his smile and gold in his hair.
As I dropped the fruit to go back, as I feared,
they shattered, but as they did he appeared.

He held me close and held me tight
and we were married on that night.
I love him and he loves me
and our house is built beneath that tree.

[i]Ok, show me a poem worse than that!

------------------
Sharon P.
http://www.fischerpassmoredesign.com

Sharon, I actually think that poem was charming, maybe with an exception of the last stanza. Put it up in Met 1 and work with it.

Tom, your poem was the most boring one so far; I had to slap myself awake several times.

Robert, it's good to see I am not alone in continuing to write things unworthy even of destruction by fire. Your poem made me laugh out loud. It belongs in some classic pantheon of poems that took their metaphor too far or something.

Why don't we analyse each of these poems to see what went wrong, and make an anti-poetry-learning website: Common and uncommon pitfalls in the writing of poetry.

------------------

-Svein Olav

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

Wow! What terrible poems and what great sports! Here I thought Fido was untouchable, but these dogs are snapping at his heels. Svein, most of these poems never went right, so I doubt it's worth analyzing where they went wrong. If we get enough of them maybe we should award a distinction for the ultimate worst, or at least select a few really remarkable ones for worst of class. Whom could we get to judge them? Probably have to be somebody who never wrote a bad poem himself. http://www.ablemuse.com/erato/ubbhtml/wink.gif

Carol

A non-poet as a judge? That's a good idea, Carol! http://www.ablemuse.com/erato/ubbhtml/wink.gif

------------------

-Svein Olav

I could be wrong, since it was a long time ago, but I think that XJ Kennedy and Keith Waldrop once co-edited an anthology of bad poems called "Pegasus Descending." The poets were famous, for the most part, and so the joke of the anthology was to show how bad the great poets can be from time to time. I think we could look to either of these gentleman as our judge, given this credential. And Joe Kennedy, it seems, has judged contests here on Erato before, has he not?

Sharon, Mel, Ginger:

Y'all have to excuse me, but I believe you're CHEATING. Poems from teenage days? Pffft! ANY teenager can write execrably bad poems.

The REAL art is to write them NOW, and to actually be convinced, as you write them, that they are GOOD.

THIS is sublime! THIS is worthy of a prize!

Now, go forth and write some crap, I dare you!

Oh, and Sharon? That's actually the beginnings of a decent poem, it's not even in the same league as Carol's puppy, Swagman's olives, or my ghosts...

(robt)

Finally a category where our poetry fits.
Carol' poem reminded me of a poem we wrote a couple of years ago.

Another Misunderstanding

My dog's run away, he's done it before
this makes three times, or possibly four.
he's loved and he's fed, and well-sheltered too,
so why he runs off I haven't a clue.

I want a dog who will stay by my side
companion, protector, and faithful guide.
I don't need a dog that rolls over and begs
what I need is a dog without any legs.
then he'll stay home, won't be able to run
though it might reduce the little dogs' fun.

how to find a legless dog I haven't a clue,
not one battered and damaged but almost brand new.
I doubt I would find one down at the pound,
I asked pet shop owners where one could be found.
the owners all said legless dogs were the dregs
they can't imagine people wanting dogs with no legs.

I finally decided to ask my dogs veterinarian
a wise old, intelligent, octogenarian.
Where find a dog with no legs? Of course I know.
He'd be right where you left him, where could he go?

Another vote for Sharon to develop the "Willow Tree".
My spirit hiked a few notches whilst reading it!

Kiwi

[This message has been edited by kiwi (edited May 16, 2002).]

ok, top this one.... completely dreadful on so many levels

Grandma's Treasures

It came into my shop,
lesions marring the stretched leather.
The needle was broken;
years ago used to elevate
green army men above the tan forces.

The table turned erratically and
with a new needle
produced caterwauling
that was once Elvis.


Like I said, on so many levels. I mean, good God "caterwauling" and lesions... now I know why so many famous poets drink heavily... they read some of their old shit!

[This message has been edited by Nemo (edited May 16, 2002).]

Robert: Cheating! To cheat there must be clearly defined rules! I didn't see anything about a time limit!

I can honestly say of the 50 or 60 poems I've written in the past six months since I started writing poetry (again or perhaps I should say 'for real' this time) I only have 2 I would say are "good" and "done." The rest linger in the caverns of computer storage waiting for me to either dump them or somehow fix them. Some are indeed hopeless. Here is one I think fits that catagory. So many to choose from...so little space... http://www.ablemuse.com/erato/ubbhtml/smile.gif


What’s a heart good for anyway?
I remember when mine was all shiny,
Plump and unpicked not a bruise on it.
But then I dropped it on the floor,
For just anyone to kick about
And squish.

For the sake of safety
I tried to turn it to stone
But it just broke to pieces
So I added the water from my tears
Which created a mushy
Blob of red-pulsating emotions

Damn thing
Keeps getting loose,
It jumps out of my mouth
Slides down my sleeve,
Oops
There it goes again
Someone catch that thing!

What the hell…
Let’s toss it about a bit.
I’ve got bandages of all shapes and colors.
A tourniquet,elmers glue, scotch tape, staples
liquid cement, hot glue gun and a blow torch.
I keep these on hand anyway, just in case I fall


Can you smell the stink from this one? Whew!


Mel




[This message has been edited by Melalope (edited May 16, 2002).]

POETIC AMBITION


Of all the bad poems that I should have exed
From my notebook, I declare
None to be worse than the poem I'll write next,
Though many are bad enough to compare.

Nance&Dickens

I like that one! Of course, that might be damning in itself...

Jerry

In apology for having submitted a looong and lousy poem,thereby taking away from time you could be devoting to your own work, I'm vying for the worst and shortest poem.

Who knew that quartz could cause warts?

There is no way I would ever dream of posting that saccharine bit of swill on Met 1.

I might be convinced to post it on the Deep End just to bug Alan though. Hehehe

------------------
Sharon P.
http://www.fischerpassmoredesign.com

[This message has been edited by momdebomb (edited May 18, 2002).]

As long as you post it somewhere, Sharon. As long as you post it.

------------------

-Svein Olav

Dear, sweet Svein,
It was in my H.S. literary mag. and that's enough for me. Really. :-D.

------------------
Sharon P.
http://www.fischerpassmoredesign.com