[Henry Quince]

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.

[Roger Slater]

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.

[Janet Kenny]

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.

[Roger Slater]

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.

[Janet Kenny]

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?

[Jan Iwaszkiewicz]

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.

[Janet Kenny]

Originally Posted by R. S. Gwynn

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

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

Fame!

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.

[Roger Slater]

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.

[Marc-Andre Germain]

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).

[Roger Slater]

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.