[Marion Shore]

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.

[Janice D. Soderling]

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.

[Marion Shore]

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?

[Roger Slater]

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).

[Marion Shore]

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.

[Roger Slater]

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.

[Marion Shore]

Bob, that's exquisitely Bad!

[Roger Slater]

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.

[Janice D. Soderling]

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. .

[Roger Slater]

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."