June 06, 2005

• I'm rather fond of The Blind Girl [pull out yer tissues]
• But they rhyme! They can't be bad.
• My favorite bad poet is Thomas Shadwell. Shadwell was so bad that Dryden wrote "MacFlecknoe," part of the the Dunciad, about him. Shadwell was widely considered to be the dullest poet ever in his day. At my undergrad, the English department used to be housed in Shadwell Hall. Once a year, the department held the Shadwell Wake as a way to "exorcize" bad writing for the English majors. The Wake was basically a big party where everyone dressed in mourning. We read Shadwell's poetry,had a bad poetry contest, paraded a fake coffin around the quad and wailed (so sad!) and drank copious amounts. We were all doing our part to keep Shadwell's ghost away :)
• This, by Theo. Marziais, appeared originally in The Gallery of Pigeons, and other poems, London, 1873, and I maintain can hold its own in any company of the execrable -- A Tragedy Death! Plop. The barges down in the river flop. Flop, plop. Above, beneath. From the slimy branches the grey drips drop, As they scraggle black on the thin grey sky. Where the black cloud rack-hackles drizzle and fly To the oozy waters that lounge and flop On the black scrag-piles, where the loose cords plop, As the raw wind whines in the thin tree-top. Plop, plop. And scudding by The boatmen call out hoy! and hey! And all is running in water and sky, And my head shrieks -- "Stop!" And my heart shrieks -- "Die!" My thought is running out of my head; My love is running out of my heart; My soul runs after, and leaves me dead, For my life runs after to catch them -- and fled They are all every one! -- and I stand, and start, At the water that oozes up, plop and plop, On the barges that flop And dizzy me dead. I might reel and drop. Plop Dead. And the shrill wind whines in the thing tree-top. Plop, plop. A curse on him. Ugh! yet I knew -- I knew -- If a woman is false can a friend be true? It was only a lie from beginning to end -- My Devil -- my "friend" I had trusted the whole pf my living to! Ugh! And I knew! Ugh! So what do I care, And my head is as empty as air -- I can do, I can dare (Plop, plop, The barges flop Drip, drop.) I can dare, I can dare! And let myself all run away with my head, And stop. Drop Dead. Flip, flop. Plop.
• phhhh.... Ø!
• Then there are the immortal works penned by the busy hand of this lady, aka The Sweet Singer of Michigan, who must be among the finalists should any competition be held.
• Why is it we all disagree on whose is good poetry, whilst there is wide consensus on whose is shit?
• if you're interested in bad verse, you might want to look at The Stuffed Owl. It's a classic. The index alone is a hoot!
• James McIntyre kicks McGonagall's ass. The poem link above doesn't do complete justice to McIntyre's magnum opus: "Ode on the Mammoth Cheese" because the correct title is: "Ode on the Mammoth Cheese, weighing over 7,000 pounds". And now for your adulterated pleasure I present, his other great work: "Wooden Leg". IMPORTANT NOTE: There is a proper way to read this poem. It's got to be read aloud. Preferably in a big voice over top of your co-workers cubicles.... during lunch.... when people are likely to be drinking unsuspecting outta their coke cans and little juice boxes. WOODEN LEG Misfortune sometimes is a prize, And is a blessing in disguise, A man with a stout wooden leg, Through town and country he can beg. And the people in the city, On poor man they do take pity, He points them to his timber leg And tells them of his poor wife, Meg. And if a dog tries him to bite, With his stiff leg he doth him smite, Or sometimes he will let him dig His teeth into wooden leg. Then never more will dog delight This poor cripple man for to bite; Rheumatic pains they never twig Nor corns annoy foot of leg. So cripple if he's man of sense, Finds for ill some recompense; And though he cannot dance a jig He merry moves on wooden leg. And when he only has one foot, He needs to brush only one boot; Through world he does jolly peg, So cheerful with his wooden leg. In mud or water he can stand With his foot on the firm dry land, For wet he doth not care a fig, It never hurts his wooden leg. No aches he has but on the toes Of one foot, and but one gets froze; He has many a jolly rig, And oft enjoys his wooden leg.
• The last friends part, And off we start, The engine pants and snorts and blows, The carraige doorways slam and close, The broad and ponderous wheels are rolled By thick-set arms of iron mould, While streaming from the spouting side The steam escapes in hissing tide. Cranch, crunch, thud, rud, dubber-dub-rub, Thudder, rubber, dub-dub, dub-a-rub-rub-rub.... -- from The Railway Journey, by Edward Dalton
• James McIntyre would be happy to know that his pungent "Prophecy of a Ten Ton Cheese" was more than achieved in Granby, Quebec in 1995 with a 26 tonne cheddar.
• From The Insect Hunters, and other poems by Edward Newman: Take thy hat, my little Laura, Fix it by the loop elastic ... Let us take a stroll, my Laura, Down Farm Lane and to the sedge pond, Where thy father often fishes For the pretty water-beetles, Graperi and branchiatus, Hubneri and marginalis, Agilus and punctulatus, Ater, Sturmii, and fuscus, Pretty Colymbetes fuscus... In this large tin case, containing A few slips of blotting paper, And a little mass of wadding, Slightly damped with benzine colas, Stupyfying fumes exhaling; In this case we will imprison All the two-winged flies we capture.... First of walkers come the Earwigs, Earwigs or FORFICULINA; At the tail we find a weapon Very like a pair of pincers, And with this 'tis said the Earwigs Open and fold up the hind wings; You may watch them and observe it, I have never had that pleasure. Chy, trust ye note none of these poems are from either Scotland or Canada, since Newman and Dalton's work, like that of the first fellow, was orignally published in London. Moore was American.
• I still say McGonagall has my vote for wurst poet evar.
• McIntyre! Can any other poet match the peerless peak of profundity reached in this couplet: Rheumatic pains they never twig Nor corns annoy foot of leg It almost rhymes. It references not one but two human maladies. It has that amazing foot-of-leg grammar. It's indestructible! It stands above all others!
• You might say it limps.
• Yes, but compare McGonagall's pome on The Tay Bridge Disaster, the opening stanza of which leaves all others in it's elegiac wake: Beautiful Railway Bridge of the Silv'ry Tay! Alas! I am very sorry to say That ninety lives have been taken away On the last Sabbath day of 1879, Which will be remember'd for a very long time. Melding the extreme grief of the subject with the poet's own hardly adequate expression of sadness plus a pitifully limited sense of meter and rhyme .. this for me, friends, is the epitomy of bad poetry. I admit, it is hard to beat McIntyre in the fact that he is devoted almost entirely to poems about cheese and nearly exclusively any dairy product or tangential association. That is a truly artistically staggering sacrifice to bad art, I admit, and perhaps in such vision he ... oh I can't be bothered anymore, I think I'll go to lunch.
• Hmmm, yeah, The Tay Bridge Disaster. Gotta say that the bit about "will be rememberer'd for a very long time" hits one right out of the park. Funnily enough, James McIntyre, similarly inspired by misfortune, wrote one called "Disaster to Steamer Victoria at London" but it doesn't beat Tay Bridge. McGonagall wins hands down in the death and dismemberment category.
• And yes, Wolof, they do both limp!
• La symétrie est une moitié reflétée. La symétrie est un pléonasme visuel. La beauté est asymétrique. Un visage, un poème asymétrique. C'est ce que j'appelle boiter. Les anges boitent. La beauté boite.
• The Sweet Singer of Michigan mentioned above [note: neither Scot nort Canadian] produced this tribute to Byron. I will maintain to my dying breath her first couplet far outstrips in boldness and execution any opening ever penned by either MacGonagall or McIntyre. By some grievous omission, one of her finer pieces has been left out of the collection in the link above, so here 'tis: -- Lord Byron's Life by Julia A. Moore "Lord Byron" was an Englishman A poet I believe; His first works in old England Was poorly received. Perhaps it was "Lord Byron's" fault And perhaps it was not. His life was full of misfortunes, Ah, strange was his lot. The character of "Lord Byron" Was of a low degree, Caused by his reckless conduct And bad company. He sprung from an archaic house, Noble, but poor, indeed. His career on earth was marred By his own misdeeds. Generous and tender-hearted, Affectionate by extreme, In temper he was wayward, A poor "Lord" without means; Ah, he was a handsome fellow, With great poetic skill, His great intellectual powers He could use at his will. He was a sad child of nature, Of fortune and of fame, Also sad child to society, For nothing did he gain But slander and ridicule, Throughout his native land. Thus the "poet of the passions," Lived, unappreciated, man. Yet at the age of 24 "Lord Byron" then had gained The highest, highest pinnacle Of literary fame. Alas, he has such violent passions They was beyond his control, Yet the public with its justice Sometimes would him extol. Sometimes again "Lord Byron" Was censured by the press, Such obloquy he could not endure, So he done what was the best. He left his native country, This great unhappy man; The only wish he had " 'tis said," He might die, sword in hand. He had joined the Grecian Army, This man of delicate frame; And there he died in a distant land, And left on earth his fame. "Lord Byron's" age was 36 years, Then closed the sad career, Of the most celebrated "Englishman" Of the nineteenth century.
• Yeah, CHEESE!!
• I writhe, I writhe. It bringeth tears to mine eyeth.
• Both McGonagall (one wonders if J.K. Rowling is an admirer as well as a fellow Scot) and Julia Moore have rated an entry in The Book of Heroic Failures by the inimitable Stephen Pile, who also pays tribute to such unmemorable sweet singers as Edward Edwin Foote, George Wither, and Margaret Cavendish, Duchess of Newcastle (q.v.), as well as such worthies as James Grainger, to whom we owe the deathless line, "Come, Muse, let us sing of rats." Mr. Pile, in his off hours, was the President of the Not Terribly Good Club of Great Britain, and might be still if the club had not become such a smashing success that the members felt obligated to close it down.
• We're must be talking about 'published' or 'known' poets here, because anyone who has had the misfortune to read some of the stuff on various poetry forums or other similar things would testify there is probably even greater horrors than McIntyre's 'verse' to be found.
• Some works are committed involuntarily to memory -- like the first one I added to this thread -- or the opening of Moore's tribute to Byron -- lines that simply refuse to be forgotten, I find, despite the passage of decades. How oft my brother have I warned thee to beware The horrid spells of guilt which led the drunkard's life to care; But no! you heeded not the warning words I spoke with pain, Your wretched soul that once was pure was bound as in a chain; At length, one cold October, when the night was late and dark, The awful doom came on which sank thy life's unsteady barque; Thy mangled corpse upon the rails in frightful shape was found, The ponderous train had killed thee as its heavy wheels went round; And thus in dreadful form thou met'st a drunkard's awful death, And I, thy brother, mourn thy fate, and breathe a purer breath. -- James Henry Powell, "Lines Written for a Friend on the Death of His Brother, Caused By a Railway Train Eunning Over Him Whilst He Was in a State of Inebriation"
• Bees: Hey! A moral tale cautioning against the evil demon drink.
• Bees, Moore certainly has a great talent for poetic deflation. I liked this bit especially: Ah, he was a handsome fellow, With great poetic skill, His great intellectual powers He could use at his will. ...making one think about those who don't.
• Hey Wolof, Realite boites!
• Confessions of a bad bee: I especially revel in poems where the conclusion to a high-falutin' stanza goes splat at the end without any warning. The effect is like falling through the ice in winter -- ye never really forget the sensation. And a sequence of bassackward misfortunes also rouses the Dirty Demon of Delight in me -- bathos, I wot, can be a lovesome/loathesome thing especially if ye relish farce/parody/silliness, whether intentional or no. He gazed on the face of the high-born maid, And saw the mark where the tears had been; He knew that a daughter has wept and prayed, He knew that a mother had feared a scene -- Had torn herself from the weeping girl, Whose love was away o'er the distant sea, And had sold her child to a titled churl Who had just got round from a bad d. t. -- George R. Simm [Note: neither Scot nor Canadian]
• I know what you mean bees. Sometimes the strain that people put to stick with rhyme schemes (especially couplets can really lead to some hilarious results.
• Here are three more [Note: all English] -- I wear a flannel jacket next my skin; If you do not, and choose not to begin This new addendum. it's as well to know, Next best to these are shirts of calico, The former most absorbs the perspiration When in tnis toilsome pleasing occupation, Under a scorching sun, for game you beat O'er moor or mountain, when there's no retreat; Such under clothing oft severe colds saves -- The frequent harbingers to early graves. -- Alexander Webber, from Shooting, A Poem And this -- We turned, as the winter flakes fell from the cloud And the keen wind blew colder and colder; And there, in his little grey coffin and shroud, Left our darling to silently moulder. -- Henry Doman And here personification runs amuck -- Toil is crushed, his teeth are gnashing, For the bread that perisheth; And our task-masters are lashing Souls immortal unto death: Crime abashing, Shouts aloud with atheist breath. -- Joseph Dare, from A Garland of Gratitude
• Had to hunt high and low to find this one, by a novelist and rhymester of Northern Ireland, Amanda McKitterick Ros. [Caution: Sensitive monkeys may wish to skip this.] On Visiting Westminster Abbey A "Reduced Dignity" invited me to muse on its merits Holy Moses! Have a look! Flesh decayed in every nook! Some rare bits of brain lie here Mortal loads of beef and beer, Some of whom are turned to dust, Every one bids lost to lust... Famous some were --yet they died; Poets -- Statesmen -- Rogues beside, Kings -- Queens, all of them do rot, What about them? Now -- they're not!
• Fantastic! Poems by William McGonagall, the man ridiculed as "the world's worst poet" are expected to fetch up to £6,500 at auction. The poems which are being auctioned in Edinburgh are expected to fetch more than rare first editions of James Bond novels, a Mickey Mouse book from 1931 and a first edition of Roald Dahl's Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.
• Somewhere, he's having the absolute last laugh ...the voices in his head told him that he'd be able to write poems... I'm afraid of the voices.
• Well, did the voices mention anything about them being good poems? Everybody's so quick to blame the voices!
• Well, in the words of the great man himself: I dreamt a dream the other night That an Angel appeared to me, clothed in white. Oh! it was a beautiful sight, Such as filled my heart with delight. And in her hand she held a flaming brand, Which she waved above her head most grand; And on me she glared with love-beaming eyes, Then she commanded me from my bed to arise. And in a sweet voice she said, "You must follow me, And in a short time you shall see The destruction of all the public-houses in the city, Which is, my friend, the God of Heaven's decree." Then from my bed in fear I arose, And quickly donned on my clothes; And when that was done she said, " Follow me Direct to the High Street, fearlessly." So, to answer your question TUM, no, I don't think the voices really said anything even vaguely poetical at all....
• Is it any wonder the Scots are renowned for their teetotalism with support like that from their deputy national bard?
• I dreamt a dream the other night That a Scot appeared to me, clothed in white Oh, it was our national bard Looking svelte despite diet of lard.
• He said, "Do not drink wine or strong drink, Becaue it will make you pee yourself 'til you stink, And you'll say things that aren't as mart as you think, And your wallet will be empty as quick as a wink."
• The drink that you must consume is maple syrup by the galloon. The sugary potion made from trees makes your pancakes mighty pleased.
• Forgot the quotation marks darnit.