Bad to the Bone

There was a little girl 
Who had a little curl
Right in the middle of her forehead.
When she was good,
She was very, very good --
But when she was bad, she was horrid.

Okay, it's kind of a silly way to describe a kid. But if we were talking instead about the art of writing poetry, those last three lines are right on target.

Writing poetry is hard. After all, poetry is the art of using the imagery and melody of words to convey the deepest of human emotions. It is, to put it mildly, a tricky balance act to get just right.

So it really shouldn't come as much of a surprise when it sometimes goes so, so wrong.

It's not that kind of "apology," but you can still appreciate the sentiment.

I took several poetry classes in college, and I came away with a deeper appreciation of poetry than I'd had before. I also came away with a strong love of bad poetry, because -- well, as you'll see, the bad poems can have a charm all their own. (I'm not alone in feeling this way: August 18 is the semi-official holiday of Bad Poetry Day.)

Bad poetry doesn't always happen accidentally, of course. Some of the best examples are poems written by their authors to be deliberately bad, either to serve a story or simply to entertain the audience. Gordon R. Dickson, a classic sci-fi writer, had the hero of his novel The Dragon and the George compose the following ode to the boredom of long trips:


An hour, an hour ... another hour ... 
Without a difference I can see, 
Like faceless children on a wall 
That stretches to eternity ...


It's not the best simile, maybe, but I'll give it that the image sticks with you.

The Internet is quite good at producing intentionally-bad poetry.

Then there was humorist Dave Barry, who was invited to write a poem by a "publishing company" who was soliciting some 3,000 other poems for publication in an anthology, which they would then sell to their 3,000 poets at the steal-away price of $49.95. Barry seemed to sense some funny business about the whole enterprise, and so he may not have been taking himself overly seriously when he wrote his entry for the project, simply titled Love. Here's a sample:


Love is what made Lassie the farm dog run back to the farmhouse to alert little Timmy's farm family whenever little Timmy fell into a dangerous farm pit;
Love is a feeling that will not go away, like a fungus in your armpit;
So the bottom line is that there will always be lovers
Wishing to express their love in an heirloom quality book with imported French marbleized covers;
Which, at $49.95 a pop multiplied by 3,000 poets
Works out to gross literary revenues of roughly $150,000, so it's
A good bet that whoever thought up the idea of publishing this book
Doesn't care whether this last line rhymes.


It wouldn't be Barry's final poetry-writing efforts, I'm happy to say.

Of course, the poems that are written in genuine earnestness -- but don't turn out to be quite as awe-inspiring as their authors intended -- are probably the most fun. Take this quatrain by John Close, a nineteenth-century poet whose output might be considered by critics to be inversely proportional to his talent:


Around the gods, each seated on a throne,
The poets, crowned like royal kings they sat.
Around their heads a dazzling halo shone,
No needs of mortal robes, or any hat.


Hats aside, I'm sensing a little hubris here anyway.

The Vogon aliens in The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy torture their prisoners by reading terrible Vogon poetry to them. 

Sometimes bad poetry presents itself in the most unexpected of places. Poor Elisha Woodruff wasn't even a poet, but may be doomed to remembrance at the hands of Bad Poetry. Born in 1746, he would grow up to oversee the construction of two saw-mills in Vermont. He kept both in operation until 1816, when he was killed in an accident by his own merchandise. The epitaph on his tombstone mostly speaks fondly of Woodruff, as a husband, father, and friend, but the inscription begins with these verses:


How shocking to the human mind
The log did him to powder grind.


At least he'll be remembered.

There are times when bad poetry is unexpected because it's written by a poet who should know better. Eulalie might be the best example of this phenomenon, being written by Edgar Allan Poe, who is generally known as, y'know, a rather talented guy. Here's an exert from this particular masterpiece:


I dwelt alone
In a world of moan,
And my soul was a stagnant tide,
Till the fair and gentle Eulalie became my blushing bride ...


That the vapor can make
With the moon-tints of purple and pearl,
Can vie with the modest Eulalie's most unregarded curl --
Can compare with the bright-eyed Eulalie's most humble and careless curl.


This was most likely written the same year as Poe's poetry magnum opus The Raven. Apparently, he either wrote The Raven first and used up all his efforts for the year doing so, or he wrote Eulalie first and was saving his strength for more important works later.

In the hit show Buffy the Vampire Slayer, the fearsome vampire Spike was previously known as William the Bloody because ... he wrote bloody awful poetry.

Poe wasn't alone in his ability to be a great writer who, like all human (and therefore fallible) artists, could still occasionally drop the ball. William Wordsworth, who is notable for writing my personal favorite poem, I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud, was also the "artist" behind The Thorn:


This heap of earth o’ergrown with moss,
Which close beside the Thorn you see,
So fresh in all its beauteous dyes,
Is like an infant’s grave in size,
As like as like can be:
But never, never any where,
An infant’s grave was half so fair.


I suppose we can't argue with that.

I'd be remiss in this entry if I didn't mention William McGonagall. He was a nineteenth-century poet who, much like director Ed Wood, has developed a cult following out of sheer admiration for the level of bad he was able to achieve. A weaver by trade, McGonagall found himself one summer morning suddenly inspired to write. His first effort was a tribute to his friend, the Reverend George Gilfallan, which began:


Rev. George Gilfallan of Dundee, there is none can you excel;
You have boldly rejected the Confession of Faith, and defended your cause quite well.
The first time I heard him speak, 'twas in Kinnaird Hall,
Lecturing on the Garibaldi movement, as loud as he could bawl.


Although my personal favorite is a tribute he wrote in honor of Sir John Ogilvy, a politician:


He was a public benefactor in many ways.
Especially in erecting an asylum for imbecile children to spend their days.


(You can read lots more of McGonagall's poetry here.)

Ross, of Friends fame, has been known to perform what he refers to as "wordless sound poems." Whether they're truly poetry or music, their ... quality remains unaffected.

It might surprise you to know (or perhaps not), but there is actually a contender for the Worst Poem Ever Written. It was composed by Theophilus Marzials, and is entitled A Tragedy. You can read the whole thing here, if you dare, but here's a sampling:


My thought is running out of my head;
My love is running out of my heart,
My soul runs after, and leaves me as dead,
For my life runs after to catch them -- and fled
They all are 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.                                            


It's not really any worse than My Heart Will Go On, if you ask me.

In the end, we probably shouldn't judge our less-talented poets too harshly. As Oscar Wilde observed, "All bad poetry springs from genuine feeling." It may be fun to laugh at the more unusual poetic offerings -- but it leaves me a little appreciative of poets from all levels of talent. Bad or good, their writings do, indeed, inspire emotion in their readers.

It just may not always be the emotion they intended.

-- Post by Ms. B