Bad poetry

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Bad poetry

Obviously, in this age of irony and guffawing, it's not surprising you can come across articles like this:

http://www.bbc.co.uk/dna/h2g2/A577118

'How to Write Bad Poetry'

The problem I have with this, and similar things, is that the examples are just not bad enough. They're obviously amusing piss-takes rather than bad poetry. They actually *work* in a silly Pam Ayers sort of way. What people don't seem to understand is that being half-arsed with the rhymes and rhythms is no more automatically bad than having perfect rhymes and rhythms is automatically good. Clerihews, for example, are ace, because they use forced rhyme and off-kilter rhythms to comic effect. That's not the same as being bad.

Proper bad poems have to reek of trying hard. The subject must be really deep, the poet out of their depth. No outrageous silliness, no wit, no let-on for even half a metaphor that the poet isn't taking themselves 100% seriously.

I think everyone should have a serious go at writing a truly bad poem. This is my effort:

Muslims hold up signs saying, "Kill! Behead!"
Why can't the signs say 'Peace' instead?
Danish newspapers mock Allah in cartoons.
Don't they realise that Muslims aren't all loons?
Whites abuse Arabs, and Arabs abuse whites,
Instead of talking they get into fights.
Children don't understand. "Why is daddy shouting?"
"Because he hates our neighbours," says Mother, crying.
His son goes up to him, takes him by the hand.
"Don't hate, daddy," he says. "We can share the land."
His father, ashamed, weeps and hugs his little boy.
The world begins to care. There is a chance of future joy.

Urk. That was horrible. Well done!
Here's my effort - very cathargic. Don't you think it's all just a wind? To make you so mad you stop using your mind. Representing the extreme as the view of the mass. Quoting the views of the prejudiced crass. Making you think if it's fairness you seek. Then you're really a traitor whose commitment is weak. A cowardly fence-sitter hiding away. Unable to see what must come any day. For the enemy is winning and so we must act. Just read our article see it's a fact. Give them an inch and they'll take a mile. They will take all you have and go off with a smile. Kill you, or rape you, or blow you to bits. Just take our word - all the evidence fits. Just who they are - we're not yet willing to say. But once we are ready then they'll really pay. For we must have an enemy - country or creed. Something to frighten you - some alien breed. Something to help in our difficult cause. To finally control you with 'For your own good' laws.
I remember when Jon and I had a session of deliberate bad poetry writing. It was great fun. Here's Jon's topical take on ID cards: I’m Me The policeman wants to see my ID card. Does it tell you how I feel in my heart & my soul? Does it tell you about my pain or the blisters on my feet, or the hurt in my eyes, or the tears I have cried, or how many nights I have been lonely & frightened? Take my ID card. It won’t tell you anything about me.
UP IN SMOKE When they said they were going to ban smoking In pubs, I thought they were joking. What's wrong with going for a beer And a cigarette in a pub, is that so very queer? It does no harm to give people choice. Why don't the smokers have a voice? Have they lost their vocal chords to cancer? Must they run outside like a dancer To smoke, instead of being in the warm pub? Why do the politicians want to rub Simple people up the wrong way? Can't we let those smokers stay Inside the pub, enjoying their beer Year after year? Soon, we'll see the police coming into a bar And handcuffing an old man with a pipe and putting him in a car Because he was smoking a pipe And he thought he could do what he would like. 'You are killing the children,' the judge in court said And the executioner said 'Off with his head!' And soon the old man was dead Just for smoking. Come on politicians - are you joking?
Ah, that bad.- room for de-provement then :O) Bloody fat moons won't let you rest. Make you sleep like a murder's guest On the edge of your seat like an unwelcome pest Living in your unwashed vest. Bloody fat moons with their evil light Make you stay awake all night. Is it the yellow - or are they too bright. Let's hope i sleep tomorrow night. Bloody fat moons should be banned Make you weird and underhand A usually friendly luna orb Get's full of itself and makes you absorb Sleepless dreams that haunt your night and in the morn an awful sight Tired and haggard - feeling grim. Looking frightful - seeming dim. Bbloody fat moons they should be banned Sent off to blight some foreign land.
I don't think I have the discipline. I keep trying to make it bad poetry but secretly good. Instead of bad meaning bad meaning bad. It's surprisingly tough... Winter is the cruellest season it comes without any rhyme or reason bye bye autumn with your raining leaves here comes december with its temperature thieves. Brrr, it's freezing today, when will spring time come my way? My coat's too thin, my hair's all wet, I'm like God's poor old dog, a mistreated pet. Winter is the cruellest season. It comes without any rhyme.
off the top of my head, in the rain on the slate grey motorway I, half awake changed lanes and would have crashed but for another's reactions. Every morning I play the numbers game.

 

That's not nearly bad enough, Dan... In fact, if you edit out the beginning and end, this is quite a good short poem. I, half awake changed lanes and would have crashed but for another's reactions. I like it.
damnit! I shall try harder: in the rain on the slate grey M25 I, half awake being late for work and having skipped my morning coffee changed lanes without looking and would have crashed but for another's reactions. Thought for the day is on the radio and suddenly closer to the mortal veil, for once I do not change the channel.

 

Bobblehat's is not nearly bad enough either. Try harder. I thought the opening lines were 'I often wonder does god exist or not exist Because looking at the way the world is you think if he made it he must have pissed Everywhere around' Ha ha. Span
I thought I heard jungle rhythms. The roaring of a tiger, fierce and alive - But it was only my toaster, Saying hello before burning all my bread. Oh, toaster predator, how you ravage my larder! I thought I heard jungle rhythms, The squawking of a goldren crested red macaw, Intrusively startling me by crying out, "Who are you, you man, you imposter?" But it was only my shower gel, The squeak of the rubber release nozzle. Oh, rubber release robber, how you turn my Shower gel to acid that dissolves my flesh, Instantly killing me! I thought I heard jungle rhythms. The pounding jungle drum beat of a Pounding jungle drum, one made of bamboo And decorated with the teeth of Children stolen from teepees. But it was only the futile jungle pounding Of my fearful heart. "You fool", it seemed to say, "You shallow, egregious, heartless, fateful fool". They were upon me in minutes, Those angry leafcutter ants.
'it's all gone to the dogs and all the dogs have got bird flu' No! Too good, bobble! *tears up poem in front of him* Again!
My life was in tatters I really didn't care I didn't think God was anywhere I lost my job and drank white lightning It was a hard time and really quite frightening. Thank you Jesus for coming into my heart And saying "yes, let's make a brand new start." God took my hand and lead me away I was truly saved on that glorious day. I thank you for the gifts you have given me O lord When down the sink that evil liquor I poured. My friends have come back and my mum and dad aren't mad There are lots of smiles and laughter when we used to be sad And I owe it all to Jesus these wonderful gifts of joy He rebuilt my soul that drink and drugs tried to destroy. The sunbeams illuminate through windows of hope Not the misty glass of cider or the thick haze of dope.

 

Foster
Anonymous's picture
Its interesting that none of you ever write rhyming poems (or at least none I've read), but when you intentionally try to write something bad, the rhymes come out. So is that to say that you think all rhyming poems are bad? Or is that just a stereotype? I can't write poetry, rhyming or otherwise, so I wouldn't know...but I thought it was interesting. Personally, I like the fact that most poems I read on this site aren't defined by a rhyme scheme. Anyway, this is off topic - on to more bad poetry!
Bring our boys home Mr Blair, Power, control - what about real people, do you care? In sand and the hot sun and desert they toil? Not for liberty or principle, for greed and for oil. And far away a mother picks up the phone To hear that her baby is not coming home. Killed not with shrapnel or the kick of the gun. For politics or pleasure! This can never be won. If Iraq and kuwait manufactured peanuts instead of oil, crude. Would you bother that much about Saddam, or think to invade is too rude? But Capitalism, you rampage like a global tour and it's young men who die in the old men's war!

 

I have several rhyming poems posted on this site. Mind you they are probably as bad as my deliberately bad attempts here.

 

Foster
Anonymous's picture
Not true - Alcoholic Haze was great, and not your typical abab stuff.
Was Christ A Fisherman. I think That He Was... I think the sun may just be God Not just for those who have a wad But even for those poor pale fools Who live indoors and have no jewels To pay for holidays where they may Get closer to their God and say. "If there was no shining sun there'd be no fishies, ne'er a one. It's you who feeds the Salmon and Cod. For you're not just the Sun of God. You are really God Himself. Who gives us fish that gives us health." It's obvious that God's sacred meal. Would be of fish not lamb or veal. Catch and cook it - healthy dish. Or thow it back if so you wish. So while we fish in sea or lake. Simultanously we can make. A thank you for fish both fresh and canned Whilst getting pissed and nicely tanned.
Jude, those are awesome! You've really got the whole 'bad but earnest' thing down! Hope that sounds like a compliment...
Thanks! I got the ideas from those putrid chain emails I get about 9/11 and so on about my mommy cries cos my daddy was real brave etc ...bwaargh ... and I've immense pride in being able to take full advantage of the fact that white lightning rhymens with quite frightening!

 

Byrne, your poem reminded me of a poem my friend wrote for me. Here it is, copied without her permission... My Favourite Shoe My favourite shoe- 'Tis oh so true- Is YOU my darling, YOU, YOU, YOU! The heel- Your golden heart, Supporting the shoe THAT IS YOU! The leather uper- Not made in Calcutta- But in the paradise of heaven- Your beaming smile, Which, every time I see it, Tenderly massages the Foot of my heart. Oh, but you are made From the stuff of dreams, My favourite shoe, Made of shared laughter, Intimate moments, of Loving and caring and Smiling and sharing. I wish to never walk In you, you who is My favourite shoe, For fear of spoiling The sole of your face, Which is also... ...Your soul.
I love the fact that the most experienced poets (or at least the ones I know who are very experienced,) are the ones who are struggling most with it. Spack just couldn't stop himself being a little bit clever in the last line. Bobblehat's 'designer labels on your feet' (plus the line Tim pointed out,) push his piece too far into witty/silly territory. "Its interesting that none of you ever write rhyming poems (or at least none I've read), but when you intentionally try to write something bad, the rhymes come out." Personally, I think this is because proper bad poetry is generally written by people who have a very crude understanding of what poetry is. They probably haven't read any - just occasionally see it quoted in books, or hear it read. Rhyming is one of the big things they associate with it, as well as its being an expression of feelings. That said, I have read lots of bad free verse as well.
At my recent appt at the neuropsychiatrist, I had two excercises. Firstly she read me a sentence and I had to give the missing last word. eg. "Children of wealthy families may attend a private ....." and I say "school" and so on. Then the next exercise was the same but I had to supply a word that did not fit at all. "Children of wealthy families may attend a private ....." and I say "porpoise" and so on. It was actually much harder the second time - to overcome the temptation to automatically supply the correct word. The mind's ego struggles against stupidity.

 

You caught me Jon. Damn brain! It is a real discipline of the ego, this bad poetry lark. I should probably try and write it more often. Joe
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