Bad poems

[John]

Bennett?
rennet? (curdled milk from the stomach of an unweaned calf, in case you wondered)
cannot? (this one rhymes if you use a Scottish brogue)
dreadin' it?
Janet (I'm thinking "Napolitano")
minute?
pen it?
spin it?
tenet? (this one actually works, so might not be good for a bad poem)
vent it?
win it?
Yen it?
Zen it?

These last two might work if tied in with Sino/American relations.

Oh...wait a minute...I forgot we were talking about Barbara Boxer.

I'm trying to decide if I prefer her more as a Senator or as a poet...hmmm.

[Edward]

Man it's a good thing she waited all this time before assaulting the public with this literary cataclysm. If she had tried to hurl this kind of vapid verse on us any sooner she would have been impeached.

Or who am I kidding, this is California we're talking about. It'll be on a glass plaque with dolphins and the Golden Gate Bridge in some public building within a month.

[John]

So I've been assigned to prepare the program for the Los Alisos Ward Christmas party, and was instructed to use the following poem as the basis for the event:

The Innkeeper’s Key
“Mary and Joseph had come to stay
But each lodging place turned them away.
At the last place they tried, still no room at all
Except for a simple hay-filled stall.
Thanks to one man’s kindness to those needy strangers
Jesus’ life began, safe in a lowly manger.
This innkeeper’s key is a symbol of
How a simple act fills the world with love.
Keep this key, and remember God’s love is the reason
We are filled with blessings each Christmas season.”*
But wait, is that enough –
Just keep the key to remember the reason for the season?
Rather, shouldn’t we keep the key – yes
Keep it where we might always be able to see -
For the sad, the lonely, the ill and bereaved
Have no certain season to show forth their need.
We have a key like the Innkeeper did.
Jesus gave each of us one when he said
Love one another as I have loved you.
Imagine keys being used all over the world
Opening the hearts of men like
Endless waves of clear water hitting against the shore
Till acts of love and service permeate the entire earth.
Why not turn your key and let him in.

Ione Mortensen *original text by Les Hollowed

I simply can't bring myself to comply with the request to read this at the event, so I have been searching for a worthy replacement.

I had no idea that there is so much bad poetry floating about the net on this theme.

Here are a couple of doozies:

What the Donkey Saw
No room in the inn,
of course,
And not that much in the stable,
What with the shepherds, Magi
Mary,
Joseph, the heavenly host –
Not to mention the baby
Using our manger as a cot.
You couldn’t have squeezed another
cherub in
For love nor money.
Still, in spite of the overcrowding,
I did my best to make them feel
wanted.
I could see the baby and I
Would be going places together.
By U.A. Fanthorpe (1929-2009)

Room in the Inn
by Sally Meyer

How much different would things have been,
If maybe there had been room at the inn?
No hay, no manger, no beasts, no stall.
Rather, plenty of beds and blankets for all.

Not a proprietor in his right mind
Would allow all those shepherds, the filthiest kind,
To enter the doors of his establishment,
Not even the ones, who by angels were sent!

And the star overhead, no matter the beam,
Through walls made of mud, would not have been seen.
No bleating of lamb, no cooing of bird.
Would songs of the angels have even been heard?

Maybe the kings would have been turned away.
Foreigners weren't welcome in that place or that day.
Don't blame the innkeepers doing their jobs.
How could they know it was the Son of God?

Like the rest of his life, it was part of the plan.
A humble birth, a humble man.
Yes, it happened as it should have been,
No place to stay. No room in the inn.

Needless to say, my search continues.

[Steve]

There's nothing wrong with that poem,
I see no reason to leave it alone,
Great enjoyment will be had by all who hear it,
I'm sure that the spirit
will not fear it.
Oh dear it.

[John]

Here is the poem (NOT a bad one!) I will actually be using for the event:

NO ROOM AT THE INN
by Dwight M. Hodge
In fancy's fine clairvoyance I was led
O'er lands and waters, to the fields of them
Whose sheep, one sacred night, were shepherded
Where shone the distant lights of Bethlehem.

But finding the fields empty, I went on
The way where since pursuing feet had been,
Until I paused before a little khan,
And read the painted title, “This World's Inn.”

A jolly publican was at the door,
With servile welcome for each comely guest,
And bowing low, he turned and went before
To offer those who sought his house his best.

The portly merchant came and bustled in,
The weight of this world's business in his mien ;
The quiet scholar, reticent and thin.
The politician, selfish, suave and keen, —

A motley crowd of actors, dancers, clowns,
Who lived for pleasure and would pleasure give;
Soldiers in armor, priests in sombre gowns,
And those who sail the sea with Death, to live.

For business, learning, statecraft, there was room;
For pleasure, priestcraft, wealth, and war, and joy;
For all who labor at life's steady loom ;
For such as scorn the tool and choose the toy.

And then two peasants came, a man and wife,
The light of hope within deep, dreaming eyes,
Their faces lighted with abounding life.
That prophesied some exigent surprise.

I heard one question, saying: Whence come ye?
And whither do ye journey, and for what?
They answered: Out of Nazareth are we, —
We journey toward a country that is not.

Our treasure, truth, our business, the world’s good;
Pray shield us from the darkness and the dew.
He said: I cannot take you if I would.
My house is full, it has no place for you.

And much I fear that it would trouble me
To harbor treasure such as that ye bear.
My guests would fear such strange commodity.
I pray you seek some resting-place elsewhere;

Or, since the sun now dippeth down the west,
And danger lurks where treasure may be found,
Within the stable haply ye might rest,
And hide your rare, strange treasure in the ground.

And there I saw them, outcast, seek repose.
But ere light's flaming herald cried the morn,
And the old world to the new day uprose,
Unheeded of those guests, my Lord was born.

[Ian]

thanks for resurrecting this discussion. as noted previously, william topaz mcgonagall is often considered one of the worst poets of all time. however, many people consider "a tragedy" by theophilus marzials to be the worst poem in the english language. this poem is from the gallery of pigeons, published in 1873.

A Tragedy
by Theophilus Marzials


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!
All is running 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 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.
And the shrill wind whines in the thin tree-top
Flop, 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 of my living to!

Ugh; and I knew!

Ugh!

So what do I care,

And my head is 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.

Plop, flop.

Plop.

[Edward]

I don't think the word tragedy carries enough meanings to fully describe what transpires in that text.

[John]

Ugh. Plop. Flop.

[Ian]

for further reading, the gallery of pigeons is available here. apparently the book was intended to be taken seriously.

[Bryn]

Of smaller scale is this short thought set to verse by Margaret Cavendish, Duchess of Newcastle.

What is Liquid?

All that doth flow we cannot liquid name
Or else would fire and water be the same;
But that is liquid which is moist and wet
Fire that property can never get.
Then 'tis not cold that doth the fire put out
But 'tis the wet that makes it die, no doubt.

[Edward]

No doubt.

[Edward]

I feel like there are some occasions which are so inherently sentimental that they draw out bad poets like flies to honey. Wedding receptions, minor church events, and of course, the Eagle Scout Court of Honor. This was actually published in the latest edition of Scouting magazine, which while not surprising, is certainly depressing. I will note that I have yet to read an Eagle Scout poem which does not at some point use the phrase 'Twas.

THE EAGLE

'Twas the Eagle they chose,
as a symbol of strength for a new and mighty land.
That was forged in Truth and Liberty;
delivered by God's own hand.
That Eagle stands for Integrity and Pride
throughout our age.
To remind us of the wars we've fought for
Freedom and the price we've paid.
And so it was when Lord Powell called on his troop
of boys to be men,
That this symbol so strong, so pure and so proud
was called to serve again.
Not every Scout can wear this badge
in fact they are but few
Who rise above their peers today
to remind us of what is true.
That Loyalty and being good will always be our aim,
That Courage and Faith are the best of us,
that The Eagle knows no shame.
These honored few who wear this badge
walk among us to this day.
To exemplify the very best that we strive for,
So now we pray;
That God will bless and keep these Scouts always
In His sight.
For it is they, not us who know it best,
the Eagle stands for Right.