Balls and Walnuts
more than you ever wanted to know
Category Archives: Poetic mishaps
Le bad poetry, sacre bleu
See how many lines it takes for you to NAME THAT POET!
Beyond
The rim of the star-light
My love
Is wand’ring in star-flight
I know
He’ll find in star-clustered reaches
Love,
Strange love a star woman teaches.
I know
His journey ends never
His star trek
Will go on forever.
But tell him
While he wanders his starry sea
Remember, remember me.
The man was beyond shame.
I may have a short video for you . . . a little later.
D.
I’ve won a major prize!
Dear Walnut,
I am delighted to inform you that your poem “Confessions of a Teenaged Angstwolf” has been awarded our prestigious Editor’s Choice Award because it displays an original perspective and unique creativity — judged to be the qualities found most in exceptional poetry. Congratulations on your achievement!
Click on the quoted title to see the poem, as well as all the wonderful books and plaques I can receive — for a price. They go on:
If you would like to order the deluxe hardbound anthology in our Immortal Verses Series, featuring your poem “Confessions of a Teenaged Angstwolf” on an entire page by itself, please make your selections below.
Curious why I wrote this loathsome piece of doggerel? Here’s the background story.
Immortal verses, indeed.
D.
Flickr Follies: a slippery trail of because
Chemistry, not astronomy, because
Mattresses are a poor reason for career choice.
Biology, not chemistry, because
Solvents reeked
Those boats looked nice
And the math was getting too tough.
Medicine, not biology, because
Mice would not cooperate.
School, not honor, because
If you had the chance, you’d take it, too
And the sky was so very blue
And I was free
And we had all the time in the world.
Honor, not comfort, because
The truth? I missed the honor.
Crappy poetry, not a post, because
Like her host
The muse has a head cold, too.
D.
Animals at the Fair
I don’t likes the food
Dizzy rides makes us jiggies
Those shyster games suck
But I likes me some . . .
World’s worst poem
I thought perhaps it was just Leslie Klinger, editor of The New Annotated Sherlock Holmes, Volume 1; but, no — About.Com thinks so, too. The world’s worst poem was penned by William Topaz McGonagall: “The Tay Bridge Disaster” (1890). You can read more about McGonagall here.
About.Com has the whole thing, but here’s the astonishingly bad ending:
It must have been an awful sight,
To witness in the dusky moonlight,
While the Storm Fiend did laugh, and angry did bray,
Along the Railway Bridge of the Silv’ry Tay,
Oh! ill-fated Bridge of the Silv’ry Tay,
I must now conclude my lay
By telling the world fearlessly without the least dismay,
That your central girders would not have given way,
At least many sensible men do say,
Had they been supported on each side with buttresses,
At least many sensible men confesses,
For the stronger we our houses do build,
The less chance we have of being killed.
In our household, we like to say, “That’s not funny, that’s painful” (usually in response to one of my puns, but also useful for just about any Saturday Night Live skit since the mid-1980s). But McGonagall’s poem reeks in such a special way, I find myself wanting more.
World’s Worst Poetry: A Compilation of Rhyme Without Reason by Stephen Robins may be the ticket. Editorial Reviews has the following book description:
The world’s most odious odes, from Solyman Brown’s epic poem of 1833: “The Dentologia—A Poem on the Diseases of the Teeth†to James Henry Powell’s “Lines Written for a Friend on the Death of His Brother, Caused by a Railway Train Running Over Him Whilst He Was in a State of Inebriation.â€
240 pages of poetic disasters . . . but somehow it seems more appropriate to report the weight of such a thing (9.1 ounces) or the eerily appropriate publisher (Prion, which Wikipedia defines as “a type of infectious agent composed only of protein. They cause a number of diseases in a variety of animals, including BSE in cattle and CJD in humans. All known prion diseases affect the structure of the brain or other neural tissue, and all are untreatable and fatal.”)
But if you’re feeling budget-conscious, online resources abound. Find more McGonagall as well as other notable whiffies here, for example. Or get your fill of anonymous bad poetry at The Los Angeles Relaxorium. Revel in “Angst for Nothing,” which includes the stanza,
i am but a hemorrhoid on the rectum of the universe
prostate with pain
And if you want some truly homegrown stinkers, here they are.
We’re traveling tomorrow. Wish us luck!
D.
An incredibly perceptive analysis
“I want to believe,” said the Rabbi Marc Gellman,
“But you atheists make my life wan.
I’d rather snort cole slaw with that doper Rush Limbaugh
Than find God in the sands of Iran.”
Neil Young said, “You rube, stop watching YouTube,
You’d be better off shaving your Bush.”
“Out of MySpace,” cried Reb Gellman,”you heathenous hellion.
Better music I make with my tush!”
Now, I could rhyme “erection” with “Singapore election,”
“Courtesan” with “Kaavya Viswanathan”,
and tout compris with the Crony Fairy,
Lord above, I can’t take it any more! You don’t want to know how long it took to write those measly 2 3/4 stanzas of lameass poetry.
I may be a Technorati whore, but I have limits.
D.
Ends and odds
First the ends,
For my Republican friends,
And now the freakin’ odds.
For we’re moving this weekend
(What a pain in the rear end!)
Not lounging like lazy old sods.
Yes, we’re changing our digs
We’ll be squealing like pigs
Cuz that’s how much we love U-Haul.
That’s a lie actually
I drive trucks into trees
And low-slung concrete garage walls.*
Karen’s learned from experience
To keep me at a distance
From lifting and driving and sharp stuff.**
What I do best is opine
And occasionally whine
While the movers do all the hard puff-puff.
Our first home we’ve remodelled
But we must have been addled
To think we could do it on budget.
No countertops or floor covers
Bathrooms still ugly buggers
And yet we’re near broke. Oh, fudge it!
It tires me to the bone
To abandon this home
Even if it’s to go to one better.
Only one silver lining —
Stopping most of my whining —
We left all of our really good porn there.
D.
*Karen swears I have driven trucks without crashing them into concrete beams or tree branches, but I have no memory of such successes.
**Once, while unpacking, I shaved off half a fingertip on broken glass. Ever hear the saying, “Humans have no memory for pain”? Bullcrap. I remember every second of that experience. My favorite part: the way every last paramedic and nurse had to unwrap my finger to look at the damages. That hurt.
We need a little Fitzmas
Haul out the shackles;
Put up the rope before my spirit falls.
Fill up the stockade,
We may be rushing things,
But indictments should rain down now.
For we need a little Fitzmas
Right this very minute,
Neocons red blood flow,
Rove’s balls in the light socket.
Yes, we need a little Fitzmas
Right this very minute.
Need a little Fitzmas now!
Tomorrow’s Fitzmas, the Good Lord willing.
D.
Because Maureen asked for really bad angst-ridden poetry
I’ve decided I would make one rippingly good homosexual. I’m obsessed with my body; I cook like there’s no tomorrow; I cry at the end of every episode of Dead Like Me; I think Winona Ryder is hot. (Wait. No. That would make me a lesbian.) My high school girlfriend once called me ‘one of the girls’ and, now that I think about it, she’s never taken it back.
There’s just that one picky little detail. You know, the one about having sex with men. Like, eeee-ew. Is that strictly necessary?
Anyway, for Maureen, I’ve posted a poem today. Read it and see if you don’t agree that I am a total bitch. Here’s the set-up:
Third year of med school: that’s when it starts to get tough. You take call with the big boys and girls; you’re actually expected to do some thinking on your own; the hours are long and you’re beginning to wonder if maybe, just maybe, this isn’t all a big mistake. Unfortunately, you get used to it, and learn to ignore that inner voice.
Bad turned to worse when our med school newspaper began running whiffy poetry written by a sensitive, angst-riddled soul* who regularly opened a vein for our benefit. His metier: the cryptic rhyme scheme, the mangled metaphor, the trite simile, the archaic contraction. His chief gripe: not being able to spend enough quality time with his loved ones.
Perhaps I should have been more sympathetic. Instead, I decided to shut him down.
I was a Teenage Angstwolf
Mistah Donahue — he dead.
Oh faithful collie at my feet
Do not ask me why I weep
For I might tell you, and you must sleep;
Sometimes it hurts to feel so deep.
Spring is the cruellest month, sigh;
Winds whisper the throbbing question, why
The swollen hopes of huddled masses,
Hardened hearts, and real tough classes.
In a dream, I asked the Deity why
She told me
“Everything I tell you is a lie
Including this.”
Her saffron robes were the color
Of Existential Panic.
A toast to my colleagues, Sturm und Drang,
Angst and Ennui, that noble gang
Though only geists, their spirits sang,
They never forgot for whom the tolled bell rang.
(Bonus points if you can name the kid.)
Post script: my poem worked. Mr. Sensitive’s Rod McKuen-aspirin’ days were over.
Next up on the book review list: an oldie but (if the first two chapters are any indication) a goodie. Hint: Nebula Award Winner; chief influences, Carlos Castaneda & Joseph Conrad. Pat, no fair guessing, since you recommended this one to me.
*I forget his name, but he’s undoubtedly one of those HMO docs who is on the phone all day telling other docs how to practice shitty medicine, then goes home and whines to his family about how rough his life is.