poetree | Entries tagged with themed week: bad poetry

I meant to post this yesterday, but life got, as they say, Life-like. Sorry. Anyway, a bibliography of anthologies of bad poetry.

The Stuffed Owl, ed. D.B. Windham Lewis & Charles Lee (London: 1930) - The classic, with excellent commentary, a wicked index, and an admirable focus on Name Poets being bad on off days (the title is from a Wordsworth sonnet). Organized chronologically by poet. Its main weakness is a tendency to extract even from short poems, and it doesn't extend past Tennyson. Has been in print more or less continuously on both sides of the Atlantic, and so a copy should be easy to find.

The Worst English Poets, ed Christopher Adams (London: 1958) - A slim but choice volume, including several selections I've not seen elsewhere. Organized thematically. Main weaknesses are its slimness and indexlessness. As far as I know, never reprinted, but occasionally can be found used. (My copy was culled from a Texas county library.)

Pegasus Descending: A Book of the Best Bad Verse, ed. James Camp, X.J. Kennedy, & Keith Waldrop (New York: 1971) - Intended as a sequel to TSO, it has very little overlap and extends the selection into the 20th century, but does not always manage to pull off its snark with a straight face. Organized thematically. Intermittently reprinted, can be hard to find.

The Joy of Bad Verse by Nicholas T. Parsons (London: 1988) - Not an anthology but more of a study, but there are many excellent samples to back up his analysis. Eight chapters are devoted to various thematic aspects of badness, followed by a dozen case-studies of bad poets; an appendix gives more extended samples and suggestions for group readings. Parsons did extensive research for this one, and it shows -- many gloriously atrocious poems appear here for the first time since their original publication. Its main weakness is that it is not an anthology, but regardless this is the second most-important of these books to have, after TSO. As far as I know, this was never reprinted across the Puddle, so it can be difficult to find outside of the UK.

Very Bad Poetry, ed. Kathryn Petras & Ross Petras (New York: 1997) - A very weak culling: there's hardly anything that is not in TSO, usually as even briefer extracts, and much of the commentary was digested from same. Organized alphabetically by poet. Mentioned mainly because it's relative recent vintage makes it easy to find.

The World's Worst Poetry: An Anthology, Stephen Robins (London: 2002) - A decent selection, and extracts sometimes extend beyond what TSO gives; it is clear, also, that Robins has studied Parsons carefully. The title is, however, overheated, as it sticks strictly to English and misses some of Adams's best stuff. Organized alphabetically by poet. Also never, that I know, reprinted across the Puddle, but its recent date makes it relatively easy to find.

Teen Angst: A celebration of REALLY BAD poetry, ed. Sara Boyne (New York: 2005) - Not a general anthology: all selections were submitted by their authors at least ten years after writing them as a teenager. As such, it is a good sample of what real teens really write about -- and how they really write. As such, it's a must-have as research material for YA authors, but the rest of us can probably made do with the website these were reprinted from.

Honorable mention goes to B Is for Bad Poetry by Pamela August Russell (New York: 2009), a single author collection. Most of Russell's efforts are not nearly as entertainingly bad as an average page from any of the above, but there are a few excellent gems. A sample:

The Perfect Love Poem

Every time
I see your face
it reminds me
of you.

And that's all I have for this week. I hope you've enjoyed reading these posts as much as I've enjoyed writing them.

---L.

lnhammer

So, I hear some of you ask through the ether, what's the appeal of bad poetry? I confess I don't have a clear answer here -- nor, apparently, do most of the critics and editors who write about the stuff. (Defenders of "good bad movies" have a similar problem.) But I do have a couple thoughts.

One possible reason is the amusement of seeing language handled that badly. Whether this is more closely related to the appeal of watching a disaster unfold or the appeal of watching people fail, I cannot say. Possibly the latter -- certainly, there are poems that deserve to be set alongside the Fail Blog. But there's also something of the same startled recognition that particularly mangled Engrish evokes, here divorced from some of the guilt because this sort of bad poetry is, in fact, perpetrated by fluent native speakers.

But another part of it is the wonder of "Don't these people realize how bad they are?" This gets into tricky territory. It's not like many (most?) of the poets didn't get feedback. Some, we know, dismissed the barbs of critics under various headings such as "jealous of my accomplishments," "misunderstood my genius," "yes but I'm popular so neener-neener" and so on. McGonagall is particularly interesting, as he made something of a living from recitations where he was routinely pelted with rotten veggies, with every apparent sign that he considered the filled theaters a sign of his popularity. It's been speculated that was all a sort of performance art, but if so, he managed to keep a remarkably straight face about the whole thing -- as did all his critics. The alternative is, however, that he had a thick skin and powers of self-delusion worthy of the great Emperor Norton.

Or maybe we're just all being ironic hipsters/post-modernists/whatevers. Though I'm skeptical of that, given you can find essays on the appeal of bad poetry going back to the turn of the 20th century, when what modernists there were were all pre- and the hipsters were all Decadents. But the ironic zeitgeist certainly hasn't hurt the appeal.

For me, at least, there's an element of "There but for the grace of competence go I." This is why I sometimes emphasize the object lesson aspects -- "Don't do this." But that's is certainly cannot explain the glee a deliciously incompetent poem inspires in me.

Those of you who enjoy bad poetry -- why?

---L.

lnhammer

William Topaz McGonagall (1825-1902) was a Scottish weaver, actor, and poet universally regarded as one of the worst poets of the English language. It can be debated whether he is the very worst ever, given some of the competition, but he's my nomination, if only because he's the most entertainingly bad. The combination of technical incompetance, in particular his complete deafness to meter and his distortions of syntax perpetrated solely to reach the most thumpingly obvious rhymes, and banal sentimentality reaches almost sublime levels. It is very, very hard to deliberately write this bad. I know -- I've tried, and come not even within hailing distance of the disasterousness of his poetry.

But enough praise -- let's cut to the chase. As a sampler, I give you his most famous work in context: an inadvertant trilogy of poems about the Tay Railway Bridge. They are best read out loud, especially in a group -- a Scottish accent is not required but a good one adds to the effect. Keep in mind as you read these that they are attempting to be fully regular iambic lines. The titles link to texts with commentary and further reading.

The Railway Bridge of the Silvery Tay (1878)

Beautiful Railway Bridge of the Silvery Tay!
With your numerous arches and pillars in so grand array
And your central girders, which seem to the eye
To be almost towering to the sky.
The greatest wonder of the day,
And a great beautification to the River Tay,
Most beautiful to be seen,

( Near by Dundee and the Magdalen Green )

The Tay Bridge Disaster (1880)

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 )

An Address to the New Tay Bridge (1887)

Beautiful new railway bridge of the Silvery Tay,
With your strong brick piers and buttresses in so grand array,
And your thirteen central girders, which seem to my eye
Strong enough all windy storms to defy.
And as I gaze upon thee my heart feels gay,
Because thou are the greatest railway bridge of the present day,
And can be seen for miles away
From North, South, East or West of the Tay
On a beautiful and clear sunshiny day,
And ought to make the hearts of the “Mars” boys feel gay,
Because thine equal nowhere can be seen,

( Only near by Dundee and the bonnie Magdalen Green )

For more like this, your one-stop shop for all things McGonagall is McGonagall Online, provided to us gratis by an editor of just one of the many editions of his poems -- peruse at your

As a follow-up, I'll ask the obvious -- what's your favorite McGonagall poem? In the interests of full disclosure, mine is Description of New York.

(BTW, in case you're wondering, Minerva McGonagall was indeed named after him, but not for his poetry. So was the battle poet of the Nac Mac Fleegle, and for the poetry.)

---L.

lnhammer

I have what has sometimes been described^[1] as an unfortunate taste for bad poetry. I relish it the way some people enjoy bad movies or bad novels. I'm talking about the sort of stuff where, if you meet a line like Of compost shall the Muse disdain to sing?^[2] the answer will invariably and unfortunately be No.

And just as there are qualities of badness that make something a "good bad movie" enjoyable, or as TV Tropes puts it So Bad It's Good, so for poetry. The best bad verse reaches beyond the creator's abilities. Ye average teen angst verse has nothing on William McGonagall — of whom more anon. Mere technical incompetence is not enough, however. There must be more.

Such as bathos — the "art of sinking," as Pope & Co. called it. High-flown imagery soaring into a mundane thump is a wondrous thing.

But ah! when first to breathe man does begin
He then inhales the noxious seeds of sin,
Which every goodly feeling does destroy
And more or less his after-life annoy.^[3]

And then there's disjoints between style and substance:

"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.^[4]

Victories of sound over sense:

In the music of the morns,
Blown through Conchimarian horns,
Down the dark vistas of the reboantic Norns,
To the Genius of Eternity,
Crying: "Come to me! Come to me!"^[5]

Tin ears:

When I came to the little rose-colour'd room,
From the curtains out flew a bat.
The window stood open: and in the gloom
My love at the window sat.^[6]

Underbaked diction:

And now, kind friends, what I have wrote,
I hope you will pass o'er,
And not to criticise as some have done
Hitherto herebefore.^[7]

Overheated diction:

"Ne'er will I quit th' undeviating line,
Whose source thou art, and thou the law divine.
The Sun shall be subdued, his system fade,
Ere I forsake the path thy fiat made;
Yet grant one soft regretful tear to flow,
Prompted by pity for a Lover's woe,
O grant without revenge, one bursting sigh,
Ere from his desolating grief I fly—
'Tis past,—Farewell! Another claims my heart;
Then wing thy sinking steps, for here we part,
We part! and listen, for the word is mine,
Anna Matilda never can be thine!"^[8]

Unfortunate kennings:

Would any feather'd maiden of the wood,
Or scaly female of the peopled flood,
When lust and hunger call'd, its force resist?
In abstinence or chastity persist?^[9]

Incompatible metaphors:

Life scums the cream of Beauty with Time's spoon^[10]

Depleted banalities:

Still I toil.
How long and steep and cheerless the ascent!
It needs the evidence of close deduction
To know that I shall ever reach the height!^[11]

And thundering bores:

Thus, if a Government agrees to give,
Whenever Public Companies are formed,
To each a dividend—say, six percent
Per annum ... ^[12]

Before exploring the swamplands for more, be warned: ye average volume of bad poetry has a higher body count than a teen slasher flick, deployed to even less emotional effect. Yes, there are volumes — poeple collect this stuff. The above are all culled^[13] from The Stuffed Owl ed. by Wyndham Lewis and Lee, which is one of the essential collections for aspiring poets — as object lessons, if nothing else. I'll compile a bibliography in a later post.

But as for what makes bad poetry so attractive -- that, I'm on less clear ground. I hope to explore the topic later this week.

Does anyone else have a taste for bad poetry? What are your favorites?

---L.

Note and Citations:
1. By me.
2. James Grainger, The Sugar Cane.
3. Robert Peter, On Time, Death, and Eternity.
4. Julia Moore, Lord Byron's Life. The quotes are original; ditto the grammar.
5. Thomas Chivers, The Poet's Vocation.
6. "Owen Meredith" a.k.a. Robert Bulwer-Lytton, Going Back Again. This is not the Bulwer-Lytton you're thinking of but rather his son.
7. Julia Moore, The Author's Early Life. She gets double-duty in this sampling because she comes up a lot in bad verse lists.
8. Robert Merry writing as Della Crusca, The Interview. The supposed speaker was in her mid-forties, and had not yet met the poet in person.
9. John, Lord Hervy, Epistle to Mr. Fox, from Hampton Court. The authorship is almost as boggling as the lines themselves — a young poet telling his beloved "the birds and fishes do it, so why can't you?" can be forgiven, where by "forgive" I mean "publicly and thoroughly mocked," but this is a Lord Privy Seal writing to his middle-aged friend.
10. Margaret Cavendish, A Posset for Nature's Breakfast.
11. Joseph Cottle, The Malvern Hills.
12. George Everleigh, Science Revealed — which, as as you can tell from this extract, is a work of natural theology.
13. Much like predators cull the weak from the herd.