Very Bad Poetry (11 page)

A
t the age of thirty-two, the Reverend William B. Tappan entered the service of the American Sunday School Union, and he continued working for them until he died. During this time, however, he also wrote poetry, over twelve volumes’ worth. As one might expect given his affiliation, his poems are all of unflagging moral rectitude commingled with enthusiastic, even bouncy, zeal. Tappan was prone to sermonizing in his verse, especially about such topics as the evils of alcohol. But even he succumbed to temptation when it came to the retelling of horrific disasters. He let his hair down by writing turgid poems such as his “Burning of the Orphan Asylum,” which talks about the “dear innocents—who fed the funeral pyre.” Yet the ever-sermonizing Tappan was always sure to find the moral issue hidden in a tragedy—and blatantly point it out to his readers.

T
he Reverend Samuel Wesley the elder is possibly best known as the father of John Wesley, the founder of Methodism. But Rev. Samuel Wesley deserves to be remembered in his own right—even though his publisher (and friend), John Dunton, noted that “those that allow of no second-rate in [poetry] have endeavoured to lessen his reputation.”

Although Wesley mainly wrote on religious topics, his first volume was much more esoteric. Published in 1685, it had the intriguing title
Maggots, or Poems on Several Subjects Never Before Handled.
Among the poems included are “On a Cow’s Tail,” “Three Skipps of a Louse,” and “A Tame Snake Left in a Box of Bran Was Devoured by Mice after a Great Battle”—subjects happily bearing out the promise of the volume’s title.

C
ornelius Whur claimed he lived a rather eventful life—but the few particulars known about his life seem to indicate the opposite. A Wesleyan minister, Whur filled his time with work, pottering about the countryside, and talking with a female “bosom companion.”

In 1837 he produced his first volume of poems,
Village Musings on Moral and Religious Subjects.
His sentimental poetic ramblings were very well received by local clergy and friends in the area, and the book went through three printings. The good reverend was so encouraged that he penned another volume, with the rather long title
Gratitude’s Offering, Being Original Productions on a Variety of Subjects,
which appeared in 1845.

As one can see from the following selections, his “musings” were often a bit macabre—centering on such topics as mutilation, poisoning, graveyards, and death in general.

This poem is said to have been inspired when the good reverend saw an artist who had been born without arms and who earned a living for himself and his family by painting.

This excerpt from a long, dull poem on a walking stick provides a unique allusion to death by poisonous mushroom.

T
he Times
of London called this American “the most popular poet of either sex or age, read by thousands who never opened Shakespeare.” Unlike Shakespeare, Wilcox wrote her first book at age ten, and throughout her life she wrote at least two poems a day.

“I think,” the vigorous poetess once said, “the word ‘poetess’ to the average American, until recent years, suggested a sentimental person with ringlets and an absence of practical good sense.” Early on, Wilcox set out to disprove this notion, realizing that popular poetry could be turned into cold, hard cash which could buy such delightful things as Connecticut beach houses.

So she churned out poem after poem, dispensing enthusiastic good advice with a late Victorian air. “Do not thrust upon a man’s
mind continually the idea that you are a vastly higher order of being than he is,” she once wrote in a book of advice for women. “He will reach your standard much sooner if you come half-way and meet him on the plane of common sense and human understanding.” It was on this plane that Wilcox operated—and earned—so well.

During World War I Wilcox read her poems to soldiers on the Western Front—including the following work, a stirring call to soldiers at war to resist temptation in the form of other women and return to their loved ones at home with a clean “sword.” The reaction of the troops is not known.

G
eorge Wither was one of the most important poets of his time, known widely for his love poems, hymns, and satirical works. His poetry fell out of favor during the Restoration, yet interest in him revived when literary notables such as Charles Lamb and Robert Southey praised his work. Alexander Pope referred to him as “wretched Wither.” Many other people, both in his time and later, were also less impressed with Wither. This opinion may have saved Wither’s life. As the story, possibly apocryphal, has it, Wither was
captured by Royalists during the English Civil War and slated for execution. But Royalist poet Sir John Denham asked the king to spare Wither’s life. When asked why, Denham replied, “Because that so long as Wither lived, Denham would not be accounted the worst poet in England.”

The following lines lend credence to a comment in England’s
Dictionary of National Biography
about Wither’s work: “It usually lacks any genuine literary quality and often sinks into imbecilic doggerel.”

T
his poem originally appeared in the Fayetteville
North Carolinian
on February 21, 1857. Although the poet is unknown, apparently he or she chose a subject very near and dear to the hearts of local residents, namely a ditch. This particular ditch was a local landmark, known for its strong smell of sewage and collection of interesting debris. As the
North Carolinian
stated only two months earlier, “that celebrated ditch in our vicinity is now in first-rate skating order—the only inconvenience being a bone sticking up here and there.”

Another dental poem, written in a less learned vein than the great dental work “Dentologia,”—this particular selection was written in the 1890s by an unknown American poet who obviously had a facility for vivid imagery.

The following selection is from the 1890s, when a poet’s topic of choice was death, and apparently strolling around the graveyard was a wonderful way to spend the afternoon.

Although the poet of the following work is unknown, his goal was clear. He hoped not only to render biblical events in verse but also to interpret biblical events in light of more mundane—and scientific—knowledge. He accomplished his aim through the use of the innovative device of the explanatory (and often befuddling) footnote in the body of the poem.