Very Bad Poetry (5 page)
Authors: Kathryn Petras
There are two bears that near us we should allow to dwell,
Nor e’er by harsh word or hasty act can repel,
Homes and lives can only be happy made,
Where these two bears are allowed to stay,
And the foundation for enjoyment is laid,
Where these two bears haunt the way.
Oh, send them never crossly from the door,
But let them remain one’s sight before,
For they’ll ne’er bring grief nor sorrow,
Nor ever a thought of pending sadness,
They’ll point out many a bright tomorrow,
And fill it with joy and gladness.
Those two bears we should nourish e’er with care,
Their names, remember, are Bear and Forbear.
(fl. 1917)
J. P. Dunn, or “J. P. Dunn, Author,” as he styles himself on his book of poems, was a loyal Kansan who evidently sought to combine poetry with pesticide application. As such, in his only book extant, rather appropriately titled
The Plains: Poems in Kansas and Agriculture, Plant, Prune and Spray,
poems give way to terse prose on cankerworm and tent caterpillars. Dunn’s other main concern is to work into his poetry as many Kansas counties, persons, or landmarks as euphonically possible.
Dunn’s reputation among his contemporaries is unknown, but he reports that his poems had been published in many newspapers, including the St. Louis
Globe Democrat
and Ottawa
Herald,
and the Capper’s
Weekly.
In the following work the poet meets a challenge—working in county names in a paean to his home state.
It is springtime out here in Kansas;
Many eagles now are seen
Flying over the hills and rivers,
Of the Smoky and Saline.
….
The antelope and buffalo,
The broad horned elk and deer
Are extinct from the Smoky hills
But on the western slope are seen
The prairie dogs and gophers
Still playfully bark and play,
In the counties of McPherson,
Lincoln, Saline, and Clay.
The sun rises in the ancient east,
But sets in Kansas’ modern west,
Where all men and women are equal
And everything is the very best.…
….
We are blest out here in Kansas,
With sunshine, air and rain.…
Our women are most beautiful,
All can bake, wash and iron,
And our virgins true to their sweethearts,
And sure to treat the husbands fi-ine.…
….
I will quote words from Governor Capper
From a speech he made last fall
That Kansas can raise grain enough
To feed all our allies that are now engaged in war.
We believe it because he said it.
And with Western pride affirm,
That whatever Governor Capper says,
You can rely upon.
(fl. 1867)
E
dward Edwin Foot, by fortunate accident of birth, was aptly named: he was an avid footnoter. Readers of his poetry never have to struggle for a meaning; Foot makes everything perfectly clear by appending footnotes whenever he feels it is necessary (which is often). He wrote only one book of poetry,
The Original Poems of Edward Edwin Foot of Her Majesty’s Customs
—possibly the only poetry book that came with the recommendation of Sir F. H. Doyle, Bart., Receiver-General of H.M. Customs, and probably the only poetry book containing footnotes longer than the actual lines of verse.
Jane Hollybrand; or, Virtue Rewarded
Lord Arnold delicately sought to name
The nuptial-day, and urg’d the blushing Jane
To fix the date; but she with subdued voice,
Begg’d courteously to be excused,—‘the choice,’
She softly said, ‘dear Arnold’ should be thine;
And what your wish may be, that shall be mine.’
He then, most fondly, kiss’d her modest cheek,
And named it for the following Wednesday week:
‘Shall it be so?’ he said…‘Come, dear, express
Thy pleasure and enhance my happiness!’
She press’d his hand, and breathed the mono-word
To which George Hollybrand at once concurr’d.
1
‘Yes!’
The Homeward-Bound Passenger Ship
The captain scans the ruffled zone,
And heeds the wind’s increasing scope;
He knows full well, and reckons on
His seamanship, but God’s his hope.…
Look, look ye down the plumbless deep,
See, if ye can, their lifeless forms!—
Here laid, poor things! across a steep,
An infant in its mother’s arms.
1
A figurative expression, intended by the Author to signify the horizon.
2
Imagine.
The following selection deserves special notice for the ratio of poem text to footnote text. It’s also notable because despite the footnotes the meaning of the poem is still unclear.
Altho’ we
1
mourn for one now gone,
And he—that grey-hair’d Palmerston,
2
We will give God the praise,—
For he, beyond the age of man,
3
Eleven years had over-ran
Within two equal days.
1. The nation.
2. The Right Honourable Henry John Temple, Viscount Palmerston, K.G., G.C.B., etc. (the then Premier of the British Government), died at “Brockett Hall,” Herts., at a quarter to eleven o’clock in the forenoon of Wednesday, 18
th
October, 1865, aged eighty-one years (all but two days), having been born on the 20th October, 1784. The above lines were written on the occasion of his death.
3. Scriptural limitation.
The Worst Baby Talk Poem
A
particularly nauseating subset of very bad poetry centers on baby talk, and baby’s view of the world—“so-o big”—and baby—“so-o ’ittle.”
This is the worst baby talk poem ever written—one that, to paraphrase Dorothy Parker, might make you fwow up.
The New Baby
by
Fred Emerson Brooks
Tind friends, I pray extuse me
From matin’ any speech,
Betause I is so ’ittle
I ain’t dot much for each;
There ain’t much edutation
In such a ’ittle head;
Besides, I is so s’eepy
An’ wants to do to bed.…
She’s found anuzzer baby
Dat’s noisier than I,
Betause it don’t do noffin’
But stay in bed an’ cwy.
….
She found it in the garret;
I dess it’s dumb an’ deef;
It’s such a funny toler,
An’ ain’t dot any teef;
An’ aint dot any eyebrows,
An’ ain’t dot any hair;
In fact, it ain’t dot noffin,
Nor any shoes to wear.
(1858-1911)
s.w.
Foss was a graduate of Brown University in Providence, Rhode Island, and later editor of the Boston
Yankee Blade.
He submitted and sold many poems to Northeastern newspapers—mostly light, didactic verse in a get-up-and-go Babbitt style.
W’en you see a man in woe,
Walk right up an’ say, “Hullo!”
Say “Hullo!” an’ “How d’ye do?”
“How’s the world a-usin’ you?”
Slap the fellow on his back;
Bring your han’ down with a whack!
Waltz right up, an’ don’t go slow;
Grin an’ shake an’ say “Hullo!”
Is he clothed in rags? Oh, sho!
Walk right up an’ say, “Hullo!”
Rags is but a cotton roll
Jest for wrappin’ up a soul;
An’ a soul is worth a true
Hale an’ hearty “How d’ye do?”
Don’t wait for the crowd to go;
Walk right up an’ say “Hullo!”
Wen big vessels meet, they say,
They saloot an’ sail away.
Jest the same are you an’ me—
Lonesome ships upon a sea;
Each one sailin’ his own jog
For a port beyond the fog.
Let yer speakin’ trumpet blow,
Lift yer horn an’ cry “Hullo!”
Say “Hullo!” an’ “How d’ye do?”
Other folks are good as you.
Wen ye leave yer house of clay,
Wanderin’ in the Far-Away;
W’en you travel through the strange
Country t’other side the range;
Then the souls you’ve cheered will know
Who ye be, an’ say “Hullo!”
(1721-1767)
J
ames Grainger called himself “a ruptured poet lost in holy trance.” The meaning of this expression is uncertain, but, then, Grainger had rather an unorthodox way of putting things. He is best known for his long, dense, information-rich poem about sugarcane, or, more specifically, how to grow the crop in the West Indies, a work titled simply “The Sugar Cane.”
Upon hearing about Grainger’s intentions, Dr. Samuel Johnson had perhaps the logical reaction: “What could Grainger make of a sugar-cane? One might as well write “The Parsley Bed—A Poem,” or, “The Cabbage Garden—A Poem.” Happily for us, Grainger ignored the criticism and went ahead with his botanic masterpiece.
Unfortunately, one of Grainger’s worst lines of poetry—and possibly one of the worst
ever
written—was cut from the poem. According to Boswell’s
Life of Johnson,
Grainger read the manuscript to a group of friends at the home of Sir Joshua Reynolds:
… all the assembled wits burst into a laugh when, after much blank verse pomp, the poet began a new paragraph thus:
‘Now, Muse, let’s sing of
rats.’
And what increased the ridicule was, that one of the company who slyly overlooked the reader, perceived that the word had been originally
mice,
and had been altered to
rats,
as more dignified.
A different version of the events was told by Miss Reynolds. According to her, Grainger had reached the line “Say, shall I sing of rats?” at which point Dr. Johnson yelled out “No!” Whichever version is correct, the provocative line was changed—but fortunately, the poem lost none of its unique qualities.
The Sugar Cane
Of composts shall the Muse disdain to sing?
Nor soil her heavenly plumes? The sacred Muse
Nought sordid deems, but what is base; nought fair,
Unless true Virtue stamp it with her seal.
Then, planter, wouldst thou double thine estate,
Never, ah! never, be asham’d to tread
Thy dung heaps.
Whether the fattening compost in each hole
Tis best to throw; or, on the surface spread;
Is undetermin’d: Trials must decide.
Unless kind rains and fostering dews descend,
To melt the compost’s fertilizing salts;
A stinted plant, deceitful of thy hopes,
Will from those beds slow spring where hot dung lies:
But, if ’tis scatter’d generously o’er all,
The Cane will better bear the solar blaze;
Less rain demand; and, by repeated crops,
Thy land improv’d, its gratitude will show.
Enough of composts, Muse; of soils, enough:
When best to dig, and when inhume the Cane;
A task how arduous! next demands thy song.
Another example of Grainger’s poetry, this selection, like “The Sugar Cane” is set in the West Indies, Grainger’s adopted home, but is much less pedantic and much more romantic … if a bit gory.
Bryan and Pereene
A West Indian Ballad
The north-east wind did briskly blow,
The ship was safely moor’d,
Young Bryan thought the boat’s crew slow,
And so leapt overboard.
Pereene, the pride of Indian dames,
His heart did long enthrall,
And whoso his impatience blames,
I wot, ne’er lov’d at all.
….
In sea-green silk so neatly clad,
She there impatient stood;
The crew with wonder saw the lad
Repel the foaming flood.
Her hands a handkerchief display’d,
Which he at parting gave;
Well pleas’d, the token he survey’d
And manlier beat the wave.
Her fair companions, one and all,
Rejoicing crowd the strand;
For now her lover swam in call,
And almost touch’d the land.
Then through the white surf did she haste,
To clasp her lovely swain;
When, ah! a shark bit through his waist:
His heart’s bloody’d the main!
He shriek’d his half sprung from the wave,
Streaming with purple gore,
And soon it found a living grave,
And, ah! was seen no more.
(1697-1737)