Very Bad Poetry (8 page)

She is talking aesthetics, the dear clever creature.…
   Her ideas are divine upon Art, upon Nature.…
I no more am found worthy to join in the talk, now:
   While she leads our poetical friend up the walk, now.

Meanwhile there is dancing in yonder green bower
   A swarm of young midges. They dance high and low.
’Tis a sweet little species that lives but one hour,
   And the eldest was born half an hour ago.

One impulsive young midge I hear ardently pouring
   In the ears of a shy wanton in gauze.…
His passion is not, he declares, the mere fever
   Of a rapturous moment. It knows no control:
It will burn in his breast through existence forever,
   Immutably fixed in the deeps of the soul!

She wavers: she flutters: … male midges are fickle:
   Dare she trust him her future? … she asks with a sigh:
He implores, … and a tear is beginning to trickle:
   She is weak: they embrace, and … the lovers pass by.

While they pass me, down here on a rose leaf has lighted
   A pale midge, his feelers all drooping and torn:
His existence is withered; its future is blighted:
   His hopes are betrayed: and his breast is forlorn.

By the midge his heart trusted his heart is deceived, now
   In the virtue of midges no longer he believes.…
His friends would console him … life is yet before him;
   Many hundred long seconds he still has to live:

There is Fame! There’s Ambition! and grander than either,
   There is freedom! … and the progress and march of the race!…
But to Freedom his breast beats no longer, and neither
   Ambition nor action her loss can replace.

If the time had been spent in acquiring aesthetics
   I have squandered in learning the language of midges,
There might, for my friend in her peripatetics,
   Have been now
two
asses to help her o’er the bridges.

As it is … I’ll report to her the whole conversation.
   It would have been longer; but somehow or other
(In the midst of that misanthrope’s long lamentation)
   A midge in my right eye became a young mother.

Since my friend is so clever, I’ll ask her to tell me
   Why the least living thing (a mere midge in the egg!)
Can make a man’s tears flow, as it now befell me.…
   O you dear clever young woman, explain it, I beg!

The Worst Attempts at Rhymes By Very Bad Poets

T
he intrepid very bad poet doesn’t let something as simple as not having the right word in mind get in his or her way. Sometimes a bad poet stretches so hard for a rhyme that we as readers are forced to do a little stretching on our own, as in the following prime examples of truly creative attempts at rhyming.

from
In a Book-store
by
Francis Saltus Saltus

from
The Light-Bearer of Liberty
by
J. W. Scholl

from
Indian Corn
by
Rev. William Cook

In ages past [animals] lived and died,
And afterwards were petrified
By enclosure in massive rocks,
And thus became fossilised blocks.
The oldest-known rocks contain lime,
Thus proving at that remote time
Animal life did then abound,
Which may fill us with thought profound.

If I were God, up in the sky,
   I’ll tell you all vat I would do,
I would not let the babies cry
   Because veir tooths was coming froo.
I’d make them born wif tooths all white,
   And curly hair upon veir heads
And so vat vey could sit upright
   Not always lie down in veir beds.

If I were God, up in the sky,
   I’d make the sweet primroses talk,
And tell me why vey sometimes sigh,
   When nurse and I close to them walk.
I ’spects it is ’cos vey do fear
   We’ll tread upon vem when we run,
But we would not go
quite
so near,
   To kill a primrose is not fun.

If I were God, up in the sky,
   And mummie’s head was
bery
bad,
I’d send an angel from on high
   And that would make her, oh! so glad!
She’d beg God let him stay awhile,
   And soon forget the horrid pain,
Talk to the angel, laugh and smile,
   And ven be quite herself again.

If I were God, up in the sky,
   I’d take all nasty little boys
Who play so rough and noisily
   And break veir sister’s fav’rite toys.
I’d turn vem into tiny crabs,
   And make vem run about in sand,
And play wif fishes and wif dabs
   P’raps ven vey wouldn’t be so grand.

If I were God, up in the sky,
   I’d have so many fings to do,
’Twould be a ’sponsibility.
   I really fink, ’tween me and you,
I’d raver be a little girl,
   Whom Daddy calls his “Precious Pearl.”
It’s
bery
difficult to try
   To be like God, up in the sky!

She had blue eyes and light flaxen hair,
   Her little heart was light and gay,
She said to her mother, that morning fair,
   “Mother, can I go out and play?”

She left the house, this dear little girl,
   On that bright and pleasant day—
She went to play with two little girls
   That were near about her age.

….

Those little girls will not forget
   The day that Hattie died,
For she was with them when she fell in a fit,
   While playing by their side.

One morning in April, a short time ago,
   Libbie was active and gay;
Her Saviour called her, she had to go,
   ’Ere the close of that pleasant day.

While eating dinner, this dear little child
   Was choked on a piece of beef.
Doctors came, tried their skill awhile,
   But none could give relief.

Air—“Roll on, Silver Moon”
Some people are getting so they think a poor girl,
   Though she be bright and intelligent and gay,
She must have nice clothes, or she is nothing in this world,
   If she is not dressed in style every day.
Remember never to judge people by their clothes,
   For our brave noble Washington said,
“Honorable are rags, if a true heart they enclose,”
   And I found it was the truth when I married.

On a moonlight evening, in the month May,
   A number of young people were playing at croquet.…

It was a merry party, for lady Dell was there,
Her merry laugh above the rest was heard by all, so fair.…
She was the belle of the evening, admired by great and small,
And all the boys liked to play with the girl and blue ball.

Two young men among them, that loved this pretty Dell:
Although I write about them, their names I will not tell.
They were fine young fellows, so bashful, and yet so gay;
They tried to beat the girl with the blue ball play.

Have you heard of the dreadful fate,
   Of Mr. P. P. Bliss and wife?
Of their fate I will relate,
   And also others lost their life;
Ashtabula Bridge disaster,
   Where so many people died
Without a thought that destruction
   Would plunge them ’neath the wheel of tide.

Chorus

Swiftly passed the engine’s call
   Hastening souls on to death,
Warning not one of them all;
   It brought despair right and left.

Among the ruins are many friends,
   Crushed to death amidst the roar;
On one thread all may depend,
   And hope they’ve reached the other shore.

P. P. Bliss showed great devotion
   To his faithful wife, his pride,
When he saw that she must perish,
   He died a martyr by her side…

Destruction lay on every side,
   Confusion, fire and despair;
No help, no hope, so they died,
   Two hundred people over there.
Many ties was there broken
   Many a heart filled with pain,
Each one left a little token,
   For above they live again.

Once was a boy, age fifteen year,
   Hiram Helsel was his name,
And he was sick two years or so;
   He has left this world of pain.…

He was a small boy of his age
   When he was five years or so
Was shocked by lightning while to play,
   It caused him not to grow.
He was called little Hi. Helsel
   By all friends that knew him well—
His life was sad, as you shall hear
   And the truth to you I tell.

Enos Page the youngest brother—
   His age was fourteen years—
Had five sons in one family
   Went from Grand Rapids here.

In Eight Michigan Cavalry
   This boy he did enlist.
His life was almost despaired of
   On account of numerous fits.

And now, kind friends, what I have wrote,
   I hope you will pass o’er,
And not criticize as some have done,
   Hitherto herebefore.