Thursday, November 09, 2006
Unedited. Unplugged. Unhinged.
This site is dedicated to the Affectionate Remembrance of William Topaz McGonagall, Poet Laureate of the Silvery Tay.
Welcome to this place. It’s a Bad Poetry competition. It has no ads.
How it works: Submit your entry to the comments section of this post. If your entry is bad enough to make it into the semi-finals, it will get its very own prestigious post space.
The winner will receive the title, Pandora’s Poet Laureate, to keep for a year, and also a best quality photoshop-enhanced mouse-crafted jpeg certificate to keep forever.
Rules of the competition: Only the worst poem will win. For examples of truly bad poetry, visit the top two links on the right. There will be no runners up, and absolutely no consolation prizes whatsoever.
An impartial celebrity guest judge will be appointed as soon as one volunteers.
Deadline for entries is the 12th of January 2007. The winner will be announced soon after.
Brought to you by Pandora’s. That’s not an ad, it’s just so you know who to thank. This site features over 5.1 million poets. Join now as a distinguished member. Our mission is to eliminate the traditional barriers that prevent most people from having their message heard. If you consider yourself a poet, then you’ve come to the right place. Most of this paragraph has been plagiarised directly from poetry.com for your convenience.
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12 comments:
Untitled, 1
This is a poem
I wrote about home
It is Zeneth Street
We do not grow wheat
‘cause this is not a farm
Don’t even have a barn
If I had a tower
I would sing flowerpower
I’d chew on the grass
I’d make stuff with glass
No, I do not live on a farm
No, we do not have a barn.
I can ryhm
‘cause I’ve got the time
By: Rock Chik Rox
Surely this isn't bad poetry!?! I think it's lovely, charming, gritty - and it scans so well.
Hang on a tick! If this is bad, then my poetry is also bad. And at last I've found a home for it.
tks Rock Chik Rox (not so sure about your spelling, but admire your style)
All those who've writ a rotten poem
(And I admit it takes one to know 'em)
On the whole tend to adore
Rhyming couplets and metaphor.
But don't get too excited:
That love is unrequited.
And for the rest it's prob'ly best
To generalise and to suggest
That the all you really need to do
To write a poem that smells of poo
Is to feature in your ragged lines
(Along with countless Important Signs)
A solopsistic gaze or
Mention of razor.
My Heart Went as Black.
In it went,
My piece of bread.
Stale,
White,
High-
GI.
It was all I wanted
In this cruel
World.
But
The creak
Of the toaster lever
As I lowered the oblong
To it's death,
Sang a song
Of
Despair.
I could sense something
Edging near.
A smell
Of fear.
I could sense something
On the plate.
A sight
Of hate.
For once
My senses did not
Dare
Betray me.
For the marriage
Of the fear
And hate,
Did culminate on this here plate
To form the thing I dread the most.
The travesty that is
Burnt toast.
-The Sa
hehe .. I can do that wait! Maybe I just need a week. I've always wanted to write a poem about the Samsung TV's floating down the Ulsan Tewha (sic) river or the day that Winston Churchill almost drowned in Pretoria! Afterall, Oscar Wilde said most bad poetry comes from our deepest emotions or something like that.
Gadzooks
I think I may
I think I might
Have to hire an assistant tonite
Four pomes a day
For two months equals
More fingers and toes than I have on me.
P.S.
My poor heart swells
From the depths of its wells
Like a red, red rose, unfurling
Like the sails of an enormous ghostly galleon
Skipping upon the wavelets of the ocean of life.
Peeking over the gently curling lip
of a tsunami like a poppy thrown off
A gigantic cliff far away
To carry its wistful dreams
Upon the moonbeams
Far and wide.
Oh, my poor heart bursts
With elation and angelic serenity
Like an exuberant or apocalyptic arum lily,
To see all these verses of spontaneitenity.
I have a submission I admittedly plagiarised from a good friend. I would never tell her what I thought about the poem though! What can be worse than plagiarised bad poetry. I changed an odd word or two to render it submissible for this competition or it might have won a Booker Prize or something alike. To the organiser of this competition: What do you mean there's no two days and two days in Las Vegas up for grabs?
Ode to a Lurgy (or "I have an Allergy" - for the novice of grand literature).
Dribble dribble (squible)
Snort and snivel (mucus),
Rhinitis is my lot (Oh, how I wish for a whiskey tot)).
My eyes is red (I can no longer focus)
My head is dead (the rest of my body can't stay ahead)
I gotta lotta snot (now where is that bloody tot?.
* Squible - neologism thought out by the poet (that's me). It is a word for excessive dribbling. Like when u really have a bad flu!
a pome
um not a poit and i no it
my love is like a blue blue nose
dripping in the winter chill
or a scarecrow flapping in the breeze
with only the birds for company.
my love is like a white white star
cold and distant from this hill
I wonder, wonder where you are
and why you are so distant still.
my love is like a red red eye
puffy from weeping like a sore.
will it ever become a rose?
I do not know.
it was before.
Oh fie, how canst thou mock me so
From up there, and I down here in the depths of this well
that you had your manservant throw me down
After I sold your horse to that gypsy
For two scarlet ribbons
And a comb.
Come now, you must admit
That they were pretty.
I have lain here for the last twenty years
with my bones in a petrified tangle
and I am growing restless.
Twas I, smashed that china shepherdess
Gainst thy bedpost last night.
And next week I plan to set
all your persian carpets alight
Unless you confess
To this terrible mess
That by the merciful gallows
May we be reunited.
Mme de la Etoileblanche
i know i can do this
difficult though it is to reach within mine psyche to find imperfection
it is insurrection of the soul
to become unwhole
And plunder my meaninglessness
as a goal
But I shall it if I must
I just did
Dear Sivlery Tay
I heard about this on www.blondextenshuns.co.fu, and am delighted to inform you that I would LUV to be the judge on your poem competition. No one's ever asked me me this before and I was beginning to wonder why. In, fact, I'm prepared to put the winning poem to music for my next konsert - A Tribute to Bles - to be held at the Krugersdorp jukskei stadium in March.
Stay in touch.
Lovies
Patricia
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