The 2008 Bad Poetry Contest Starts Today

No doubt you've been waiting all year for me to host my annual BAD POETRY CONTEST at MacGregor Literary. Next week is my birthday (a big one -- I hit the big Five-Oh), and I always try to celebrate by inviting all the bad poetry my friends can muster. Just go to the bottom of this blog, hit "comments," and post some lousy piece of doggerel as your way of joining in the celebration. That's right - You can be published! Right now! On my blog! Aren't you just wetting your pants in anticipation?

It can be a crappy couplet, a crummy bit of free verse, a lousy limerick (let's stay away from rhyming with the city of "Nantucket"), or any other ditty you create that shows what a sensitive and thoughtful artist you are, when you don't happen to be worrying about your lack of a book contract or whining about the bad job of marketing your publisher is doing for you.

Warning: This is not a "birthday blog." So don't feel you have to write a poem about birthdays. It's just your chance to share your true deepfulness and reflectiveosity. You're an artist -- go art.

For those not in the know, this contest grows from my belief that every poet has the same message, which can be subtly summed up this way: "LOOK AT ME! I AM SENSITIVE AND REFLECTIVE AND NOBODY UNDERSTANDS ME! SO I'LL SHOW THEM HOW DEEP I AM BY WRITING POETRY!" (Feel free to edit that statement if you're truly deep and meaningful.) I want you to know that I'm here for you poets -- in fact, I was once accused of being sensitive, and have occasionally been forced to reflect on something, until I could grow up and get over it. Therefore, I've set aside the next few days just for you. Write! Create! Sit and contemplate your navel! Do...um...whatever it is you poets do while the rest of us are out earning a living. (Drink heavily?) Then send me your bad poetry.

In case you're really a poet, and you've missed the point here, we're looking for BAD poetry. The more hideous, smarmy, self-righteous, sappy, or obtuse, the better. Don't expect me to represent it -- if you're too sensitive to notice, there's no money to be made in poetry, so my looking at your crud won't do you any good in the market. Sorry.

But there's a rich tradition among British novelists of creating really horrible poetry behind one another's backs. P.G. Wodehouse, a brilliant writer and one of my lifelong heroes, used to create truly awful stuff. He once included in a book's introduction the words, "With a hey nonny-nonny and hot cha-cha, And the sound of distant moors..." 

Um...really. And if Plum can do it, YOU can do it. So send! Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses of rhyming words yearning to breathe free. This is your chance to share your true depth and meaningfulness with the world...or at least with the group of people in publishing who read this blog. Don't delay -- start constipating now! In fact, I'm going to give all those under the age of 25 a hint to get you started: There are only four words in the English language that rhyme with love: "Dove" and "Above" are the popular choices. "Shove" and "glove" don't really count. Use of the baby word "Wuv" can get you shot. (British citizens who enter are allowed to use the word "guv," as in "guv'nor," but don't push it. We Scots have been pushed around by you people long enough.)

And the best news of all...the winner, chosen by an experienced team of expert bad poets (me, and maybe my friend Mike Allison, if he agrees to buy the Guinness) will receive a special GRAND PRIZE: a copy of Does God Ever Speak Through Cats? -- a self-published book the author sent me in hopes of getting me to represent it. Truly a life-changer. 

What can I do to make one see,

I do so love bad po-e-try.

It is, to me, a sort of balm,

And writing it just makes me calm.

For each time that I sit and write,

I show my depth, reveal my plight.

I'm really a reflective sort,

Hiding in my writing fort,

Revealing sensitivity,

For rhyme and meter, brevity.

So come join my happy clan,

Write something - show me you're a man!

(Or a woman, if you aren't home

to the Y chromosome.)

We await your craft and work,

Know that we will go berserk

When, upon this blog we see,

All your best bad po-e-try.

(The Most Reverend Chip MacGregor, Birthday Boy, Old Fart, President of the Bad Poetry Society)

No doubt you've been waiting all year for me to host my annual BAD POETRY CONTEST at MacGregor Literary. Next week is my birthday (a big one -- I hit the big Five-Oh), and I always try to celebrate by inviting all the bad poetry my friends can muster. Just go to the bottom of this blog, hit "comments," and post some lousy piece of doggerel as your way of joining in the celebration. That's right - You can be published! Right now! On my blog! Aren't you just wetting your pants in anticipation?

It can be a crappy couplet, a crummy bit of free verse, a lousy limerick (let's stay away from rhyming with the city of "Nantucket"), or any other ditty you create that shows what a sensitive and thoughtful artist you are, when you don't happen to be worrying about your lack of a book contract or whining about the bad job of marketing your publisher is doing for you.

Warning: This is not a "birthday blog." So don't feel you have to write a poem about birthdays. It's just your chance to share your true deepfulness and reflectiveosity. You're an artist -- go art.

For those not in the know, this contest grows from my belief that every poet has the same message, which can be subtly summed up this way: "LOOK AT ME! I AM SENSITIVE AND REFLECTIVE AND NOBODY UNDERSTANDS ME! SO I'LL SHOW THEM HOW DEEP I AM BY WRITING POETRY!" (Feel free to edit that statement if you're truly deep and meaningful.) I want you to know that I'm here for you poets -- in fact, I was once accused of being sensitive, and have occasionally been forced to reflect on something, until I could grow up and get over it. Therefore, I've set aside the next few days just for you. Write! Create! Sit and contemplate your navel! Do...um...whatever it is you poets do while the rest of us are out earning a living. (Drink heavily?) Then send me your bad poetry.

In case you're really a poet, and you've missed the point here, we're looking for BAD poetry. The more hideous, smarmy, self-righteous, sappy, or obtuse, the better. Don't expect me to represent it -- if you're too sensitive to notice, there's no money to be made in poetry, so my looking at your crud won't do you any good in the market. Sorry.

But there's a rich tradition among British novelists of creating really horrible poetry behind one another's backs. P.G. Wodehouse, a brilliant writer and one of my lifelong heroes, used to create truly awful stuff. He once included in a book's introduction the words, "With a hey nonny-nonny and hot cha-cha, And the sound of distant moors..." 

Um...really. And if Plum can do it, YOU can do it. So send! Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses of rhyming words yearning to breathe free. This is your chance to share your true depth and meaningfulness with the world...or at least with the group of people in publishing who read this blog. Don't delay -- start constipating now! In fact, I'm going to give all those under the age of 25 a hint to get you started: There are only four words in the English language that rhyme with love: "Dove" and "Above" are the popular choices. "Shove" and "glove" don't really count. Use of the baby word "Wuv" can get you shot. (British citizens who enter are allowed to use the word "guv," as in "guv'nor," but don't push it. We Scots have been pushed around by you people long enough.)

And the best news of all...the winner, chosen by an experienced team of expert bad poets (me, and maybe my friend Mike Allison, if he agrees to buy the Guinness) will receive a special GRAND PRIZE: a copy of Does God Ever Speak Through Cats? -- a self-published book the author sent me in hopes of getting me to represent it. Truly a life-changer. 

What can I do to make one see,

I do so love bad po-e-try.

It is, to me, a sort of balm,

And writing it just makes me calm.

For each time that I sit and write,

I show my depth, reveal my plight.

I'm really a reflective sort,

Hiding in my writing fort,

Revealing sensitivity,

For rhyme and meter, brevity.

So come join my happy clan,

Write something - show me you're a man!

(Or a woman, if you aren't home

to the Y chromosome.)

We await your craft and work,

Know that we will go berserk

When, upon this blog we see,

All your best bad po-e-try.

(The Most Reverend Chip MacGregor, Birthday Boy, Old Fart, President of the Bad Poetry Society)

Comments

[Gina]

Thy Wicked Heart
by Gina Holmes

Thy wicked heart long I to smote

and tie ye to a motorboat

race thee around for hours and hours

laugh at ye as thou stomach grows sour

dice thee up, watch thou bleed

plant ye in the ground like an appleseed

plant ye in the ground like an appleseed

apple seed

apple seed

plant YE in the GROUND like AN apple seed!

[sally apokedak]

Well, inspired by Gina's lovely offering I came up with another cheery one:

I sat me down to write a rhyme
for on my hands was too much time.
Then chirped the bird, pray tell, pray tell,
you'll write your rhymes in fires of hell,
the burning brimstone you will smell, for all eternity.

I sat me down to pray with haste,
"Forgive me for my foolish waste.
You've told me to redeem my time,
and there's no prize for this stupid rhyme,
for Chip is much to tight to sign, the winner to a contract."

[Stevie Rey]

They once was a man from Yazoo
Who could'n git published if he had to
So he wrote Chip a poem
Just to kindly git to know 'im.
Cause ees prose stunk worse than chimp poop!

Boo YA! Happy Birthday Chip! LOL!

[sally apokedak]

Uh, you were kidding about the cat book, weren't you? (I tried hard with my offering--note the repeated use of "time" and "rhyme" as it would simply be too hard to come up with new rhyming words for each stanza.)

But if there really is a book on cats,
And how the Lord speaks through them,
And if I should win against the others,
And beat them down and subdue them,
Then donate my prize, please.
To a library where kids can check out books, and several times renew them.

[Vickie]

Happy birthday, Chip!!!

The big 5-0! It was relatively painless for me, so I hope it will be for you, too.

I'm not a poet and never will be, but I do love a good challenge:

No Poetry for Me
by Vickie McDonough

Poetry is something I despise,
I write fiction. I make up lies.
I love a story that makes me turn pages,
Not a rhyme that sends me in rages.
Heroes and heroines are my passion,
Not little diddies of a fashion.
Brave females dressed in calicoes,
Conflict, romance, and cowboys with lassoes.
Give me a book with plot and action
Not a poem with no satisfaction.

[Alison Strobel Morrow]

I.

Yes, I.

I and not you.

Or u.

Or ewe.

(Though maybe yew.)

True, I. And....

yet, not.

But, maybe...

Yes, maybe.

Maybe!

Maybe we.

Oh, we.

Yes, yes, we.

Or not.

[Alison Strobel Morrow]

Aw man, my formatting didn't work! Rats. You really don't get the full *feel* of the thing without the italics. Oh well. I hope you'll take my word for it that it was far more Meaningful and Deep with the italics. Though since we're going for bad here, I guess maybe it's good it didn't go through...

[Dana Mentink]

Here is a little ditty composed to aid writers everywhere with that nasty business of keeping a timeline straight. Pearls of wisdom, I'm giving you here. Pearls, I tell you!

Ode to the Eternal Tuesday
By Dana duPont Maria Conchita Ravioli Mentink

When writing a book, it’s important to note,
The day of the week on page one.

Otherwise in a jam, you’ll forget where you am,
And lose track of where you begun.

To help you dear writer, as you wrangle this out,
A tip that is really the rage,

For a stupendous novel, that really stands out,
Make it Tuesday on every page.

[lisa]

Okay, Chip . . . you asked for BAD.

One dollar heart
by lisa samson
I'VE COPYWRITED THIS SO NOBODY USE THIS
WITHOUT MY PERMISSION EVEN THOUGH I AM
AN UNPUBLISHED POET! COPYWRITE 2008 BY LISA SAMSON, LEXINGTON KY. (DON'T TEST ME ON THIS!)

When we were together
Rainbows fled the brightness
Of our freshly minted love
For each other.
You and me
Two hearts
Each. Other.
A couple.
But more like one.
Sort of like
A two dollar bill.
Or maybe if we were on a base 8
System and a quarter
Was worth twenty cents,
And we were each worth ten
Cents.
Cents! You left me and it makes
No cents!
Not even a single penny.
Or even two.
And now I sit alone, a dollar bill.
But only worth fifty cents instead of a hundred.

[Anita Higman]

Ode to Chocolate

Chocolate is my lover, sweet and true,
My little Belgian truffle full of goo.
It beckons me. It is my constant woo.
Then I overindulge as lovers often do,
Left satisfied, but fat enough to moo.

Anita Higman
ahigman@msn.com

[chip]

Yes! These are truly bad! And Alison, don't worry -- your true deepfulness shows in every line, italics or not. Lisa, that may be the first poem ever written on a base 8 (though Dave Brubeck wrote a great song on 5/4 time). Genuinely terrible. Way to go.

Anita, anyone who can find four rhymes for "goo" without resorting to "blue" and "you" may be too talented for this contest. We're leaving you in the running, but... we're watching your every move. Or, perhaps, moooooove.

[Sharon A. Lavy]

Unless you have been on the ACFW Loop in the last couple of days this will make no sense. But either way it's me at my worst.

Alas, alax, what lack I yet? (Opps that came so easy, someone probably already wrote it.)
I fear I have no cowboy hat.
No cowboy boots, no kilt, no ooose
Not even rhinestone spangled shoes.

I sit and write, I do not play
at my computer every day.
Writing very serious stuff
Except this little bit of fluff.

[Truth Box Girl]

A Blip for Chip,

I thought to myself, let’s be nifty.
So here’s what I did turning fifty.
I bought me a scooter.
To ride, such a hooter.
I warrant for me such a gifty.

Before you go spring for a Vespa
A couple of things I might tell ya
You’ll peg your cool meter
No ride will be sweeter
All the chicks will just swoon, I betcha!

[a forward]

From Sibella...

Ode to the Old

Where have all the vowels gone, long time passing?
Have they left us, moored and gasping?
Alone, relapsing?
Obama
Osama
Oprah
Yo Mama.

Oh, how we yearn for the day
When the language made hay
With new conversions
Of Soviet excursions,
Consonant wielding,
Never yielding --
Hail!

Kyrgyzstan
Kazakhstan
Tajikistan
Oh, bellicose Belarus

'Tis true:
We never loved ye.
Please, forgive we.

[Janet Lee Barton]

What can I say?
It was an ordinary day and. . .
I was thinking of making a cheese dip
When the call came out from Chip
to hurry and join his contest.
He wanted us all to do our very best
to write the worst poetry we could.
For a second I wondered if I would...
I was pretty sure I should.
I ‘m not going to tell a lie.
I decided to give it a try.
Because I just couldn’t miss the chance to say
I hope you have a fantastically Happy Birthday!

[Laura Domino]

Happy Birthday to Chip!

Send me a diamond. Send me a sable.
But don't send me a really bad, sad little fable.

Send me a card. Or flowers if you grow 'em.
But don't send me a horrible non-rhyming poem.

Some people eat loads of pudding and cheese.
Some people write icky poetry with ease.

But don't send me oodles of really bad verse.
Save it and stuff it all into a hearse.

Ice cream brings genuine joy to this girl.
But horrible, very bad lines make me hurl.

Chip, if bad poetry brings merriment so true,
Then Happy Birthday, sir! Happy Birthday to You!

[Kathleen Gunovick]

As I sat down at my computer
I pondered things to write
How to type something
that didn't sound trite?

Whatever to Chip could I say
that didn't sound like a horrible cliche?

Prose is best when it's simple--tis true
So I'll just say Happy Birthday to you.

I could add a lot of other stuff,
But I feel this poem is already bad enough.

[Anita]

My Theory on World Peace

In an age of war

We always want more

Happiness, joy

Love, and compassion

We’re always looking

For a distraction

From pain and strife

We want a perfect life

So what is my theory?

How can we all be cheery?

The first step to mediate,

Odors we must eliminate.

Don’t forget to take a bath.

You can avoid all kinds of wrath.

Let peace begin with you.

Keep the peace

By Anita O. Reaves

Happy Birthday and see you at Blue Ridge at the end of the month. I'm good at writing bad.

[Derek Flood]

The Twither Post

Suzy McTemple perched up on a post
Began to survey the world down below
Though with some exception
all if not most
Seem to twither as they walked to and fro

Thrilled with the sight
She exclaimed with delight
In a manner that was ever so cheery
"I have half a mind to get off my behind,
And join this twithering in praxis not theory"

[janet]

Seduced

Temptress
Seductive
Little
witch
Beckoning
With twinkling eye,
Flushed cheeks,
Curling golden locks.
I am hypnotized,
Helpless beneath her
Enticing gaze.
I reach out
Breathless
With anticipation
quivering and
Unable to deny
My lust
For Little Debbie.

[kyle watson]

A Poets Critic

I'm grand master poet
Read this and know it
This is how I lay it down
When I roll through your town
There will be no frowns
For I'm no political clown
I never wear a gown
So hear me now

There once was a critic
And he was idiotic
Never understanding my poetics
For I had buried him in my attic
No more fear or panic
Police at front door I'm frantic
Got to go for now my fanatics

[Elizabeth Wehman]

Frustrated by a lack of freelance writing money,
I decided to enter the MacGregor poem funny.
How can I enter a contest considered just for rhyme,
when I rarely make a single solatary dime?
No entry fee,
that's cannot be.
I thought Chip would require one,
for all of this fun.
But alas, it won't cost me a single penny,
which is good, cause I'm not made of plenty.
If only, by winning this contest,
I could be considered to be one of his best.
Maybe he'd forget me sitting at his table,
At the ACFW conference and causing a foible.
Then one day he'd stand up and say,
"It's okay that she's poor, cause I'll do all to pay.
I want to take her novel manscript,
And make it encrypt.
Send it out to all who will pay her,
Next time I see her, she'll be in fur."
Dreams come just once in a freelance life,
And although it may cause Chip great strife.
I wish he'd pick me to win his worst poem,
Maybe then I can eat real popcorn, instead of syrofoam.

Thanks Chip for this wonderful opportunity. I hope you have an awesome birthday.

[Brian T. Carroll]

Love
is
like a lot
of
p’lov
in a pot—
rice and mutton
(nice for gluttons).
It warms your innards,
even for beginners.

Love
yells
“Mazel Tov!”
A reset button
When I’ve hit bottom.
It turns plain sinners
into winners.

Happy Birthday, Chip

[janet]

With mustache thick
and kilt of plaid
the Scotsman pleads
for poetry bad

but for horrid poems
he need not be a begger
we’re simply inspired by
the man named MacGregor.

the wine of birthday
gaity we freely sip
happy happy
birthday, chip.

*do I lose points for entering twice?

[chip responds]

Kudos to Derek for using the word "praxis" -- no doubt the first time that words has appeared on this blog. His poem is suitably execrable. Bravo!

And to Janet for making me lust after some Little Debbie Snack Cakes. She's hot. She rocks. She makes me look fat.

Hey -- you don't have to rhapsodize on birthdays, people! It's just the time of year I do this.

I appreciate the limericks -- gets me away from all the terrible rhyming couplets.