Chip MacGregor .com

And the winner is...

Wow. I must say, there are a LOT of bad poets out there. In case you didn't read them, this year's entries in our annual Bad Poetry Contest brought us verses about dead cats, naked cucumbers, and constipation (keep pushing, anita). Jimmy Jacobson brought us zombies, and one deep thinker offered his thoughts on "Ned the Hamster." Sensitive and reflective author Cathy West, ruminating on the industry, penned these moving words: Dear Writer, as you think you are, I shall tell you kindly from afar, You Suck. You're awful. Terrible. And you stink too." 

It's exactly that type of thoughtful work that has made my annual Bad Poetry Contest such a popular stop for those people in the industry with serious drug problems -- er, I mean, for people in the industry with a serious appreciation for deep and meaningful what-have-you. If you're not aware, I do this every year the week of my birthday, and it's turned into a spiritually enriching time for people to write things such as Sina'i's deep thoughts on life: Puppies. Rainbows. Golden poop. 

That's it. The entire poem. I have no idea what it actually means, but in my life I've had my share of each -- sometimes all at once, I suppose. And it's that sort of mindless tripe our college lit professors drilled into us, explaining how the words of sensitive poets reach out across the miles to unite us all in, um, something. (I could never stay awake in poetry class, so I'm not sure what it's uniting us in. World peace, or membership in the Trilateral Commission or something. But that's not the point.) The point is that we got to see some really, really bad poetry here. 

Oh sure -- there were some folks who don't get it. There are those who are purposefully funny. Some write bad country-western lyrics. Others feel a deep need to write something akin to "Chip's birthday makes him so old, I hope my poem is really bold." Those people won't win THIS poetry contest. (Those people will no doubt wind up in hell, but that's for another blog.) The best bad poetry is reflective but purposefully shallow. Thoughtful, but only for someone with the brains of a cocker spaniel. It takes itself seriously, but doesn't seem to realize the rest of the world thinks it was written by a thirteen-year-old girl. And it's THESE folks who stood out in a crowd, declaring, "I'm a bad poet, and I want the world to know!"

So, after much debate and a couple very tasty birthday margaritas, I present to you our TOP TEN BAD POEMS OF 2009...

10. Nicole's The Bad Dump was not only truly wretched, it contained this image: 

Now I lie on the heap with the refuse of other broken hearts.

Shredded plastic bags and full diapers.

Dumped like me. 

Not everyone can offer such a tasteless picture. It will long be there, lodged like a stone in the kidney of my mind. Nice work, Nicole.

9. I really wanted to give this spot to my daughter, Molly MacGregor, who brought us an epic poem from Iceland (a country she's never visited), or to my sister, Cindy MacGregor, who has been to Iceland but, for reasons I'll never know, chose instead to write references to Frank Zappa's "Moving to Montana." However, new Federal Bad Poetry Laws prohibit me from offering them a spot on my top ten list. So instead, this will have to go to Daniel Gereige, who lives in Australia and couldn't figure out that the Annual Bad Poetry Contest is a joke. So he wrote in to tell us all to buy a copy of his new book,which he said contains "deeply enlightened poetry." I just want you to stop and think about that for a moment... He's so remarkable dense he thought this contest was worth joining to enhance his career, but he claims to have written something that's not only enlightened, but DEEPLY enlightened. Uh-huh. I'm hoping by now his mom has taken him aside and explained all this to him. You win the stupid award. 

8. Any poem that contains such thoughts as "I'm deeper than the stain Embedded deep in the carpet" is sure to capture some attention, and Melissa Kerkhoff's paean to her own wonderfulness reminds me of being back at Patrick T. Brown Junior High. As she puts it to eloquently, "I'm not bound by simple rules Like poetry having consistent rhythm and rhyme." You rock, gurlfriend!

7. The fake depth and underlying anger of Stephen came out extraordinarily bad in his poem for the advent season: "Endless, endless are the tears that drop like sweet and sour sauce from an overfilled plate on the long walk between buffet line and a corner table where I sit alone." Not only does he promise to form words "with Scrabble tiles and hot-glue each word to your cubicle wall," but he offers this profound bit of cultural insight: "Sighing, sighing, sighing, sighing, and then finally remembering to inhale to keep from fainting like a first-time author on Oprah's couch." Terrible. Really bad. I salute you, Stephen. 

6. In the top group must be included the melodious meanderings of Hajid Kirduz Mesechnohech, who brought us this bit of doggerel: 

Then did Hajid lace up sneakers,

take swig of fermented goatsmilk,

and straighten best red-tasseled hat.

He took wooden harp from pack and 

began to sing song of salt and

barbed cockroach of Adlu-Haziz.

Soon Bildar was weeping like small

castrated goatling. "Please stay and 

sing songs all my days," he outcried.

"Nay," spake Hajid. "But you can buy

book or CD from my website." 

Then handed business card to snake.

I think we all can pretend to get a deep and meaningful lesson from those words. [insert nod here]

5. Demain Farnworth's The Don Juan of Motor City made everyone's top five. The judges were particularly impressed with his deep imagery: "I'm spicy like taco meat." Nice.

4. Last year's winner, MEC, came back with another bit of adolescent-inspired meaningfulness, including these lines:

I was me, so was she,

that dead body in the car.

I could not understand

why they left her alone

so long they forgot her

and she died right there

and only a few rings on her toes

to identify who she was.

I liked the heart one best. 

Not bad enough to win our Grand Prize, but a really awful poem none the less, MEC.

 3. Kay Day won third place by bringing a sensitive note to the proceedings with:

Someday I will once again

walk in the brightness

of happiness

I will walk like a girl who is happy

like a girl with ballet slippers on her feet

and I will think only of love and joy

rainbows and kittens

Someday when my precious boy stops puking. 

Awful! A Truly Bad Poem, Kay. Fabulously bad. Thanks for your participation. 

2. In second place (and it's always important to have a strong second place finisher, since should our first place winner be unable to fulfill the demands we place on the champion, the second place person is responsible to poke fun at the schmuck) is the immortal Fred Gippler, for this total stinker: 

Blue

The color of rainbows.

The color of her soft lips as she drove us to Taco Bell.

That

Last 

Time

Never forgotten, the moment, frozen in the infinite voice of space, as she chewed

the chalupa:

"Jim, I don't love you."

My name was Tony.

Couldn't.

Finish.

My Seven Layer Burrito. 

The statement couldn't be taken back -- it stood there between us, as real and solid

as a unicorn. 

Bean dip dripped from her malformed chin onto my uncle's Gameboy.

My

Finnish

Uncle

Travis was his name.

My name was Tony.

There's something deeply stupid about that poem, so that it just sort of stays with you. Keep taking the medicine, Fred. 

1. And now, the moment you've all been waiting for, the winner of our Grand Prize (which this year is a lava lamp from Spencer Gifts)... RON BENSON for his truly retch-inducing poem about fish! Here it is, in case you missed it and need something to help you lose that lunch:

Walleye eludes me.

Slimy catfish, full of industrial toxins, jump at my lures.

Sucker carp, all bulding doleful eyes and slate brick scales, raise their fins to beg,

"Catch me! Catch me!"

A bluegill volunteers itself. Surrenders to my will.

But my heart is not satisfied. 

Walleye eludes me.

Why, oh why did I pay ten dollars

to register for the Freeland Walleye Festival Fishing Tournament?

Why, oh why did it rain all day that Friday?

Why, oh why did my nightcrawlers overheat in the car window,

congealing into a mass of gray flesh,

taunting me with their lifeless forms,

laughing from their Purgatory of worms?

Walleye eludes me. 

My wife says, "Curse the walleye and die!"

But I've spent too much already.

The license

The rod and reel

The tackle and the box to hold it

The really, really big boat

I must fight on. I must endure. I must be victorious. I must. 

Others pass by on the right and on the left.

They hoist their larder high, rubbing it in my face. 

"They're biting tonight!" they shout.

"You can catch 'em in your hands!" they scream. 

"My two-year-old caught a ten pounder!" one particularly large round specimen brags.

I fantasize about big hooks and poles

Big stinky fishermen being landed with big nets,

De-scaled, gutted, coated with corn meal and friend delicately. 

Walleye eludes me. 

Consider the deepfulness. Ponder the reflectivosity. Meditate on how long the guy worked on a Really Bad Poem. I'm WITH you, Ron -- walleye eludes me, too, and I don't even fish. And that's why you're the winner of this year's grand prize. The lava lamp will NOT elude you, my friend. You are the 2009 Bad Poetry Champion. Take your bow. 

chip

The 2009 Bad Poetry Contest Continues

This is the place for bad poetry. In case you're wondering what it is we're doing, we take one week out of each year (the week of my birthday) and try something different. Normally authors are sending in questions about writing and publishing, and I try to bring some wisdom to bear on the issue at hand. But the first week of May we set aside to share one of my stupid passions -- bad poetry. I don't mean poetry that is simply juvenile or moronic, but the kind that offers faux depth, atrocious metaphors, and really stupid self-awareness. 

Some poems will be well designed, like this example from novelist Ginger Garrett:

Ode To A Fallen Friend

O, gentle green frog
Now spreading red
Five miles per hour was fast
Enough

Others will focus on deepfulness and reflectivosity, such as this nice bit of barfiness from Kay Day: 

my heart is heavy
weighed down like it has a big boulder from Rocky Mountain National Park on it
It pulls me down into a pit of sorrow and sadness
like a well full of tears and sadness
The sun is shining like a super bright star
but in my heart
it is black
like darkness without the sun

Someday I will once again
walk in the brightness 
of happiness
I will walk like a girl who is happy
like a girl with ballet slippers on her feet
and I will think only of love and joy
rainbows and kittens

Someday when my precious boy stops puking. 

Wonderfully bad! The longing, the desire, the pondering vomit. A fabulously bad bit of poetry. Or consider this piece of existential BS from the aptly-named Fred Gippler:

Blue
The color of rainbows. 
The color of her soft lips as she drove us to Taco Bell.
That
Last
Time
Never forgotten, the moment, frozen in the infinite void of space, as she chewed the chalupa: 
"Jim, I don't love you."
My name was Tony.
Couldn't.
Finish.
My Seven Layer Burrito.
The statement couldn't be taken back--it stood there between us, as real and solid as a unicorn.
Bean dip dripped from her malformed chin onto my uncle's GameBoy.
My
Finnish
Uncle
Travis was his name.
My name was Tony.

This sort of truly bad art doesn't come along every week (thank God).  A close look at submissions this year will turn up such great titles as "The Ballad of Ned the Hamster" and "The Don Juan of Motor City" (which offer the vomitous line, "I'm spicy like taco meat"). Past wieners of the contest have included "Blind Puppy on the Freeway" and "Doctor Jesus." And today you can join this illustrious company. 

So... it's your turn. Go to the "comments" section and type some tripe. Feel free to check the last post for all the truly awful bits of doggerel that have come before you. Don't feel you have to write about writing. And don't write me a birthday poem. Just sit down, take some drugs, and start constipating. You'll be entering the great brotherhood of Bad Poets. And, as announced today on national TV, this year's winner will receive a genuine Spencer Gifts Lava Lamp. As Bob Eubanks likes to say, "a grand prize selected ESPECIALLY for you." Don't just sit there -- begin thy bad poetics! 

(Oh, and a note... if you get to the end of the "comments" section, you'll see a faint arrow. Clicking on that will take you to the next page of bad poems. Several people have written to say they can't find the arrow, so they can only read the first few submissions. Those people have clearly been drinking heavily. Slow down. This isn't a race, it's a meandering walk through the warped minds of creative nutjobs. Enjoy yourself.)

Chip 

Announcing the 2009 Bad Poetry Contest

In the lobby of the Deadham Community Theater is a painting of a bald man, done all in greens and grays, with mushrooms floating in the air all around him. One look at it makes you think, "Wow... this is BAD." 

And that's exactly what it is, since the painting hangs in The Museum of Bad Art, located in a theater lobby in Deadham, Massachusetts. It's proven so popular the curator has opened a second venue, at the Somerville Theater, just outside Cambridge. There are bad portraits, wild colors, out-of-sync angles, and even a shockingly bad copy of the Mona Lisa, done in bright green and magenta, with what appears to be Frankenstein in a dress. (The title? Mana Lisa.) 

Interviewed recently in American Way Magazine, Louise Reilly Sacco, the Permanent Acting Interim Executive Director of the Museum of Bad Art, was quick to explain that not everything can be easily labeled "bad." For example, cutesy tourist art doesn't qualify, nor does simple paint-by-numbers stuff, children's art, or the prints you buy at K-Mart. And having no talent apparently disqualifies you from creating "truly bad," since anyone who has attended a karaoke bar knows there is a difference between lacking ability and true awfulness."From the works of talented artists that have gone awry to works of exuberant, although crude , execution by artists barely in control of the brush," noted Sacco in her interview, "what they all have in common is a special quality that sets them apart in one way or another from the merely incompetent." Badness, thy name is faux depth.

In other words, to create genuine Bad Art, one must have some sort of Bad Artistic Vision, and take it seriously, and study the craft... and THEN still produce a pile of poop. THAT is what we can call truly bad art. And it is in that spirit that I announce our annual Bad Poetry Contest of 2009! For those not in the know, we do this every May, as a way to celebrate my birthday. Just go to the bottom of this blog, hit "comment," and post some lousy bit of doggerel. The goal is not to send me a stupid birthday poem ("Happy Birthday, o' Chip o' mine, Hope this finds you well and fine..."), but to get writers to use their creative talents to explore the depth of true awfulness. We want over-the-top emotion. Bad metaphors. Deepfulness. Reflectivosity. Show us that poetic bent!

This contest has grown out of my belief that inside every poet is the same message, which can subtly be summed up this way: Hey! Look at me! I'm sensitive and nobody understands me! So I'll show you how deep I am by writing some poetry! 

Well don't worry, my deep and meaningful friends -- Uncle Chippy is here for you. In fact, I was also once accused of being sensitive and artistic, until I grew up and stopped whining. Therefore, I've set aside this week just for you. Right now, YOU can be published! ON MY BLOG! Just think of it... You can sit down, create, contemplate your navel, and, um, do whatever it is poets do while the rest of us are out earning a living (take drugs? watch reruns of Law And Order?). Then send it in and you're entered in the contest. Everything counts -- your cutesy couplets, horrible haiku, retch-producing refrains. Write and send, my dear ones. 

Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled metaphors yearning to breathe free. The hopeless haiku of your teeming shore, etc etc. Lift that lamp beside the golden door and write something. Don't delay! Start constipating now! We only do this for a week, once a year. And the best news of all: The winner, chosen each year by a team of experts (consisting of my best friend Mike and I, usually after drinking too much Guinness), will receive a GRAND PRIZE: A genuine Lava Lamp from Spencer Gifts! Something that sort of sums up the whole Bad Art experience! Try to contain your excitement. 

Last year's winner brought us a very hip "Jesus Rap," that included these immortal words:

Dr. Jesus
I'm feeling ill
How about you give me
A salvation pill?

He said to me
that very day
with me in your life
you'll be A-OKAY!

The winning author was only 23 years old (though I know you'll find that hard to believe). It's exactly those sorts of life-changing lyrics that makes me believe in the future of Bad Art. (sniff. honk!) Oh...please keep in mind that there are only a handful of words that rhyme with love. The short lists includes dove, glove, shove, above, and right-ho-guv. Note that anyone using the word "wuv" as child's version of "love" will be hunted down and forced to read the Complete Works of Dan Brown. 

So you're on the clock. There'll be no more questions about proposals. No reflecting on the Google settlement this week. No more posting about how wonderful our Hero President Bush was. We give that all a rest for a few days, as we enter Bad Poetry Week. Join us! Go to the "comments" section and send us your best (or your worst, depending).

Chip (who is about to hit 51)

 

PS: 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.

And the winner is...

So today is my birthday -- I hit the big Five-Oh, and I'm celebrating by holding my nose and pouring over all the really bad poetry that faithful readers have sent to my 2008 Bad Poetry Contest. My friends took me to J.K. O'Donnel's Irish Pub for some inspiration, so let me offer some quick thoughts...

-Most of you really suck at this. I mean, really. You're great sports for taking part, of course, but you need to know that poetry is not in your future. Trust me on this.

-A few rose above the badness and actually had nice rhymes and good images. You were immediately disqualified. (My son Colin sent in a 28-liner that actually rhymed and offered the image of "this violent reek in my nose hair." Sorry, son, but to craft truly BAD poetry you'd have skipped the rhyme and focused more on the cat poo.)

-Why is it that limericks make us smile? And why is it that nobody can really take a limerick seriously? I mean, Shakespeare never wrote limericks, did he? ("Forsooth and anon from Nantucket...")

-When will bad poets realize that rhyming couplets get really annoying after the first two lines? Egad. Once I got by the lines like "Happy Birthday Chipperoo, You are really full of poo," I wanted to smack the author with a stick. (Take note, Paulette Harris: "Happy birthday to you, woo woo woo" is not actually a "poem" -- it's more like a "bad idea.")

-While I'm at it, when will poets realize that most haiku is awful? I mean, the faux depth is laughable. Just creating the dumbest haiku imaginable will probably put you into the Poetry Hall of Fame.

-I'd like to point out that Kelly Klepfer offered us a rap. A RAP! Kelly will be mistaken for a rapper the day after PEOPLE Magazine names me to their list of "50 Sexiest Men." White people cannot rap, Dawg, no matter how many eminem CD's you own. More on this subject later.

- I'd also like to point out that I had to disqualify my own daughter, Molly MacGregor, for bringing up Ralph Nader during an election season. See rule 48b(6). Oh, and I disqualfied Jim Rubart just on principle, for being a Washington Husky. (I'm an Oregon Duck, Jim. Wake up, man. The Huskies went 1 and 10 last year.)

-Though she didn't win, it's clear that Pam Halter has a nice way with words: "she smooshes us up and stuffs us down her baby's throats." Lovely. Truly bad. And M.L. Eqatin offered some great deep thoughts on the role of meter that, well, helped me to see you were in the spirit of things. And Tiffany Colter's Ode to Casserole, while too cutesy to win, still was awful. I salute you. One more: Ashley Weis penned something really foul: "Oh speak into my ear, what's that I hear? The owl, the owl, Mr. Rowel." Um... Mr. Rowel? He was your sophomore English teacher, and this is how you pay him back, by sticking him into a bad poetry contest? Nice work!

Okay, so it's on to the winners!

HONORABLE MENTION must go to John Robinson, who apparently was mixing his prescriptions again. Your "Monkey In a Cage" is genuinely wretched. You're a pro at this. And Janet's ode to "Little Debbie" brought a smile to my face. Wonderfully bad. A Forward's use of "Obama, Osama, Oprah, Yo Mama" was an exceptionally rotten use of rhyme.

WORST HAIKU: An easy choice. Robert Treskillard sent this bit of deepfulness:

Walk on marshmallows
Or run fingers through the mud
That is not banjo

Yeah, bay-bee! Now THAT is bad poetry!

This year's WORST IMAGE ribbon goes to Linda Shab's Snot Bubbles and Tears, which left me reaching for a kleenex...

Snot Bubbles and Tears…
Where are you?
My phone doesn’t ring
The doorbell doesn’t chime.
My lips can’t sing.
I’m a mime.
Just a mime.
But my heart cries out!
The snot bubbles ooze from the chambers.
They mix with my tears -
Enough to drown me.
But that’s probably what you want….
Right?
I thought we had something special.
But I guess I was wrong.
So wrong.
What will I do now?
I’ll sit in sorrow
Until tomorrow.
Then I’ll get up and move on
With my empty life.
If the snot bubbles and tears don’t drown me first.

Wow. As bad poetry goes, that is a winner.

THE WORST REFLECTION ON LIFE AWARD goes to Alison Morrow in a landslide. I won't share the whole thing, but any poem that offers the first few lines as "I, Yes I, I and not you, or u" reveals the true reflectivosity needed in a bad poet. You're my hero, Alison. What a deep thinker.

Our MOST CREATIVE BAD POEM was no doubt developed after a bad migraine by Lisa Samson, who wrote a love ditty that went, in part,

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!

Have you ever known anyone to craft a love poem around a base 8 numerical system? Me neither. Thank God.

This year's coveted CLEARLY ON DRUGS WHILE WRITING award goes to your favorite traditional tale-teller, Hajid Kirduz Mesechnohech, who gave us this bit o' badness:

Rejection is like the salt from lake Mizzri
(imagine here strumming and goatsounds)
rubbed on a wounded and festersome foot,
which was stung by barbed cockroach of Aldu-Haziz.
The roach snuck into your sandal the day
when you planned to set out for new lunar feast
wearing your favored red-tasseled hat

Amen to THAT, Hajid! Your poem had all the sweetness of the secretions of the she-goat as it is rubbed on the festersome foot. And Ducktales is sure to be interested in the movie rights.

Okay, SECOND RUNNER UP goes to Fred Gippler for his truly awful poem, No, It Is Not My Bagel:

NO!! IT IS NOT MY BAGEL
she sang lustily.
Why. Dreams. Memories. Fred Savage, star of Television's "The Wonder Years". A blue snow cone from May, 1977. Dreams again. Dinosaurs. Dreams one more time. Again; dreams.
Wow.
I hate your grandma--and. AND? AAAANNNDDDD!?!?!?!

And it is not my bagel, she sang, falling backwards into a future of stale tacos and unclosable milk jugs.

Let's face it, there's just something deeply stupid about that poem. Not just run-of-the-mill stupid, but in-your-face-disgrace sort of stupid. Love it! Exactly what I needed to see in bad poetry.

The FIRST RUNNER UP, who is very important, since if our champion cannot represent us on some random blogs that nobody ever visits, the FIRST RUNNER UP will be expected to take her place and pretend to be sober, goes to Darcie Gudger, for sending in these words:

Bad poetry.
Like, really, really bad.
Airplanes buzz around my cranium -
....with tootsie roll thoughts.

Poet laureates.
Say lor-ee-ates in the containium.
I mean continuum.

Free the monkeys!
Now!
I mean it!

Now THERE is a woman who understands the meaning of genuinely bad poetry. She offers bad rhymes, bad images, and even some mindless, off-topic shouts from the political left. Yes! THANK YOU for understanding what we're doing here.

And THE WINNER, THE GRAND CHAMPION, THE BAD POET LAUREATE FOR 2008, is none other than Holly MacGregor (um...she really is no relation to "Molly MacGregor," except through marriage). Stay with me before rolling your eyes. First, this is a real poem she wrote. No kidding. Granted, she was a sophomore in a Christian high school at the time, but still -- it reeks of true badness. And second, she admitted to the world that she actually wrote this -- and then she SAVED it since high school. I thought about giving her the award on bravery alone. But third, I have it on good authority that she actually once performed this in a classroom. Which leads me to reiterate a point I made earlier: White people can't rap. Especially someone like Holly, who doesn't exactly exude "street cred," since she is roughly as white as a trout's belly and is going to school to be an aesthetist (which, you've got to admit, is not your normal job for a rap artist...you down wi' dat?).  Here is her poem:

Dr. Jesus
I'm feeling ill
How about you give me
A salvation pill?

He said to me
that very day
with me in your life
you'll be A-OKAY!

I need a Christ Transfusion
Pump his blood into my veins
Take out the old
And make me new again
Give him my life
So he can take the reins!

Dr. Jesus
I feeling well
That pill you gave me
Sure is Swell!

Okay, so she's married to my son, and I love her dearly. But Holly, that rap is horrid. Bad lyrics, stupid images, lack of depth... all the qualities we look for in bad poetry, and the reason you are our BAD POETRY CHAMPION OF 2008. Your prize is a genuine copy of Does God Speak Through Cats?, a self-published book that, frankly, I don't want any more. So it's yours, you lucky girl!

Thanks to everyone who contributed. Next year I hope to have even more great prizes I don't want, so I'll give them to someone else.

The 2008 Bad Poetry Contest is still going on...

Don't wait until the last minute -- now's your chance to show off that lack of talent!

Give us your wretched rhymes, your lousy limericks, your hurtin' haiku. Every year at this time I celebrate my birthday by hosting the Bad Poetry Contest. We've got some absolute stinkers this year -- poems about monkeys in cages, acrostics about casseroles,  and "fearsome fanged sparrows from the cliffs of Aldu-Hazziz." In other words, these are bad. Terrible. Rotten to the core. Just the way we like 'em. We even had one woman reveal that the love of her life looked her in the eye and told her, "They look like big blue bowling balls." (Um... it should be noted she THOUGHT the guy was talking to her about her eyes.) And to top it off, two of my students took time away from their end-of-the-semster studies to rhyme "final" with "vinyl." Does my heart proud to know I'm discipling two young up-and-coming bad poets.

Last year's winner was "Blind Puppy on a Freeway," which offered this inspiring chorus:

Love, love, love, love

Love, love, love

Love.

I don't know. Whenever I read those words (sniff), there's just something (sniff) that touches me (snort) RIGHT HERE (honk!). [For the sake of potential children reading this blog, we won't be showing pictures.]

Anyway, here's your chance. Rage. Emote. Show us your deepfulness. Greatness awaits. (So does a copy of Does God Speak Through Cats, which is this year's Grand Prize Selected Especially For You.) My 50th Birthday is Sunday, when I hope to be picking a winner, assuming I can still read and I'm not overcome by the fumes.

Poem away!

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)

And the winner is...

This year's Bad Poetry contest has been wonderfully bad. Truly wretched. It's another sign that the drug problem in this country continues unabated. It has also revealed something very deep and important to all of us: Unfortunately, I don't know what it is. Not being a true poet, I'm not sensitive enough to grasp it.

But yesterday I sat down at Old Chicago, drank two Black Butte Porters, and with a team of thoroughly trained experts (Janice, the waitress, had taken a creative writing class at Portland Community College; and Hector, the busboy, laughed heartily at everyone's entries...though he didn't appear to speak English, so he may not have been as helpful as he could have) we've come up with our winners!

First, some notes are in order:

1. Famed British novelist Penelope Wilcock showed actual talent in her poetry, thus immediately disqualifying herself. (You should be ashamed, Pen.)

2. My sister Cindy wrote a truly terrible ditty, and would have received bonus points for squeezing in the name of bad rocker Garry Pucket, but here at the Bad Poetry Society we take seriously the charges of nepotism. We also take seriously the charges of communism, rheumatism, and antidisestablishmentarianism.

3. Janet Bly's entry revealed she had actually READ the writing of P.G. Wodehouse, and knew how to insert them into a bad poem. She was immediately replaced in the competition. We can't have that sort of thing going on here, Janet.

4. While several of the entries revealed deepfulness and reflectivosity (John Robinson's Angry Young Man and Kelly Klepfer's Look-at-me-I'm-depressed odes are two wonderfully awful examples), some people (like Jenness) obviously took the easy way out: She relied on drugs.

5. Sandra Glahn rhymed "orange" with "door hinge." I just thought it was important to point that out.

6. And finally, Lynette Horner's exploration of faux spirituality and HEYLOOKATME songleaders in church was great...but THE LORD TOLD ME NOT TO GIVE HER ANY AWARDS. Sorry, Lynette. Take it up with Him.

So that leads us to our actual awards!

Winning the DISHONORABLE MENTION award is western writer Steve Bly for his awful "Moose Without Lips." The enduring image of his first line ("Her love was as shallow as a moose without lips") made me spew my coffee onto my screen. Moose have lips?

Winning THIRD PLACE in our annual bash is Margo Carmichael for "One Wish," a poem that can only be described as execrable. All the depth of a potato chip. Bravo, Margo! Loved it!

Winning SECOND PLACE (an important role, for should our champion be unable to fulfill her duties, the runner-up has to wear the tiara and wash my car) in a very close competition is Jen for the terribly trivial and tasteless "Ode to Snow." Anyone who can explore the benefits of missing school while referencing Pamela Anderson's best attributes and Britney's missing one (to say nothing of her passing reference to a couch-jumping Tom Cruise) deserves something. I'm not sure what.

And now, the winner of our competition, and the 2007 Bad Poetry Contest FIRST PLACE award winner: M.E.D. for "Blind Puppy on the Freeway"!!! The judges found it delightfully defective and deficient. It contained this immortal refrain:

"Love, love, love, love,

Love, love, love,

Love, love,

Love."

That sort of writing genius is hard to come by. (Thank God.)

M.E.D. is therefore the recipient of this year's grand prize: A genuine, pristine, autographed, first edition copy of THE Y2K FAMILY SURVIVAL GUIDE.  Read it and weep. Life will never be the same again, my darling.

Thanks to everyone who participated!

Our Legal Notice: The decision of the judges is final. If you have a complaint, please take it up with Hector. Use of these poems is restricted to the authors, preferably after consuming several adult beverages. The views expressed in these poems are not the perspective of the management, except in the case of Lynette, who I agree with completely. Do not attempt to drive or use heavy machinery while quoting these poems to others. Regular reading of these poems can cause headaches, vomiting, explosive diarrhea, cramping, erectile dysfunction, loss of memory, the ability to turn every sentence into a bad rhyme, and may make you refer to your mother as "Mr Froggy Man.'" After reading these out loud, some people may speak in tongues. These are not to be used as a cure for any deadly disease. If you see me in a crowd, pretend you don't know me.

We LOVE our bad poetry...

My annual Bad Poetry Contest continues all day today and Saturday. The winner gets a genuine, autographed edition of my "Y2K Survival Guide" -- you don't want to miss THAT! So join the fun -- send in your bad poems, your lousy limericks, your freakin' free verse. It's here. It's now. It's bad.

chip

The Annual Bad Poetry Contest

Here it is -- you've been waiting all year for me to host my annual BAD POETRY CONTEST at MacGregor Literary. Tomorrow is my birthday, 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. It can be a crappy couplet, a bit of crummy 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.

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. Then send in 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 deepfulness 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 that 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 two words in the English language that rhyme with love: "Dove" and "Above." 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: an autographed, first edition of my bestselling book, The Y2K Family Survival Guide!!!  That's right -- the book that saved western civilization as we know it! (Had it not been for all those stupid Y2K books by people like me and Mike Hyatt and Shauntee Feldhahn, I'd probably be blogging in Chinese this very moment. In the dark, maybe. So just keep that in mind, Comrade. Mike Hyatt went on to become President of Thomas Neslon. Shauntee has written mumerous bestsellers. And I...uh...well, there's no proof that the publishing of my book led directly to my being let go as a publisher with Time-Warner, but we've got people investigating that angle right now.)

Okay, your little piece of literary history awaits. Write!

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 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 beserk

When, upon this blog we see,

All your best bad po-e-try.

(The Most Reverend Jerry Chip MacGregor, President of the Bad Poetry Society)