Chip MacGregor .com

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)