Poetry = Math

I've spent several days trying to make heads or tails of poetic forms and techniques, and I gotta tell ya...poetry is a lot like math. And me no good at math. I start to read about scanscion, about meters, feet, and there are always numbers! Numbers! Numbers in poetry! Where was I in poetry class? I began scanning poems, but my eyes started to glaze. I tried to imagine writing a poem in hexameters, and my neural connections frizzled like a hair dryer with a cut cord. Ouch. It hurts. Thank God for Post-Modernism and "free verse." But I do have a newfound respect for poets who actually had to work at writing poetry. You'd really need a degree in algebra and logic to write like a Keats or a Burns, it seems.

Inspiration

Brief Autobiography of a Poet, Margaret Atwood

Back to bad poetry.

I've decided that attempting to write a poem of epic proportions based on a story that I once started that I actually like would be a bad choice for "Bad Poetry Writing Month." If it turned out badly, it would be unintentional, which would hurt my feelings. So I'm back to the idea of writing truly horrible poetry on mundane and prosaic topics. Two more days. Natalie, where are you? Are you writing? Jack? Jeff? Stephanie? No pressure.

Two resources for writers of bad poetry.

The Bad Poetry Seminar by Sparrow
RhymeZone Online Rhyming Dictionary

Structure.

Okay. I know that I said that I was not going to write any crappy love poetry, and I intend to hold to that promise in theory. However, I started a couple of stories several years ago that didn't fit into story format - too whimsical, too fluffy and light. But I've always wanted to write these stories. So I was struck by the notion today that they might work well as a long story sort of poem. Epic in proportions if not in the same strict format.

I spent a lot of time today reading up on hexameters, spondee, arsis, and anceps, thinking that I might try to stick to a rigid epic format, just for the challenge. But then I decided that I should just write the storypoem the way that it came to me. I expect it'll still be pretty bad, so no worries there.

The story IS about soul mates, so it might SOUND romantic and icky. But as it has no context, I think that I can avoid any truly frothy drivel. Although, I suppose that wouldn't be horrible, since this is about bad poetry.

Four more days.

OK. Who's doing this? Let me know.

Epic poetry.

I've been contemplating epic poetry. Can you imagine? Writing several thousand words and having to consider meter and rhyme the whole time? Even writing a haiku is trialsome. I mean, Ovid, Shakespeare, Dante. It's just nuts. Writing a novel seems like cake compared with writing an epic poem. Maybe I'll try to write a bad epic, just for the challenge.

And, of course, bad memoirs.

I'm fascinated now by the idea of writing badly (on purpose). I bought a book in the Quarter called Sound and Sense: An Introduction to Poetry, and there's a whole chapter dedicated to the distinction between good and bad poetry.

Here's an interesting quote:

"And here, perhaps, may be discussed the kinds of poems that most frequently "fool" poor readers (and occasionally a few good ones) and achieve sometimes a tremendous popularity without winning the respect of most good readers."

Wow. There are even good readers and bad. Funny. I'm pretty impressed by anyone who reads these days.

But let the chap continue:

"These poems are found pasted in great numbers in the scrapbooks of sweet old ladies and appear in anthologies entitled Poems of Inspiration, Poems of Courage, or Heart-Throbs."

Fascinating. Tell me more, oh wise critical thinker.

"The people who write such poems and the people who like them are often the best of people..."

It's obvious to me that you think so. But, please, go on. Tell me more. Tell me more.

"...but they are not poets or lovers of poetry in any genuine sense. They are lovers of conventional ideas or sentiments or feelings, which they like to see expressed with the adornment of rime and meter, and which, when so expressed, they respond to in predictable ways."

Pedestrian bastards. Leave them to their limericks and Britney Spears. Hooligans! They shouldn't be permitted to even read! Away with them! They probably think that "The Naming of Cats" is about naming cats! Leave the good poetry reading to gray-skinned old farts in turtlenecks and spectacles!

And, let me say, for good measure, any modern poet who opts to rhyme should be banished to the deepest pit of literary hell.

Now, here are some helpful hints from our friend that we should keep in mind when we began to write our own drivel for the dribbling, drooling half-wits who paste poetry into scrapbooks.

Bad poetry is sentimental. Weeping over infants or young lovers is a great start. Rhyming "kiss" with "bliss" is a nifty way to ensure emotional overindulgence in your bad poetry. "Love" and "dove" work well also. Please, do not rhyme "child" with "pedophiled." Such a poem may tiptoe into the realm of quality. Wait. Never mind. They rhyme. So use it, if you will.

Bad poetry is rhetorical. Our friend tells us that rhetorical poetry "offers a spurious vehemence of language--language without a corresponding reality of emotion or thought underneath." So be sure to use lots of high-falutin' words when describing minutae. For example:

Oh! aleatoric meter maid,
Thou and thine polyester-clad sisters
art in collusion against my
vehicular mode of transport,
my gold-winged apoplectic Toyota.

And, finally, bad poetry is didactic. So feel free to get on your soapbox and have at.

If you have any further questions, please email me at:

pompousass@mamacriticizedmypoemsbeforeieverhadachance.com

After bad poetry?

Once we've finished with a month of bad poetry and taken sufficient time to edit our bad novels, I suppose we'll have to move on to bad essays, bad short stories, and bad philosophical treatises. Bad religious tracts? I don't know. If I find out that any of you are attempting to write anything good during these exercises, I'm going to be upset.

I'm excited about bad philosophical treatises. That could be fun. We could have contests such as a lengthiest-and-most-inane-premise-competition. (See Kant for a good reference.) Anyone who can drag one sentence on for two pages automatically wins, I think.

Something to think about.

More bad poetry to inspire you.

Okay. Obviously Jack is too busy with more important stuff. It had better be his bad novel. And, as I said, I refuse to submit my icky love poems from high school or even college. And I have nothing to say about writing bad poetry. For now, at least. So here's another, more recent, bad poem that I wrote. And, let me say also, that I will not be writing love poetry during the month of May, either. I have given up writing the stuff altogether, though I do love to read love poems still. I am going out on a limb and only writing about mundane, prosaic matters like stale loaf bread or pigeon droppings.

Let me bunk up in your head
and make an axon dendrite bed,
beside your stream of consciousness
where alpha waves will soothe my rest.

I'll ponder the mystery of your meninx
as though it was the riddlesome Sphinx.
I'll be the soul-searching Pizarro or Cortez,
pushing though ganglion and neocortex.

Your social constructs would be a find;
I'd like to climb them, if you wouldn't mind,
and see a flock of ideas in flight
from that heady and vertiginous height.

And I don't see why I can't be
privy to your escapist fantasy
and spend a lovely afternoon
in an imagined Paris in a delusional June.

A bad poem from a bad girl.

I decided that it was not in my best interest to submit any of my really gooey love poetry from high school for your perusal. I'd hate to be responsible for any cases of stomach inversion. So here's a non-romantic poem.

(I have to preface this by saying that I have nothing against cats and that I have absolutely no recollection of writing this poem. But my mom swears that I did. )

The footprints on my car
really got under my skin
so while driving to work
I was fuming within.
When my tire began thumping,
I thought it was flat
So I stopped to look
and found your cat.
The anger was gone
when I returned to my seat
and as the thumping resumed
I thought, "what a treat".

Honestly, I don't think that I wrote that. I don't remember being so cruel. Wait. Oh. Wait. Oh, yeah. Maybe a little. But, really, cats are fine. And they do not deserve to spend their time thumpity-thumping under young hooligans' cars. I mean that. Truly.

Now. Jack. You said that we should keep posting every day. You. Not me. I didn't say that. You did. Knowing me as you do and having just read about my apparent glee at having squished some poor kitty, I think that you'd better begin posting yourself. Or I'll put you on a post.

More thoughts on writing bad poetry...

We have plenty of time to figure out a format for our month of bad-poetry-writing, so any suggestions are welcome. Jack mentioned the idea of working with themes, either on a weekly or a daily basis. I think that perhaps a one-word theme, thrown out into the blog first thing in the morning, on each day might be helpful, but I also think that sticking to the theme should not be mandatory. Rather, the theme would be a helpful kick in the pants or a challenge.

I thought that it might be interesting to choose a type of source each week. The first week's source might be "Novels." Someone sticks her finger randomly into a novel of her choosing and grabs the first word.

For example, I pick up Memoirs of a Geisha, flip randomly to a page...which happens to be, let's see...ah, 115...and the word is...interesting..."underrobes."

The next week we might use "Reference Books" as a source. Atlases, thesaureses, dictionaries, medical dictionaries, technical handbooks.

Example, I have a dictionary on hand...all right...hmmm...here we go, page 119...gulp..."gastropod." Well, that would certainly be a challenge.

And so on. I'm sure you get the idea. Let me know what you think. And throw down any ideas you might have.

On writing bad poetry...

The poem may well be the antithesis of the novel - succinct. And so, after conferring with my cohorts, we will write bad poetry. Little dollops of poetry, like sherbert to cleanse the pallete after a heavy meal of character development and atmosphere creation. If you feel compelled to write love sonnets, well, I'll not stop you, especially if they're written to me and they describe my roguish stare and my glistening lips. I'd like that. If you prefer to write one long epic poem, that's fine, as long as you add a little each day, and, in particular, if it's a long epic poem in honor of me and my wind-swept tresses and glinting eye, then I'll have no complaint at all. Write haiku. Or write limmericks. I couldn't care less. But write poems.

Jack is still fumbling through his novel. Tsk, tsk. But at least he's not abandoned his labor of love. So I won't put the added pressure of writing bad poetry on him just yet. He says that if we wait until May 1st, he'll be ready to write. How does that sound to you, Natalie? Everyone else who might be reading this and thinking that they have a few dipodic verses into which they could dip? Let me know. In the meantime, Jack says that we should write here each day just to keep the weblog up. I don't know what to write, as I'm done complaining about my novel and I have no bad poetry about which to begin complaining. I'll figure something out, I'm sure.

Maybe I'll toss out some of my truly atrocious poetry from my angst-ridden teen years. That should make you all sufficiently nauseous and depressed - an excellent combination of emotions to rely on when you go to write bad poetry of your own. Normally, I would keep them under wraps, hidden in some drawer at my mom's house. She won't part with them, despite any attempts I might make to persuade her to do so. You know how mothers are. They go to their graves believing that their dunderhead, knuckle-dragging curtain-climbers are the next Poes or Kennedys or Kings. So they keep all of that horrible ilk to prove how bright you were when you were 16. They just won't face the fact that the poetry is bad. Because you wrote it, you cute little babydoll.

You're not off the hook...I'm still checking in.

Alright, already. Natalie, where the heck are you? Don't make me fly to Japan. I will.

Jack, I expect to see continued reports on your progress, soldier. No slacking.

Jeff, well, you didn't write much anyway, so I guess I can't digitally berate you. Or perhaps I should berate you more for your ongoing faineance?

Pete, you said all along that you may or may not finish, so I'm not going to chew your face off.