THE ART OF BAD POETRY

Oscar Wilde quote: “All bad poetry springs from genuine feeling.” Maybe so, but you can’t blame a guy for trying.

A few days ago, in pondering the possibility of posting a post of putrid poetry for BAD POETRY DAY (August 18th), I took the precaution of reviewing a decade (my blog began in 2009) of August posts to make sure I hadn’t previously perpetrated poetic perfidy on unsuspecting readers on this day. Unluckily for you , I found that I’ve never posted a post on Aug. 18, so we’re good to go….make that, I’m good to go. Or bad to go. You have to stay, because if you don’t, you’ll break my poor art — and that wouldn’t be polite.

Perhaps you think that my calling bad poetry an art
doesn’t pass the smell test, like calling passing gas a fart.

Not to put you on the spot, but was that a bad-ass poem, or what?
Granted, it has a perfect rhyme, but is that such a crime?
As bad poetry, I still say it’s sublime….speaking of which, I’ll have you know there are actually high-class contests to determine how low a bad poem can get, such as:

With that behind us, it’s time we get back to sum-more of my cool august poetry:

CLOCKING OUT

Hickory, dickory, dock,
The doc ran up the rock.
The rock was more slippery
Than doc’s hickory dickory,
So down he fell, which cleaned his clock.

HAIR APPARENT

A Whig party wig
Is my saving grace —
It diverts your gaze
Away from my face.

I WILL ONLY STOOP SO LOW

I don’t do windows,
I don’t do lawns —
But when I doo-doo,
I do do johns.

And with that, I bid you a fond adieu-doo.

 

THE RAIN IN TWAIN FALLS MAINLY ON THE BRAIN

It is best to read the weather forecast before we pray for rain. –Mark Twain

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It’s funny — April is NATIONAL HUMOR MONTH, but soddenly I don’t feel very humorous. It’s coming down in buckets out there, and some of what’s in the buckets is making its way into my basement. I hope whoever’s praying for rain is satisfied — now how about praying for it to stop? It’s bad enough that Mother Nature keeps raining on my head when I go outside — I don’t need her to greet my feet as a dweller in my cellar when I go down in the dungeon.

‘s no use. No letup in sight. Keeps rainin’ all the time….

But am I going to let a reign of rain ruin what I’m doin’? No way! Others can be a Debbie Downer, despairing in the deluge. It’s in my Genes to be….

P.S. The title of this post is word play on a song from a hit 1956 Broadway musical later made into a movie starring Rex Harrison and Audrey Hepburn. Can you name the song?

 

THE DEAD HAVE SPOKEN….

There are too many books I haven’t read, too many places I haven’t seen, too many memories I haven’t kept long enough. –Irwin Shaw, playwright, screenwriter, novelist and author of Bury The Dead

The dead have spoken….
but the living have moved on.
Hear their voices left in your mind,
keep their memories in the images
that are reborn in shared solitude.
Who among us has not known the haunting fear,
whispering we might not survive the silence?

SPRING CLINGING

There’s something bad in everything good: when spring comes, can spring cleaning be far behind? — Evan Esar

Spring has come, but in my sequestered domain, this doesn’t mean spring cleaning must follow. Though my closets be crammed and my drawers be loaded — make that cluttered — I’ll have no problem leaving spring cleaning far behind (even if others stink otherwise).

Now, I’m not saying that spring cleaning doesn’t have its place. For example, it might be worth the bother if you’re young and in love:

Speaking of “young love,” how old do you think the above song is? If you guessed it dates back to the ‘Golden Age’ of popular music (1920s, 30s, 40s), welcome to one of my happy places. If you’re thinking I’m clinging to the best of those romantic old songs out of naught but nostalgia, nothing could be further from the youth — my guileless youth that Father Time gradually re-placed. But suppose the mature me were unable to relate to the ever-young work of, say, Twain, Stevenson and Swift — it wouldn’t be that their writing has become outdated.  I would simply have lost the capacity to appreciate its timelessness.

In like manner, whether it be seen as ‘gilding the lily’ of youth or burnishing the harmony of maturity, I still think of the oldies as younger than springtime….and on that note, I’ll tune out:

 

I’M BOOKED

It is easier to buy books than to read them, and easier to read them than to absorb them. –William Osler

Well, I done done it again: done went traipsin’ off to another bargain book sale at the local library, and done ended up taking home more cheapo tomes than Trump takes ego trips. How many books do I own? I stopped counting around 720 (which, by the way, was a very good year, so I hear). Let’s just say that if all the books I’ve accumulated were people, they’d be so crammed together that they’d be begging for as much space, in relative terms, as tin-packed sardines have (not that I’d want space for relatives — my house ain’t no hostel for visiting bedlamites). My books, on the other hand, deserve more space because they’re doomed to wait longer than sardines for me to ‘digest’ them all — like until there’s peace on earth or Goodwill in store for my boatload of books after I sale off into the sunset.

Anyway, the end result of all this trumpery is to take another ‘skip-a-post to read-the-most’ books I can — like the break I decided to take two months ago after I brought home my last used book bonanza. I’ll be back Feb. 15, more bleary-eyed but less behind (or, if you like, less in arrears) in books to read….Lord willin’ and the library don’t have another sale.

 

SET IN STONE

I think, therefore I am. –René Descartes

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You will (hopefully) recall that my last post, STONE COLD DEAD, featured some of my favorite epitaphs published 4 years ago on SWI (a blog due to bite the dust in November). Ah, but the best laid plans….  The SWI editor announced on 9/1 that he would now need to pull the plug first thing on Sept. 6; thus today becomes SWI’s last full day on this earth.

This sudden passing prompts me to salvage another of my previously published posts from that body of work: a poem which poses a question I believe naturally arises out of STONE COLD DEAD. Unlike that post, it ain’t funny, but perhaps the poem’s saving grace is that what it lacks in humor, it makes up in brevity. It’s the least I can do on Labor Day.

LUCKY STIFFS

Are the faithful
dead better positioned
to be saved
than those who
lived with doubt?
Even a God
can’t help being
what He thinks.