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Saturday, December 12th, 2009
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10:40 pm - Amazingly Bad Poetry Review - Once Upon A Lovely Time
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Once Upon A Lovely Time
by Jennifer
Once upon a lovely time, the trees were made of forests.
When the unicorns flew by, the angels sang a chorus.
The birds were made of many colors, like green, red and blue.
Their singing sounds like a flute, they sang as they flew.
The animals had lovely coats, they always cleaned their fur.
The cats were very nice creatures, you could tell, they always purred.
These creatures were very kind, they never harmed a thing.
Whenever you want to see one, you only have to sing,
"Once upon a lovely time, the trees were made of forests.
When the unicorns flew by, the angels sang a chorus".
What about the naked mole rats? Are they welcome in this garden of earthly delights? Or were they expelled because they look like flaccid penises with teeth? (You're welcome.) When at the Oregon Zoo, make sure to visit the naked mole rat exhibit. And then move on to the highly disturbing and malodorous bat exhibit where you are bound to see bats having sex. When I say 'bound,' I mean that you're actually required to see them do this.
What do you do when you're out of ideas but you want to continue writing a poem? Repeat lines from earlier in the poem, of course! It works every time, provided your reader has no short term memory. If this was an epic poem or a modern collage long poem, and Jennifer wanted to include a few instances of "Once upon a lovely time" as a recurring theme, okay. But this poem is only 10 lines long. 40% of the poem are the same dull lines.
I've been writing bad poetry reviews for way too long and I know this because I think the line "Whenever you want to see one, you only have to sing" is extremely funny. One what? She ostensibly meant a world like the one that she is describing, but I still love that she left out that vital noun from the poem and then wrote "Whenever you want to see one..." as if she'd remembered. Jennifer would not make a good bank robber. She would inevitably hand the teller a note that said "I have a gun. Please give me it."
This poem is extremely saccharine. I think I developed diabetes from reading it as many times as I have. I think the cuteness would make Anne Geddes throw up. Someone might point out that this poem has all the hallmarks of being written by a child. Shouldn't I give the author a break, considering their age? To this hypothetical cross-examination, I reply with a respectful "Meh." There's no way to prove this person's age. For all we know, this could be the same Jennifer who was my first crush in 3rd grade in Sunnyvale, California. She'd be in her early 30's now (as am I.) And if she is this same person, I'm very sorry to hear about the horrific accident that eventually resulted in her writing "Once Upon A Lovely Time."
Bad Poetry Grade [F = your standard bad poem; A+ = worst poem imaginable]: B-
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(1 comment | comment on this)
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| Saturday, December 5th, 2009
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12:09 am - Amazingly Bad Poetry Review - God is in my Garden
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God is in my Garden
by Charlie
Oh, yes, I believe God is in my garden.
He’s that breath of air stirring gently in the trees.
Oh, yes, I hear God walking in my garden.
He makes the sound I hear when strolling in the leaves.
He causes the seeds to swell just before they pop
With two little leaves, then burst out on top.
God writes all the lyrics of every songbird I hear.
He paints every petal of the flowers I love so dear.
He causes my tomatoes to turn a beautiful red,
While my other vegetables are orange and gold instead.
On a hot summer day God will bring up a cloud.
Evening showers will come with thunder close an loud.
He tells the morning glories to run up in the sky.
God promises my pumpkins, someday you’ll be a pie!
He gives the verbena room. They cover over the ground
Then the worms and grubs they dig, without a tiny sound.
My impatiens and coleus, they beg for the cooling shade,
While for zinnias and marigolds full sun God has made.
He brings the morning sun; makes my garden bright.
God spends the day with me, then turns off the light.
I'd like to find the person to visit Charlie's backyard and after getting the tour, asked Charlie "Do you really believe God is in your garden?" Obviously someone posed this question to Charlie because of the familiar, conversational way he begins this poem: "Oh, yes, I believe God is in my garden." I'm being sarcastic, of course. No one has ever asked Charlie about the hand of the almighty playing a part in Charlie's agriculture. However, because he begins the poem with the exclamation "Oh", I now have the right to read the poem in the voice of former WWF superstar Macho Man Randy Savage. If any of you know Randy Savage or his people and believe that he'd be willing to read this poem in character, please email me as soon as possible. I will also accept the actor who played Paul Bearer. I can't pay either of them for their time, but I will send a very nice handmade card. And think about the publicity!
God certainly is busy. It's like he's everywhere at once! Now, I'm an atheist, so while I don't believe there's any god who makes sure the tomatoes turn the correct shade of red, I have no problem or gripe against Charlie or any other person who believes that god has an investment in fruits and vegetables. However, what about the tomatoes that get infected with tomato hornworms or tomato bushy stunt virus? Does God have a plan for those tomatoes? Have I crossed over into "offensive" yet? Do you think I made up "tomato bushy stunt virus"? You can look it up!
This poem takes a dark turn near the end. It's like the Testaments in reverse. God's breathing and walking and he's writing lyrics (melodies?) for birds--sort of like Jesus, yes? Yes. But then there is this begging for cooling shade and a summer storm! It's for the garden's own good, sure, but what about that lightning and wind? Then there's this line: "God promises my pumpkins, someday you’ll be a pie!" Maybe I just don't like the idea of anyone, whether mortal or immortal, talking to fruit. Maybe I prefer to believe in free will, even when it comes to a pumpkin. Pumpkins, by the way, rank up there with the least dignified of fruit. I love pie, pumpkin and otherwise, but it must be strange for pumpkins to realize they're best known for being a pie filling. I do know that I hate exclamation marks, especially when they appear in poetry. As a result, the line sounds like a threat. "That person in the overalls and the hat, he's going to turn you into mush with a machine and then he's going to add sugar to you! Then stick you in an oven!"
Bad Poetry Grade [F = your standard bad poem; A+ = worst poem imaginable]: C
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(4 comments | comment on this)
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| Friday, November 6th, 2009
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9:02 pm - Amazingly Bad Poetry Review - Planet X
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Planet X
by Ruth
There is a vastness beyond us
Not seen on a moonlit night
Stars sparkling across the universe
The Milky Way, a display of great might
We stand in awe of its' splendor
And wonder, for time only can tell
If Planet X eventually comes through here
Bringing asteroids and comets as well.
Earthquakes abound, no islands found
All the mountains come tumbling down
Then the earth could move around
With much destruction on the ground!
Hurricane winds encase the earth
Nothing much is left of worth
Tsunamis devastate the land
Without our God, who could stand?
I think this poem was written by that woman who stands on the corner and screams about the great reckoning. At least you think that's what she's screaming about because some sentences are a bit garbled and she keeps being distracted by invisible wasps. I can't speak for the rest of you but I was shocked and simultaneously intrigued by the end of this poem. There's 15 lines of what appears to be a secular poem then blammo! There's God! Popping up like Waldo right before you're about to give up and throw the book into a furnace. If this poem any sort of representation of Ruth's theology, the Heaven's Gate cultists (they of Nike shoes, purple shrouds and Halle Bopp comet) are backing away slowly before desperately trying to find the phone number for Ruth's doctor. Or, they would be doing so if they weren't all dead.
"Planet X" is actually a term used in astronomy. Before the discovery of Pluto in 1930, it was used to describe the hypothetical ninth planet (beyond Neptune) in our solar system. Now, it is widely accepted there is no such planet, Pluto's former classification not withstanding. According to the poem, Ruth believes there is a Planet X that will, independent of any orbit, appear in our solar system. Apparently this Planet X will be so close to the Earth that it will alter the already shaky ecological balance. Just when we thought nothing else could go wrong!
We all learned at some point that the moon's gravity is partially responsible for the tides of the ocean. But imagine, Ruth is positing, that our moon was the size of, say, Mars. I'm pretty sure we'd all be dead in a relatively short amount of time. What a thoroughly cheerful vision! Thanks Ruth! This seems to be what Ruth is suggesting: a global apocalypse caused by the sudden or at least unexpected presence of new planet. We will be able to take some solace in the knowledge that if there's anyone living on Planet X, they're equally screwed...unless they were doing all of this on purpose... Wait a minute! Could Planet X be Galactus in disguise? And if it is the Eater of Worlds, that would mean Ruth is Silver Surfer, the Herald of Galactus! Wow. It all fits! I'll give the non-fanboys and fangirls a moment to scoff in disgust and leave to read something by Joyce or Stephenie Meyer.
God showing up in the last line of the poem is certainly unexpected. "Without our God, who could stand?" - I might point out that with the tsunamis and earthquakes, no one is going to be doing much in the way of standing--but that would be petty and disrespectful. Despite this dark future, Ruth believes that faith will prevail. Faced with imminent death, what percentage of people gain faith, or lose faith, or start partying because there's no tomorrow? Wow, this ABPJ review is getting heavy, Doc. Now would be a good time to mention that I'm sure Bill Watterson mentioned Planet X in a "Calvin & Hobbes" comic featuring Spaceman Spiff. Which means he's part of the conspiracy too! No wonder he's secluded somewhere in Arizona! You magnificent bastard! I've read your books!
Bad Poetry Grade [F = your standard bad poem; A+ = worst poem imaginable]: B+
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(5 comments | comment on this)
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| Saturday, October 31st, 2009
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7:14 pm - Amazingly Bad Poetry Review - Passion
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Passion
by Sebastian
Her beauty encapsulated me like sunshine.
I gazed with breathless anticipation.
Her every move riddled me with seductive contemplation.
Her lips were like savory pillows of ecstasy.
They swallowed my soul and put fire inside of me.
Her eyes were like deep blue pools of placid tranquility.
And she mastered me with her inherent veracity.
I pray for her virtuous delicate love.
As if she was sent from the
very heaven above.
I believe that 1,000 years from now, when the android that carries my consciousness is on its/my deathbed, I will still grin and chortle at the memory of the lips like "savory pillows of ecstasy." I don't know if I could write a simile so fantastically terrible if I dedicated an entire month to writing nothing but bad poetry. It reminds me of one of my favorite jokes: last night, I dreamed I was eating a giant marshmallow and when I woke up, my giant marshmallow was gone. I must beg the question: are pillows ever savory? I can understand lips being savory--there's a wide variety of adjectives that can be used when describing the flavor of lips--but I don't know if a Bed, Bath & Beyond employee has ever described a pillow to a customer as savory. Describing pillows as savory is like using a verb like "riddled" (more often used in phrases like "riddled with bullet wounds") when describing the impact of a woman's beauty. But that's just ridiculous. Surely a amateur poet with an ion of common sense would chose a better word than "riddled." But anyway, back to the pillows.
Even if you discount the fact that lips can't really be described as pillow-like and that pillows aren't savory, you must still contend with the pillows being filled with ... ecstasy. I guess it's better than the pillows being pillows of responsibility or hatred or some other abstract idea. If Sebastian is trying to say that he is filled with ecstasy when he kisses these goose-down lips, then how does this transaction take place? Does she possess a bottomless fount of ecstasy?
When I say the word "pillow", what picture comes to your mind? My first association is the pillow sitting on my bed, the one I use every night when I go to sleep. Soft. Supportive. Hypoallergenic. All qualities you want in a pair of lips. Are you imagining a woman with giant lips? Not Jolie-esque, but lips the size of a bed's pillow. Now, I know this is not what Sebastian intended. At least I hope not. However, he compounds the problem by having us imagine these (giant pillow) lips swallow his soul. If we didn't imagine them as being the size of bed pillows before this, we're certainly imagining them like that now. I'm not sure what this particular Great Old One would look like, but I encourage you to create a picture with Photoshop, save it to your desktop, and then throw it away.
Bad Poetry Grade [F = your standard bad poem; A+ = worst poem imaginable]: B
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(6 comments | comment on this)
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| Friday, October 16th, 2009
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9:13 pm - Amazingly Bad Poetry Review - Sleeping Beauty
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Sleeping Beauty
by Jennifer
She is lying there,
Bright lights playing on her silken hair.
In her hand she holds a flower.
Like the fairytale princess she should be in a tower.
Her lovely lips form a soft smile,
As though she'll awaken in just a little while.
Hoping that for once a fairy tale will come true,
As he bends to kiss her lips, he whispers, "I love you,"
Wishing that he would be her prince, his lips touch hers
And for a moment, he thinks that she murmurs
"I love you, too."
But, fairytales never do come true.
Slowly he comes to face the fact
That she isn't sleeping, that it's not just an act.
He loved her, and she was gone,
Leaving him behind to carry on.
He kissed her lips once more and turned to walk away,
But before he could leave her, there was one thing that
he had to say.
"I'll love you forever, my Sleeping Beauty."
Ick. That's why I chose this poem. My initial gut reaction was "Ick," but this was before I finished reading the poem and realized that he's kissing a corpse. It's a stiff! It's a rare day when you find a poem for your humor blog and you're sort of relieved when I discover that the woman being kissed is dead. I've never been more confident in the world's insanity. Upon my second reading of the poem, I realized that (consciously or unconsciously), Jennifer gives away the surprise before we get to the "so sad, she's expired" line. I blame myself for not reading more carefully: "Her lovely lips form a soft smile, / As though she'll awaken in just a little while." Rule 3.14 of bad poetry: if your entire poem exists because you want to tug on the heartstrings of the reader with the 'sleeping beauty' being dead, do not give away the death in the first third of the composition--especially since you have very little to work with in the first place. When you have only two pieces of bread left, be careful when toasting them because you don't want them to burn. And I wouldn't trust the toaster in the first place.
"Slowly he comes to face the fact / That she isn't sleeping, that it's not just an act" -- how slowly? Denial is the first stage of grief, but he's at her funeral. At least we hope it's at her funeral and he didn't dig up her casket or break a window to sneak into the morgue. The morgue setting seems unlikely, given the flower, but since all morgue attendants look like David Cross in "Men In Black", you never know. He wishes that "he would be her prince," which is probably the least appealing part of this cesspool of a poem. If the "As though she'll awaken..." line gets past you (it got past me), at this point in the poem, we have this: a sleeping woman is kissed by a man who does not seem to have any sort of intimate relationship with her, as he wishes that she will be his fairy tale princess. Thank goodness there's no scene where he takes the flower from her as he leaves. (Get it? No more flower? She'd be what? Deflowered maybe? Yep, a necrophilia joke. I feel terrible about it.)
Bad Poetry Grade [F = your standard bad poem; A+ = worst poem imaginable]: A-
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(2 comments | comment on this)
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| Saturday, September 26th, 2009
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12:09 am - Amazingly Bad Poetry Review - Touching Me
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Touching Me
by Derrick
I see a golden star,
Looking right at me.
And with that gaze it touches all of my heart,
Which feels of jubilee.
By my decree I shall stay happy,
No matter what may be.
For knowing that my heart has been touched,
By that golden star I see.
And even when I am on my own,
I close my eyes and still feel the heat.
From the star that was up there all alone,
With beauty that was never seen.
But that star is now mine to hold,
Which I have been told that I can unfold.
To discover all of the secrets inside,
The things that want to leave and the things that want to hide.
Beautiful star do you like what you see?
I wish right now where I could be,
Is with you worry free.
Touching my heart...touching me.
Derrick opens his poem immediately with the idea that a star, apparently chosen randomly, is looking directly at him as he looks directly at it. If you discount the sweet bubblegum pop song gooshiness of that idea, you still have to contend with it being a ridiculously conceited metaphor. Go ahead and anthropomorphize a star, people have been doing it for centuries, but don't say that it's looking at you, claiming it as being special to you and you only. If the star did possess human characteristics, it wouldn't regard you as anyone special. Neither of us are scholars of astronomy, so neither of us know whether this star is supporting a solar system of its own. If it does have orbiting planets, maybe one of those planets has life. And maybe that life is multi-celled and self-aware. And maybe that life form has developed culture and worship their sun (the star). Which would mean -- all together now! -- that Derrick is not the only one appreciating the star.
It wouldn't bother me so much (slightly less anyway) without the lines later where Derrick explains "I close my eyes and still feel the heat. / From the star that was up there all alone, / With beauty that was never seen." In the name of all holy fuck, is Derrick aware that people have been staring at the stars for as long as there's been civilization?
I'm not even going to try to decipher what Derrick means when he says he wants to unfold the star and discover its secrets. I don't think Derrick knows either. He's just throwing words at the page with barely any cohesiveness at all. I'm beginning to hope this poem was written by an infant. An infant who knows the words "jubilee" and "decree". This would mean that I'm a monster who mocks poems written by infants, but at least I have some peace of mind. I already mock poems written by mourning family members. He states that because he's been "recognized" by the star, he is blessed and will be happy for the rest of his life. I'd like to hear his explanation in regard to why he deserves this blessing. It comes with a time limit as he later wishes he could be with the star "worry free." So ... not only is he claiming the star, he has requests for it too? Perhaps Derrick would also like a life-size Millennium Falcon with Megan Fox as the co-pilot?
Bad Poetry Grade [F = your standard bad poem; A+ = worst poem imaginable]: D+
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(5 comments | comment on this)
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| Monday, September 7th, 2009
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2:25 pm - Amazingly Bad Poetry Review - A Fine Line
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A Fine Line
by Rachel
My love for you would never end, I thought?
I didn't think you could ever do wrong.
Oh how we did fight, how we yelled and fought.
You never thought that you were in the wrong.
You would lie to me to pass by the time
You said that you loved me! It wasn't true!
The words "Love and Hate" have a very fine line,
you know what, I'm making the move we're through!
What?! You didn't think I could see past you!
Remember when I told you forever?
You'll regret everything! You such a fool!
Ha! Ha! Well now I'm telling you NEVER!
I thought I would love you till the very end.
I hate you! So tell me who really did win?
"You sound like you're mad? Are you mad?" I wonder if Rachel used this poem to break up with her boyfriend. Perhaps they were trading poems during the last dying gasps of their relationship. Don't laugh, I'm sure it's been done. I like Rachel's rhetorical questions the best. Question: "What?!" Answer: I didn't say anything--because this is a poem, unless you're writing this poem while talking on the phone with me. Rachel, I can't be held accountable for the voices in your head. Usually someone writes "What?!" when they're reacting to something unbelievable or inane. Example: "Twilight" earned $69 million in its opening weekend. What?! I'm beginning to wish you broke up with via text message.
What causes her to say "What?!" I have to conclude she's replying to something he said between stanzas two and three, but tragically, we'll never know what this was. It couldn't have been anything good considering it elicited a "What?!" That exclamation makes me automatically cringe because it's what I hear whenever I ask my parents if they read the APBJ or if they love me. Normally, I would offer Rachel some commiseration or encourage her that she's better off without the bozo. But aside from my desire to warn her former #1 squeeze to keep his pets inside the house in a windowless room, I think she's fine.
"You would lie to me to pass by the time" -- well, everyone needs a hobby. Yes, he might have done this. I know better than to question one of Rachel's assertions. She might come after me. But what if these lies were entirely benign white lies? "Sweetie, I saw a kitten eating blueberries on the bus home from work today." "Oh?" "Yeah, really cute." But there was no kitten. Does she count this?
Another rhetorical question ... Q. Remember when I told you forever? A. Well, you used the word 'forever' in a lot of sentences. As you damn well know, your favorite Rod Stewart song is "Forever Young" and your favorite James Bond movie is "Diamonds are Forever" and your favorite Mel Gibson movie is also "Forever Young." Excuse me? You like "Maggie May" more? No, there never was a Mel Gibson movie with that title! What?!
Bad Poetry Grade [F = your standard bad poem; A+ = worst poem imaginable]: C-
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(2 comments | comment on this)
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| Monday, August 24th, 2009
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8:03 pm - Amazingly Bad Poetry Review - The Little Girl In My Bathroom
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The Little Girl In My Bathroom
To Cheryl _____ (my cna)
She walks back and forth, so weary and slow.
The sound of crying is heard but why I don't know.
I turn sometimes to ask her what ever is wrong.
But the moment I face her ,she is always gone.
Angel, ghost or what ever else she may be;
She has certainly made an impression on me.
Every night when we turn the lights out,
She can be heard crying and pacing about.
I am asking you God to please hear my plea,
Get her out of my bathroom,return it to me.
Her unseen prescence makes me start to shake
And the sound of her weeping makes my heart break.
In the interest of full disclosure, I didn't find this poem randomly. This poem was written by the same Linda who eulogized her nephew so clumsily in "Rebirth." I think this is the second or third time I've had the same poet featured more than once on the ABPJ. Thank goodness I deliberately lost Linda's last name. I was thinking that I'd have to dedicate the next five years of reviews to her.
Let's compare this poem to the greatest work of ghost-related fiction since "A Christmas Carol": "Ghost" (1990) starring Patrick Swayze, Demi Moore, and a hunk of wet clay. "Ghost" has the special effect where the shadows come alive to take away the evil people to hell. However, presumably. Linda's poem does not have any demonic spirits, although I think that if she altered it so it did, I'd send her a cash prize myself. "Ghost" has Vincent Schiavelli as the scene-stealing Subway Ghost, terrorizing and then briefly mentoring our main character. Linda's poem has 12 lines of dull and absolutely colorless statements and no insane ghosts trying to shove other ghosts off of subway cars.
You can't call her lines "observations" or "descriptions." They barely qualify as sentences. It's absolutely remarkable that a poem about a supernatural creature is so boring. It's like Linda decided (consciously) to stick to just the facts, believing that if she strayed from the benign, she'd be pushing her luck. She didn't want the little girl ghost to double her haunting schedule when she discovered Linda was misrepresenting her on the internet. The bathroom setting makes me queasy. I don't want to fall back toward toilet humor, but I have the distinct feeling that Linda is scared to use her bathroom at night because of the ghost. "Get her out of my bathroom, return it to me," she writes. She's really attached to this bathroom, isn't she? If Little Girl Ghost starts haunting the loo during the day, Linda's bowels are really going to be in a frenzy.
This poem is dedicated to Linda's CNA. I think "CNA" stands for "certified nurse's assistant". Considering that Linda wrote a poem from the point-of-view of her aunt, perhaps this ghost isn't haunting Linda's bathroom but rather Cheryl's. If this is in Linda's home, I would urge Cheryl to do the right thing by hiding all of the available writing implements and taking a hammer/root beer to the computer keyboard.
Bad Poetry Grade [F = your standard bad poem; A+ = worst poem imaginable]: B+
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(3 comments | comment on this)
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| Friday, July 24th, 2009
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11:02 pm - Amazingly Bad Poetry Journal Review - It Starts With A Kiss
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It Starts With A Kiss
by Christina
we both stood so close together
with the look on our faces
our eyes closed, are bodies weeped
we move closer our lips pressed
our hands in motion,are bodies melt
our toungs meet two souls are one.
the thought racing,
the heart pounding
tempeture rising, close sheading
a quick pause, a look of permition.
the intence kiss, you wish is granted granted
pants unzipped so what comes next
one last look to make sure its ok
im hear to please you thats my way
the night goes on hr after hr
were still not done lets take a shower
we get out the shower were all wet
were still not done weve got two left
two is done its time to quit
like i said it starts with a kiss.
The tragedy is that while I know how to use an apostrophe, and I know the difference between "are" and "our" and I am fully aware that two people need to be physically close in order to kiss, I haven't had sex in over two years. I'm beginning to think my girlfriend doesn't find me attractive...
Like a Chinese food buffet in Wyoming, I don't know where to start because it all looks so bad. If you've been reading the ABPJ for awhile, you know I love finding a poem with a sex scene. But every time I read this one, it adds five minutes to my next shower. There's something absolutely grimy about it, as if this couple was doing their filthy deed in the back of a pickup truck or in a dressing room stall at Sears. If someone was having sex while reading this poem, they'd have to hastily stop because this poem has the power to immediately destroy any libido. I don't know WHY anyone would be reading a poem while engaging in sexual congress, even if you own a laptop. But hey, you asked. If you've ever read the ABPJ while naked and/or engaging in some sort of sexual activity, I am flattered.
If I was to point to a line that is the most damaging to my soul, it would have to be "pants unzipped so what comes next". Considering the poem as a whole, you could almost believe that Christina doesn't, in fact, know what comes next. But this is probably meant as some sort of coquettish come-on. Despite my best efforts to the contrary, I'm unpleasantly reminded of the movie "Taking Lives" where Ethan Hawke manages to boink Angelina Jolie while keeping his pants entirely on. The actual sex here is censored, like in the original Leisure Suit Larry game, but I imagine they have all the coital finesse of two otters going at it.
In case any of you are stymied by "close sheading", I think it should be "shedding clothes." As for "bodies weeped", "bodies wrapped" is my best guess. If she was trying to say "bodies weeping" (i.e sweating), I will have to take my own life. After the sex and after the shower, Christina writes "we get out the shower were all wet / were still not done weve got two left." If she meant that they have two condoms left, I suppose I could be glad they're using condoms... although I still have to scrub myself down with lye. It could be that she meant that they have two hours left (until what? Church?) and she was distracted by something shiny when she was writing that particular line. Yet another reason to hate this poem: I resent their sexual vivacity. At least I can keep telling myself it was bad sex that they were having when I gather around the radio to listen to "Fibber McGee & Molly."
Bad Poetry Grade [F = your standard bad poem; A+ = worst poem imaginable]: A-
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(11 comments | comment on this)
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| Friday, July 17th, 2009
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6:08 pm - Amazingly Bad Poetry Journal Review - Rebirth
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Rebirth
by Linda
Rick was an outstanding scientist, educator and human being.
Hi Rick, You were the stars that were seen in your Mom's eyes.
You were the diamonds dusting her lashes as she cried.
You were the thought that turned her lips up in a smile
You were the inspiration that made her go that extra mile.
Once in a while God sends down one of His "special" ones.
And its the greatest of honors to birth one of these star born.
They shine so early and brightly, they light up our life.
We can never imagine that one day they might die.
But, Grieve not proud Mother,look up into the night sky.
Rick's one of the brightest stars lighting God's Heavenly night.
I've got a lot to say for this one. I hope you will hang with me.
If someone wants to really humiliate me post-death, they'll write a poem like this one-- but, seriously, I'll haunt your ass until you're insane. I've never written a poem to commemorate a death--and neither should you (unless you really want to, but in that case, please keep it to yourself.) It's not the equivalent of trying to put out a fire in a 7-11 with a Penzoil Slurpee, but I can't imagine it making the person feel better about losing a loved one. This is especially true with this poetic afterbirth. Especially if you invoke the "their light burns so bright and went out too early" cliche that Elton John ruined for everyone when he used it in two hit pop songs.
I usually don't research the poems that I review but while I wanted to review this one, I felt I should try to make sure that it wasn't written by Rick's actual mother. Well, I subsequently discovered that it was written by Rick's cousin. On a memorial webpage, there's another poem, also by Linda, written from the perspective of Rick's mother (Linda's aunt). Believe me that I don't mean to belittle Rick's death at all, but does this strike anyone else as being mildly creepy? It gets "better." On Linda's Myspace page (so gaudy and pink and horrible, I can still see it when I close my eyes two weeks later), she lets friends/family/me know that "Rebirth" had just won a second ipod shuffle from the (now old) poetry.com. She also encouraged visitors to keep voting for "Rebirth" so it might win a cash prize from the ol' International Library of Poetry -- so they might then donate that cash to the scholarship fund in Rick's name. There was a voting system set up on Poetry.com, but no registration was required to vote ... so theoretically, you could vote for "Rebirth" 1,500 times (10 out of 10) and that's how you win two ipod shuffles and hopefully cash money.
Now, assuming a heaven exists and the departed are privy to what goes on with the living, what do you think Rick thinks about his memorial poem being used to win an ipod shuffle? How about two ipod shuffles? As far as winning money to then donate to a scholarship, it's certainly honorable, but I would argue that there's better ways then encouraging friends/family to vote for a poem on a site that acquired its income via legal scams. What ever happened to bake sales?
( continue to part II of this review if you're not thoroughly disgusted by my choosing to review the one. I know I am. )
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(2 comments | comment on this)
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| Monday, July 6th, 2009
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8:01 pm - Amazingly Bad Poetry Journal Review - The Treehouse
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The Treehouse
by unknown, but we'll call him (or her) 'George'
so this is America, right?
the rag-tag band of punkass bitches
who left the motherland
like a little kid
who takes three-fourths of a loaf of wonder bread,
an opened jar of peanut butter,
two pairs of underwear,
who yells “I hate you.”
and punctuates it with the slam of the screen door.
this is America.
big cars.
big houses.
wal-marts people debt airports ideas nukes
skyscrapers egos potential stadiums tax refunds
if only our minds
were as big as our shopping centers
And our potential
does that star-spangled banner
still wave o’er
The land of the free
and the home of the brave?
Listen, I despair of this country as much as the next red-blooded working man, but how will writing angry yet weak poetry get us through this crisis? I know I speak of all of us when I say that I wake up every morning not knowing how Christopher Nolan is ever going to top "The Dark Knight" if the third Batman movie ever happens. Should they just leave well enough alone? Remember what happened to "The Godfather Part III"? For a person as pessimistic as I am, I'm actually optimistic in regard to the country's future. That's assuming the country has a future. I don't really read the news, but I know there's a race of giant shape shifting robots, and while some are here to protect us, most of them are here to destroy us. And the little brother from the Disney Channel's "Even Stevens" is now President? I just hope I'm dead by the time Khan Noonien Singh starts the Eugenics Wars.
George's poem is obviously meant to be read in a poetry slam setting. You can tell from how it's constructed. It even follows some of the rules set by Taylor Mali's "How To Write A Political Poem". I'm surprised the author didn't try an "e.e cummings" style breakup of the lines. And where's the random cursing and ethnic slurs? We get the punkass bitches -- then nothing? Where are the Wal-Mart people fucking in their Hummers? I feel cheated. Rather, I feel gypped. Gypped just like like those wandering punkass bitches who founded our country! Hey! See what I did there? As for George's metaphor of little kids running away from home, it works a tiny bit if we're speaking of the original English settlers, disgusted by the Church of England and the Catholics. Except that a little kid, after running away from home, will inevitably come back home and our immigrant ancestors weren't changing their mind about leaving their motherland because they didn't want to miss "ALF." I don't know if I appreciate having my ancestors referred to as "punkass bitches." Unless George is full Choctaw or Iroquois, I don't think his ancestors would appreciate it either. And if he is an American Indian, I'd expect him to be considerably more angry.
George's poem isn't entirely negative. He points out the country's potential--twice... although he doesn't seem to have anything else nice to say. I've never fought fire with fire before, but he's my quick poetic reply to George's poem:
My country, 'tis of thee
fuck - remember when Bambi
was learning how to walk?
Above the fruited plain?
And Thumper said
"Kinda wobbly, isn't he?"
That's sort of
how
(from every mountainside.)
I (let freedom ring) feel.
Bad Poetry Grade [F = your standard bad poem; A+ = worst poem imaginable]: C-
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(comment on this)
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| Friday, June 26th, 2009
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6:47 pm - Amazingly Bad Poetry Journal Review - Crucify
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Crucify
by Richard
We send another dagger deep into its side;
And still we are forgiven.
We crucify and curse it,
If every drop of blood is not given.
We watch with anticipation,
As it staggers from its wounds.
We clamor for our buckets
To scoop up the oozing crude.
I return to view the violence
And survey the scene of our desecration.
But all that remains
Are the scars of our devastation.
We must change our course,
For if we fail to make the correction,
Finality will fuel the future,
And there will be no resurrection.
What will we do when we
Have bled our victim dry?
What will we do when there
Is nothing left to crucify?
I have a question. What will you do when your Christ-as-earth metaphor runs out of juice almost immediately? Or rather, instead of running out of juice, it runs out of oil. See what I did there? See? See? Why can't you see? What did I do? Tell me what I did and I'll change! Why won't you just love me?
This poem won't make anyone happy. Environmentalists might not dig the death of the Mother Earth being represented by the death of a male prophet. I know I don't appreciate it. And Christians might not appreciate their god being used as a metaphor, along with the casual attitude Richard has toward continuity and Biblical canon. He's really in trouble with the people who are simultaneously passionate Christians and environmentalists. Or you can dislike the poem because it's terrible. It's about as subtle as a Jay Leno monologue or a Dreamworks animated feature. I would have preferred it instead of writing the last three stanzas, Richard wrote "GET IT??!" in large capital letters.
There are vials of flash-frozen sperm in secret underground Disneyland labs who know the Earth is dying. The last thing we need is a self-important poem from Richard reminding us that we fucked up. Can't you just see Richard patting himself on the back for his cleverness? Actually, I'm doing everyone a disservice by writing this review... since a lot more people are going to read this poem as a result. This poem deserves to be eaten by worms in a compost pile. I don't want you think that I take the planet's environmental crisis lightly. I wake up every morning screaming something nonsensical and often terrifying, and after that I offer thanks to my god that I probably won't be alive when the unspeakably horrible apocalyptic events occur. That is not to say that I don't worry about the children of my friend's children. They'll probably have to wear really silly special hats when they go outside. "In my time, I chose to wear a silly hat," I will point out from my self-aware Professor Roy hologram.
Bad Poetry Grade [F = your standard bad poem; A+ = worst poem imaginable]: B
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| Saturday, June 13th, 2009
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11:30 am - Amazingly Bad Poetry Journal Review - Four Times the Pleasure
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Four Times the Pleasure
by Hannah
To wake up in your arms
I set four alarms
perhaps an extreme measure
but it's four times the pleasure
Now I'm running late
no time for make-up
I have no time to wait
Hurry up, wake up
What a lovely morning
definitely worth while
Work is rather boring
another poem for the pile
Slow motion is the pace
I'm daydreaming of your face
Can't wait to leave this place
Your lips I can't wait to taste
Tick tock, tick tock
Looking forward to six o'clock
I'll leave the door unlocked
Don't bother to knock
And tonight I'll set four alarms
to wake up four times in your arms
an extreme measure, maybe
but four times the pleasure, baby
A young woman is in intensive care in the morgue tonight after her liver and both kidneys were stolen. Police suspect she is another victim of the Vital Organ Thief. "She should have locked her door," police chief O'Hara said. "Even if she was expecting someone," her landlord added, nodding. Not only was the door unlocked, but the doorbell was broken and there was a note "Don't bother to knock." "Really?" a neighbor said to this reporter. "Didn't she read the news? I thought everyone knew about the famous Vital Organ Thief. There's 'wanted' posters everywhere, and he's on the TV every night. And you definitely shouldn't look in my industrial top-loading freezer because all you're going to find in there are Otter Pops. I love me those Otter Pops. Much better than vital organs. Blech!"
My alarm clock is more than twenty years old. If you want to set multiple alarms, you're limited to two. Not four like high-falooting Hannah and her modern clock radio. Four, for heavens sake. That's almost twice as many as mine. At least Hannah admits that this habit is an "extreme measure," which I take as being her personal code phrase for "I am just a little unpleasantly insane."
Setting four alarms so you can wake up four different times in the arms of your lover -- it's actually cute idea. But it's not really possible. Waking up next to someone is awesome, but it might start to lose its simple beauty if you overdo it. I imagine I'd fall back into cynicism around the third alarm. "Oh...hi... Yes, I love you too... Can we get up now? I need to evacuate my bowels. And I'm hungry." Also -- I've never used a snooze button in all of the years I've been using an alarm clock. It must feel so unloved. I'm not bragging at my lack of utilizing the Snooze bar. Rather, I'm just saying that I prefer to wake up gradually instead of waking up, going back to sleep, only to wake up again in 15 minutes. It's moot, as this would never work with me. I wake up every morning screaming something nonsensical. And I'm single. Ladies?
"Work is rather boring / another poem for the pile" -- aside from the prostitutes who read the ABPJ on a regular basis, a great deal of us can relate to work being boring. I spend the last three hours of my workday thinking "if I ate this six-month-old unrefrigerated bologna packet, would it get me out of work or would it just kill me?" Damned if I get what Hannah is saying with this second line. Is she referring to the poem she's presently writing? How dully meta. She's writing poetry to pass the time at work. I used to have a co-worker who would work on a novel during work hours. I would have admired his hubris except he was a class-A dick and second of all, he was constantly working on it. His and Hannah's casual attitude should make your teeth hurt. Writing poetry or a novel should not be easy. I'm a strong believer in this adage: if you think writing is easy, you're doing it wrong. Example: while writing this review, I broke up with five different girlfriends and developed an opium habit.
Bad Poetry Grade [F = your standard bad poem; A+ = worst poem imaginable]: C-
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| Friday, June 5th, 2009
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6:56 pm - Amazingly Bad Poetry Journal Review - Don't Notice I'm Alive
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Don't Notice I'm Alive
by Cassie, Calgary, Alberta
one look one smile
your touch your skin
your vioce
everything you do
it amazes me, drive me crazy
but you dont relize what's standing right in front of your eyes,
right in front of your eyes
you don't notice I'm alive
cover me like a blanket
lay me down and stay
I don't want you to leave
never and not today
but you dont relize what's standing right in front of your eyes,
right in front of your eyes
you don't notice I'm alive
I was initially befuddled by what sort of relationship Cassie has with the person she's addressing in this poem. But now I think that's because at this point in the APBJ's history, I've lost my humanity. Unrequited love is what we have here, but it's left unclear whether or not he does, in fact, know that Cassie is alive. The microscopic pinch of erotic flavoring in the middle of the poem throws me off. I may be wrong but I get the feeling that there's some carnal knowledge between these two. It's just as likely that he's the star quarterback for the Calgary Stampeders and this is just a little fantasy tossed into the poem like so many Baco-Bits... but heck, she mentions his skin in line two.
I've said this before in regard to another poem, but I really hope that this is a song submitted to Poetry.com, masquerading as a poem. Otherwise, there's no way that I can reconcile myself with Cassie repeating "right in front of your eyes" right after writing the same exact line. Then she does it again at the end of the poem. Blatantly. She doesn't even try to hide it. Christ, I found myself reading all four instances of the line over again, hoping that she slipped in some twist. No soap. At least she could have titled the poem "Right in front of your eyes" and made it a solid five times.
It might as well be a song. It's my understanding that all Canadians are given an acoustic guitar as soon as they're born. Think about all the Canadians you know who can play the guitar. Michael J. Fox. Ellen Page. Keanu Reeves. Kiefer Sutherland. The guys from the band Rush. The other possibility is that this was for a school assignment that Cassie fudged. "The assignment clearly says that the poem must at least 15 lines long, eh," the teacher says to Cassie. "In fact, eh, it's repeated on the assignment sheet twice." "Repeated, eh?" Cassie thinks to herself. But unless the teacher gave Cassie 30 seconds to finish the assignment, I still can't excuse this sort of behavior.
Bad Poetry Grade [F = your standard bad poem; A+ = worst poem imaginable]: F
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(4 comments | comment on this)
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| Monday, May 18th, 2009
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8:19 pm - Amazingly Bad Poetry Journal Review - Louder than Words
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Louder than Words
by Terrie
free to be me at any time--so are you
life lead by symbols and signs, maybe love anew
directions here and there everywhere we go
they tell us in their actions
how they feel without congruency to words
spoken as if truth could be concealed
we know what is truly real--what is not
the hug is a sacred moment between us
sincerity is not a game of points
but a matter of charactor and trust
tell me how you really feel
Lies are dangerous, they hurt and steal
so they go out with the trash
with the fish heads wrapped
in the black and white news of day
after the cafe lights go out
while patrons stroll the moonlit street
as the hope for new love drifts
pointlessly away before it really has a life
before it has a heat
Poet laureate Billy Collins wrote in his poem "Workshop" that "I start to wonder if what we have here is really two poems, or three, or four, or possibly none." This is a perfect example. I wouldn't be surprised if this poem was written by two independent individuals, neither aware of the other person's existence. If these two people met, chaos would reign. If they touched, the universe would end (like in "Timecop").
When you read the first few lines of the poem, is anyone else reminded of the song "Signs" by the (Canadian) rock group, the Five Man Electrical Band? It may just be my mood at the time of this review, but I'm really disgusted by Terrie's self-righteous tone. Hey, thanks, Whitney Houston, but I already knew that it was important for me to be myself. Thank goodness I read this poem, because for the last ten years, I've been pretending to be a character from the movie "Akira" because I thought that was how I could get people to like me. But now I understand that I'm free to be myself, all thanks to Terrie's intervention. Bless her. If Terrie tried to hug me, I think I would take one big yet polite step backward. Sort of like the time in 1994 when I went to a New Years party of AOL trivia contest players in Palo Alto, and a happily drunk woman named Peggy tried to kiss me. (Not wanting to be entirely rude, I let her kiss my cheek). And Terrie believes the hug to be a sacred act! If a hug is sacred, then what is coitus? Also sacred? Less or more sacred? This isn't a riddle. I want to know.
Soon after the talk of hugs, the poem takes a dramatic and inexplicable left turn. We're comparing and contrasting sincerity and dishonesty, but then suddenly there's fish heads? Okay, fish heads are disgusting and maybe Terrie was looking for something gross to parallel with the idea of lies... But it's like she intended to connect them via a simile and then she got distracted by someone jangling keys in the next room. So Terrie recognized these lies for what they were and threw them away, throwing away fish heads while she was at it...? I'm still not sure why she chose to frame the last third of the poem around a cafe. It may have been the path -- trash led to fish heads to the restaurant to the Italian stereotype singing a song to Lady and Tramp. Oh, wait, that last part was just me. Perhaps a former boyfriend of Terrie's broke up with her by leaving a pile of fish heads on her porch, invoking his ancient family tradition?
Bad Poetry Grade [F = your standard bad poem; A+ = worst poem imaginable]: D+
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| Saturday, May 2nd, 2009
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2:23 pm - Amazingly Bad Poetry Journal Review - A night with the devil himself
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A night with the devil himself
by 'Ashley'
The darkness holds me with its cold arms
Kissing me with the venom of a scorpion
Touching me with the blood of an innocent
Death feels the room
As the devil takes control
He seduces me to his side
Carrying me to his bed
And kisses me with sins
Leaving his marks upon my neck
And I have nowhere to go
So bite into my skin
Slit my wrists and drain my life
Take out the liquid that satisfies you with bliss
Tie my hands so that I don’t flinch
Love me or hate me
My dark lover for you is a nightmare
For I no longer love you
So I bid my good byes and walk into the bathroom
Just to rinse away my sins and blood for tomorrow he will return
And I shall be the one who’s innocent and having my blood as wine.
Stephanie Meyer, be not proud. Okay, I understand you're not personally responsible for people's vampire preoccupation--but you certainly didn't help to vanquish it. Is there a secret rule that there has to be a wildly successful vampire novel every 20 years or so? Check back with me when I'm in my 50's. I'll be the one pissed off by whatever new overstuffed take on vampires has come along. At least when it came to the Anne Rice novels, they were...it was... okay, I can't think of anything nice to say about the Lestat books either. Well, at least the first one focused on the so-called appeal-slash-curse of being a vampire, rather than dressing it up with a teenage romance. A forbidden teenage romance, no less. That will always put them in the seats. Shakespeare didn't invent the star-crossed lovers. The first version was actually written by a primordial slug who has fallen in love with a primordial slug from the other sulfur pit.
It might be that this poem wasn't inspired by "Twilight" at all and I'm scapegoating Ms. Meyer. To this, I reply with a respectful 'eh.' If Ashley hasn't been locked away in a hospital after biting a policeman's horse, I'm sure she saw "Twilight" and read all of the books. That's assuming she never stopped being 15. If you haven't gathered by now, with a few exceptions ("Let the Right One In" is brilliant), I have an extreme dislike for the vampire genre, including that tiny percentage of the population who seem to be taking it a bit too far. I suspect Ashley is taking it too far. Far be it for me to judge what you do your free time, especially since I have no argument to explain my aversion. I'm still shaking my head over seeing "Interview with the Vampire." I've been shaking my head since 1994. The only explanation I can manage is that I must have thought it'd be like "Fright Night". "Fright Night" is a great and funny vampire movie, but even it has an extended sequence with the female lead being seduced (by Prince Humperdink).
I have no idea what she's trying to say when she writes that the darkness touches her "with the blood of an innocent." Could it be that Ashley confused her Satanic sacrifice cosplay with her vampire cosplay? It happens to me all the time. It's time for some of the sex with my girlfriend but I forget to look at the calendar, and it turns out that I'm supposed to be the radical Civil War abolitionist this particular night, and not David Lee Roth from Van Halen. We had a good laugh after that, after the cops left.
When Ashley writes that "Death feels the room," I think she meant to say that "Death fills the room." The ridiculous truth is that the typo improves the line. You're not going to see examples like that if you read good poetry. What if there'd been a simple typo in the original First Folio? The first line of Sonnet 130 might have been "My mistress' eyes are nothing like the buns."
Bad Poetry Grade [F = your standard bad poem; A+ = worst poem imaginable]: A-
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(12 comments | comment on this)
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| Wednesday, April 22nd, 2009
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7:38 pm - Amazingly Bad Poetry Journal Review - Ex Prince Charming
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Ex Prince Charming
by Gabrielle, unknown location
Concealed behind a stylish mask,
Stealing sips from a hidden flask,
Drunk with ambition for the next treat,
You're driven to the next beautiful girl you'll meet,
Lusting away after pretty girls,
The young ones with blonde curls,
Succumbing to your hidden desires,
Laughing away with sirens and liars,
Kissing necks and plotting prey,
Hoping you'll feel better with the next lay,
Knowing everyday you'll feel worse
Because letting the girl of your dreams run away
Was your biggest curse
The mask didn't always exist. Ergo, the mask metaphor didn't always exist. I've done extensive, indisputable research. The first masks were probably worn in an ancient, one-night-only production of "Revenge of the Nerds" by the Babylonians in 1742 BC. It was part of their religious ceremony. Specifically, this first mask was worn by the Lewis Skolnick character, when he wears it to impersonate Betty's boyfriend and thus, have sex with her in the carnival funhouse. Interesting fact: by an amazing coincidence, the Babylonian actor who played Betty's boyfriend 'Stan Gable' -- also named Ted McGinley.
Some time after this drama, there was an unheralded ancient poet who can be credited with the first mask-related metaphor in a poem. His or her peers probably thought it was awesome at the time. "Dude!" they must have said to their poet friend. "It's like we're all wearing masks every day! I mean, do you really know who I am? I could be wearing a mask right now." Then, of course, some of them had to have the metaphor concept explained to them, because it was brand new. In case you're not aware, ancient civilization did, in fact, carry on conversations like surfers in 80's movies. When masks became a prevalent part of our day-to-day society, due to the success of the dramas "Mask" (with Eric Stoltz) and "Son of the Mask" and the TV series "MASK" (an acronym for Mobile Armored Strike Kommand -- yes, Kommand), the everyday Joe or Jill can write a poem featuring a person wearing a mask. Like, say, Gabrielle here. I'm 90% sure that this poem is about John Mayer.
Gabrielle is clearly not over this guy yet, especially since she ends the poem with a declaration that she is the girl of his dreams and insisting that he must be feeling bad about bedding an endless caravan of blondes. She wants him back, even though he's clearly an asshat douchebag. Memo to Gabrielle: even if you believe that all of his casual sex is causing A.D's soul to decay, he's not feeling the least bad about this. You know why? Because he's an asshat douchebag who is having sex with various blondes he meets at parties. I would love to be an asshat for a few weeks, as long as I was having STD-free sex with blondes (or brunettes) with natural breasts. Not the terrifying plastic "Girls Next Door" types. Does someone want to volunteer to explain all of this to Gabrielle? While you're at it, explain that the sentence "Because letting the girl of your dreams run away was your biggest curse" doesn't really work as a sentence. It should really say that he cursed himself when he let the girl of his dreams run away. You're better off without him, Gab. Call me.
Bad Poetry Grade [F = your standard bad poem; A+ = worst poem imaginable]: D+
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7:15 pm
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Dear ABPJ fans,
I just found out today that Poetry.com, as we knew it, is no more. This is excellent news for the planet at large. Finally something good has come out of the global economic crisis. If you've never read my "mission statement," perhaps you did not know that the former owners of poetry.com were no better than, say, snake oil salesmen. The International Library of Poetry, poetry.com's former owners, went out of its way to convince amateur poets that their poems were brilliant. This was so their customers would then buy their junk (books, tote bags, mouse pads, convention tickets, anything else they could think of, etc.). The site preyed on the naive, the emotionally fragile, and on the deluded. But they're kaput. I suspected it might be, since they hadn't updated the front page of the site in months. I couldn't be happier...
...although it might be a little harder to find poems now. The new Poetry.com appears to be legitimate, in that they're not trying to cheat people out of their cash. That is, the new company's outlook seems to be totally different. The real-time poetry entries link still works (for now)... it's where I got all of the poems for review... but it refreshes after 60 seconds. And that's too long to wait. I have another site in mind, and hopefully it will bear some worthwhile bad poetry fruit. No, I don't know what fruit would equal bad poetry fruit. Probably some sort of melon.
Love,
Professor Roy
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(7 comments | comment on this)
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| Wednesday, April 8th, 2009
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7:18 am - Warm puppy? Bah.
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Happiness is finding a half-written (longhand) ABPJ review, considering that you searched for it for an hour when you realized you lost it months ago, and it still counts as 'happiness' even though it's not as funny as you remember it being when you originally wrote it.
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(comment on this)
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| Saturday, March 7th, 2009
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6:25 pm - Amazingly Bad Poetry Journal Review - Raven
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Raven
by 'A', Wasilla, AK
Offer up your pain to Raven's spear
Let him chase away the fear
Hearts are broken on black wing nights
Picked clean by mornings light
Stumbling the hoard flees isolation
A scattered and bizarre migration
Rippied and torn, eaten hot
Disconnection has marked a fatal spot
A butchered and slaughtered feast
Laid out on a table awaitning release
A hollow heart disappearing fast
Bloody Raven finishes his repast
I am going to try to make this a sarcasm-free review. So much of the humor on the web is just thinly disguised snark. But after reading this poem, I've decided that a leopard can't change his spots and I must announce an end to my ban on sarcasm. I say this because it was a pleasure to read this short poem, especially when you consider the lack of any legendary works that revolve around a raven. This poet saw a available niche and flew at it. Now he's wedged inside that niche.
Here, the raven represents the emotional torture experienced when someone suffers a broken heart. We've all been through it. It might not be with your first cousin, but you know the feeling. You will recall Greek mythology's Prometheus, introduced fire to mankind, was chained to a rock and had this liver eaten by an eagle. That would be bad enough, but every night, his liver would regenerate and "oh no!", here comes that hungry eagle again! Would you rather have your heart eaten by a raven or have your liver eaten over and over again by an eagle for all eternity? The first two lines of the poem seem to contradict the rest of the poem. Raven with his spear (the beak?) can chase away your fear? Fear of what? Is the raven trying to trick his way into your house so he can eat your heart? And 'A' is working with the raven? It's a conspiracy!
I like to imagine 'A' reading his poem to Poe as he lies in his hospital bed, dying from alcoholism or possibly rabies. And this poem is just enough to push him over the edge into oblivion. Yet another thing that I would do if I had a time machine. If that didn't work, I'd explain that in the late 20th century, lunatic musician Michael Jackson wanted to make a movie about his life, where he'd play Poe. Really. (How would you explain Michael Jackson to a writer in the mid-19th century? Explain.) "Oh, and there's a version of rugby played in Baltimore, it's called 'football.' And the team is called the Ravens. Named after your poem, yes. They even have a obscene cartoon mascot ... named 'Poe.'" Then I'd do that motion where I close his eyes.
Bad Poetry Grade [F = your standard bad poem; A+ = worst poem imaginable]: B
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(4 comments | comment on this)
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