Authors: Kathryn Petras
Very Bad Poetry (6 page)
A
poet and customs officer (like Edwin Edward Foot after him), Matthew Green was considered a wit. Perhaps it was his quick thinking that led him to write one of his most famous poems, about the often-overlooked spleen. “The Spleen” was quite successful. It was published posthumously in 1737 by Richard Glover, author of the epic
Leonidas,
and subsequently appeared in the famous
Dodsley’s Collection,
as well as in Dr. Johnson’s
Poets.
And none other than the
poet laureate Alexander Pope said that there was a great deal of originality in the poem—a sentiment with which few can argue.
The Spleen
I always choose the plainest food
To mend viscidity of blood.
Hail! water gruel, healing power,
Of easy access to the poor;
Thy help love’s confessors implore,
And doctors secretly adore:
To thee I fly, by thee dilute—
Through veins my blood doth quicker shoot;
And by swift current throws off clean
Prolific particles of spleen.
(1835-?)
J
oseph Gwyer was a potato salesman with a dream: to be poet laureate of England. So he devoted those hours when he wasn’t selling potatoes to this estimable end. For twenty years he wrote furiously, sending his works to Buckingham Palace and getting time after time the royal equivalents of a rejection letter—curt acknowledgments from private secretaries. But the ever-optimistic Gwyer read these as recommendations. In 1875 he published a collection of his works:
Sketches of the Life of Joseph Gwyer (Potato Salesman) with His Poems (Commended by Royalty)
and included reprints of some of the letters he had received as well as some reviews he had collected—which were about as evasive as the royal letters; for instance, “Mr. Gwyer’s aspirations
are most praiseworthy.… we prefer to refrain from depreciating that which is so well intentioned,” read a review in
Lloyd’s Weekly.
Always the salesman, Gwyer also presented readers of the book with a unique opportunity: people could purchase by mail a sack of his potatoes as well, not to mention a photograph of him and his horse. A review of the book in the
New York Tribune
was blunt: people who weren’t sure whether to opt for the poetry or the potatoes should choose the potatoes.
I wish you Alfred now a good night;
You gives your mother great delight;
Don’t you wake up and ask for baa,
Or you’ll offend your dad-dad-a.
(Note: Alfred, when asking for bread, calls it baa; and water, waa.)
Ode on the Visit of the Shah of Persia
Intoxicating draughts he never does drink
If this we copied should we not be better, think?
On the Death of the Duke of Clarence
Albert Victor loved his mother,
Father, sisters and his brother,
Affection great marked here his stay,
Was kind disposed in every way.
On the Funeral of Dr. Livingston
Heap on more grass was his request
As hapless now he laid to rest.
(fl. 1860s)
N
ancy Luce lived on a farm in Martha’s Vineyard, was certainly fond of chickens, and published a book of verse and advice called
Poor Little Hearts.
This selection was sent to us by the distinguished modern poet W. D. Snodgrass, who, with his wife, does a reading of bad verse called “The Murdered Muse.”
Poor Little Hearts
Lines composed by Nancy Luce about poor little Ada Queetie,
and poor little Beauty Linna, both deceased. Poor little Ada
Queetie died February 25th, Thursday night, at 12 o’clock,
aged most 9 years. Poor little Beauty Linna died January 18th,
Tuesday night, most 2 o’clock, 1859, aged over 12 years. She
lived 11 months lacking 7 days after poor sissy’s decease.
Poor little Ada Queetie has departed this life,
Never to be here no more,
No more to love, no more to speak.
….
Poor little Ada Queetie’s last sickness and death,
Destroyed my health at an unknown rate,
With my heart breaking and weeping,
I kept the fire going night after night, to keep poor little dear warm,
Poor little heart, she was sick one week
With froth in her throat,
Then 10 days and grew worse, with dropsy in her stomach,
I kept getting up nights to see how she was.
….
She was coming 9 years of age, when she was taken away,
By all I found out, very certain true
Poor Sissy hatched her out her egg in Chilmark,
The reason she was taken away before poor Sissy,
Her constitution was as weak as weak could be.
….
She would do 34 wonderful cunning things,
Poor Sissy would do 39,
They would do part of them without telling,
And do all the rest with telling.
….
When she used to be in her little box to lay pretty egg,
She would peek up from under the chair.
….
Her complaint that caused her death,
Was just such a complaint as poor Sissy had
Only poor Sissy’s complaint ended with dropsy in her stomach.
(1830-1902)
A
s William McGonagall, self-described poet and tragedian, wrote in the opening to his
Poetic Gems,
“The most startling incident in my life was the time I discovered myself to be a poet.”
Many people in his native Dundee, Scotland, apparently disagreed with his discovery. Once while he was reciting his work at a pub, a waiter threw a wet towel at him. Yet McGonagall tried to put a positive spin on events. As McGonagall tells it, “While … giving a good recitation, it helps to arrest the company’s attention from the drink.… Such was the case with me.” So the pub owner, upset that everyone was listening to McGonagall and not drinking up, had the waiter throw the towel at McGonagall and so end the poetry reading.
Another time a publican threw peas at McGonagall. Once again the poet had a positive interpretation. “The reason, I think for the publican throwing peas at me,” he wrote in a preface, “is because I say, to the devil with your glass in my song, ‘The Rattling Boy from Dublin,’ and he, no doubt considered it had a teetotal tendency about it, and, for that reason, he had felt angry, and had thrown the peas at me.”
McGonagall was what is politely termed a “naive” poet. In other words, he had no ear for meter, a knack for choosing the most banal of subjects, and a tendency to stretch mightily for a rhyme. But the overall effect was uniformly entertaining. He drew great crowds to his readings, in spite of—or, more accurately, because of—his lack of talent.
The following three selections concerning a railway bridge built over Dundee’s river Tay are best read in swift succession.
The Railway Bridge of the Silvery Tay
Beautiful Railway Bridge of the Silvery Tay!
With your numerous arches and pillars in so grand array,
And your central girders, which seem to the eye
To be almost towering to the sky.
The greatest wonder of the day,
And a great beautification to the River Tay,
Most beautiful to be seen,
Near by Dundee and the Magdalen Green.
Beautiful Railway Bridge of the Silvery Tay!
That has caused the Emperor of Brazil to leave
His home far away, incognito in his dress,
And view thee ere he passed along en route to Inverness.
….
Beautiful Railway Bridge of the Silvery Tay!
I hope that God will protect all passengers
By night and by day,
And that no accident will befall them while crossing
The Bridge of the Silvery Tay,
For that would be most awful to be seen
Near by Dundee and the Magdalen Green.
Beautiful Railway Bridge of the Silv’ry Tay
Alas! I am very sorry to say
That ninety lives have been taken away
On the last Sabbath day of 1879,
Which will be remembered for a very long time.
’Twas about seven o’clock at night,
And the wind it blew with all its might,
And the rain came pouring down,
And the dark clouds seem’d to frown,
And the Demon of the air seem’d to say—
“I’ll blow down the Bridge of Tay.”
….
It must have been an awful sight,
To witness in the dusky moonlight,
While the Storm Fiend did laugh, and angry did bray,
Along the Railway Bridge of the Silv’ry Tay.
Oh! ill-fated Bridge of the Sil’vry Tay,
I must now conclude my lay
By telling the world fearlessly without the least dismay,
That your central girders would not have given way,
At least many sensible men do say,
Had they been supported on each side with buttresses,
At least many sensible men confesses,
For the stronger we our houses do build,
The less chance we have of being killed.
An Address to the New Tay Bridge
Beautiful new railway bridge of the Silvery Tay,
With your strong brick piers and buttresses in so grand array,
And your thirteen central girders, which seem to my eye
Strong enough all windy storms to defy.
A Tale of the Sea
’Twas on the 8th April, on the afternoon of that day,
That the little village of Louisberg was thrown into a wild state of dismay,
And the villagers flew to the beach in a state of wild uproar,
And in a dory they found four men were cast ashore.
Then the villagers, in surprise, assembled about the dory,
And they found that the bottom of the boat was gory;
Then their hearts were seized with sudden dread,
When they discovered that two of the men were dead.
And the two survivors were exhausted from exposure, hunger, and cold,
Which caused the spectators to shudder when them they did behold.…
They were carried to a boarding-house without delay,
But those that were looking on were stricken with dismay,
When the remains of James and Angus M’Donald were found in the boat,
Likewise three pieces of flesh in a pool of blood afloat.
Angus M’Donald’s right arm was missing from the elbow,
And the throat was cut in a sickening manner, which filled the villagers’ hearts with woe,
Especially when they say two pieces of flesh had been cut from each thigh,
’Twas then the kind-hearted villagers did murmur and sigh.
Here is McGonagall at his name-dropping best—careful to include
virtually every mourner and/or floral tribute.
The Death of Lord and Lady Dalhousie
Alas! Lord and Lady Dalhousie are dead, and buried at last,
Which causes many people to feel a little downcast;
And both lie side by side in one grave,
But I hope God in His goodness their souls will save.
….
’Twas in the year of 1887, and on Thursday the 1st of December,
Which his relatives and friend will long remember
That were present at the funeral in Cockpen churchyard,
Because they had for the noble Lord a great regard.
About eleven o’clock the remains reached Dalhousie,
And were met by a body of the tenantry;
They conveyed them inside the building, all seemingly woebegone,
And among those that sent wreaths was Lord Claude Hamilton.
Those that sent wreaths were but very few,
But one in particular was the Duke of Bucceleuch
Besides Dr. Herbert Spencer, and Countess Rosebery, and Lady Bennett,
Which no doubt were sent by them with heartfelt regret.
Besides those that sent wreaths in addition were the Earl and Countess of Aberdeen,
Especially the Prince of Wales’ was most lovely to be seen,
And the Earl of Dalkeith’s wreath was very pretty too,
With a mixture of green and white flowers, beautiful to view.
Amongst those present at the interment were Mr. Marjoribanks, M.P.,
Also ex-Provost Ballingall from Bonnie Dundee;
Besides the Honourable W. G. Colville, representing the Duke and Duchess of Edinburgh,
While in everyone’s face standing at the grave was depicted sorrow.
Another of McGonagall’s pieces marking a historic event, “The Funeral of the German Emperor,” is also a wonderful example of the poet’s penchant for banal descriptions.
The Funeral of the German Emperor
As the procession passes the palace the blinds are drawn completely,
And every house is half hidden with the sable drapery;
And along the line of march expansive arches were erected,
While the spectators standing by seemed very dejected.
….
The whole distance to the grave was covered over with laurel and bay,
So that the body should be borne along smoothly all the way;
And the thousands of banners in the processions were beautiful to view,
Because they were composed of cream-coloured silk and light blue.
The poet here celebrates the harpooning of the Tay whale, which was then towed into port.
The Famous Tay Whale
And my opinion is that God sent the whale in time of need,
No matter what other people may think or what is their creed;
I know fishermen in general are often very poor,
And God in his goodness sent it to drive poverty from their door.
So Mr. John Wood has bought it for two hundred and twenty-six pound,
And has brought it to Dundee all safe and all sound;
Which measures 40 feet in length from the snout to the tail,
So I advise the people far and near to see it without fail.
Then hurrah! for the mighty monster whale,
Which has got 17 feet 4 inches from tip to tip of a tail!
Which can be seen for a sixpence of a shilling,
That is to say, if the people are all willing.
Alas! Sir John Ogilvy is dead, aged eighty-seven,
But I hope his soul is now in heaven;
For he was a generous-hearted gentleman I am sure,
And, in particular, very kind unto the poor.
….
He was a public benefactor in many ways,
Especially in erecting an asylum for imbecile children to spend their days;
Then he handed the institution over as free,—
As a free gift and a boon to the people of Dundee.
