In 1682 or thereabouts the English poet John Dryden’s famous mock-epic, “MacFlecknoe,” was published (perhaps without the author’s consent). In it Dryden butchers his contemporary, the comparatively less talented Thomas Shadwell (who nonetheless became Poet Laureate later on), a man with whom Dryden had a series of disagreements (artistic, religious and political). The premise of the poem is that the poet Richard Flecknoe, characterized as the worst poet in history, is seeking the successor to that ignoble throne.
Guess who emerges as the ultimate candidate?
Whether Flecknoe was the worst poet in history is debatable, and maybe Sh** wasn’t as bad as Dryden would have us believe. In any case, history has nonetheless served up many writers who merited at least some consideration for the title of Worst Poet in the World (William McGonagall is always a popular choice).
I have my own personal nominees, though. There’s Ogden Nash:
My Dream
This is my dream,
It is my own dream,
I dreamt it.
I dreamt that my hair was kempt.
Then I dreamt that my true love unkempt it.
Nash, of course, wasn’t exactly trying to be Yeats.
Then there’s Rod McKuen, who really was trying.
Thoughts on Capital Punishment
There ought to be capital punishment for cars
that run over rabbits and drive into dogs
and commit the unspeakable, unpardonable crime
of killing a kitty cat still in his prime.
It goes on, but you get the idea.
If it weren’t for the fact that I’d start a firestorm I’d add Ginsberg to the list, too.
So here’s a tribute to our bad poets: if it weren’t for them, we wouldn’t appreciate the great ones nearly so much.
Categories: scholars and rogues
Progressive Culture | Scholars & Rogues 
I’m pretty sure my poems would rank near the top (er…bottom?) of any “worse” list. 🙂 Here’s my favorite.
So, I’m stupid
That’s OK
Unless
Perhaps
I should say
Dumb
I wonder if Miss Teen SC writes poetry?
Or Miss Teen West Carolina for that matter. I don’t know. But I know of a certain trumpet playing angel who plays the blues. 🙂
Yeah, that guy sucks.
“Ode To A Small Lump Of Green Putty I Found In My Armpit One Midsummer Morning” – Grunthos the Flatulent
😛
In the late sixties, DJ Rosco used to recite Rod McPeculiar’s poetry on pioneering New York progressive rock radio station WNEW.
“Listen to the wahm-m-m,” he’d say in his African-American New Yorkese.
Are you seriously doubting Ogden Nash? I actually quoted him earlier today in a discussion on how puppies are superior to kittens.
Ahem.
The problem with a kitten’s that
Eventually, it becomes a cat.
Thank you.
A lament for central heating
(London, 1967)
Christ! All winter I’ve been froze,
with ice-block feet and cataleptic nose
all dripping down my sleeve and vest
and shivering even though I’m dressed
for 10 or 20 below zero
(like some antarctic lunatic… or hero?).
This feeble gas fire does no good
except to tantalize my blood
with flaming pi-r-squared of radiant heat
radiating half a measured feet.
Stiff upper lip, the British claim
their chiefest virtue’s being stolid.
That’s because in winter
they’re froze solid!
Just stumbled upon your blog, much to my delight.
When you happen upon bad poetry as in the examples above it is as if you’d gone to the Opera and Justin Timberlake had replaced the retired Pavarotti.
Welcome, and thanks for an image that’s going to keep me awake tonight.