William Topaz McGonagall is widely recognised as one of the worst poets of all time. The poem below is a typical McGonagall compoistion marrying tradegy with very bad poetry, so I thought I’d post it to allow the poetically inclined Dopers to cast their critical eyes over it (a particularly bad section of the poem is bolded):
The Tay Bridge Diaster by William Topaz McGonagall
Not quite, MC. Everyone knows the worst poetry in the universe was written by Paula Nancy Millstone Jennings.
I give you James McIntyre, and his deathless “Ode on the Mammoth Cheese”.
http://www.geocities.com/Athens/3964/mcintyre.html
Neither one of 'em can touch Sara Binks, but they have the disadvantage of being real.
Oh, yeah, Vogon reference.
This guy should have been legally prevented from using writing utensils of any kind, for any reason whatsoever.
I wouldn’t have thought that such an hideous screed would have been preserved. I wonder how he got published? Were they that hard up for something to read that any old thing would do?
Though William McGonagall was 100% serious about his work as a “tragedian and poet” he has achieved some fame for being so appallingly bad at it.
I have a weakness for bad poetry. I would even go so far as to say that I prefer really bad poetry to good poetry. Before I go any further I would ask Mods to note that the above poem and the piece of the one to follow are no longer under copyright protection.
McGonagall is the Plan 9 of the poetry world. He is widely acknowledged as the worst, but if you hunt you can go further into the bowels of hell. BTW the worst title of a poem is easy, that would be “An Elegy to a Dissected Puppy” by Georgia Parrington.
And now for my choice of the worst poem ever I give you, “A Belgian Orphan” by Amanda McKittrick Ros.
Daddy was a Belgian and so was Mammy too,
And why I’m now in Larne I want to tell to you:
Daddy was a soldier and fought his level best
For both his King a Country, and I’ll tell you the rest.
Our home was snug and cosy and how happy we were all,
Until Daddy he was ordered to obey his country’s call. . . .
One day a short time after, a troop of Germans came,
While we sat around the table, playing a childish game;
Mammy was busy baking bread for all our tea,
When the door was flung wide open and in stepped Germans three.
One spoke to mammy saying, “Stay your labour for your kids,
Give to us all this bread! or we’ll stab your bony ribs!”
And raising high his glittering sword one cut off Mammy’s head,
Her body fell upon me, while her poor neck bled and bled!
Three shots soon followed after, and my dear wee brothers three
Fell dead across poor Mammy whose neck bled on my knee;
I screamed, “Oh sirs wee Hors is shot, and Buhn and Wilhelm too!”
Then on my knees I fell and begged they’d spare wee brother Dhu;
Just then they raised the little lad and threw him on the fire,
And wreathed in smiles they watched him burn until he did expire;
My poor wee sisters screamed and cried, and clutched dead Mammy’s hands,
When lo! they cut off baby’s head and also her wee hands.
Ah sirs, I begged, just kill me now, else I shall die with fear.
One drew his sword - cut off my hand, I reached the other out,
“Cut this off too, ye cowards?” I then began to shout.
In rushed some neighbor women with knives both bright and sharp
And stabbed the Kaiser’s butchers into their very hearts.
Take warning all ye British Boys, turn out in thousands strong;
Go fight for King and Country and France will aid you on!
If you should meet the Kaiser, cut off his only arm,
For his “wee one,” it won’t matter, it can’t do any harm.
I’ve just heard Daddy, too, is killed, so all alone I’m left,
Of brothers, sisters, parents dear, I have been made bereft.
Some day I’ll die and meet them all, 'twill be a joyous sight,
For us to live in glory, and view the Kaiser’s plight -
Tortured with remorseful flames, he won’t have power to quell
If nobody conquer him on earth the devil will in ______.
I hope I haven’t just wasted a lot of time typing. I just love the bathos in this poem. You can tell the author just loves the blood and gore. I can’t wait to hear the other entries.
Yugh.
I’ve heard worse poetry, but not often. And I won’t sully my fingers with it.
AFTER READING A COUPLE OF THESE POEMS I STILL HAVE TO SAY I COULD VERY WELL BE THE WORST. HERE IS A GOOD EXAMPLE OF BAD WRITING OR TIMING ONE. IT SHOULD START A NICE CONVERSATION,ANYWAY.
Missing You
I laid down beside you only to rest,
I was missing you in bed I guess.
As I rubbed your chest and kissed your neck,
my hands wondered down your pants,
My body began to dance.
As I looked up to see what your face was telling me,
You were asleep,
Asleep as coould be.
So I rolled over to watch TV.
Feeling your breath on my back ,
I knew I still wanted you in fact.
So I tried again.
This time I saw your sweet grin…
Now that I had gotton your attention
we were off to bed,…But you had to mention…
What A beatiful thing you just fucked up!
Oh well that’s one less dick I had to suck!
Valerie Rice
No, I think the worst poet in the world used to sit behind me in English class, etching her work into the desk, thesaurus in hand.
Jewel
Two words:
Rod M[sup]c[/sup]Kuen
Margaret Cavendish, Duchess of Newcastle and a true Renaissance woman, surely deserves an honorable mention for being an equally incompetent poet and scientist. A short sample:
Karl Shapiro is considered to be something less than Nobel Laureate material.
According to “Felton and Fowler’s Best, Worst, and Most Unusual,” one contender for worst poet is Edgar Guest. Not familiar with him, but one person coined this couplet in reference to his oeuvre:
“I’d rather fail the Wasserman test,
Than read the poems of Edgar Guest.”
I’m sure we had a similar thread some time ago, but I cannot find it now.
Long ago, on a forum far away, there was a section devoted to books and writing that was eventually corrupted into a place for talentless teen poets and poetesses to post their latest drivel. I remember one poem so bad I had to print it out and share with friends. I wish I could post it here, but I have long since lost my only copy. It did contain such gems as “She felt as though her heart would break/Just as easily as cake” and “She wants to fly to the one she loves/So she turns into doves”. I remember that last line led to a lengthy discussion as to whether or not there was ever a Dracula movie where the Count turned himself into a bunch of bats or if it was always just one bat.
Goes to show you how little I know about poetry…I actually thought it was good.
Which one did you think was good?
I’m sorry, but the world’s worst poet is in fact Britain’s very eminent Poet Laureate Andrew Motion, and the nadir of his oeuvre is his recent verse produced for Prince William’s 21st birthday.
The Tay Bridge Disaster.
Y’know SecularPriest I didn’t think it was all that bad either. The Prince William one is pretty awful though. The title of Poet Laureate seems to be losing much of its cache recently.