Came across this today, and was willing to risk belaboring the tribute. Hope you are having a good monday.
For discussions sake, I am curious about the worst lines of poetry you’ve read. Or perhaps, written.
01Dec, 2008
However, you are not the wind in the orchard.
I ended a sonnet thusly:
“Alas, this dreadful chariot of woe,
Is yet, in time, the same that makes it go.”
Must have broken up with a girlfriend or something.
I was busy burning up many brain cells this monday morning on many topics, but they escape me now and I am left with only “the bread and the knife”…..I realize that “due to your busy schedule” I must just wait it out now until you blog again. Have a great week Donald Miller!
I like that guy’s sense of humor!
I know for a fact some of the worst poetry I ever wrote was at one time stashed in my ex-boyfriend’s sock drawer. At least I remember his little brother telling me the he had found it there one gut dropping day. My senior year of high school was chalked full of imaginary rescue missions to get those poems back. It is part of the reason why I haven’t run for public office. Now that is haunting poetry.
Rupert Brooke
A Channel Passage
The damned ship lurched and slithered. Quiet and quick
My cold gorge rose; the long sea rolled; I knew
I must think hard of something, or be sick;
And I could think hard only of one thing — you!
You, you alone could hold my fancy ever!
And with you memories come, sharp pain, and dole.
Now there’s a choice — heartache or tortured liver!
A sea-sick body, or a you-sick soul!
Do I forget you? Retchings twist and tie me,
Old meat, good meals, brown gobbets up I throw.
Do I remember? Acrid and slimy,
The sobs and slobber of a last year’s woe.
And still the sick ship rolls. ‘Tis hard, I tell ye,
To choose ‘twixt heart and nausea, heart and belly.
I’m an editor at a literary magazine and we held a poetry contest last year.
Worst line I remember reading, or the most snicker-worthy in any case: “I see the universe in your thighs.”
Groan …
I once had a creative writing prof read my poetry to my class as an example of bad poetry. He did not announce my name, he decided to spare me the pitiful stares from classmates. After he read one specific line, he stopped to declare that the line didn’t make any sense and therefore was “bad poetry.” I don’t think he was expecting me (the author) to have the courage to raise my hand and ask for a second opinion. Which is what I did. I asked the women in the class if they understood that line he claimed “didn’t make any sense” and they DID. Later, a friend who was minoring in Women’s Studies at Rutgers used my “bad” poem for her term project. Her research proved that men generally didn’t understand what the poem was about, but women always understood. Hmmm…
“…then I became really bored.
So I ran over that monkey with my Ford.”
it was some dumb animal related poem I had to write in high school. spare-the-moment, didn’t have time or resources to make something good.
Emily, I think you have to share your poem with us. Too much of a setup…
Ooo, yeah, and everybody has to which line is the “bad” one so we can see if the men really don’t get it and the women do.
Don, I will oblige. Disclaimer: This poem was written 15 years ago about a somewhat painful personal experience in 1991. No biggie, I don’t mind sharing it now…in fact I have a cool God-orchestrated story of healing about the incident. I’m not claiming to think the poem is good. In fact, I cringed as I re-read it before posting below. I was just spunky enough to raise my hand and ask for a second opinion from the women who might catch my drift. I will divulge what the poem is really about per your request. By the way, I ended up getting an A from the prof.
Naked
Naked- my life, but not my body
He had the sickness, the intimidation, the power.
He gave me the ultimatum.
I had the values, the pride, the strength.
My life was stripped because I would not.
As with rape, the guilt slithers inside me.
The asp that fooled Eve fools me, too.
The guilt should not be mine, I am his victim,
I will not serve his time.
The Ringmaster trained women to take the blame.
This woman will not be tamed,
I cracked the whip to make society see.
It will be interesting to see if any of the readers of this blog get what I’m talking about. Enjoy!
The worst I’ve heard was a “recipe” poem about small groups called, of course, “Small Group Soup.” A friend of mine shared it with me from one of her creative writing classes. The ingredients were like “a dash of hugs” and “three Bibles.” Yikes! I’m glad the writer’s small group was meaningful to her. I’m also glad I didn’t have to feign delight at the recital of this poem!
Also see Stephen Dunn’s “John & Mary.” Similar idea, and also very well done. He says it was one of those rare gems that you write in a single sitting.
http://www.nortonpoets.com/ex/dunnsdifferent.htm
My favorite poem of all time! Thanks for posting it!
In high school, a doctor temporarily put me on some drugs that were, shall we say, mind-altering. In my altered state I wrote a poem that postulated that in Shakespeare’s MacBeth, MacDuff is really able to fulfill the “None of woman born” prophecy because he was, in fact, a seahorse (seahorses being the only animals known to man whose male members give birth). The poem went on to praise seahorses as the most majestic of all creatures. Sadly, the poem is now lost to time…
I have often considered having a “Vogon Poetry” section on my blog. (See: http://www.onwardhoe.com/2008/08/25/black-monday/ and http://www.onwardhoe.com/2004/04/25/ode-to-a-weather-man-and-an-apology-for-breaking-his-heart/)
You like that, internet? There’s more where they came from.
I spoke with Billy yesterday. I’m going to email him your blog, Don. I think he’ll get a kick out of it!!
Ha! Great poem!
I dabbled in writing poetry as an angsty 19-20 year old, but I can’t remember much of it now. I believe I wrote a song about growing your hair long so that Jesus could grab it and pull you up to Heaven when he returned.
Emily,
Thank you for sharing your poem with us. Listen to that woman more often. A few weeks ago at the seminary where I am on staff, the school newspaper dedicated a whole issue to the ills of our patriarchal society. Interestingly enough, it only featured male writers. My speaking up took the form of a letter to the editor… the result: an invitation to write for them. Keep up the good work!
-Amie
emily,
are the asp and the ringmaster the same? other than that, my stab at it, as a man, is that as a woman you were fairly ticked at a male dominated society. but that is a mans perspective.
i would disagree with your first professor, though. i think you are saying a lot.
don
Emily,
The first few lines seem like a woman whose boyfriend (?) broke up with her because she refused to have sex with him…or “strip”.
I’m fascinated by what Don said about the ringmaster and the asp, though. Care to expound on that?
i wrote this in high school. sit back and bask in the splendors of my adolescent genius. i dare you.
smells like burning skin
hold the match as long as you can
until it hurts
let it burn
until it scars
let it burn
until you bleed
let it burn
searing flesh
this once so hollowed body
this once so hollowed mind
a coincidence of fate
ironically placed
in my mind
my thoughts
my dreams
my world
of hope that comes when it pleases
and leaves every chance it gets
ungrateful visitor
f*** you
scathing skin
blistering bleeding, red
…It burns…
to black
let it bleed
destroying nerves
feeling no pain
melting skin
and I feel no pain
scarred
numb
tired and bleeding
bleeding
___________
forever scarred
and
I feel nothing…
“And when I want to dance / That’s when I go to France.”
From a sixth grader I had in class several years ago. While I do not remember the rest of the poem, keep in mind that France only appeared because it rhymed (and thus began the assignment — no rhyming poems in 6th grade).
Also, Don, I cannot tell you how much I love Collins and this poem. Thanks for posting it. I actually stole the idea and put it on my own blog this afternoon!
Here’s my quick attempt to rewrite some famous poetry:
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood
Blue nosed I purged where a cello stood.
I mean you’ve got to really think about it you know?
Also, Billy Collins is wonderful. He looks like he’s wearing a rubber “Larry from the three stooges” wig on the top of his head though. Upon repeated viewings it becomes even more apparent. Even so, the man is brilliant. And not just as Larry, but as Billy too.
Thanks Don. – just started slowly reading a new Billy Collins book this week. Thanks as always for being the spreader of good news. peace, aaron
I’ve been sick at home today so I’ve looked at Emily’s poem like ten times but I can’t figure out which line the professor didn’t like. All the lines make sense to me. I guess this prooves Rutger’s girl right. *phew I am a normal woman*
Emily,
I would agree with Beau that it seems like there was a relationship that put un-needed pressure on the woman to perform. And then there was this realization that it wasn’t just this one man, it was the culture/society the woman found herself in. There was a key decision in the woman’s life when she determines her identity was not to be found in this man’s opinion of her. And it set the course for future events in her life, things looked drastically different after she made this decision. And not because she wanted them too. Life may have been “easier” to just strip, but the woman would have lived with that guilt the rest of her life.
Thank you for sharing…and for acknowledging the fact that God has done a lot of healing since the time of writing this poem.
Thanks for your thoughtful comments on my poem. And, especially, the encouragement from Don & Amie. Intersting thought that the asp and the Ringmaster are the same. When I wrote that I had walked away from my faith and considered myself agnostic. First, I will share that the poem is actually about workplace sexual harrassment and my decision to retain a lawyer. The Ringmaster represents the role of male dominance that was still quite the norm in the early 90′s. It was addressed in movies like “The Accused” and others where a woman was commonly blamed for provoking rape or sexual harrassment. Fortunately, these days there is more proof that it is actually the sickness or issues the man has with control that provokes such events. In my case, the man in question had a reputation for this behavior but all the other women just quit their jobs. Some reported it, but nothing was done about it by the superiors. After reading this, you’ve probably figured out that filing a lawsuit is the whip I cracked. We settled out of court and the day I got my check the sexual harrasser was fired from his job. But by then, he had already intimidated several more women. I know this because a woman I didn’t even remember from that job approached me in a department store to tell me and thank me.
Virginia, YOU ROCK!!! Also, I just had an email exchange with my writing partner, who also happens to have the name Don (but it’s not Don Miller), which further demonstrates the point my friend was making with her term project at Rutgers. He (my writing partner, Don) also said he noticed anger, and even rage, but that he didn’t get what it was about. This surprised me since he actually has read my “cool story of healing about this incident”- I thought I wouldn’t need to explain it to him (eh-hem). The point is, men seem to only see it as an angry poem, but women see it as I intended it… a poem about the strength to stand up for myself. This is evident in the first two responders: Amie encouraged me to speak up more often, while Don (yes, Don Miller this time) commented that I seemed to be ticked at a man. I just think it’s interesting to see how differently men and women think, even when it comes to interpreting poetry. And that was the point my friend made in her project at Rutgers. Luckily, Don (not you, Don) and I don’t write poetry together. And he has a wife to remind of all those other differences between how men and women think.
But it does make us a great team!
the sad thing is, this isn’t the worst line i’ve written…
“i want to see our lives in your locker, even though we aren’t together”
doesn’t it make you miss high school just a little?
Okay Emily,
Now I am interested to hear how your faith journey plays into this story. Do you have a follow up piece that conveys that experience?
Nathan, I do. But it is a 3 page Word document. Click on my name to link to my blog, leave a comment, and I will email it to you. Thanks for your interest!
i too enjoy billy collins.
perhaps my favorite poem is “why i don’t keep a gun in the house”, although the way that he brings inspiration to the common things of life is what i enjoy most. he has the candor to not take himself to seriously, and the wit to challenge those who take him lightly.
there are so many bad lines of poetry that fill pages around the rooms i inhabit, i dare not share them here… although i did read through jewel’s poetry book once entitled “a night without armor”, and the poems are almost as bad as the play on words in the title, almost.
I always get nervous when someone recites poetry in public. I assume its universal vibe as humans we all share; only those who are seasoned beat poets are immune to its gut wrenching tingle. You know it before the “poet” ever speaks their first line. Its like watching a train crash in slow motion. I, like most every average American, have yet to find the art in a picture of a public stall, much less someone trying to formulate the very same thing in words of a poem.
A poem recited at a local coffee shop:
“The stall, drenched in its last occupants butt sweat, lyes there motionless, as if something, or someone has bolted to the ground. It sit there, day in and day out waiting for someone to set it free. But people only rest their hind ends on it, release nasty odorous brown lumps of coal; sometime forgetting to flush. O why has this poor innocent hand crafted porcelain seat been reduced to such shame and utter agony! O why has the public restroom trapped its soul for all eternity! O Why!”
As the “poet” speaks his last “O Why” He drops to the ground on his knee’s, clenching the piece of paper, dramatizing his feelings for this toilet. I want to call 911, or the loony bin, and maybe my grandmother, but my eyes are fixed on this poor guy. With my head tilted to the side, I almost look like a confused dog trying to figure out how your making that noise from your mouth. I just wanted to drink my $5 coffee and write some more for my book. I really need to find a new coffee shop. However, my writing has been a bit more open minded ever since.
- Steve Malone
Sorry Don, I guess you didn’t find the humor in my comment to you deleted… It was late, and I hadn’t written anything for the day and just needed to be creative. I still hope you got a laugh out of it. Maybe it was to graphic for your site? O well…
O… it wasn’t deleted… oops… That was weird… Ignore that last comment… Eh, yeah… This is awkward… (backing slowly away from the keyboard…)
Have you ever heard of William McGonagall?
I get a kick out of his poetry…
http://www.mcgonagall-online.org.uk/
Oh boy, I wrote alot of poetry in high school. Some good, some bad. But here is a verse from a poem I wrote about a guy who left his girlfriend for another girl:
“You say she’s blond, she’s got good taste
She has a bigger chest and skinnier waist.
You like the way she squeaks when she laughs,
She has pretty feet and muscular calves.”
Yikes, that last line was really bad. Gladly, my poetry has improved since high school!
Okay, so Steven’s post reminded me of a line that Elizabeth Bishop wrote when she lived next to the dorm bathroom: “Ladies and Gents, Ladies and Gents,/flushing away your excrements./I sit and hear beyond the wall/the sad continual waterfall….” Har de har har.
Hmmm having scoured your websites i am at a loss at how to discover an email address for you Mr Donald Miller, or any means of contact that do not involve publicity or booking. I am resorting to your blog. And i apologise for this utterly non-related comment. Is it at all possible to procure an email address? I realise that i am disregarding the polite notice to “not direct specific questions to Don in this area”, but nothing ventured nothing gained…Thank you.
I don’t have anything to say except this is one of the funniest things I’ve seen. I have already shared it with so many people.
Oh that someone will write me a poem like this one day.
This is my first time on here so here it goes.
I can write a lot of bad poetry, ok I write a lot of bad perty. Bad speller too. Bragging rights for the confused soul i guess. I have found my bad poerty has eveolved intermittent the the soul shockers. A diciplined art versus an inspired one. So a really bad line is basically out of rhythm and I usually toss the whole thing at that point. It is a line that has its own objectinve in my art. Its my art, and there is no room for two. So out it goes,and I take a break.
Jeez Louise!
Why hasn’t anyone written:
Don, you are the teacup that sits on the counter
kinda half full, cooling off a bit, enjoying the sun coming through the window…
I couldn’t resist. And, I don’t write poems. ha!(insert sarcasm, please)
I absolutly love this poem. And I’m no poem guru, not by a long shot. But I’m seriously thinking about giving this to my ex for Christmas. Maybe put it in a card… you know the kind you record and it plays it back. Ooooow… they should mass produce that! Halmark.. or who ever does the sound cards.. yeah…
Anyway, Peace…
Steve Malone
Steve,
thats funny! I liked the poem too, got a good laugh. I don’t think I have the guts to give it to anyone though. Then again………… Hummm…..
Very good, I certainly do not have that talent.
http://www.matthewmorine.com
hahaha! Weird that i saw this on here, we just watched this in my American Lit class today.
I think my every attempt at writing peotry has left me sounding uber lame.
This week I saw that there was speculation on whether or not poetry would be part of the president’s inauguration. And then today Elizabeth Alexander’s name was released. I quickly scanned the poetry she has available on her website and only read “Race” carefully. The reference to an “Oregon forester…counting rings in redwood trucks” threw me. It threw me in the sense lacking authenticity. (Was this forester really working in the southwest corner of Oregon only a decade after the KKK had a stronghold in the region?) Race, not trees, is the subject of the poem, but I wonder how a question of doubt colors how I see the whole.
An interesting post might be a review of her inauguration poem. My expectations are low, but I hope that I am proven wrong.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Yv1axMDj4tY