I Feel Better Now

I have always hated poetry.

At some point during every school year an English teacher taught a poetry unit. I never minded so much reading and discussing poetry. It was the writing of the stuff that I dreaded. It left such an imprint on me that I have avoided poetry ever since, and haven't taught Braden any, save for verses by Milne and Shel Silverstein. (Okay, and one poem by Benny Hill, but that doesn't count.)

When I saw Very Bad Poetry recommended in the "A Common Reader" catalogue a couple of months ago, I thought this might be the kind of poetry I'd enjoy. Poetry by truly terrible, but very earnest, poets.

Very Bad Poetry has been a lot of fun to read, though it's best in short bursts, I think. Not a book that'd be as good if you read it straight through. But it has boosted my inner poet's self-confidence. Surely I cannot do any worse than some of the poems I've read in this book. We'll have to try writing some this school year.

The poem I'm quoting below is from a poem entitled "The Spleen" by Matthew Green. (It reminds me a bit of Mickey's "Sure-Flow" jingle at the end of A Mighty Wind.)

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."

Hm. Okay.

Consider this by James McIntyre:

Ode on the Mammoth Cheese
We have seen thee, queen of cheese,
Lying quietly at your ease,
Gently fanned by evening breeze,
Thy fair form no flies dare seize.

All gaily dressed soon you'll go
To the great Provincial show,
To be admired by many a beau
In the city of Toronto.

Cows numerous as a swarm of bees,
Or as the leaves upon the trees,
It did require to make thee please,
And stand unrivallled, queen of cheese.

May you not receive a scar as
We have heard that Mr. Harris
Intends to send you off as far as
The great world's show at Paris.

Of the youth beware of these,
For some of them might rudely squeeze
And bite your cheek, then songs of glees
We could not sing, oh! queen of cheese.

We'rt thou suspended from balloon,
You'd cast a shade even at noon,
Folks would think it was the moon
About to fall and crush them soon.

I'm feeling better about poetry. A little braver and more willing to take risks. "Sure, Braden!" I hear myself say, "Go ahead and write a poem about Transformers. What's that? You want to write about gungan ships from the planet Naboo? Go right ahead!"

There are published poets out there who've penned works about poetry and mammoth cheeses. How can our attempts be any worse?