Posted in Of Writingly

Bad Poetry

The rhyme crimes come pouring forth
In archaic verbiage of constant worth.
Metre does not hold as much reign
Bad poetry still results in much pain.

It is certain:
Powerful feelings flow spontaneously.
Though more towards that Alexandrine master
Pope-ish coupling, in lieu of Wordsworthily.

The poetess is under self-apprenticeship
For “they were never wrong. The Old Masters:”*
She is sure there must be a Poetry for Dummies
But, she is too affected for Mod-scribed tyrannies.

She promises to improve her craft in twenty sixteen
And use in her composition the Canadian “poutine”.
Bear through the sawdust for that clichéd gold to shine
She promises she will get there, when it is her time.

*W.H. Auden, Musee des Beaux Arts


Writer, Blogger, Kate Bush Fanatic

6 thoughts on “Bad Poetry

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