Poetry from he!!

Freedom

juvenile dementia — Mon, 12 May 2008 06:00:36 +0000

Freedom, as every school boy knows,
Once shrieked as Kosciusko fell;
On every wind, indeed, that blows
I hear her yell.

She screams whenever monarchs meet,
And parliaments as well,
To bind the chains about her feet
And toll her knell.

And when the sovereign people cast
The votes they cannot spell,
Upon the pestilential blast
Her clamors swell.

For all to whom the power’s given
To sway or to compel,
Among themselves apportion Heaven
And give her Hell.

Blary O’Gary.

–Ambrose Bierce

Your first lesson

juvenile dementia — Wed, 07 May 2008 10:43:05 +0000

I know you’re wringing your hands together in excitement about to burst if we don’t get started here. So, let’s see what we have here for our first foray into spotting bad poetry. We have a poem called So long, mr. nemesis neanderthal. Ugh. Looks like we’re off to a good start here.

So long, mr. nemesis neanderthal

Now I hurt
as much as I loved then -
then, had I known this hurt
that is now -

would have kept a little more
of myself
for me -
how good it feels to say

I’m leaving you
for someone else -

that someone else is me.

Learn how to spot bad poetry

juvenile dementia — Thu, 01 May 2008 04:36:17 +0000

Welcome to Poetry from he!!, a blog dedicated to bad poetry. Poetry from amateurs, the major rejects, the poemtards from the Academy of Wordsmithy. Most of you probably know good poetry when you read it. Bad poetry is sometimes hard to spot (hysterical laughter) and so you have to put on your thinking cap. And as you read, keep in mind how many times you say to yourself, “geezes, what a bunch of crap,” “hee hee hee hee” (while reading what’s pawned off on the public as *sniff* serious stuff), “oh, come on! My bloody dog could write this crap!” “excuse me while I go gargle” or “holy cow! this is my crappy poem!” When you rack up more than 5 of these BloodyBollocks! flags after reading a poem, you can pretty much count on the fact you’ve just experienced a word calamity of the most egregious kind. Back away s-l-o-w-l-y from the poem, never turning your back, and allow the distance between you and the poem to lengthen until it’s out of sight. Then, and only then, are you safe from any lasting affect on your psyche. It wouldn’t hurt to slug down a quick shot of Courvoisier cognac to totally remove the influence it may try to have over you… like a song you can’t get out of your head.