Even though we write fiction, we can't write poetry to save our lives. And yet it seems not many writers can come to terms with this. See, just because you can blog or just because you can write fiction doesn't necessarily mean you can write poetry, or vice versa.
So today we're going to delve into the 4 biggest offenders of shitty poetry and laugh at their terribleness, because let's face it, you probably know at least one of these goobers.
The Tries-Too-Hard-To-Rhyme Poet
This poet never got the memo that not all poems have to rhyme, and unlike those who have the talent for rhyming, this poet can't rhyme to save their life. They'll make some real stretches, too, like rhyming the same word with itself twice or rhyming something like "heroin" with "harrowing."
I would travel the globe like Galileo,
just to get a chance to say-o,
You've fallen my heart like a tree by axes.
Plain and simple, that's just what the facts is.
So let's celebrate our love and go buy a Kia.
My words fall out of my mouth like diarrhea.
Wow. Wordsmithery that's nothing short of enchanting, and without sacrificing the quality of the poem.
The Love-Lorn Loser
AKA whining about love using flowery metaphors. This type of poetry is more fit for 13 year old girls lamenting the hot guy who "totally just dumped them," and yet adults try to write this too. This poet has a heart the size and depth of the deepest ocean, or so they think. More likely than not, they're more "whiny bitch" than "scorned lover." Which is why their poems all sound like the aborted lovechild of Nicholas Sparks and William Shakespeare.
'Tis my heart that is bleeding and dead,
Hung skyward like the suicidal moon.
Of whence it was cast aside,
Now set to dangling, black-tongued.
Mine body, mine spirit,
Wiggles its legs for thee.
Pee-yew. Did thou farteth? This is the kind of literary shart you wind up with when you write in your own blood.
The Hipster Poet
This poet wants to be Chuck Bukowski but without possessing any of the talent or life experiences. Even though they've lived comfortably in their mother's basement for the past 10 years (and without need to hold down any form of job), they strive to tell the tale of the struggling working class man who's revolting against the system.
Dancing corporate robot
Suckling oil from mommy's teat
My lips seek out the nipple
The robot, he is ME
Do you feel that? I feel a revolution coming on. Or maybe that's just diarrhea.
The Verbose Elitist
Let's face it, nobody appreciates snobbery. And yet this guy's turned it into an art form. He probably went to a famous school for budding writers where he learned he was more gifted than most. Now, having found that nobody gives a shit about poetry anymore (at least not anyone that pays money), he bitterly teaches creative writing at the local university while simultaneously cranking out gems such as these at night...
Gelatinous haunches precipitate textured spandex.
Colonel Sanders's declaration of egregious malevolence.
Staccato vibration illuminates cottage cheese.
Preferred physical architecture of porcine haunches.
And, like most poetry, all five people who read it did a great job of pretending they liked it! That makes every penny of your $100,000 Ivy-league MFA worthwhile, doesn't it?
Well, folks, we're not trying to knock poetry here. Some of our favorite classic writers are poets. It's just that neither of us should be allowed within a hundred yards of forming a stanza, and the same goes for a good many other writers not suited for poetry. There's still good poetry out there. It's just hard to find. So if you're feeling ballsy, steel thy nerves and head out to thine local cafe for open-mic night. You never know, you just might hear a poetry reading that doesn't make you want to pull a Sylvia Plath and stick your head in an oven.
Cheers and stay classy, folks!
Beer: 90 Shilling
Music: New Ben Franklins
|Get your shit together, Adam. I don't care if you're in second grade; this is still absolutely terrible.|