Thread: The worst poet?

It is usually the title given to William McGonagall. I tend to agree. Here is his best knewn poem. He had it published and it shows most of his flaws. Can anyone find a challenger for the title?

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    • The Tay Bridge Disaster
      
      Beautiful Railway Bridge of the Silv'ry Tay!
      Alas! I am very sorry to say
      That ninety lives have been taken away
      On the last Sabbath day of 1879,
      Which will be remember'd for a very long time.
      'Twas about seven o'clock at night,
      And the wind it blew with all its might,
      And the rain came pouring down,
      And the dark clods seem'd to frown,
      And the Demon of the air seem'd to say-
      "I'll blow down the Bridge of Tay."
      
      When the train left Edinburgh
      The passengers' hearts were light and felt no sorrow,
      But Boreas blew a terrific gale,
      Which made their hearts for to quail,
      And many of the passengers with fear did say-
      "I hope God will send us safe across the Bridge of Tay."
      
      But when the train came near to Wormit Bay,
      Boreas he did loud and angry bray,
      And shook the central girders of the Bridge of Tay
      On the last Sabbath day of 1879,
      Which will be remember'd for a very long time.
      
      So the train sped on with all its might,
      And Bonnie Dundee soon hove in sught,
      And the passengers' hearts felt light,
      Thinking they would enjoy themselves on the New Year,
      With their friends at home they lov'd most dear,
      And wish them all a happy New Year.
      
      So the train mov'd slowly along the Bridge of Tay,
      Until it was about midway,
      Then the central girders with a crash gave way,
      And down went the train and passengers into the Tay!
      The Storm Fiend did loudly bray,
      Because ninety lives had been taken away,
      On the last Sabbath day of 1879,
      Which will be remember'd for a very long time.
      
      As soon as the catastrophe came to be known
      The alarm from mouth to mouth was blown,
      And the cry rang out all o'er the town,
      Good Heavens! the Tay Bridge is blown down,
      And a passenger train from Edinburgh,
      Which fill'd all the peoples hearts with sorrow,
      And made them for to turn pale,
      Because none of the passengers were sav'd to tell the tale
      How the disaster happen'd on the last Sabbath day of 1879,
      Which will be remember'd for a very long time.
      
      It must have been an awful sight,
      To witness in the dusky moonlight,
      While the Storm Fiend did laugh, and angry did bray,
      Along the Railway Bridge of the Silv'ry Tay,
      Oh! ill-fated Bridge of thSilv'ry Tay,
      I must now conclude my lay
      By telling the world fearlessly without the least dismay,
      That your central girders would not have given way,
      At least many sensible men do say,
      Had they been supported on each side with buttresses,
      At least many sensible men confesses,
      For the stronger we our houses do build,
      The less chance we have of being killed.

Our own Backward Ox could give him a run for his money.

I rather like it. Certainly it compares favourably with my oft-quoted 'The Stann Creek Valley Road'.

That's like saying anyone who can lose 20 games is a good pitcher .... or they wouldn't keep putting him out there to start games.

He might be the worst but he's famous enough that it means nothing. It's the "Friday" of poetry.

The worst poets are the ones that write.

I did not know you could be both.

I have found the worse poets are ones who try to teach the writing of poetry. I am sorely reminded of my summer in Boulder at Naropa and .....of couse my honors instructor at Eastern Michigan. PAINFUL.

This lady has to be a contender:-



The stately Homes of England,

How beautiful they stand!

Amidst their tall ancestral trees,

O'er all the pleasant land.

The deer across their greensward bound

Thro' shade and sunny gleam,

And the swan glides past them with the sound

Of some rejoicing stream.



The merry Homes of England!

Around their hearths by night,

What gladsome looks of household love

Meet in the ruddy light!

There woman's voice flows forth in song,

Or childhood's tale is told,

Or lips move tunefully along

Some glorious page of old.



The blessed Homes of England!

How softly on their bowers

Is laid the holy quietness

That breathes from Sabbath-hours!

Solemn, yet sweet, the church-bell's chime

Floats thro' their woods at morn;

All other sounds, in that still time,

Of breeze and leaf are born.



The Cottage Homes of England!

By thousands on her plains,

They are smiling o'er the silvery brooks,

And round the hamlet-fanes.

Thro' glowing orchards forth they peep,

Each from its nook of leaves,

And fearless there the lowly sleep,

As the bird beneath the eaves.



The free, fair Homes of England!

Long, long, in hut and hall,

May hearts of native proof be rear'd

To guard each hallow'd wall!

And green for ever be the groves,

And bright the flowery sod,

Where first the child's glad spirit loves

Its country and its God!



Felicia Hemans (1793-1835)

Carol Ann Duffy.

A quick thumb through 'The World's Wife' would suffice to understand my reasons for nomination. Neo-feministic garbage.

Originally Posted by Trides

The worst poets are the ones that write.

Originally Posted by Nacian

I did not know you could be both.

It's replies like this that keep me awake at night, trying to figure out what was meant.

Originally Posted by The Backward OX

It's replies like this that keep me awake at night, trying to figure out what was meant.

LOL
I am sorry I did not know it put you in this state OX.
I will try and amend if I can.
My reply to the Original Post The Worst Poet was
I did not know you could be both meant that if you are given the title of a poet then called worst is entirely subjective and therefore could not really apply.
One might enjoy bad poetry, it is still poetry because it is has earned its title in the sense that it has been read and recognised as being worse.
What I might as brilliant you might well see as poor or bad.
It is down to taste and what people like there and then , on the spot, 10 years later they might changetheir minds and think it was not all that bad because one fine morning they woke up and decide they understood that poem and now it is not all that complex/band/insignificanr, whatever itmay be.
In other words a poet is a poet and that is that.

That's the first poem that has ever made my head hurt.