Very Bad Poetry Read Online Free PDF

assembled wits burst into a laugh when, after much blank verse pomp, the poet began a new paragraph thus:
    ‘Now, Muse, let’s sing of
rats.’
    And what increased the ridicule was, that one of the company who slyly overlooked the reader, perceived that the word had been originally
mice,
and had been altered to
rats,
as more dignified.
    A different version of the events was told by Miss Reynolds. According to her, Grainger had reached the line “Say, shall I sing of rats?” at which point Dr. Johnson yelled out “No!” Whichever version is correct, the provocative line was changed—but fortunately, the poem lost none of its unique qualities.
from
The Sugar Cane
    Of composts shall the Muse disdain to sing?
Nor soil her heavenly plumes? The sacred Muse
Nought sordid deems, but what is base; nought fair,
Unless true Virtue stamp it with her seal.
Then, planter, wouldst thou double thine estate,
Never, ah! never, be asham’d to tread
Thy dung heaps.
    Whether the fattening compost in each hole
Tis best to throw; or, on the surface spread;
Is undetermin’d: Trials must decide.
Unless kind rains and fostering dews descend,
To melt the compost’s fertilizing salts;
A stinted plant, deceitful of thy hopes,
Will from those beds slow spring where hot dung lies:
But, if ’tis scatter’d generously o’er all,
The Cane will better bear the solar blaze;
Less rain demand; and, by repeated crops,
Thy land improv’d, its gratitude will show.
Enough of composts, Muse; of soils, enough:
When best to dig, and when inhume the Cane;
A task how arduous! next demands thy song.
    Another example of Grainger’s poetry, this selection, like “The Sugar Cane” is set in the West Indies, Grainger’s adopted home, but is much less pedantic and much more romantic … if a bit gory.
from
Bryan and Pereene
A West Indian Ballad
    The north-east wind did briskly blow,
   The ship was safely moor’d,
Young Bryan thought the boat’s crew slow,
   And so leapt overboard.
    Pereene, the pride of Indian dames,
   His heart did long enthrall,
And whoso his impatience blames,
   I wot, ne’er lov’d at all.
    ….
    In sea-green silk so neatly clad,
   She there impatient stood;
The crew with wonder saw the lad
   Repel the foaming flood.
    Her hands a handkerchief display’d,
   Which he at parting gave;
Well pleas’d, the token he survey’d
   And manlier beat the wave.
    Her fair companions, one and all,
   Rejoicing crowd the strand;
For now her lover swam in call,
   And almost touch’d the land.
    Then through the white surf did she haste,
   To clasp her lovely swain;
When, ah! a shark bit through his waist:
   His heart’s bloody’d the main!
    He shriek’d his half sprung from the wave,
   Streaming with purple gore,
And soon it found a living grave,
   And, ah! was seen no more.

MATTHEW GREEN
(1697-1737)
    A poet and customs officer (like Edwin Edward Foot after him), Matthew Green was considered a wit. Perhaps it was his quick thinking that led him to write one of his most famous poems, about the often-overlooked spleen. “The Spleen” was quite successful. It was published posthumously in 1737 by Richard Glover, author of the epic
Leonidas,
and subsequently appeared in the famous
Dodsley’s Collection,
as well as in Dr. Johnson’s
Poets.
And none other than thepoet laureate Alexander Pope said that there was a great deal of originality in the poem—a sentiment with which few can argue.
from
The Spleen
    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.

JOSEPH GWYER
(1835-?)
    J oseph Gwyer was a potato salesman with a dream: to be poet laureate of England. So he devoted those hours when he wasn’t selling