Poem Review: Bad Poetry
I came across the word ‘Bad Poetry’ in a Twitter post by Sakshi Narula about her poetry book called ‘Bad Poetry and Loving’. Then a few days later, a person close to me reminded me of ‘bad poems’ that don’t reflect my usual mettle. Then I started looking for bad poetry. I even found a quote.
“[M]y father discouraged me by ridiculing my performances, and telling me verse-makers were generally beggars. So I escaped being a poet, most probably a very bad one.”
― Benjamin Franklin
Benjamin Franklin, that too. He wrote under a pseudonym, probably because of how it sounds. I don’t know a full-time poet and I don’t know one who makes a living out of poetry.
Poetry is about spontaneity. But poetry is also about short, powerful expressions that can explode into meaning and context, making sense to those who can relate. Selecting good poems to read and savor is like searching for a diamond in a landfill (not even a needle in a haystack.)
Today’s proliferation of poetry is because almost everyone is encouraged to be a poet; the good ones are lost in a deluge of bad poetry, and the very reason for this Ponder Series is to create a small universe of good poetry.
I read ‘Rupi Kaur’’s Milk and Honey — well-designed and placed on Instagram that spawned instapoetry—a few words, enjambed in average English on a white creative that cannot escape the eye. Bad poetry is when somebody sits and thinks that they will write a poem.
What about a good poem about bad poetry? Poet Leslie Xavier explores how a bad poem happens to even a good poet.
Poem:*Writer’s Blot*
In the iffy songs
I swayed to tonight,
I sensed joy.
But, the lyrical riddles
claimed my bearings as toll;
I found ire and fire,
their tone coerced me to
let go of my gifts,
break my pen,
and curse the notepad.It is not the paper’s fault.
It is white, blemish-free,
and my ink a blot
on its coarse
yet pure existence.
So I turn inward,
force myself not to justify
the blue blood on the dance floor
with some bad poetry,
a blemish too many.— Leslie Xavier
Commentary on Poem:
If one has to listen to bad poetry, one has to listen to the lyrics of Bollywood or vernacular movie songs. Every music industry has its share of bad lyrics.
In the iffy songs
I swayed to tonight,
I sensed joy.
The songs are ‘iffy’ and questionable, with double entendre, often made with raunchy and peppy tunes, finding their way into the Disco Jockey List. They blare their way into pulsating loudspeakers, that boom at the edges of the wooden dance floor. Dancing to a song is about hair down and footloose, and sway to the beats, that cover the ‘iff’ lyrics. But, there is joy, a sense of letting go, forgetting the lyrics that drowned in the music.
But, the lyrical riddles
claimed my bearings as toll;
I found ire, and fire,
their tone coerced me to
let go of my gifts,
break my pen,
and curse the notepad.
The lyrics though mundane attract the attention of the poet. The songs were iffy but peppy. As the poet in the poet wakes up, he examines the lyrics and finds them both frustrating (ire) and intense (fire). The tone … (we can consider two thoughts here — surprisingly deep or superficial and mundane) prompts the poet to reconsider his gifts letting go of his gifts.
“My pen lies idle, its ink long since dried up, leaving me with nothing but blank pages and a hollow sense of emptiness.”
― Paulo Coelho, The Alchemist
The poet considers his ability to conceive and compose verses as a gift. The tools of his craft — pen and notepad endure his joy and sorrow and bear the deluge and drought, but this prod from the indecipherable lyric tests him, so much so that he is ‘coerced’ to break his pen and curse his notepad.
It is not the paper’s fault.
It is white, blemish-free,
and my ink a blot
on its coarse
yet pure existence.
The tool — the ink is a pure liquid that freezes the word that was the poet’s thought for eternity. When the ink flows, then an empty paper becomes the bearer of a poem. The paper is clear, unblemished, pristine white and empty. The ink flows, not as the poem but as a blot, violating the pristineness and purity of the white empty canvas. That is the death of a pure white paper.
So I turn inward,
force myself not to justify
the blue blood on the dance floor
with some bad poetry,
a blemish too many.
The guilt of violating a pristine paper slowly seeps into the cracks of the poet’s mind. The dance of the pen on the paper — the dance floor, leaving a trail of ‘blue blood’. The poet decides to dance, even if it is not his best effort, with a trail of blue, that turns out to be blemished, like a murder of poetry.
“On the dance floor, we were all doing the struggle.”
― Billy Collins
This includes our poet’s pen (feet) dancing on the paper ( dance floor). This resulted in bad poetry, with a lot of blemishes.
We realize that a poet realizes that he has blotted the pristine paper with blue blood, but that is still a poem. A poem is the evidence of the struggle.
Bad Poetry is still poetry:
All bad poetry springs from genuine feeling ~ Oscar Wilde.
Bad Poetry is still poetry. In today’s world with both trolls and thin skins co-existing, poetry is the most civilized way of expressing without talking to people, and it is a great tool for introverts. Poetry can address mental health challenges. But I have seen newcomers starting with basic verses and then flowering into decent poets.
My friend Shobhana Kumar shared this beautiful quote by Leonard Cohen. If we consider poetry as an expression of life, which it is, then bad poetry is still an expression of life — after all, are we all perfect in our expressions?
The life that is lived in flesh and bones, but experienced by the heart and soul, and expressed through paper and pen becomes immortal because it leaves burnt carbon on paper in the form of ink and prints like the footprint in the sands of time. If life was burning well, then the burnt carbon — the poetry in its essence is its ash. That ash is the same for every life lived and expressed thus. So, bad poetry is better than no poetry.
~Ashok Subramanian © 2024
