How bad is it?
As you recall, earlier this week we were interviewing M.T. Anderson about all kinds of things including a fascinating discussion on the creative value of broccoli, yes, broccoli. (scroll down to see the earlier interview, following this post in a weird reverse time warp of blogging)
We're now happy to present this week's winner of our Bad Poetry Friday contest (and our only contestant--hint-hint--send us your bad poetry please).
With more reverse blogging, we'll start where we left off at the end of our last interview with M.T. Anderson...
Lynn: One more request—We’ve begun a Bad Poetry Friday contest on the Imaginary Blog. Do you happen to have a bad poem handy that you’d like to contribute?
M.T.A.: I am not much of a poet. However, I have written one poem. It is an elegy.
Kathy Nuzum, the author of the acclaimed A SMALL, WHITE SCAR, once sent me a horror movie she had made with her family in which a man turned into a man-eating fungus. At one point in the movie, there was a moody, tender little scene set at the town's Annual Picnic for Orphans and Their Crippled Pets. Children played. Dogs ambled by with their heads in cones. And a one-legged chicken hopped across the screen.
Needless to say, I was wowed by the chicken. I made inquiries of the casting director. The chicken's name, as it turned out, was Peg, and she belonged to Kathy. From time to time, I would ask about Peg, hear how she was enjoying her scratching and feed, etc.
Then came the day when Peg passed on. So I wrote this elegy.
We mourn the late, lamented Peg
Who hopped around on just one leg
And as with hobbled gait she ambled
Laid her eggs, which were pre-scrambled.
A hen of grit, of sass, of mettle,
Though cock-eyed, thin, and unipedal,
When at the last she faced the worst,
She somehow put her best foot first.
We all shall miss her haughty hop
Now heav'nly Manna fills her crop;
But someday, when the dead shall quicken
We'll see her, plump and finger-lickin.
For on that day, when we're returning
Completed, whole, and without yearning,
On that day shall Peg be sighted,
Thigh with drumstick reunited.
Thank you, M.T.A.
And now for commentary by our Poultry Police--
I mean Poetry Police.
At first the Poetry Police were stunned, speechless, unable to comment at all. After some deliberation, they were able to say:
“Not only did we have to look up the definition of M.T.A.’s title, which we loathe to do—as we’d rather make stuff up--but his is the best (or worst) kind of bad poetry. It beguiles with flawless meter and rhyme and panders to poultry partisans. First we’re roosting, no--roasting, no--rooting for this inspiring one-legged chicken named Peg, then M.T. Anderson is pulling our leg."
So come back next Friday folks, when we hope to offer more bad, better bad, most likely an even worse--Bad Poetry Friday!
In the meantime, here’s how to play…
Forecast: Increased chances of bad poetry all month long. After all, isn't April National Poetry Month?