Bad poetry is a delight to the soul, especially when it is so unashamedly bad that no one could contest its enormity. For example, listen to these words that no doubt brought a smile to the Rev Gilfillan of Dundee, and have been bringing smiles to countless people since:
All hail to the Rev. George Gilfillan of Dundee,
He is the greatest preacher I did ever hear or see.
He is a man of genius bright,
And in him his congregation does delight,
Because they find him to be honest and plain,
Affable in temper, and seldom known to complain.
He preaches in a plain straightforward way,
The people flock to hear him night and day,
And hundreds from the doors are often turn'd away,
Because he is the greatest preacher of the present day…— William McGonagall, "An Address to the Rev. George Gilfillan"
But unsung poets who persist in singing are not the only ones to give to literature some of its choicest gems. Some of the more lauded poets have embarassments all their own.
Coleridge, for example, wrote a poem he made the mistake of titling "To a Young Ass":
Poor little foal of an oppressèd race!
I love the languid patience of thy face:
And oft with gentle hand I give thee bread,
And clap thy ragged coat, and pat thy head…
Innocent foal! thou poor despised forlorn!
I hail thee Brother — spite of the fool's scorn!
And fain would take thee with me, in the Dell
Of Peace and mild Equality to dwell,
Where Toil shall call the charmer Health his bride,
And Laughter tickle Plenty's ribless side! …
The misplaced sentimentality of Coleridge amuses, nay, even evokes wry smiles from the best of us. But we are inclined to be tolerant. After all, who is not maudlin at times? But Wordsworth's mundanity is a much worse crime, deserving no quarter:
And to the left, three yards beyond,
You see a little muddy pond
Of water, never dry,
I've measured it from side to side:
'Tis three feet long, and two feet wide…— Wordsworth, "The Thorn"
Wordsworth later revised the poem, but too late to prevent him from causing a good deal of laughter.
Let me close with a few words from poor Tony Weller, who seems to have heard a bit too much bad poetry in his life:
Poetry’s unnat’ral; no man ever talked poetry ‘cept a beadle on boxin’ day, or Warren’s blackin’ or Rowland’s oil, or some o’ them low fellows; never you let yourself down to talk poetry, my boy.
— Charles Dickens, The Pickwick Papers.
