BS: Bad poetry about London...

Subject: BS: Bad poetry about London...
From: Little Hawk
Date: 25 Apr 04 - 08:13 PM

Ever had a burning desire to visit London, England? Well, you don't need to anymore. Just read this great poem by William McGonagall and get the whole thrill without spending a dime...

DESCRIPTIVE JOTTINGS OF LONDON
by William McGonagall

As I stood upon London Bridge and viewed the mighty throng
Of thousands of people in cabs and 'busses rapidly whirling along,
All furiously driving to and fro,
Up one street and down another as quick as they could go:

Then I was struck with the discordant sound of human voices there,
Which seemed to me like wild geese cackling in the air:
And the river Thames is a most beautiful sight,
To see the steamers sailing upon it by day and by night.

And the Tower of London is most gloomy to behold,
And the crown of England lies there, begemmed with precious stones and gold;
King Henry the Sixth was murdered there by the Duke of Glo'ster,
And when he killed him with his sword he called him an impostor.

St. Paul's Cathedral is the finest building that ever I did see;
There's nothing can surpass it in the city of Dundee,
Because it's most magnificent to behold
With its beautiful dome and spire glittering like gold.

And as for Nelson's Monument that stands in Trafalgar Square,
It is a most stately monument I most solemnly declare,
And towering defiantly very high,
Which arrests strangers' attention while passing by.

Then there's two beautiful water-fountains spouting up very high,
Where the weary travellers can drink when he feels dry;
And at the foot of the monument there's three bronze lions in grand array,
Enough to make the stranger's heart throb with dismay.

Then there's Mr Spurgeon, a great preacher, which no one dare gainsay
I went to hear him preach on the Sabbath-day.
And he made my heart feel light and gay
When I heard him preach and pray.

And the Tabernacle was crowded from ceiling to floor,
And many were standing outside the door;
He is an eloquent preacher, I solemnly declare,
And I was struck with admiration as I on him did stare.

Then there's Petticoat Lane I venture to say,
It's a wonderful place on the Sabbath day;
There wearing apparel can be bought to suit the young or old
For the ready cash-- silver, coppers, or gold.

Oh! mighty city of London! you are wonderful to see,
And thy beauties no doubt fill the tourist's heart with glee;
But during my short stay, and while wandering there,
Mr Spurgeon was the only man I heard speaking proper English I do declare.

Subject: RE: BS: Bad poetry about London...
From: Amos
Date: 25 Apr 04 - 08:53 PM

And now we've heard from Little Hawk,
And old McGonagall too;
It's plain that neither one of them
Has quite enough to do!
Mc Gonagall foisted awful verse
On his mahter and his payter,
And Little Hawk foists it on us all,
A good century later!!

Fie on them both, and send them hence!
Why should we silent suffer?
For Little Hawk is a wicked sort
And Mc Gonagall's a duffer!
Our minds are burdened quite enough
Without such persecution
As these two blaggards offer up
As Poetry Pollution.

Why Little Hawk, pray tell us why?
What festers in your head?
To track down awful English poems
And put them in a thread?
Such cruelty to all your friends
Should not soon be forgiven;
And you should banned be from here,
Until you are quite shriven!

Subject: RE: BS: Bad poetry about London...
From: Little Hawk
Date: 25 Apr 04 - 09:44 PM

Very good, Amos!

Subject: RE: BS: Bad poetry about London...
From: Little Hawk
Date: 25 Apr 04 - 09:47 PM

Study McGonagall! The basic principle of this kind of brilliant poetry is to spew out a line about anything at all that crosses your mind in regards to the subject you want to focus on...and then search about for any possible rhyming word with which to conclude the next line. Just keep doing that for about 10 or more verses, until you think you've said enough.

You will find that certain words, like "declare", are very handy when using this technique.

Subject: RE: BS: Bad poetry about London...
From: Amos
Date: 25 Apr 04 - 09:58 PM

His problem, though, is that he grossly misestimates the time at which "enough" will be experienced by his listeners. Or perhaps I should say, misoverestimates?

A

Subject: RE: BS: Bad poetry about London...
From: Little Hawk
Date: 25 Apr 04 - 10:12 PM

Yes, and he completely lacks a sense of rythm, meter, or timing. That is the most astounding feature of his work, I think.

Subject: RE: BS: Bad poetry about London...
From: GUEST,harlowpoet
Date: 26 Apr 04 - 08:13 AM

Just to clarify its a Scottish poem, as Mcgonnagall, was a handloom weaver from Dundee.

He touted his work a century or so ago blazing the trail for us performance poets everywhere, having plenty of fruit thrown at him in his life.

His seminal work is The Tay Bridge disaster. Check it out. He turned one disaster into another magnificent one

Subject: RE: BS: Bad poetry about London...
From: McGrath of Harlow
Date: 26 Apr 04 - 10:34 AM

There's a fascinating piece about McGonagall written by Hamish Henderson, and included in Hamish's book Alias MacAlias.

He puts him very clearly in the tradition of the Anglo-Irish broadside tradition, except that McGonagall always had aspirations to be seen as a real poet, and had that incredible skill for snatching disaster out of the air in anything he ever wrote. "Virtually unparodiable" is how Hamish puts it.

To illustrate that point here are some lines quoted by Hamish Henderson to cap his article,taken from "The McGonagalliode", written by a student a hundred years later, the Laureate Bard of the Edinburgh University McGonagall Society, Gordon Farquaharson. It's affectionate and respectful, and not in a thousand years could Mc Gonagall have written it. Somehow McGonagall had a genius for the poetical pratfall:


O beautiful gilded statue of Eternal Youth, standing above the Old Quad in state;
With your flaming torch, the darkness of ignorance to illuminate,
Hear now the praise of one who knew you well,
As he, for some considerable time, nearby did dwell.
He was none other than William McGonagall, the poet and tragedian of renown,
A citizen and worthy inhabitant of Edinburgh's fair town.
He was truly gifted as a great poet should be
With wisdom, imagination, innocence and sincerity.
Often have I felt as I left a certain hostelry in South
College St, in which I have been quenching my drouth,
That I have seen the shade of the poet himself standing in the nearby close mouth,
Which has given me greater inspiration for the cause,
That is, of proclaiming the greatness of McGonagall to all without pause,
Wherefore I now declare to all who read or hear my lay,
And solemnly avow from now until I reach my hindmost day,
And I am lowered into my grave clad in my funeral robe,
That I shall wholeheartedly endeavour with all my might to
spread the knowledge and fame of the
works of William McGonagall
throughout the
globe!

Subject: RE: BS: Bad poetry about London...
From: Ellenpoly
Date: 26 Apr 04 - 12:16 PM

"No, Sir, when a man is tired of London, he is tired of life; for there is in London all that life can afford." - Samuel Johnson

"Well, Sir, when a person is tired of bad poetry on mudcat, a person should go to London!"-Ellenpoly

Subject: RE: BS: Bad poetry about London...
From: Rapparee
Date: 26 Apr 04 - 01:01 PM

"Pretty friendship 'tis to rhyme
Your friends to death before their time."

Subject: RE: BS: Bad poetry about London...
From: Mountain Dog
Date: 26 Apr 04 - 11:47 PM

Ah, the Glorious and Incomparably Egregious Poetaster MacGonagall! What a wonder of literature he was, to be sure. Little Hawk, thanks for bringing him back to mind (where he will remain, lodged like unto Jonah in the whale's craw for yet some days to come, I'm sure). Here's a particularly choice specimen from the man's leaden quill, a bit of deathless doggerel to which I was introduced by a friend in Devon who once lent me his dog-eared collection of the Scottish Anti-Bard's greatest hits:

The Famous Tay Whale

'Twas in the month of December, and in the year 1883,
That a monster whale came to Dundee,
Resolved for a few days to sport and play,
And devour the small fishes in the silvery Tay.

So the monster whale did sport and play
Among the innocent little fishes in the beautiful Tay,
Until he was seen by some men one day,
And they resolved to catch him without delay.


When it came to be known a whale was seen in the Tay,
Some men began to talk and say,
We must try and catch this monster of a whale,
So come on, brave boys, and never say fail.


Then the people together in crowds did run,
Resolved to capture the whale and to have some fun!
So small boats were launched on the silvery Tay,
While the monster of the deep did sport and play.


Oh! it was a most fearful and beautiful sight,
To see it lashing the water with its tail all its might,
And making the water ascend like a shower of hail,
With one lash of its ugly and mighty tail.


Then the water did descend on the men in the boats,
Which wet their trousers and also their coats;
But it only made them the more determined to catch the whale,
But the whale shook at them his tail.


Then the whale began to puff and to blow,
While the men and the boats after him did go,
Armed well with harpoons for the fray,
Which they fired at him without dismay.


And they laughed and grinned just like wild baboons,
While they fired at him their sharp harpoons:
But when struck with the harpoons he dived below,
Which filled his pusuers' hearts with woe:


Because they guessed they had lost a prize,
Which caused the tears to well up in their eyes;
And in that their anticipations were only right,
Because he sped on to Stonehaven with all his might:


And was first seen by the crew of a Gourdon fishing boat,
Which they thought was a big cobble upturned afloat;
But when they drew near they saw it was a whale,
So they resolved to tow it ashore without fail.


So they got a rope from each boat tied around his tail,
And landed their burden at Stonehaven without fail;
And when the people saw it their voices they did raise,
Decalaring that the brave fishermen deserved great praise.


And my opinion is that God sent the whale in time of need,
No matter what other people may think or what is their creed;
I know fishermen in general are often very poor
And God in His goodness sent it to drive poverty from their door.


So Mr. John Wood has bought it for two hundred and twenty-six pound,
And has brought it to Dundee all safe and all sound;
Which measures forty feet in length from the snout to the tail,
So I advise the people far and near to see it without fail.


Then hurrah! for the mighty monster whale,
Which has got seventeen feet four inches from tip to tip of a tail!
Which can be seen for a sixpence or a shilling,
That is to say, if the people all are willing.

Subject: RE: BS: Bad poetry about London...
From: Little Hawk
Date: 26 Apr 04 - 11:56 PM

Marvelous! And what a gripping ending too..."if the people all are willing." That is the MacGonagall touch which simply cannot be matched, unless William Shatner were to turn his hand to poetry. He hasn't as yet.

(I must confess that my sympathies were with the whale, however, rather than with the mindless cretins who went out to kill it.)

Subject: RE: BS: Bad poetry about London...
From: Jim McCallan
Date: 26 Apr 04 - 11:58 PM

The Tay Bridge Disaster - William McGonagall

Subject: RE: BS: Bad poetry about London...
From: Amos
Date: 27 Apr 04 - 12:08 AM

I had hoped that one well placed charge of decent scansion, meter and rhyme might dissuade and dissipate this madness, but I see I was sadly mistaken.

Thereforfe I wash my hands of this perverted fascination with the literarily obscene and bid you soi-disant gentlemen a pleasant tout a l'heure.

A

Subject: RE: BS: Bad poetry about London...
From: Jim McCallan
Date: 27 Apr 04 - 12:12 AM

To you as well, oh seeker of the fine arts.

Jim

Subject: RE: BS: Bad poetry about London...
From: Little Hawk
Date: 27 Apr 04 - 03:22 PM

Go ahead, Amos. Vegetate in your ivory tower...while the rest of us revel in the sartorial bliss that can only accrue to those who read MacGonagall on a daily basis.

- LH

Subject: RE: BS: Bad poetry about London...
From: McGrath of Harlow
Date: 27 Apr 04 - 03:49 PM

Another extract from that piece by Hamish Henderson:

The hard truth is that folk-song becomes poetry - or has a chance of becoming poetry - as and when it gets rid of McGonagall. He is, as it were, the sump into which all that is least creative in folk-song is bound to drain.

Subject: RE: BS: Bad poetry about London...
From: Amos
Date: 27 Apr 04 - 04:32 PM

LH:

Once the mind settles on depravity, it will by necessity generate an endless inventory of handy justifications for it; otherwise it would recoil at itself.

As you shave, tomorrow, say, look in the miorror, look into your eyes and tell yourself bravely, "I promulgated McGonagal and called it poetry". You'll see the sly flinch, all right. I dare you.

A

Subject: RE: BS: Bad poetry about London...
From: Little Hawk
Date: 27 Apr 04 - 04:51 PM

Heh! You have such a way with words...

Subject: RE: BS: Bad poetry about London...
From: Little Hawk
Date: 27 Apr 04 - 08:30 PM

Ahem!

LITTLE JAMIE
by William McGonagall

Ither laddies may ha's finer claes, and may be better fed,
But nane o' them a'has sic a bonnie curly heid,
O sie a blythe blink in their e'e,
As my ain curly fair-hair'd laddie, Little Jamie.

When I gang oot tae tak' a walk wi' him, alang the Magdalen Green,
It mak's my heart feel lichtsome tae see him sae sharp and keen,
And he pu's the wee gowans, and gie's them to me,
My ain curly fair-hair'd laddie, Little Jamie.

When he rises in the mornin' an' gets oot o' bed,
He says, mither, mind ye'll need tae toast my faither's bread.
For he aye gie's me a bawbee;
He's the best little laddie that ever I did see,
My ain curly fair-hair'd laddie, Little Jamie.

When I gang oot tae tak' a walk alang the streets o' Dundee,
And views a' the little laddies that I chance to see,
Nane o' them a' seems sae lovely to me,
As my ain curly fair-hair'd laddie, Little Jamie.

The laddie is handsome and fair to be seen,
He has a bonnie cheerie mou', and taw blue e'en,
And he prattles like an auld grandfaither richt merrily;
He's the funniest little laddie that ever I did see,
My ain curly fair-hair'd Iaddie, Little Jamie.

Whene'er that he kens I am coming hame frae my wark,
He runs oot tae meet me as cheerful as the lark,
And he says, faither, I'm wanting just a'e bawbee,
My ain curly fair-hair'd laddie, Little Jamie.

Subject: RE: BS: Bad poetry about London...
From: Amos
Date: 27 Apr 04 - 08:40 PM

Right, carry on, you lot, forwarding the decay of Western Civ in your own inimitable destructive way!!    Half-barbarian and half-baboon, the lot of yer!


A

Subject: RE: BS: Bad poetry about London...
From: darkriver
Date: 28 Jun 04 - 07:53 PM

McGrath's contribution of 27 Apr 04, with that wonderful quote from Hamish Henderson--
The hard truth is that folk-song becomes poetry - or has a chance of becoming poetry - as and when it gets rid of McGonagall. He is, as it were, the sump into which all that is least creative in folk-song is bound to drain.
--comes to mind when I see the following McGonagall work. It could almost become a folk song. Any takers? Who would put a melody to this?

YOUNG MUNRO THE SAILOR
by William McGonagall

TWAS on a sunny morning in the month of May,
I met a pretty damsel on the banks o' the Tay;
I said, My charming fair one, come tell to me I pray,
Why do you walk alone on the banks o' the Tay.

She said, Kind sir, pity me, for I am in great woe
About my young sailor lad, whose name is James Munro;
It's he has been long at sea, seven years from this day,
And I come here sometimes to weep for him that's far, far away.

Lovely creature, cease your weeping and consent to marry me,
And my houses and all my land I will give to thee,
And we shall get married without any delay,
And live happy and contented on the banks o' the Tay.

Believe me, my sweet lady, I pity the sailor's wife,
For I think she must lead a very unhappy life;
Especially on a stormy night, I'm sure she cannot sleep,
Thinking about her husband whilst on the briny deep.

Oh, sir! it is true, what you to me have said,
But I must be content with the choice I've made;
For Munro's he's young and handsome, I will ne'er deny,
And if I don't get him for a husband, believe me, I will die.

Because, when last we parted, we swore to be true,
And I will keep my troth, which lovers ought to do;
And I will pray for his safe return by night and by day,
That God may send him safe home to the banks o' the Tay.

Forgive me, noble heart, for asking to marry you,
I was only trying your love, if it was really true;
But I've found your love is pure towards your sailor lad,
And the thought thereof, believe me, makes my heart feel glad.

As homeward we retraced our steps her heart seemed glad,
In hopes of seeing again her brave sailor lad,
He had promised to marry her when he would return,
So I bade her keep up her spirits and no longer mourn.

Dear creature, the lass that's true to her sweetheart deserves great praise,
And I hope young Munro and you will spend many happy days,
For unto him I know you will ever prove true,
And perchance when he comes home he will marry you.

What you have said, kind sir, I hope will come true,
And if it does, I'll make it known to you;
And you must come to the marriage, which you musn't gainsay,
And dance and rejoice with us on the marriage-day.

When we arrived in Dundee she bade me good-bye,
Then I told her where I lived, while she said with a sigh,
Kind sir, I will long remember that morning in May,
When I met you by chance on the banks o' the Tay.

When three months were past her sailor lad came home,
And she called to see me herself alone,
And she invited me to her marriage without delay,
Which was celebrated with great pomp the next day.

So I went to the marriage with my heart full of joy,
And I wished her prosperity with her sailor boy;
And I danced and sang till daylight, and then came away,
Leaving them happy and contented on the banks o' the Tay.

So all ye pretty fair maids, of high or low degree,
Be faithful to your sweethearts when they have gone to sea,
And never be in doubts of them when they are far away,
Because they might return and marry you some unexpected day.


--And Amos, McGonagall is gonna gall ya.

Regards,

doug

Subject: RE: BS: Bad poetry about London...
From: GUEST, TheBigPinkLad
Date: 29 Jun 04 - 06:45 PM

I have questions:

Is it any worse that modern pop lyrics?
Is it any more annoying than our own Mudcat poet lauriate?
If it were delivered with appropriate protraction and pregnant pauses in lilting Jockistani as surely it must have been, was it not destined to become immortal?

Subject: RE: BS: Bad poetry about London...
From: beardedbruce
Date: 29 Jun 04 - 06:48 PM

There IS no Mudcat Poet Lauriate!

8-{E

Not even a Beast Poet...

Subject: RE: BS: Bad poetry about London...
From: Amos
Date: 29 Jun 04 - 09:34 PM

It ill behooves Little Hawk to fill the void with this sort of garbage and redolent tripe.
At least Bearded Bruce can count feet!

A

Subject: RE: BS: Bad poetry about London...
From: GUEST,Jim Knowledge
Date: 30 Jun 04 - 08:25 AM

I `ad that Andrew Motion in my cab the other day. I said, "Where d`you want to go to mate? Up The mall or Bishopsgate?" " There I`m a poet and don`t know it!"
`e said, " Take me through this wondrous place
          Let me see its charms unfold
          Its bustling city business streets
          Its West End stores and towers of gold
          The parks that bless the Thames, each side
          The bridges steeped in history
          Just drive me round, and round ,and round
          For here is all the world to see"
I said, "nice one guv, but it`ll cost you £130 quid"
`e said, " Nah, cobblers, just drop me at Victoria!!"

What am I like?

Subject: RE: BS: Bad poetry about London...
From: Dave Bryant
Date: 01 Jul 04 - 05:26 AM

I'm surprised that Simon (Harlowpoet) hasn't tried to compete on this thread.