"All bad poetry springs from genuine feeling." Oscar Wilde
I am not a poet, not even a bad one! Some have a natural flair. A friend who used to be in my writing class often brought poetry to share--really beautiful poetry. She could take an episode from her work as a nurse, or a sight she'd seen on vacation, or even a dead deer she'd come across in the park, and create something breathtaking.
My husband, with a statistics and engineering background, also writes beautiful poetry. When we were dating, he wrote some gorgeous pieces for me! I know what you're thinking--he was on his best behavior and just trying to impress me. So? It worked! And I know you're wondering when the last time was that he wrote me something. Okay, it must've been 19...well, I can't remember. But he has helped me write poetry!
I'd written a scene involving two wealthy ladies (in the American south of 1936) who are discussing the work of a nationally acclaimed southern poet who'll be doing a reading in their town that afternoon. Even though this gentelmen writes love poems that practically make women swoon, he's gay.
This poet of my imagination is Bennett Stuart. I'd come up with a sappy sweet title of an anthology, but my writing class suggested that one of the ladies recite a poem, one that sounded pretty awful for comic releif.
Of course that meant I'd have to write something--NOT! Remember, I can't even write bad poetry! After struggling for far too long and only producing two lines, I asked Mr. McKenzie for help. After explaining the time period, circumstances, and that it needed to be bad, my wonderful husband wrote the perfect poem. And it only took him a mere 15 minutes!
If you want a good laugh, the finished product is posted below!
Are you a natural poet?
Tweet me @: maria_mckenzie. Thanks for stopping by!
"Smitten" by Mr. McKenzie,
writing as the fictional Bennett Stuart (bad poet)
from his poetry anthology (of my imagination), Love's Passionate Bliss
My dearest, oh one of wonderment
I am assuredly smitten.
Admittedly so, I can think
of nothing but your gaze.
Though others hope of golden coins,
be they but hard and cold,
you, my love, my dearest one,
‘tis you that are soft and warm.
My mind is of feathers, floating,
fluttering back to you and your golden hair.
My dearest, my grandest wish is for you
to call me your lover, your beaux.
You have captured my heart.
My thoughts are a plenty, full of you,
rather than grits, greens or red eye gravy.
Though you’ve warmed my tummy, too,
you’ve mostly warmed my heart.
I long for you, my love, my cherished one,
I long for you, oh love, who stole my heart.