Well, Fag Enders, we've been on a journey this September. Now, as the autumn comes creeping in we end where all of us begin: with bad poetry. Maybe it doesn't scan, maybe it's too obtuse or too banal; maybe it's all just a matter of taste and you've been done over by the fashions of the time - but bad is how it turns out, nonetheless, whether you're famous or not. That's why we practise! Please find below some poetry for your consideration which may or may not be bad, but which still, nonetheless, is a set of prompts. (Maybe that's all anyone can hope for, in the end...)
- I’ve measured it from side to side:
'Tis three feet long, and two feet wide.
- William Wordsworth
- Beautiful Moon, with thy silvery light,
Thou cheerest the lovers in the night
As they walk through the shady groves alone,
Making love to each other before they go home.
- Sir William Topaz McGonagall
- O Sin, thou knowest that all thy shame in her
Was made a goodly thing;
Yea, she caught Shame and shamed him with her kiss,
With her fair kiss, and lips much lovelier
Than lips of amorous roses in late spring.
- Algernon Charles Swinburne
- The boy stood on the burning deck
Whence all but him had fled
The flame that lit the battle’s wreck
Shone round him o’er the dead
- Felicia Hemans
- My heart expands
'tis grown a bulge in it
inspired by your beauty,
- William Pratt