39. The Badder the Better – Adrienne Raphel
What I was really afraid of, though, was the messiness of it—the unwieldiness, the ugliness, the full-scale indulgence of imperfection.
Long before I started deep-diving into cruciverbalism (yup, that’s the technical term for crossword obsession), I always sought out constraints in writing: the more rules to follow, the more hurdles to put myself through, the better. As a poet, I love complicated forms, like abecedarians (where the first letter of each line goes down the alphabet). I suffered from a touch of perfectionism, and working inside a structure was comforting—it offered a blueprint for an ideal.
But I remember vividly the first time a rule scared me. In a workshop, a professor told us: “Write a bad poem.” My initial reaction was fear. What did that mean? Wasn’t I supposed to be writing the best thing I could possibly write? Why would I want to go backward?
What I was really afraid of, though, was the messiness of it—the unwieldiness, the ugliness, the full-scale indulgence of imperfection. Accepting that I was not only going to fail, but that I had to fail, was revolutionary for me. I’d learned how to get a gold star, but I also had to learn who I was when there was no “A” to earn, no rules to tell me what to do, and no one, not even myself, who would look at what I’d made and say: Good work.
– Adrienne Raphel
Prompt:
Write a bad poem. What does a “bad” poem mean to you? Interrogate that. Is it a poem that sounds like a sappy greeting card, starting with “Roses are red,” or “How do I love thee?” Maybe “bad” means something about form to you. A poem with too much rhyme in it, so every line is a singsong. Or maybe a bad poem has no form at all, so the lines wander across the page, maybe in your least favorite font (Comic Sans?), the tackiest color (neon purple?), or the worst pen (blunt Sharpie?).
Or maybe “bad” isn’t about the shape or the quality of the writing at all, but about the content. A “bad” poem might mean saying the things you shouldn’t say, or feeling the things you’re not supposed to feel, or copping to your pettiest, dumbest, most embarrassing complaints. Let your “bad” self say the thing you don’t let yourself say. If you want to swear, swear. If you want to write the word “NO” over and over for twenty lines straight, then—yes.
The badder the better. It might be so bad it’s good.
Beth Reynolds
Location: Vermont
About: While I normally write prose, I found the poetry prompts to be challenging, but ultimately very freeing. The whole experience of waking each morning and trying to get the words down for the prompt was a comfort and a creative spark. Now I have this whole body of work that represents this crazy, chaotic time in my life.
Age: 48
How does one
write bad verse?
Is it even possible
to go from bad to worse?
Is it bad if it doesn’t follow form?
What if it suddenly juts out to the right towards infinity and doesn’t stop
till it reaches the end of the page?
What if it doesn’t convey
a message,
a moral,
or a cohesive
anything?
What if it just goes on and on
filling thee page
until you finally
just run out of room…
What if there’s no chance to edit?
If you just write what comes to mind?
If you can’t polish and wordsmith---
what are you left with?
Can you still
show it to the world?
Are you
brave enough?
Lauresta Welty
Location: Boise, Idaho
About: I am married and have two children, ages 11 and 9. I am an environmental educator and teach outdoor preschool. When COVID hit, so many things changed for me and my family, as it did for everyone, and I wrote this poem to portray those many changes and the many strong conflicting feelings that arose with being in quarantine.
Age: 38
Sitting here in my home again
All of us together, yet alone
Another quarantined day again
The only other connection is a phone
AAAAAHHHHH (scream)
So much has changed for each one of us
So many things canceled and lost
Everything different for all of us
And we wonder what will be the final cost
AAAAAHHHHH (scream)
Stupid, fucking people who should never be in charge
Are making this so much worse
Why can’t compassion be in charge
Each stupid politician should be cursed
AAAAAAHHHH (scream)
AAAAAAHHHH (scream again)
Yet I see beauty and love each day
In ways I never did before
I have time for new things each day
Laughter, love and creativity make my heart soar
So here’s to rainbows in windows
Here’s to stuffed bears set out on benches
Here’s to hopeful sidewalk messages
Here’s to social distancing connections
Here’s to teachers playing Kahoot, reading aloud, and doing scavenger hunts with their classes, virtually
Here’s to drive through graduations, drive by parades, and drive by birthday parties
Here’s to artists all over the world turning this pain into beautiful art and music, combining voices virtually
Here’s to good old fashion written letters and talking on the phone
Here’s to late night comedians and Hedger Humor cartoons
Here’s to new family connections
Here’s to flowers blooming and birds singing
Here’s to the baby chickadees in our backyard nest box, and our weekly hikes to see baby Great Horned Owls and Bald Eagles
Here’s to everyone working at risk to help someone else
Here’s to new ideas and open minds, learning and growing because of this time
aaaaaahhhhhh (deep peaceful sigh)
*Scream inspired by the video of a music teacher writing a song and sharing it with her students, which actually turned out to be her playing her instrument and then screaming. Kudos to her.
*Photo is of our living room window, which looks out onto the street. My 11 year old daughter made the peace sign. My 9 year old son and I made the rainbow. We chose to do this art project to spread cheer to our neighborhood, after I read news articles about how children all over the world were decorating windows with rainbows and other art for others to find who were out walking in the neighborhood.
Leah Langley
Location: England, United Kingdom
About: This prompt enabled me to deviate from the norm of my writing. It was a challenge to let go of my normal style of writing, but I really enjoyed it. I wanted the letters to represent different synonyms for the word ‘bad.’
Age: 22
Abysmal
Banal
Atrocious
Dismal
Pathetic
Ominous
Egregious
Monstrosity
Moira Griffith
Location: Alexandria, VA
About: Whenever I doze off in my room, I look up at the book titles on the shelves on my wall. Sometimes I find myself wondering if the characters in the books jump into the world of the book squeezed next to them. So, I decided to take their titles and write a very short, very bad poem.
Age: 23
Cutting alive the sidewalk gives life room. Hours of loneliness plague you. Rooms cannot forget where society has maddened. For Beatlebone is on trial. I am Beatlebone. I am the Devil. I have reached a height connected by houses, wives, roads. Where’d you go?
To heaven –
To the room –
On the road –
(A very bad poem inspired by the book titles on the shelf in my room)
Sophia Kenna
Location: London, England
About: I've always found love poems to be cheesy and make me uncomfortable. I thought I'd try my hand at one.
Age: 22
You are to me what food is to thought
Drenched in salt, yet utterly beneficial
Yummy in your way that can’t be taught
Complete goodness, nothing artificial
A summer’s say can’t compare to thee
Despite a poet’s tendency to try
You are more of a storm to me
Full of unapologetic life
When it comes to you I’m eager and green
Like your eyes which glance up in beauty
A blink can be as sweet as vanilla bean
In between your arms you cutie
Susan Ecker
Location: Pomona, NY
About: I am the grandmother to Milo and Elliot, who are expecting a baby sister in one month. This 'bad poem' is about my frame of mind.
Age: 65
I’m stuck in this house
Cause of Covid 19
And Milo and Elliot
Are nowhere to be seen
Unless you count zoom
I’m still stuck in a room
Don’t know if I’ll meet
The new babe in the womb
That’s right there’s a baby
About to pop out
And my being present
Is still left in doubt
I have much open space
And plenty of food
So why am I plagued
With this sad, gloomy mood
It’s a grandmother’s need
To hug and to kiss
Oh, Milo and Elliot
You’re so sorely missed