Parade Magazine ran an ad for a poetry contest and I wondered how such a thing would work. I decided to find out by submitting the worst poem ever. I have no training as a poet, but I have read enough poems to recognize a bad one.
To avoid any confusion about the source of return mail, I take on the nom de plume of “Clifton J” Smithee. My kids say the “J” stands for Jaguar.
This is my poem. It is simple and pure.
VIEW
by Clifton J. Smithee
[spacer height=”10px”]Rarely day.
Flabby watermelon.
Yellow bucket
hurts my eyes.
Analysis:
• The title is self evident.
• “Rarely day” could be any phrase that sounds stupid.
• “Flabby watermelon” is a figure of speech coined by Ann Landers to describe the biceps of one Walter Hudson, whom Wikipedia describes as the “sixth most obese human in medical history”.
• “Yellow bucket” is a real-life eyesore, a plastic planter outside my kitchen window.
Now you know my method.
I think a bit about what I would do with $1000 and wait for the mail. Soon an oversized red-and-white envelope arrives, stamped “First Class Mail!”, a bold red stripe above the glassine window shouting “POETRYGRAM”.
I assume even before I open it that I have won at least something. May I have the envelope, please… I carefully scissor off one end… and… the winner is… Me! Congratulations! My poem, VIEW, that is mine and that I wrote myself, has been awarded HONORABLE MENTION in the NEW POETRY CONTEST by famed poetry editor and senior judge Eddie-Lou Cole. The personalized Poetrygram informs me that I may frame and display my beautiful certificate with pride… and I shall. Attached below the tiny words “Tear Along Perforation”, the red and grey certificate fills me with pride. Its inscription reads “Award of Merit Certificate, Presented to C J Smithee, for poem VIEW, in category NEW.” Life is good.
Noticing that the name of the winning poem is visible to the entire world through the envelope window, I get an idea and set to work on my next composition. Honorable mention is nice, but it’s not enough. After some struggle, I have
EAT MY SHORTS
by Clifton J. Smithee
[spacer height=”10px”]She said she loved me.
She said she’d
eat my shorts.
Threat or promise? I never knew…
[spacer height=”14px”]She met a richer, younger man.
My shorts survived, and now
my shorts and I
grow rusty here alone.
Soon I have new mail. It’s great when things work as expected.
Putting the icing on the cake, I open the envelope and learn that I have won “GOLDEN POET AWARD FOR 1989” for poem: EAT MY SHORTS.
In a separate mailing, they ask me to sign a release to “publish your award-winning poem EAT MY SHORTS in WORLD TREASURY OF GOLDEN POEMS”. I can purchase my own copy of the book at the discounted contributor’s price of $39.95. Do they think I’m made of money? I sign the release, but write “No thank you I do not want the book” across the order form.
Before they give up on me, the Executive Committee invites me to present my poem at their quadrennial World of Poetry convention at the Hilton in Las Vegas. (“Please plan to dress formally.”) The invitation addresses me as “Dear Silver Poet” rather than Golden, so I don’t know what happened there.
Repeating her charming signature block for emphasis,
Bless you too, Eddie-Lou. Thanks for all the encouragement.