Crap Poetry

A few years back I was invited to participate in a poetry reading at the Newman Institute in Mayo. I was extremely nervous at the prospect of standing up and reading aloud to an unknown group. This poem was one which formed in my mind on the morning of the reading.

There were a few of us reading before the 'main act', some poet who I never heard of before (nor since) and who's name I fail to recall.

Alas, I read just previous to her. I was mortified to the max when I realised that she fell into the category of 'crap poetry'. Had this fact been ignored by those around me, this would not have been such a painful experience, however, it was not. I was congratulated for it many times, while over shoulders I received many glaring looks from our 'Honoured Guest'.

Crap Poetry

When I was in the library, I found a book,
And loving poetry, I took a look.
I found some good ones, and some bad
And some really crappy ones, that made me mad.

I sat and I read for about an hour,
Then went home for my tea, and a shower.
I painted my face and brushed my hair,
In front of the mirror, I practised with care. [pause]

My knees tremble, my hands shake,
And deep in my tummy, there's a nervous quake.
Finally it's time, my turn has come,
I stumble and fall and land on my bum.

So sat on my arse, I think of that book,
And printed within it, the crap that it took.
Now taking a stand, I take a deep breath,
Suddenly reading my poetry's no longer a threat.

In front of the room, I hide a small smile,
My tummy's stopped churning, at least for a while.
I'm still just a novice, so cut me come slack,
And always remember, the pro's who print crap!

Warrior Princess