As a writer, I have tried my hand at many literary genre. That includes technical books, news features, opinion columns, profiles, biography, and fiction. When I have entered samples of my work in writing contests, the judges have short-listed me five or six times. Once, they even gave me an award. But I have never written poetry I would ever expect to publish, but maybe the time has come to explore that genre.
Recently, a fellow writer told me about James McIntyre, a Scott who immigrated to Canada in 1841. After trying other careers, he established a furniture factory in Ingersoll, the heart of the dairy and cheese-making business. As a hobby, he wrote poetry, reciting it at public events and eventually published two volumes. He scribbled about many topics, but became most famous for his poems about cheese. I don’t know that he ever entered his poetry in contests or that anyone short-listed him or gave him an award, but somehow he has won the title of Canada’s Worst Poet.
My fellow writer, MLC, sent me a copy of McIntyre’s ode to a mammoth cheese that weighed over 7,000 pounds. The cheese itself brought a degree of fame to Ingersoll. The poem has six verses, but I’ll pass on only the first three to give you a feel for it.
Ode on the Mammoth Cheese
by James McIntyre
We have seen the Queen of cheese,
Laying quietly at your ease,
Gently fanned by evening breeze
Thy fair form no flies dare seize.
All gaily dressed soon you’ll go
To the great Provincial Show,
To be admired by many a beau
In the city of Toronto.
Cows numerous as a swarm of bees
Or as the leaves upon the trees
It did require to make thee please,
And stand unrivalled Queen of Cheese.
I guess you can see the reason history dubbed McIntyre, Canada’s Worst Poet. Some literary authorities have put his name forward as a contender for the World’s Worst Poet. Anyway, MLC, stirred something within me. The poetic muse began to dance and I responded with the following verse.
Oh my goodness, if you please,
Send no more poems of age ed cheese.
‘Twas bad enough to make me wheeze
And want to cough and snort and sneeze.
Well, there you have it. After writing that I realized I had found my literary niche. I need to put aside all my other writing and concentrate on composing bad poetry. That way I’ll have a good chance to unseat McIntyre and claim the title Canada’s Worst Poet. Maybe I could even get in the running for World’s worst.
With that in mind, and after getting my poetic feet wet, I wrote more verses and sent them off to MLC, quitting only when she cried for mercy.
You will have noticed I did not give you her name. I don’t want you to picket her house in an attempt to stop her from again awakening my poetic genius and consequently inflicting it on you.