Here is the best of the worst poetry given at PCM conferences in years past. 

 2000

Six Centuries of Doggerel

Not Marble, nor the gilded monuments
Will ever be defaced by such as this
The rhymes all mangled, likewise is the sense -
Indeed it would seem that the meter has also gone amiss.

In Muncie-town did PCM a stately doggerel game decree
Where lovely poems were torn to shreds
By folks with too much in their heads -
M.A.’s and Ph. D.’s.
It was a scary thing, this doggerel game -
Of all contestants, who could be most lame?

Whenever English majors went downtown,
The other Ball State students looked at them.
But if they ever heard this doggerel
They’d realize why the profs think that we’re dim.

Whose lines these are, I think I know.
He didn’t write them this way, though.
I think I’ll simply rip them off
And hope the judges might be snowed.

The doggerel came in on little cat feet -
Unfortunately, it left more like the stuff in the litter box.

I saw the best minds of my generation
dragged screaming into doggerel competitions,
And boy, were they Beat.

And lastly, Ms. Sylvia Plath
Tried doggerel once, just for laths.
She read it so sadly
We thought she felt badly -
But really, she found it a gath.

-- Warren S. Moore

 1999
 

The Winner

(clasp hands in supplication)

 'Tis true, dirty lit. jokes have served the poets past 
"Monica Lewinsky, Two Years Before the Mast" 
(sigh) Too political in these TRYing times
I'm forced to envy even Leanne's rhymes 

(ugh, sorry)

"They that have power to doggerel and do none
Increase my chances of winning by one!" 

I see the wonder, the words upon your lips 
"Was his the verse that launched a thousand quips?" 
But the bard won't bring victory, nor Marlowe or Miltone 
Nor bald jokes or 'possums, my previous forays have shown. 

Just plain dirty, then, no pretension of wit? 
"Babysitting the infant nieces, elbow deep in shhhhh" 
Surely there's a nobler way! 
Surely there's an option here, 
Surely there's an ode today
To bend the stubbornest, wax-encrusted ear...

 More interliterary doggerel might well be designed
To capture both the audience's hearts and minds
With stanzas familiar yet rendered anew
"Whan by Aprille, we read in fulle many beche, 
They stille had not voted on article four impeche" 
No. To me 'tsounds too desperate. How 'bout to you? 

(to Rai)

 Could ratiocination, pompous verbovsity possibly provide
A topoi for victory, a salve for itching, chafing, burning pride?
"Disengendering Critical Reflections of Post-Structural Olfactory Arts
Speaking Queer Subaltern Silence: An Anatomy of (well) Farts" 

Such rarefied air, 
such elevated diction
is more likely to scare
than elicit predilection

Could I possibly describe the virtues and skill
Of such paragons of poesie as those gone before? 
Wouldn't you prefer more dignity, or will
Kurt admit me a poet-groupie, a doggerel whore? 
"Spings Jeff's manly prose from mere masculine pose? 
Nay! Never retiring, not ever so craven
But hirsute and scraggly, uneven it grows
Never-quite bearded, never clean shaven, 
His muse is the peach-fuzzy 'stache 'neath his nose!" 

Oh, I've seen how it goes, grown cynic and wise
Too clear it appears how to snag that first prize: 

Let's see: 

Scooped Patti's cat-litter box
Filed Fran Rippy's faxes
Trimmed Joe Trimmer's luscious locks 
Did Linda Hanson's back-taxes
Matuka's saluki brushed, walked, and fed
Lee Papa's LP's digitally remastered
Rebecca Stern's office repainted bright red 
Ranieri's rec-room both dry-walled and plastered
Web's cowboy boots spit polished and shined
Lauren delivered a case of the "the dark"
Carole Clark Papper, both wined and dined 
Kecia's midterms all graded and marked...

 ...More will I do

 Though all that I can do is nothing worth
Since that my bribery comes after all, 
Imploring favor...

 No, all I've left is my pride
Miscellaneous puns aside
I'll retire from doggerel following this ball
In my final PCM Winter
I hope to become, finally, a winner
And if not, then, humbly, screw you all. 

--Marcus Jackman 

1998

Oh My Dear Dear Comp Faculty How Do I Love Thee, 
Let Me Count The Ways:

One in the way you teach divine,
And two in the way your smiles shine, 
Three is in the luster of your classroom lessons, 
Four for your fair fair comprehensive questions. 

Nay, I cannot wait for the coming of May, 
for it feels an eternity in the passing of each day--
As I read your questions from years gone past, 
my toes tingle that I can answer them at last. 

Come May! Come now! Bring Spring! Bring exams! 
Bring those hoops of academe that turn Lions to Lambs--
For I have no fear--I'll be questioned by friends:
since the rhetoric of this poem is a means to an end--

 Dr. Hanson, fair lady, your subject's Romantic, 
With kindness like yours, I've no need to feel frantic. 
I learned my lesson that no matter what "they" say: 
Bain is a pain: I'm for Henry Noble Day.

 But before the 19th century lived many other sages: 
the fascinating rhetoricians of the late Middle Ages... 
I couldn't stop reading, they never grew old--
So elegantly elevated by the teaching of Newbold. 

"Web on The Web-y'r so electronic. Y'r so dapper. 
But for now I am drawn on--to the lovely Dr. Papper. 
You are she-who-understands--who sees what Burke's works mean! 
I feel a blush: In the presence of my Pentadic Queen! 

And my king? Of course reduces Plato to mockeries, 
He is the one and the only lover of Isocrates. 
Ranieri, Ranieri you fine looking runner--
With questions from you, the comps couldn't be funner. 

Now don't hear me wrong, I don't intend to slight
the sweet Doctor Rippy and the enchanting Dr. White. 
I'm gleefully anticipating your questions on lit theory...
Pardon me for a moment, tears of joy make me bleary. 

For the rest of you writing, I must now refrain, 
for mere words on a page could never contain 
my boiling over of emotion--I must lower it to simmer. 
It's too much at once: Rai, Munley, and Trimmer. 

Just everyone please note as this is the penultimate stanza--
I don't want to drive taxis like some Tony Danza. 
I just want to answer questions that are fit for my knowledge
Please Please Please make them easy and I'll get out of your college. 

And wherever I go and whomever I meet
I'll recount my counting and make it complete: 
Five for the way you're the loftiest of minds, 
And finally six for your patience in listening to my lines.

--Jeff White 
 

 1998

Untitled

Sing Muse!
Of the harried, hairless few
Of rusted barber's shears
Of middle-agéd fears
To find that first, so-subtle clue
Of clinically called-best
Male Pattern Baldness

 Yea, I too once bore a brilliant mane
Shock blond, angelic down to each molecule
Of each hair sprung from each robust follicle
The luscious locks hung glorious and vain
But up through that panoply slow came a bright gleam
That soon brought me to this [gesture] at a tender eighteen

 Oh nay, sigh not so, my good friends
My hasty deforestation
Has brought two-fold illumination
For to me it perspective lends
To warn the 'covered's BEWARE
The burgeoning ranks of we, hair-impaired

 For those newly-shining, the baldness beginner
Who might as yet lack the personality power
To go bald perfectly proudly as perhaps Dobelbower
Take the two-month orientation led by gleaming Joe Trimmer
For lessons in learning to live bald, but fun-ly
Call our guru of gaffes/laughs, venerable Mike Munley

 For we, no 'repeat'ers, just 'shampoo--rinse'
Welcome our brothers, bachelor or wed
Who bare at least 9/10 of their proud forehead
(We're saving a spot for our buddy John Prince) 
Aaron Housholder, too, has a place in our hall
Though his tactics must doom him to the rank of 'faux-bald'

 Save the laughs! Don't hasten down your friend to cut
For from up here I can see
Some, shall I say, 'clearings in the trees'? 
On more than a few, is't not so, Mr. Endicott? 
Oh the great shampoo economy of our brothers like Kurt
Were he fully-haired, he'd use SO much more -Pert-!

 So save bitter jokes, your jibes matter not
You heartless, hairéd masses
We'd jest right back, but would rather not
Instead, just kiss our SCALPS.

 --Marcus Jackman 

1997

THE BALLAD OF GWEN

In honor of Gwen Vickery, two-time defending doggerel champion, whose poems of death played upon our heartstrings like Indiana's bitter January winds through an Aeolian harp

 I come to sing a song of praise;
My glass held high, a toast I raise; 
Across the sky, one name emblaze:
The name of Gwen Vickery.

 Yes she, indeed, a maiden fair,
With crystalline eyes and raven hair.
'Tis not one poem that can compare
To the poems of Gwen Vickery.

 But beneath that innocent, lilting breath,
There lurks the heart of a Lady MacBeth;
For the subject of every poem is Death!
'Death!' cries Gwen Vickery.

 Just two years past, she murdered a cow;
Last year her cat FiFi no more went 'meow.'
Can there be any doubt what her poem's about now?
'All must die!' cackles Gwen Vickery.

 Her cow grazed pastorally 'neath the Oklahoma sun;
From the butcher's sharp knife it did not know to run;
So it wound up between someone's hamburger bun:
'I'll have mine rare,' requests Gwen Vickery. 

And what of poor FiFi, whose nine lives ran amuck,
Crushed 'neath the tires of an 18-wheel truck?
Into bubbly-hot tar, her furry carcass was stuck!
'Poor flattened FiFi,' whimpers Gwen Vickery.

 But here, my dear friends, I share grave concern,
For at Death's door must we all take our turn.
And so shall I rue the day when that I learn
Of the death of Gwen Vickery.

 My heart shall break, my eyes shall weep,
Her spectre will haunt my unfitful sleep,
For the wound to my soul will be wretchedly deep,
At the loss of Gwen Vickery.

 But my catharsis -- what better could be? --
Than a doggerel poem to her memory!
With poison pen, I shall write it with glee,
To honor dear Gwen Vickery.

 Here memory I will eulogize
As six feet under her body lies;
While worms eat her rotting flesh, devour her eyes: 
The eyes of Gwen Vickery.

 But what say you there? What if I should die first?
Why, my dear friends, I do fear but the worst!
My name, no doubt, would be eloquently cursed
In a poem by Gwen Vickery.

 Know that Gwen may be reason for my demise,
Tearing at my flesh and gouging out my eyes;
Then she'll write a poem about it, likely win first prize:
Another first prize for Gwen Vickery.

 She'll most certainly stand here where I now stand,
A doggerel poem clutched tight in her hand,
And tell of my death -- my, isn't it grand?! --
To be eulogized by Gwen Vickery.

 And that's why competitors love but to hate her --
But lest you believe I should be such a traitor,
Let me state here and now, there's no doggerel poet greater
Than the talented Gwen Vickery.

 Yes, her kitten has died, her cows no more graze; 
No doubt this year's topic has seen better days!
So I sing to you now a song of great praise
For the legendary Gwen Vickery.

 -- Kurt Bullock, 24 January 1997
 
 

1997

(Re)Configuring the Canon:  A (De)Cenralized, though Conversational, Approach for Arguing Toward a Theory for (re?)Negotiating the Oppressions Inherent in the Repressive State of Affairs for Those Who Will Be Dis-Enfranchised by the On-Set of the Post-Prince Era.

They’ve listed these days post-structural, and labeled us postmodernist,
but in reality there’s a greater Post that all the scholars missed,
Yes we are post-marxism, and sure, there’s no denial
these days are post-rhetorical; these days are post-ColonIAL.
I’ve even heard it suggested, though it made me shudder and jerk,
that some theorists were motivated to call these times “Post-Burke.” 

But none of that can matter now, in these times of pure frustration--
As the first children are being born into a Post-Prince Nation.
As of yet there are no treatises to help them learn to cope,
And I fear these funk-less children inherit a world without hope.
No more “Darling Nikkis” No “Little Red Corvettes.”
No scintillating disco tunes like “Peach” or “Soft and Wet.”

There’s nothing left to help them dance and nothing to bring ‘em smiles
It is as if these poor poor poor poor kids were shipwrecked on some Isle:
 
No “Cream” No “Kiss” No “Delirious” 
Not a single luxury
Like Denmark after Hamlet, as Prince-less as can be.
 
So we need some brand new theories, friends, to get us through this age 
I’m sure with time and publications we can make it all the rage.
But we must retain the prefix “Post” as the next point should convince--
For what could we call this brand new theory if we had to use a

-- Jeff White

The Swan Song of Jane A. Party Frock

Let us go then you and I
Where the examining table is spread out against the sky 
Waiting for a patient and her trouble; 
Let us go, through crowded waiting rooms, 
The coughing scratching retreats
Of unvaccinated children and
Old women with swelling feet: 
Streets that follow like a seduction poem 
Of carpe them
To lead you to delivery ... 
Oh, do not ask, "Whose is it?" 
Let us go and make our visit.

 In the room the doctors come and go 
Smelling of Aramis and scrub soap

 The yellow dog that lifts its leg upon the window pane, 
The yellow cat that bares its teeth toward the window pane, 
Arched its back into the corners of the evening, 
Peed in pools that stand in drains, 
Let climb upon its back the alley cat that wails the night long, 
Slipped from the terrace a haunting, mournful screech, 
And seeing that it had awakened the neighborhood, 
Wailed under the cover of the bushes until it fell asleep. 

And indeed there will be time
For the yellow kittens to gestate
Mewing and mawing into the street. 
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a place to hide from places you should be. 
There will be time to copulate and create
And time to stop the insistent hands
That lift and drop the question on each date, 
Time for you and time for me
And time for yet a hundred indecisions
And for a hundred excuses and abuses 
Before accepting tea and sympathy. 

In the room the doctors come and go 
Smelling of Aramis and scrub soap. And indeed there will be time
To wonder, "Do I dare; oh, do I care?" 
Time to clamber back over the Chevy seat 
With my frock up in the air 
(They will say, "What a lousy date she's been.") 
My J. Crew sweater up about my chin 
My scarf rich and modest, held down by a fraternity pin. 
(They will say: "I promise I won't put it in.") 
Do I dare
Disturb the rush week bliss? 
In a niinute there is time
For assertions and insertions argued through a kiss. 

And I have known them all already, known them all--
Have known the Delts, the Betas, and the Sigs
I have measured out my time in trophied rooms
Beneath the varnished paddles on the wall
Beneath alternative grunge rock from a farther room
So how shall I resume? 

And I have known the lines already, known them all. 
Lines that put one in a school girl's daze. 
And when I am formulated, sprawling under a pin, 
When I am pinned and wriggling on the mat, 
Then how should I begin
To escape the blunt ends of these days and ways? 
And how shall I resume myself?

 I have known the lies already, known them all: 
"Your roommate's cousin is my big bro." 
(The name and phone number you gave are bogus, too.) 
Is it Brut or Aqua Velva on my dress
That makes me so digress? 
Young men will do it under a table or in a bathroom stall. 
And how shall I resume? 
And how should I begin?
 

 I should have been a pair of ragged paws 
Upon a Hallmark poster in my room.

 And the morning after, the hungover rake sleeps peacefully
Soothed by Laura Ashley shams from upon my bed. 
Asleep ... spent ... he malingers, 
Stretched on the floor, beside my woe and me
Should 1, after good beer at convenience store prices
Have the guts to force the moment to its crisis? 
Though I have begged and hinted, hinted and begged
Though I have seen my hope chest sailing out the window
I am no bride--and here's my great matter
I have seen a home pregnancy test grow brighter
And I have seen the nurse hold a note and snicker, 
And in short, I am afraid. 

And would it have been worth it after all, 
After all the phone numbers and flirtations
After all the queen and sweetheart nominations, 
To have ended the matter with something juvenile
To have circled the universe in a bright gold ring
To arrive at the overwhelming question: 
To say, "I am Bridal Barbie from Matel
Come to say, 'I do, I do, pray tell."'
If he, setting down beside by bed

And would it have been worth it after all, 
Would it have been worth while, 
After the balloon bouquets and promise rings
After the dinners, after the corsages, after the popcorn on the movie floor-
After this, and just a little more? 
It is impossible to say just what I mean! 
But as if a magic lantern played a royal wedding on a screen: 
Could it have been worth while
If he, setting himself upon my bed
And turning slightly toward the mirror, should have said

No! I am not a harlot, nor was meant to be; 
I'm a naive co-ed, but that will do
To swell a progress, start a trimester or two. 
Release the prince, no doubt a selfish fool. 
Besides, paternity is too hard to prove. 
Marriage, once a promise, 
But a ruse. 

At times I feel ridiculous--
Almost at times, a fool. 

I grow old ... I grow old ... 
I shall wear a scarlet letter bold. 

Shall I sew it to a bright sweatshirt? Do I dare think myself a peach? 
Shall I wear pledge ribbons to my grave? 
I have heard the pledges seranading in the breach. 

I do not think that they will sing to me.

 I have seen them fiding in a Porche 920
Combing their trim-cut waves blown back
Over where the blow-dryer thins the top and back.

 I have lingered outside the delivery room too long
Where doctors wear frat pins beneath their gowns. 
The voice of reason wakes me, again it's let me down. 

--Rai Peterson 1984-94, Copyright