Atrocious Verse from “Queer Aztlan”

Atrocious Verse from “Queer Aztlan”

As the whole World-Wide Web must know, there are only a few short days until the contest deadline. And though we have received a fair number of hideously abominable verses, the entries aren’t arriving like they were before.

In order to reverse this retardation, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” have decided to present you, dear reader, with yet another example of vomit-inducing balladry. This time, in fact, we are letting loose a heavy-hitter: A “professional” Chicana author and self-described “politica” named Cherríe Moraga. A strident feminist and fervent lesbian, Ms. Moraga has parlayed her rancor into an enviable academic career—even though the only university she attended seems to have been UCLA (the University of Chelmsford at Logan Airport).

We have culled one verse from a poem Ms. Moraga has fashioned entitled “Passage”:

there is a very old wound in me
between my legs
where I have bled, not to birth
pueblos or revolutionary
concepts or simple
sucking children

but a memory
of some ancient betrayal.

Fantastic! Clearly, Ms. Moraga is the inspiration for many a college bard’s wretched doggerel. We particularly enjoyed the mention of “pueblos”—Ms. Moraga offers just enough Spanish to make it clear to her reader that she is a bona fide Chicana, a label that she clearly bandies about much as one might “Harvard Professor.”

Actually, this stridently miserable verse inspired one of our junior editors—let’s just call him “Chip”—to compose his own example of execrable poetry. For “Chip,” you see, nicked his finger yesterday whilst attempting to inflate one of those trendy Pontius Pilates exercise balls. As a result of Ms. Moraga’s gleaming poesy, “Chip” has composed the following poem, which he calls “Pueblo, Colorado”:

“Pueblo, Colorado” by “Chip,” a member of the Crack Young Staff of THMQ

there is a very new wound in me
on my ring finger
where I have bled, not to punch
Cherríe Moraga or Gloria
Anzaldua or Alexander
Cockburn

but a memory
of some plastic exercise ball.

Pretty fancy, n’est pas? But we think that you, dear reader, can do even better. And remember: You don’t need to be a college student to write Horrible College-Student Poetry, as Ms. Moraga and “Chip” amply demonstrate. Though the official prize for the winning poem will be full publication on our Web-site and an attractive “Hatemonger’s Quarterly” T-shirt with the catchy slogan “We get more hits than Tina Turner,” it’s possible that larger prizes loom on the horizon. If Cherríe Moraga can exploit her excruciating non-talent into a fancy university gig, perhaps you could be Amiri Baraka’s replacement as New Jersey’s Official Jew-Hater Laureate. Like a massage therapist, we all have to start somewhere.