What’s the Cringiest Poem You’ve Ever Written?

“orator fits, poeta nascitor”
An orator is made, a poet is born.

Mine is less of a poem and more of a song. I am in my early 50s now, and wrote it back in those idealistic days when I was all of sixteen, thought I knew everything there was to know about the world, and when new age travellers were constantly in the news.

If you want to read something that will make you cringe even more than David Brent from ‘The Office’, you just need to take a look inside the songbook that’s been with me since the age of fifteen.

For those of you who can’t look in person, I’ve typed it up this particular corker here:


Just scroll down to ‘Peace Convoy Partisans’. You won’t regret it, if only that you view your own writing more favourably.

And with that in mind, I challenge each and every one of you to fight back with an even more cringey contribution. Don’t be afraid. We’re all friends here!


Minute Poem – ‘Upside Down’

Minute Poem

1 (8 syll) The straw that broke the roofer’s back

2 (4 syll) A roof of thatch.

3 (8 syll) With match to watch, his aerial 

4 (4 syll) Came unattached.

7 (8 syll) First mend the fault, then watch the sport.

8 (4 syll) That was his bid.

5 (8 syll) First roof, then tile, then aerial,

6 (4 syll) That’s when he slid.

9 (8 syll) He clung to life on gutter weak.

10 (4 syll) And fall he did.

2 Poems by David Gant, Brilliant!


The Posh Writers’ Society

comprises types of a peculiar variety

all of whom strive to impress

with their extensive vocabulary,

gleaned from a well-thumbed thesaurus.

What better way could they find to bore us?

If Wordsworth had been of limited lexicon,

and wandered lonely as a cow, would his poem

‘Daffodils’ still be being read now.

And, as for Hemingway, would the story he tolled

have had the same ring, if it had been called

‘For whom the bell dings’

I know what The Society will do with my poem.

They’ll go through it word by word.

Then, to make themselves feel superior

they’ll dismiss it as being absurd

which, according to Roget, is

another word for hopeless.

Roget and out

David Gant – February 2019

Last Post

In your pursuit of transient fame,

you care not who you hurt or shame.

From wherever it is that you choose to hide,

your fingers spread your venom far and wide.

Your airbrushed selfies on the screen,

make you look so cool, so mean.

Your words spewed out with bile,

leave no-one doubting your intention to revile.

What is it that they do to you that makes you act this way?

What makes you vent your spleen on them, every single day?

Now, this may be hard for you to take,

but we’ve just about had enough of your carping bellyache.

At last, the time has come for you to stop harping on,

so, pull out the plug, scarper and be gone.

And, when we hear the bugle’s sound,

we’ll raise our glasses and drink a toast.

Knowing that it sounds to tell us,

of your very Last Post.

David Gant    August-2018

Christmas Card Rhymes

I was asked to put together a few very simple Christmas card rhymes – with a Christian rather than a secular feel. These were what I came up with. Feel free to use them on your own Christmas cards, but do credit me!

This card is sent

This card is sent with tidings
True strength and joy it brings.
For there was born a Saviour,
For there was born a King.

Could he be my Saviour?
Could he be yours too?
The crying baby born that day
Would grow to speak the Truth.

Could he be my Saviour?
That boy, God’s gifted son?
Yes – on that day, a boy was born
Who would save everyone.

No room at the inn

No room at the inn,
But the stable was free.
The first home of a boy
Who would soon die for me.

No room at the inn,
But God’s house isn’t there.
So where is God’s house?
It is everywhere.

No room at the inn,
But my heart has room free.
And there’s room in the Church.
Both for you and for me.

A stabled lamb

An angel speaks
To shepherds, awed.
“A boy will come.
Your God. Your Lord.”

A stabled lamb.
A newborn boy.
Three wise men visit
Full of joy.

The son of God.
He has arrived.
To influence
So many lives.

A mother’s pride,
A father’s love.
A precious gift
From God above.

More than

More than – a baby born.
More than – a prophecy.
More than – God’s child on earth
More than – what eyes can see.

Love – how we live our lives.
Love – how we spend our days.
Love – how we talk to God.
Love – how we learn to pray.

Review of ‘Light Reading Poetry’ (by Peter McGeehan)

Over 40 poems which vary from the sublime to the ridiculous.

The sublimity of, ‘The Swan’ – for example:

Majestic, pure white vessel,
Gliding on silk waters…
They dance in unison,
The lifelong pair…
Blessed is the life they lead.
An example to us all.”
It seems only fair that I give an example also of the ridiculous. I love ‘The Link’ in which Peter tells us about a diverse selection of people, just so that he can tell us about them in the verse:

‘Abby in Bangor,
Just singing a song.
Leslie in Swansea
In her boat ten feet long.
Abdul in Derby,
Driving his cab,
Paul Massey in Lincoln
Doing tests in his lab.’
Peter’s prolificity is inspirational, and here in this diverse selection of poetry (as diverse a selection as were the people in ‘The Link’!) there is much depth as well as daftness. I particularly enjoyed the song-like quality of ‘The Kaiser’s Gun’. Also lovely was ‘Seaman’s Prayer’ – a poignant entreaty of a man struggling against the sea, to his God and those who might remember him in their prayers. 

Another prayer-related poem (‘I’m 13 Today’) appears on the opposite page and is no less heartfelt, though the subject matter is perhaps a little more shallow – a young man requesting a girlfriend who will be ‘cheap to take out’ as his ‘hormones are rushing’. Lovely.

From a Dog

Hello, my name is Suzie.

I sleep on Max’s bed.
Looking at the nice view
I rest my furry head.
I see other houses,
I see lots of cars,
And when the street goes dark at night
I look at all the stars.
When I look closely in the trees
I see bright leaves and birds.
The view is very beautiful
It makes me lost for words.
I might not see a river,
I might not see a stream,
But the view from Max’s window
Is like a lovely dream.
I need to leave my writing now,
I need to go outside.
Then I’ll come back to Max’s room
And on the bed I’ll hide.
(Wuff, Wuff!)
Written by a little boy

Sea Green Girl

Look at her hair, I whisper, green

With envy at her auburn curls.
They spread, those mermaid’s tresses seen
On Titian’s Venus, bathing girl.
She sprawls, she basks, she swims ahead,
To shallow, lime green water bays.
I gaze as she lays down her head
On sea-weed beds where sea-sprites play.

I watch as she lays down her head
On sea-weed beds where sea-sprites play.

Her glist’ning skin, I need to feel
That pearlised glow, that olive sheen.
She bathes, that graceful, lengthened seal
And I conceive her eyes of green.
Their shades of em’ralds, shades of teal.
Long lashes, droplets clinging fast
What things she knows, what things she feels
Of future, present, sea-times past.

But radiant mer-girl disappears,
Without goodbyes.Takes to the waves.
Bereft, I view her head that rears
As dolphin-like she leaps.I save
Her hair of auburn, eyes so bright
For later date, I’ve memorised.
I’ll draw, inspired by her sweet sight,
I’ll paint her curves.Her hair.Her eyes.

To draw, inspired by her sweet sight,
To paint her curves.Her hair.Her eyes.

Her piscine curves, no legs apart
Just incandescent tail of jade.
Its scales will shimmer from my art
I must not let her image fade.
Sea-green, sea-green, those wicked waves
That upped and took the girl to sea.
I hate them for the help they gave.
And wished she’d stayed to swim with me.

I hate them for the help they gave.
And wished she’d stayed to swim with me.