Once, I was a subeditor of this newspaper. One of the house rules was that we did not under any circumstances accept poetry for publication.

The reason was simple: almost everyone nurses a belief, in the warm innermost places of the soul, that he or she can write wonderful, inspired poetry. The cold, hard truth is that almost no one can. Moreover, the newspaper business is like the law - once you establish a precedent, it locks you in a vice-like grip from which it is almost impossible to break. So the thought behind the policy was that if you were foolish enough to publish one poem about Bermuda's blue sea and pink sand, no matter how good it was, you would be doomed to publish an endless procession of its ugly clones, every day, forever.

I believe that most newspapers must have a similar stricture. There's a compelling logic to it, and Heaven knows, the sanity of editors and sub-editors around the world is often in desperate need of protection. But I must confess that, in a way, the ban is to be regretted. Years ago, I stumbled across a hymn, written in the 19th Century, by some anonymous, but doubtless venerable, parson from New England. It was probably sung to mark the beginning of the fishing season, or some such occasion.

One of its verses read as follows:

Ye Monsters of the bubbling Deep

Your Maker's Praises shout;

Up from the Sand, ye Codlings, leap

And wag your Tails about

Now, you have to admit, that conjures a superb picture. It may be awful poetry, but it is awful in the most charming way. In something like thrall, I looked for more...and a whole new world opened up to me. Like Isaac Newton, I had found a pebble on the beach, whilst the great ocean of truth lay all undiscovered before me. There are many reasons a poem is bad - poor metre, poorly-chosen language, inappropriate subject matter - but the quality most share who write charming bad poetry is na?vet?. It often seems the voice you are listening to is that of a six year-old, trapped in an adult's body.

One of the best known of the good bad poets is a Scotsman (naturally. Scots blood is always to be found rushing ahead, where there are no rules), William McGonagall, who died one hundred years ago this year. In the preface to the Penguin Book of Victorian Verse, George MacBeth wrote: "Some readers may suspect that the inclusion of his verse is a joke", but "like the Douanier Rousseau, McGonagall created a style out of a stupidity. He was the first, and perhaps so far the only widely known, na?ve poet, and as such he deserves attention."

In The Moon, he wrote:

Beautiful Moon, with thy silvery light,

Thou cheerest the Esquimeau in the night;

For thou lettest him see to harpoon the fish,

And with them he makes a dainty dish.

The makers of Sunlight Soap commissioned him to write a poem in praise of their product. Whether they used it or not, I don't know, but this is what he came up with:

You can use it with great pleasure and ease

Without wasting any elbow grease:

And when washing the most dirty clothes

The sweat won't be dripping from your nose.1

McGonagall is by no means the only poet capable of working at such a level, though.

The Reverend Cornelius Whur published Village Musings - on Moral and Religious Subjects in 1837. It is a work that contains many perfect examples, like this one:

'Alas! Alas!' the father said,

'Oh what a dispensation!

How can we be by mercy led

in such a situation?

Be not surprised at my alarms,

The dearest boy is without arms!'

Then Alfred Austin, another who wrote in the second half of the 19th Century, published a drama entitled Fortunatus the Pessimist, which contains some of the most absurd lines ever written. One character tries to sell sexy lingerie to the heroine, but fails to allow for her dislike for padded bras. She rants:

And do they wear that lubricating lie,

That fleshless falsehood! Palpitating maids

Puff themselves out with hollow buxomness,

To lead some breathless gaby at their heels

A scentless paper-chase!

A gaby, if you're curious, is a simpleton. Serendipitous choice.

Joaquin Miller was an American who had, shall we say, a vivid imagination. He said he had taken part in General William Walker's expedition to Nicaragua, and claimed to have been wounded in the leg. Unfortunately, as the journalist Ambrose Bierce pointed out, he sometimes limped with the wrong leg. He did work very hard on his metre, though, as you will see:

They sailed. They sailed. Then spoke the mate:

This mad sea shows his teeth tonight.

He curls his lip, he lies in wait,

He lifts his teeth as if to bite.

Brave Adm'r'l, say but one good word:

What shall we do when hope is gone?

The words leapt like a leaping sword:

'Sail on! Sail on! Sail on! And on.'

This kind of talent is by no means confined to men. Mrs. Julia A Moore was said to be a favourite of one of Bermuda's most famous visitors, Mark Twain. Her first book of poetry, published in 1876, was called The Sweet Singer of Michigan Salutes the Public, a title that ought to give you a good idea of what is between the covers.

One of the poems included was The Ashtabula Disaster:

Have you heard of the dreadful fate

of Mr P P Bliss and wife?

Of their death I will relate,

and also others lost their life;

Ashtabula Bridge disaster,

Where so many people died

Without a thought that destruction

Would plunge them 'neath the wheel of tide

Swiftly passed the engine's call,

Hastening souls on to death,

Warning not one of them all;

It brought despair right and left.

The editor of The Oxford Book of American Light Verse describes her as "a writer so transcendentally, surpassingly, superlatively bad that...she belongs in a special genre in which normal rules and habits of judgement are magically suspended."

It's a shame can't join the search for others in her class. But, and I have personal experience of this, if you really want to see the normal rules and habits of judgement magically suspended, try telling poet A that despite having published poet B the week before, you regret that you won't be able to find space for his, or her, magnum opus this week, next week or any other week.

Comments on this, or any other column, may be sent to the writer, at gshortoibl.bm

1 For this, and some of the other examples, I am indebted to Nicholas T Parsons, whose book, The Joy of Bad Verse, was published by Collins in 1988.