rifmopletstvo

[Rodney Patterson]

The English equivalent of "rifmoplet," I think, is "poetaster,""versifier,"
"rhymster," and perhaps "wholesale jingle-monger" at the negative end, and
"a would-be poet who needs work" on the charitable end.  My favorite example
is Eddie Guest (1881-1959) whose rifmopletstvo was syndicated in the U.S.
from ca. 1916 through the 20s to ?.  His verses were served up every day
with the daily newspaper and millions of patriotic, religious, and other
Americans, including the fairly dim-witted, who could get misty-eyed over
Mother, Apple Pie, the Good-old-U-S-of-A, air-brushed and rosy-hued
Capitalism, Abe Lincoln, Sunday's sermon, the latest gadgets that help the
little woman as she does her little work in the kitchen, Football, Our Boys
Over There, etc.  They choked it down with their pancakes and grease.
Examples:

THE BATTLE OF BELLEAU WOOD

It was thick with Prussian troopers, it was foul with German guns;
Every tree that cast a shadow was a sheltering place for Huns.
Death was guarding every roadway, death was watching every field,
And behind each rise of terrain was a rapid-fire concealed;
Uncle Sam's Marines had orders:  'Drive the Boche from where they're hid.
For the honor of Old Glory, take the woods!'  And so they did.  Etc.

Then there's the one about the grimy coal-deliverer who, having leaped from
his seat to save a child who had stepped in front of his heavy truck, was
run over:

BENEATH THE DIRT

... Over his legs went the heavy wheels, and they picked him up for dead,
And the rich man's wife placed her sable coat as a pillow for his head.
And black as he was, the rich man said:  'He shall travel home with me.'
And he sat by his side in the limosine and was proud of his company.  Etc.

TEACH THEM THE FLAG

Teach the children of the Flag,
Let them know the joy it holds
In its sun-kissed rippling folds;
Don't let patriotism lag:
Train them so that they will love
Every star and stripe above.

As you teach their lips to pray,
Teach them always to be true
To the red, the white and blue;
Praise the flag from day to day,
Tell the children at your knee
All the joys of liberty... Etc.

A MAN MUST WANT

...The want of poverty is grim,
It has a harsh and cruel sting,
But fill the cup up to the brim,
And that's a far more hopeless thing.

A man must want from day to day,
Must want to reach a distant goal
Or claim some treasure far away,
For want's the builder of the soul.... Etc.

THE MAN WHO GETS PROMOTED

The ordinary fellow does an ordinary task,
He's mighty fond of "good enough' and lets it go at that;
But the chap who gets promoted, or the raise he doesn't ask,
Has just a little something more than hair beneath his hat.... Etc.

THE CARVING KNIFE

...Now like my good old dad I stand, and take the carving knife in hand
And run my thumb along its edge and find it dull and nicked.
And like my good old dad I vow some day there'll be a healthy row,
But I'm as unsuccessful as my father when he kicked.
The maid, the youngsters and the wife still take that sacred carving knife
And use it as a handy tool on wood or lead or stone;
In spite of all I do or say, the blade is dulled from day to day,
I cannot get the women folks to leave that knife alone!

These priceless gems of poshlost' inspired the finest criticism, parody:
Louis Untermeyer summarized Guest's maudlin sentimentality, his utter lack
of taste and his hopeless "technique" (monosyllabic diction, hypermetrical
stress, masculine worn-out rhymes -- matching his masculine prejudices --
cliches instead of metaphor, for example):

EDGAR A. GUEST
Syndicates the Old Woman Who Lived in a Shoe

It takes a heap o' children to make a home that's true,
And home can be a palace grand, or just a plain, old shoe;
But if it has a mother dear, and a good old dad or two,
Why, that's the sort of good old home for good old me and you.

Of all the institutions this side the Vale o' Rest
Howe'er it be, it seems to me a good old mother's best;
And fathers are a blessing, too, they give the place a tone;
In fact each child should try and have some parents of its own.

The food can be quite simple; just a sop of milk and bread
Are plenty when the kiddies know it's time to go to bed.
And every little sleepy-head will dream about the day
When he can go to work because a Man's Work is his Play.

And, oh, how sweet his life will seem, with nought to make him cross;
And he will never watch the clock and always mind the boss.
And when he thinks (as may occur), this thought will please him best:
That ninety million think the same -- including         Eddie Guest.

Demjan Bednyj's effusions belong in the same book of RIFMOPLETSTVO.  The
following is an example that has the additional charm of its faux
man-of-the-people first line and the limping pun in its last:

Poju.  No razve ja “poju”?
Moj golos ogrubel v boju,
I stix moj... blesku net v ego prostom narjade.
Ne na sverkajushchej estrade
Pred “chistoj publikoj”, vostorzheno-nemoj,
I ne pod skripok ston charjujushche-napevnyj,
Ja vozvyshaju golos moj --
Gluxoj, nadtresnutyj, nasmeshlivyj i gnevnyj.
Nasled’ja tjazhkogo nesja prokljatyj gruz,
Ja ne sluzhitel’ muz:
Moj tverdyj, chetkij stix — moj podvig ezhednevnyj
Rodnoj narod, stradalec trudovoj,
Mne vazhen sud lish’ tvoj,
Ty mne odin sud’ja prjamoj, nelicemernyj,
Ty, ch’ix nadezhd i dum ja — vyrazitel’ vernyj,
Ty, temnyx ch’ix uglov ja — “pes storozhevoj”!

Ultimately, the question of whether to include one or another poet in the
list of rifmoplety depends on what one requires from poetry. If
much-masticated pablum without formal interest is desirable, Eddie Guest is
a pretty clear example, though he may be reevaluated positively some century
hence.  I think Frost falls into the category during his last years, when he
began to believe all the praise heaped upon him, including praise in the
Soviet Union.  One thing is sure:  a comprehensive anthology of
rifmopletstvo would be nearly endless.  Some of the worst things in it are
so bad that they should be collected as precious artifacts of versified
atrocities against poetry or as pure comedy.

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