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Poetry Thread
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Didn't see one so I'll start it I SUPPOSE.

Share, critique, give ideas, etc.

Here's mine-
Scarves wrapped ‘round our throats
to keep quiet our whispers, scarlett
scarves with ends billowing in the wind.

The glass that blows across the starving hearts of January
will scratch our noses. Leaves of mint hang in the doorway
for scent upon my step into your eyes, angel, your lines.
How the wood creaks with each footstep.

Smile wide, daughter of the pines,
show me your teeth and tongue.
Your waist is a fire glowing,
with embers flying upward into darkness.

I hang my shivering hands above you,
but dare not touch.

I'm still working on the second half, its not quite there yet. I'm looking for some stronger images. Any ideas will be appreciated!
Have you read any poetry at all?
I read a ton of poetry, its what I mainly write. This is a bit outside my usual style
thinks your
post is
sbocciò brulicante di larve e morte
gemeva stridente l'infame pianto
l'affranta linfa colava, e inerte
lo sguardo serrava sul viso latteo

affonderanno per anni ed ore
le ossa grigie del suo avvenire
e terra ingorda ingoierà l'ardore
d'un fiore malsano spento in aprile

miseria amica mia dimenticata
bestemmi forse l'ora sciagurata
in cui il rovente fiume traversasti

compagna di menzogne putrefatta
non credi d'esser stata liberata
dal pozzo che nascendo ti scavasti?
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Blank reason
Back to back
Where will you go,
Mr booty smack?
Will you welt
Or will you quake?
Will you risen
If I bked
Help my senpai,
Deep in this
Banana piles,
, feel my bern
And touch my butt
Suck my fern
Bust my nut
With a kiss
the seed was planted
to grow
and show
and know
that on such a heart as this
a flower can bloom
no matter cold
or scold
or hold
hate could not uproot this, a work of love
malice could not lift a spade
desire would not weed or wane
this, a work of love
With that kiss
I’m disenchanted
to kick
and reel
and bite
on that such a heart as this
a flower can bloom
but I won’t let mine
The fairweather left
You went with it
I looked left
I looked right
But you were nowhere to be found
She'd vanished
My phantom’s plight
Is not that she’s a phantom
but that I choose to believe
that she’s more real
than I could ever be
My forecast
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I don't usually write poetry. Bring on the hate.
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We rake a rim across a glistening arm
and scoop up tears of midnight labour's dew,
whose pungent fragrance is a healing balm
to cure the sting of hovel-wall mildew.
This concentrate we whisk with flakes of blood
off granular battle-worn topsoil raked,
from conscripts’ veins to crimson rain on mud
and in the parching, leeching sunshine baked.
We pitch our pallid flag on easel, splash
the sanguine tint on linen, sweat and soil
and blood; with skilful strokes suffuse the blash;
emblazon it with instruments of toil.
This flag shall art for unwashed masses be
like millet bread and dialect poetry.
If you intended it. I like the idea. If you didnt. . .
it was kind of meant to be tongue in cheek, but it's my first time writing, so I'll take it
Bro for real
I love you.

Only because you like Rothko. I don't know what to say about your poetry though.
Now, O now, in this brown land
Where Love did so sweet music make
We two shall wander, hand in hand,
Forbearing for old friendship' sake,
Nor grieve because our love was gay
Which now is ended in this way.

A rogue in red and yellow dress
Is knocking, knocking at the tree;
And all around our loneliness
The wind is whistling merrily.
The leaves—they do not sigh at all
When the year takes them in the fall.

Now, O now, we hear no more
The vilanelle and roundelay!
Yet will we kiss, sweetheart, before
We take sad leave at close of day.
Grieve not, sweetheart, for anything—
The year, the year is gathering.
We all saw Mad Men, kid. Put that boner in its holder.
Joyce was a bad poet
Lol a boner joke.

I live in Russia. What is mad men?
this is bad, the apostrophe is an anachronism. just say "round" and you can be british
>keep quiet
why not "quiet" or "hush" or "muffle"? the distinction you gain from "keep" isn't worth the extra syllable--spondees have to be stronger than that
>scarlet scarves with ends
not a fan of the instant alliteration, not a fan of "with" which sounds like it's missing another word. why not "scarves whose ends billow"?
>starving hearts
almost cliche
>for scent
a dreadful construction
>my step into your eyes
at this point you've lost me--you're putting images together haphazardly, and they're not supported by logistical lines/phrases
>with embers
there's that annoying construction again
>dare not
a dated phrase

I recommend you rein in the imagery and make it more meaningful. It is possible to have too much imagery, which is the poetic equivalent of putting too much sugar in your coffee.
Display thy breasts, my Julia, there let me
Behold that circummortal purity;
Between whose glories, there my lips I’ll lay,
Ravished in that fair Via Lactea
This is the latest one
Grayscale cast landscape
Moulds made just for man
Arms on regular buses
hang like hocks of ham
The routes drawn-out by concrete
seats pockmarked with ash
that men with all night passes
casually slash
The writings on the billboards
don't say much at all
the muteness of the slogan
and empty spray paint scrawl
I just recently got interested into poetry. I find one I really enjoyed by Ralph Waldo Emerson titles "Waldeinsamkeit". It's too long to post but here's a link if anyone is interested. http://www.infoplease.com/t/poetry/emerson-poems/waldeinsamkeit.html
I don't know just where I'm going
But I'm gonna try for the kingdom, if I can
'Cause it makes me feel like I'm a man
When I put a spike into my vein
And I'll tell ya, things aren't quite the same
When I'm rushing on my run
And I feel just like Jesus' son
And I guess that I just don't know
And I guess that I just don't know
I have made the big decision
I'm gonna try to nullify my life
'Cause when the blood begins to flow
When it shoots up the dropper's neck
When I'm closing in on death
And you can't help me now, you guys
And all you sweet girls with all your sweet talk
You can all go take a walk
And I guess that I just don't know
And I guess that I just don't know
I wish that I was born a thousand years ago
I wish that I'd sail the darkened seas
On a great big clipper ship
Going from this land here to that
In a sailor's suit and cap
Away from the big city
Where a man can not be free
Of all of the evils of this town
And of himself, and those around
Oh, and I guess that I just don't know
Oh, and I guess that I just don't know
Heroin, be the death of me
Heroin, it's my wife and it's my life
Because a mainer to my vein
Leads to a center in my head
And then I'm better off and dead
Because when the smack begins to flow
I really don't care anymore
About all the Jim-Jim's in this town
And all the politicians makin' crazy sounds
And everybody puttin' everybody else down
And all the dead bodies piled up in mounds
'Cause when the smack begins to flow
Then I really don't care anymore
Ah, when the heroin is in my blood
And that blood is in my head
Then thank God that I'm as good as dead
Then thank your God that I'm not aware
And thank God that I just don't care
And I guess I just don't know
And I guess I just don't know
poetry is for alcoholics
poems are for the people left over to clean up the mess
blood and
Poem's are always super sappy
or happy
or sad
or about nature
or about love
or about love lost
or about love never found.

Instead of all of those boring things
which I've yet to experience
but still find boring
like I do death
(unlike melodrama)
I'm going to write a poem
about happiness
and my favorite things
and puppies
and kittens
and hot dogs
and forgetting about how hot dogs are made
and hugs from healthy people
and health
and nurses
and other medical professionals.

Yes, I'm going to write about those things
like I've already done:
those things
are great
and I'm glad
to be able
to write about them.
The florid torrents of love's macrame
structural jibber-jabber in my ticker:
no, that's not right. Too purple,
like unoxygenated blood
(is un-oxygenated a word?
spell check says it isn't but she's a dirty liar who
"doesn't recognize Bredley."
Lying whore, always getting fingered like a doorbell.)
or bluebonnets that aren't fucking blue, what the fuck?
Anyway, our hands combined make up
the corpus callosum of our meld minds
and hearts and faces and private parts.
My love for you burns with the intensity of VY Canis Major–
a titanic red giant star, the largest known to man,
boasting a mass several exponents larger than that of our modest, yellow hung star above.
If I had to calculate the magnitude of my love for you,
I would die doing so because it would take an eternity, probably.

What I'm trying to say is–(no, you just say it.
Do or do not, there is no try.
Okay, thanks Broda.)
I 'like' like you,
and that's all.
self-reflexivity is cancer
find a better and more poetic way to express this idea. I'd also recommend Wallace Stevens

"hey what's up?"
I scratch my head
and my acne
and lift it up,
thumbing the oil
around the screen
but leaving it blank —
the screen that confronts —
that dares to.
But in a guilty flash
I fumble it awake
and remember that
he cannot, really,
tell I read it.
this feels like those pictures of care at a parking lot being sort by color. way too sterile for me

I bet you like trans women

Here's Mine!
It's about to undergo some semi-extensive revision and would like as many suggestions as possible

I dump milk into my tea,
and looking down
on the clouds, I feel strong—
a god of this ceramic hemisphere.

The stretch of a fisheye lens against
the bump map of dew
lays the texture of the day. The world
shrink wrapped tightly. Plastic shining
in response to a yellow sun, which
serves as the axis of this polaroid,
tilting forward as they walk
so close together.
Their feet drag through the thick grass
like the finger of a bored child on a velvet
pew, painting in shades of wet green.
Soft earth molds to arches in feet. Soft
hair gathers to tied ribbon, bow arching overhead.
Overhead a prominence arches in its
own vastness, trembling, deviating from the Z.
Universe is sketched in squiggles.
The milk slung into the air puffs and diffuses,
hiding the theatrics of the corona.
Fingers wriggle playfully, braiding like notched rope.
An awkward smile jerkily climbs up;
flesh wavers like smoke or jello in that gust
that puffs up the clouds.

I trace small circles in my tea;
my stirrer my compass
guiding the winds clockwise.
I feel warmth as I swirl.

Screams twirled as air from the Scream’s world
unfurls in a streaking sandstorm grating a million
filaments from skin, exposing a vermillion
scaffolding, surrounding the prime architecture.
Hands that were once braided rope became
a chain-link fence. Trimming off rust the
great lathe smoothes femurs into polished
ivory. Cirrus spirals with the stabbing axis.
Their ribs hung on one another as the turning
sped up. The centrifuge pulls limbs towards
the edges, pushing their ribs through like a
folded slinky. Grinning at their closeness,
their bareness, the couple crashed to the ground
facing away from each other like the product
of a symposium.
Another word for germany?
So cucked in its own belief that
Political correctness is the answer?
I believe not, when they come for your women.
with their shit dicks out,
you'll be crying for a reich

lol literally just did that on the spot for the shits an giggles
how is it folks?
Is haiku poetry?
Just finished writing this one
so I can post too.
Good, now try writing one.
My haiku are shit,
because I can't create metaphors
or estabilish rhythm.
well look how deep and poetically appealing you are
write in japanese, the haiku has no place in english. anyone who says otherwise is lying, is uncultured, no true scotsman etc etc
Benign to be lanced. Thank you, sire.
That's a shitty song
You have to make the rhythm work
Shitpost like a man
Peak tit turned ninety degrees
cold to the lips to the hips and knees.
Betty Boop curves on the soul
dancing moves like you were born on the pole.
Erratic manoeuvres inveigling my balls
to seize all the leaves seismic in fall.
Crawl on my feet, I'll kill penguins for you,
a cache of receipts, of the times I fucked you.
i am the poison
thats bringin the noise in
it spreads through your body
and makes you feel naughty

i am the vile
the gut wrenching bile
with stomachs a-turnin
and acid a-burnin

i am the toxic
the flesh melting caustic
its eating your spirit
dont try to resist it

i am the rotten
the filth that you're caught in
its making you ferral
and bringing your perril

i am the bitter
the hard heavy hitter
explosive and crushing
your head will be rushing
I sit by the river
fish swim by
Not knowing where they're going
Nor why

Through the hydrilla they search
For the next minnow or fallen fly
Perpetually hungry
Never satisfied
Le contact de la chair bien-aimée, désirée,
Son étreinte brûlante et douillette, un mensonge,
Le repos enivrant, spontané, dans un pré,
Il me hante et me trouble la nuit dans mes songes.

Nous étions radieux et reclus, deux parias
Bien heureux, s'entr'aimant à travers les nuits froides.
Tu gagnas mes grands bras, débordant de furia
Et le choc réveilla brusquement mon corps roide.

J'ai connu le bonheur juste assez pour pleurer
Cette femme inconnue que je veux rencontrer,
Mais existes-tu, toi, doux mirage, chimère?

Un frisson m'envahit, un soleil disparait.
Et si elle n'était que précaire, éphémère,
Que ferai-je avec mes grands regrets toujours frais?
Best book or method of learning about and understand meter?
Da war die Besonderheit schon das
Untergegangene ich dachte Strand
wo der Himmel nicht weit weg ist
die Straßen leise in der Schweizer
Ferne die Bären glücklich in den
Hochwäldern voller Tannen an de
ren Rinden sie ihre Krallen pflegen
aufpassen nicht unglücklich zu wer
den immerzu schwimmen als Papier
schiffchen meine Gedanken vor
mir im Wasser hübsch und ununter
gehbar Bären kennen nichtmal Pa
pierschiffen geschweigedenn Geda
nken denke ich beim Schreiben aber
sonst nicht denn andere Dinge in
dem Kopf verlangen nach mehr Wassertropfen
als ich habe wieder die Lust am
Treiben im Wasser ohne nur im Wasser
zu sein im Kopf im Kopf Gesicht
waschen mein Tag mein jeder Tag
Nicely impressionist.

This is ok if you remove the last two lines.

Maybe a bit too concrete for my taste. There’s a very definite image in my head when reading the poem. But the image is rather cliché.

This is ok if you remove the last three lines.
bump for uncritiqued poems
very cliche
if you could make the structure of the second stanza closer to the first I think it'd be better
There's no key to tune a bongo
Except a bongo key
And there's nothing to fill my heart
But that spring
The path overgrown
Where did you come from,
Vengeful thickets?
Why do you obscure
What once was clear
And dear to me?
How would I go about doing that? I just started writing poetry yesterday
Enjambement, nice
A terra-cotta troupe of copper wire ants
snakes, scaling, uphill in a fit or frenzy–
a mountainous pile of dirt dubbed Everest–
for God saved the Queen and now needs to collect:
each droplet drizzled down rivulets
runs up the gradient of gravity restraining the horde
the mindless horde of lard-caked arterial masses–
crass outcomes the words whittled without the wherewithal
to be properly authorized to do so: disgruntled children,
employ your pathetic pathos and deride mother,
your sulfurous breath beckons wingless flies
to drop into your pupil-less eyes, to disguise...

But the encroached enclave–disintegrated, ponderous, syllabic,
rumors of a faith long forgotten, spooled into fabric
stained by the ages' spilled milk and dried blood,
settled in the technicolor mandala manned by chance, chanced by man.

The peek: the peak: the pique: fiery mottled,
pierced by unencumbered thoraxes, stinging the sky,
tearing the insular tapestry like broken glass on apple skin–
the Big Apple, bitten and bruised, bearing a wily worm: the subway...
and so here's my stop...stumble back into waking life.
I have several pieces I'd like opinion on:

>First (still WIP, only just started):
Great and untouched innocence,
Stare at me a little more.
Let me drink these eyes in deep,
Lose myself in the worry-less
Auburn, drown in waves of bay.

>Second, sonnet. Pretentious as fuck but I enjoy writing sonnets.
The war of the now ending day is done;
Yielding to the chill victorious dark
Of cold, incalculable nights of stark
And lovely mysteries, the distant sun.
Your battle scars of wrinkled foreheads fade;
When all the anxious children close their eyes,
Troubled, uneasy dreams can never hide
Within their guiltless and angelic heads.

When, undisturbed, the years shall find you here,
They'll find you unafraid. No fear just yet
Of what may come, of when, or who, or how.
For now, your future hidden in the years
Can stay no rest from you; tomorrow's threat
Is distant, muted, by the tranquil now.

>Third, "Brussels In Winter", all but finished
Ambitious drifts of snow still cling,
Somewhere between a street lamp light
And waffle house, to greying roads
That sparkle; melting gold from lamps
Are blurring lines, and smudging out
The borders drawn on cobbled streets
Left sprawling, carelessly adrift.

La Grande Place never looked so sweet
As when we laughed to nothing-jokes
And ran like madmen, wild, to dives,
Just barely eighteen. Manneken
Was laughing with us. Still he grins,
Though echoes roared in smoky rooms
Have faded from there long ago.

If troubled houses beckoned us
Return, we never heard their calls.
And maybe, somewhere in those streets,
The carefree boys still laugh and run.

Look forward to your thoughts.
Carcass–death's brush bristles–of the ether–
either man or his supposed soul–consummated
by flesh by way of transubstantiation–lash out,
flagellate, time to trepan, lime to lemon, rhymes to heaven–
scant are the points of meaning, seeming
to anyone with at least a menage a trois of neurons up top.
Here's a poem on the fly
On the wall,
bound by expectation,
spinning and dancing and just rubbing hands.
Fly on the wall?
Have you come to die?
If it be your will, please
wait for me.
One try,
one slap,
it was meant to be, bye
bye fly

Yeah bro, for real? Everyone knows poetry is in arbitrary line breaks and obscure metaphors.

Get that rhyme shit out of here.
comes down
now away
here to dark and past us
Never written or read a poem before so here we go

You say you hate jail and the police
But you spend more time in a prison of your own making
than in any state penitentiary
So when you say “fuck the cops”
What it sounds like is “fuck my mom”
Yet you expect me to take your middle class temper tantrum seriously
And I’m so good at persuasion that I don’t know what’s true
but I think I’d kill every faggot on this earth, including me
Just to spend a night with you
Sounds like prose broken into several lines. What's poetic about it?
Behind closed doors
I wait with purpose
To ravage you
When you come near,
And silence speaks
Upon my deaf ears
Whispering so
Beautifully I
Remember my
Will, desire to
See what is you
Without posture,
The failure of grace,
Is how I wish to
Remember you.
Time has ceased,
Now, where, when is lost.
Left alone in this
True regret.
And yet I will go
Even more
Into the unknown
And nothing
Commands own fate.
Without want,
Need bears it's ugly
And again I'm lost
Amidst this.
I've known little and seen much
And lived as I have done,
Without want nor greed
Yet purpose slides away
Leaving me alone to this.

And as a shadow will fade
In the lapse of the sun,
I too am constrained
With my fate which will come
In neither despair nor hope.
How I wish to see
A reveled hope
Gone, diminished
Upon your soul lost
A million desires.

And what fortune
Will you bring,
What difference
Will be seen
As you grow tired
Old, diminished
And age will have
It's timely laugh
As all you've took
Has been taken.
This is hardly poetry my friend

Stop reading bukowski faggot
Never read him, stop asking me to suck my dick. No means no bro
I don't know what poetry is but it rhymes every now and again
Interesting form and content. Some of it is a little awkward though. Instead of: "but leaving it blank/the screen that confronts/that dares to", I think something like "but leaving it blank/the screen that dares confront". Same idea, better flow.

Is this a song? As a poem some parts work and some don't, as a song it looks good though. The flow and pacing is pretty good, the only thing I take issue with is some of the rhymes seeming a bit forced or corny.

Not saying anything interesting or saying something in an interesting way. Not especially bad but as it is there's nothing that justifies it's existing. Try to expand it into something a bit longer and incorporate what you already wrote into some larger metaphor or theme.

I like it, charming and sincere.

I don't think the first and second are very good. The imagery seems kind of tired, but it's competent and presented well. Feel pretty neutral towards those, like they're a bit predictable. I don't dislike them though, it's all written well.

I really like Brussels in Winter, though. The descriptors are tied to the concrete images in more abstract ways and I think that makes it much more interesting. "Ambitious drifts of snow", "melting gold from lamps", compared to the "chill victorious dark" and "cold incalculable nights" in the sonnet. You have a good style.

I like this a lot. Toes the line between charming and creepy in an intriguing way.

Okay, this prose style isn't bad, you can do good stuff with it and I don't think this piece is bad. But the first few lines are unnecessary and don't flow well. Better to start with "When you say 'fuck the cops'". Also remove vestigial stuff like unnecessary transitions, they rarely work in prose and hardly ever work in poems. Stuff like "yet" and "but I think"

>here's my bullshit:

"Sympathy for the Devil"


Got lots of nice praise in workshop for this, but as nice as that is it doesn't help me much. If someone wants to look at it for me and point out what doesn't work I'd really appreciate it.
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reminder that if you post your work in here without critiquing you are irredeemable cancer
>I'm still working on the second half
Do people usually do this? I always though most poetry comes out best in one sitting.
>about a girl i'm in love with

ghosts moved in
to the dust that settled
since You left.

the doors yelled shut
like a conscious divide
between what is and what was

even the stars gave up.
the night is too black and iced.
to keep You around
i'm chasing the horizon
but the ghosts
keep telling me
to swim faster.

bury me under the deadest tree.
forget my name,
have them write
"drowned by waves of gold
gasping through the smoke
of a burning heart"
on my tombstone.
would really appreciate a critique on this. if it's shite, just let me know.
thank you for critiquing so many poems
I don't mind, I enjoy giving feedback. I just wish people in these threads could put aside thirty, forty five minutes of time they will probably spend browsing anyway to contribute critique.
In summer and in winter
But also in the spring
Sat the stillness in the city
It was the strangest thing

Sat the stillness in the city
Still air and stiller sound
Like an eerie premonition
Of voices gathered 'round

Like 'round a roaring fire
That illuminated all
Like the stillness in the city
That wasn't there in fall
I feel like you're grasping after a few too many metaphors and themes at once. You might want to focus it a bit more.
Marilyn oh Marilyn, your falling through my window. You couldn't make the perfect wife you left your man a widow.

All around the perfect world the urban Mary's cluck , the mother hens live to pretend that they're not just as stuck.

But I love you, you are dead. I watched the splattered pretty thoughts fall out from your head. I can love you now you've died, and you live the most loved perfect life while we're stuck inside my mind
David Bowie died thirteen days
after I sat next to my grandma
while she slowly did the same,
and my aunt said she wanted
Space Oddity to play at her funeral
and I could only ask:
Why not Golden Years?
Only seven since the winds and glints
hovered around her headstone
and raised some disagreement:
A thousand gusts chilled the bone,
yet that afternoon our pale gold
Sun had brightly shone,
and Under Pressure faintly played
with Freddie Mercury alone.
We get it poets :
things are like other things

but things I care not about
and people are all the same
so why not write some poetry
about them ?

Bards are dead, talent is thin
and poets are locked away
until the great second sin
is burnt down in my ashtray

I should have given everyone
a face
Love it
I like it, interesting thought and naturally expressed.
"Only seven since the winds and glints
hovered around her headstone
and raised some disagreement:"
seems a bit clunky compared with the preceding and following lines.

The hulking tree behind torrential rain
And before the beaten sky, the color of
A day's old bruise, is revealed only in shudders.
But one limb, heavy with green and water, by the harsh
White plasma beams of a street light lit, will push
Through the shaking sheets of rain like the glimmering
Screen of a smart-phone in a dark cold bedroom.
My feets tremble on fickle ground
Prepare for launch, it's justice found
Who's gonna wipe the tears away
if not for us, who will always stay
This is really fucking good m8
i like it. even though there's no metre i can discern it has a nice rhythm. i think it could slightly be improved with a better simile than shadows in the sun (cliche)
Ghosts surf
waves of dust
in window light
slices since You left.

The doors we yelled shut
divided is and was,
and then even the stars gave up.

The night is too black and iced,
to keep You around,
the horizon recedes
but the ghosts
keep telling me
to swim faster.

Bury me under the rotting tree,
with only
"drowned by waves of gold
gasping through the motes
of a burning heart,"
on the stone.
It is my goal
to say it all,
with just a few words
uncover my soul

Thanks people
Thinking with words;
raking with leaves:
similarly they can cure disease,
diseases spawned from curiously complex
microbes than resemble extremism
in its most radically extreme form
from which the function naturally follows:
death to all infidels (and, well, like, everyone eventually),
I'm right,
all dogs go to heaven:
calamitous claims, deranged dames, fatuous fame:

Verbal brushstrokes–is the hair of horse?–
the holder and beholder, seer and Sears manager.
If you can see the strings supporting the bullshit,
commend you I would, weather willing.

The point is, pens are now keys and pointless–
no, the point is: fuck Wittgenstein and his misinterpreters:
language is not synonymous with thought,
it is a manifestation thereof–not the.
Just ask your 8 month year old niece,
and be nice.
Dendrophilic tree-hugging troglodyte,
Thanks for the praise, now:

I liked most of the poems you've written there. There's nice flow and good choice of words.
In the first one, I got an epic poem feelings, I think you could go really far with that, except I don't like the dragons.
It's unfeasible for me to imagine encounters with a dragon, unless, you included some examples of its effect.
I feel as though you could expand any of your poems, except for maybe Devadaru (I think you could, but I don't think it could be very good) into epic poems.
i fucking hated it.

You glance at them
you smile, an instant quickly forgotten
you do not question them
you do not question them
a pupil in the corner of the flesh
the ones with the microphones know
the ones that know tell you
no doubt will be aroused
but you do not question

we know what they are
we name the things and divide them
from each other
we name the flesh, the bile and the excretion
no question, for we give names
we adore and make you adore us
those who you do not question
dont need to be asked anything
they know everything about you

When you revise, consider trying this out in something like blank verse. I think the lack of form is preventing this piece from shining. A long these lines, there's too much enjambment, and many of the line breaks are awkward//not thought provoking, which is a bummer, because it takes away from the ones that are interesting.
Thanks! I will definitely try it out. I'm about to do major renovations to it anyway.
Any particular lines I should look at?

You should look at every line. But here's a passage that explains what I'm talking about.

>Their feet drag through the thick grass
>like the finger of a bored child on a velvet
>pew, painting in shades of wet green.
>Soft earth molds to arches in feet. Soft
>hair gathers to tied ribbon, bow arching overhead.

The most thought-provoking line break is velvet//pew, (though it could be built up a bit more by making pew plural, which would allow you to remove the indefinite article.) But the effect is lessened by the fact that almost all of your lines are enjambed in this section, many of which are not very interesting: grass//like, soft//hair, its//own.
Thanks again, I have a few people answering questionnaires about it and then I'll obsess about it for three weeks again.
Formatting has been a weak point for me though,
Anyone mind taking a look at this one, please?
Be rough, boys.
My terrible attempt at making couplets not cliche garbage:

Is this the waking? Oh, vacuum of night
The rest was the dream and the nightmares were right
Eyelid are shaking and blinded by black
In moonlight convulsions the tulip bulbs crack and gasp

Is this the waking? A call from beyond
From nether the arm comes and cries of alarm
And floorboards are creaking not used to your weight
Are louder than gunshots that makes the lung faint and sight

Is this the waking? The eyes open wide
Oh what I'd give for a son who is blind.
Pardon my asking, but have you the time?
My watch appears broken along with my mind.
Have you forgiveness, oh brother of mine?
I fear it's the end now and right time to fly.
Lightness unbearable, my throat is tongue tied.
Oh Gravity, my dear, it's for you that I cry.

The nicest way for me to put it is that this poem doesn't do much for me...

You should try reading this aloud (not just this line, the whole poem). Since sonnets aren't just rhymes schemes, you should spend some time considering the prosody of this piece.

The nicest thing for me to say about this is that I really liked this line:

>We pitch our pallid flag on easel, splash

Good couplets aren't just two lines that rhyme, they also need to share something more substantial. The rhyme should represent a unity present throughout the couplet--you're spending so much time worrying about rhyming that you're not thinking about why you're rhyming. This can be either on the formal level or the thematic level, but is ideally on both.

Also, I have no idea what this poem is about.
No place in English
For what words cannot contain
In less than quatrain
Crit mine? I know it's not much, I wrote it on the fly while I was going to asleep
The barber cut my sideburns way too high
they look like upside down indignant trees
rooted in my number one fade, cut down
by some lumberjack with a very precise
chainsaw helped by a laser level.

I needed those sideburns, dear barber
since I really don't have any facial hair
I told you to cut them to the middle,
not to the upper rim of the filled hole
where my ears join my skull.
I don't like the long lines. or the rhymes. On the positive side, this isn't bad for word vomit you put out while you went to sleep. You have a sense of rhythm. Stick to using meter. It will make you better at poetry that doesn't involve it too.
I wrote it on my phone so it seemed chunkier but when its on a full screen it looks awkward with the long lines. anything in particular you don't like about the rhymes ?
take this opinion with a huge grain of salt, because it's getting pretty late in the night for me and also it's just an opinion, BUT i think when you do a rhyming ode to a lady, you're setting yourself up to be seen as old fashioned and stuffy in your language.

it's fine to do an ode to a lady, sure, but you should try to bring something new to the table because better poets of old days have done rhyming odes to women on a level that you or I probably cannot attain.
Where the meter at, where the rhythm at, where the rhyme at, where the alliteration at
I don't understand; what precisely is wrong with the poem? I have read it to myself countless times while I was composing it. I've spent weeks considering the prosody and the metre. I can't hear anything wrong with what I've written, otherwise I wouldn't have included it.

Please *tell* me what you find so objectionable about the poem.
he said it doesn't do anything for him, what more do you want asshole
Now i feel like the entre poem was just lost. I wrote it about a girl committing suicide and the mental scar left on someone watching. I just thought it up after seeing Andy Warhol's work on the most beautiful suicide'
Try reading past the first sentence of his critique maté

I find it boring and ugly. Those are the worst parts about it.

What is boring about it? The subject matter, honestly. It conveys nothing of importance, just that art is hard. Given your audience, as a poet, is primarily other poets, this is sort of insulting, or, at the very least, totally uninformative. These are my feelings on the matter; you're welcome to continue writing on this topic.

What is ugly about it?

>Rhyming "dew" with "mildew."

Need I say more?

>"off battle-worn top-soil raked"

Read it out loud. It sounds choppy and awkward. ew.

>"sweat and soil // and blood"

Why are there two "ands" in this list? Is there a real reason to be breaking this rule? Furthermore, its not even an interesting rule break; "and blood" is pretty predictable here.
brutal, but a good critique.
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[Half of a little poem I've been doing - trying to capture that romanticist feel with the pronouns]

The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold,
And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold;
And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea,
When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.

Like the leaves of the forest when Summer is green,
That host with their banners at sunset were seen:
Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn hath blown,
That host on the morrow lay withered and strown.

For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast,
And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed;
And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill,
And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still!
Trying way too hard man, just sounds pretentious and doesn't even work to capture the vivid imagery you're aiming for at all.

If you want to write better "romantic" poetry read up on the Romantics; Byron is easy to grasp and would be a good start.

I'm sorry, but you haven't even understood what the poem is about. Open the spoilered image mate, it's not that hard.


>need I say more?


>choppy and awkward

It's *supposed* to sound choppy and awkward. It's about war. Though I can see why that isn't as apparent if you haven't put the pieces together.

>breaking this rule

What rule?

Horrible critique.
lol arguing with someone bothering to give you criticism is about the most pathetic thing a bad amatuer poet can do
Good thing I'm not one of those, isn't it? I'm only defending my work. I don't consider his critique valid, because he clearly has no idea what he's talking about.

God I love when people write mediocre poems then get buttblasted about criticism.
holy shit dude.
not the guy you're responding to, but are you aware that "don't be defensive" is the first rule they teach you in creative writing class?
Fly, fly far away
Wind above my broken wings
Sitting in silence
Holy FUCKING shit, what the hell? That guy you are replying to is so pretentious and narcissistic... You are absolutely right, bone must take criticism with grace.

if the writer believes the reader is an idiot that cannot see the meaning, he is wrong, because that is the writer's fault for not being clear enough.

I agree with most of what that anon criticized about the poem, mainly because the author relies on mental gymnastics to give his message. I get what the author tried to explain, but it's not that clear as he he thinks it is.

That said, that critic could have been more
.. Friendly, but still valid
this one is pretty good. love how the idea flows naturally. also, sorry for you loss
In my night they step
side by side
in the blueish grey
they stomp in the other realm
as i rest in mine
we pass by feeling each other
we've never meet eyes
i've stopped asking
why not tell me what you know?
we* not we've
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Scarves wrapped around our throats
Our quiet dabalya, Scarlet
The footage in the wind and scarves.

While fasting, glass blowing across billions of January
It will be scratching our nose. Mint leaves door suspension
Your eyes, the angel, to get my head on the stairs in his lines.
According to cracks between the steps.

Include smiling girl pines,
Show me your teeth and tongue.
Your waist is a log fire
And the dark ash.

I heard and I shake your hand,
But do not dare to touch.
Snake and full bloom death
He groaned known shriek
Drops of broken heart juice and countervailing
His face value look milky frowned

Shen years time
His future gray bones
Greedily swallowing hot
April unhealthy flowers

I forgot to suffer friend
Perhaps the miserable humiliation
Since the heat traversasti river

Rotten lies Partner
Do you think that is released
You scavasti out?
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Planting Seeds Development
And he knew
in the heart
Flowers in bloom
Regardless of the cold
Or blame
It's a labor of love to hate an inalienable
Bad bill could increase
Do not download or bust
It's a labor of love
I'm disappointed
to paddle
and ringtone
And sorrow
Flowers in bloom
But I do not let my
Fairweather left
You went through
I looked to the left
I looked
But it was nowhere to be found
She disappeared
My Phantom state
This is not a dream
Select , but I believe
It is more realistic
Maybe I
My Forecast
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Lakkamma RIM trail glossy
Midnight frost and tears of fear,
A smell is pungent, that healing balm
Wall cutting schedule to treat mold.
It is our blood flakes whisk
A battle worn slope granular soil,
Mud Rain recruits purple veins
And clot sunburned water.
We have an easel, balls splash planting our flag
Optimistic tone underwear, sweat and mud
And the blood; cleverly conceived shots Blash;
Irradiate with labor tools.
At the flag should be in the art unwashed masses
Such as millet bread and tender.
Something I wrote a few years back when I was just getting into poetry. I haven't written much since to be terribly honest. It's cliche and inaccurate, I see a lot I think to improve it now that I've read a lot more.. Tear it to pieces if you have the care or the time.

Be careful what you wish is what I was told;
But God forbid, Iever grow old, my heart grow cold!
I prayed for an immortal soul,
But nay, it was to no avail...
Is it my fate? To age and pale?
Must I sail, the hellish Styx?
Surely I can twist the rules of fate.
Surely Death can wait, I have to sate
My thirst for knowledge! Until I find the answer,
The magicks I can conjure to make my body
Live forever, to sever ties this world has on me.
Must I implore, with words Supernal,
Of those beaststhat are Infernal
To grant Eternal Life to me?
Can God not see the use of me?
Can he not forgive my blasphemy, impiety?
But nay! My heart shall notgrow cold!
I shall employ powers of old;
I shall live forever, never dying,
Ever striving for perfectionin this mortal sty!
I am Faust; immortal till the destined day I die!
My heart shall never grow cold again;
For it's always hot in Hell.
Breath on the snow

Dance in spirals softly in the undertow
that draws me inside to swirl with fear
in your unseen arms, sobbing in tears that no-one knows.
Such a comely breath makes me see the flow
of your eyes through my rose
on the glowing white snow.
To wait is to rot in mold,
and when the ice-flowers die, even your breath
turns cold.
It’s so strange to be gone but still breathe with me
ghosts of touches and love.
You want to scream on the inside,
from my weary lungs,
I feel you want to go free,
but your breath is all I’ve left from you
and can’t let it not be me.
And when even that will leave,
all I’ll do is wait until the point you let go.
Can’t believe how sweet your kiss of love was,
how short was that fleeting look of yours,
how strange is to be anything at all.
Jessica forgot to buy bananas
Honestly that's just fucking bananas
thanks for trying.
it's utterly wrong but i like it.
Seeping through the nuance in your speech lisp
every time your hushed sibilances turn
into caressing fricatives is the
propensity from the rift in space and
time; the gravitational singularity
dismantling alternate universes,
causing ours to exist.

appreciate it, /lit/
not bad
thanks man, any suggestions?
I think you're on the right track. The ideas you're expressing are interesting. The poem is probably too short for the subject matter. I'd be interested in seeing what kind of figurative and visual images you can bring to an expanded version of the poem.
Rothko is garbage.

Anyone want to try some advanced critical theory on this interesting case?

There is a set of cases where it is appropriate for an artist to assert that an audience "did not get it." - those in which an objectively identifiable stratagem is deployed, but with which the audience is unfamiliar.

For example: a poem whose line lengths are based in the Fibonacci sequence. Whether they are or not is objectively verifiable. The Fs is well defined within several professional fields.

A reader, who may be an excellent critic of poetry, may not be mathematically inclined and may judge the work to have failed.

In such a case, the valid assertion "you did not get it" must be followed by "oh, you're right, I didn't get it. Now I know what the Fs is, so I will re-appraise accordingly."

The advanced theoretical point is right here - /final/ judgements of quality have not been addressed yet. All that has been established is that the reader missed an important element within the work.

Further, the poet has also made no claims as to final quality judgements, only that information included was overlooked.

At this point, the reader may still conclude, now for different reasons, "It still sucks." And now the poet has nothing further to add by way of defense.

Or the critic may change their mind, and realize that the stratagem informs a now complete harmony previously obscured by the missing information. In which case, the poet has nothing else to add other than "thank you."

In that context - I can see that war-like elements are deployed. Not in the first four lines, nor in the fifth. "battle-worn" finally appears in line 6, and "conscripts" in 7, and now the blood becomes grounded (haha), but remains temporally ambiguous - nothing here says the war is not historical, or even imaginary. Nothing anchors us to a particular war, much less one ongoing. This "We" who is performing the verbs could as easily be engaging in a flight of memory, as in the real actions, so nebulous do they appear to be. "Rake a rim" - a rim of what? "scoop up tears of midnight labour's dew" - what substance is that, and what vessel contains it? Are we washing a wall? Because the action is not clear at all. If this is figurative, it went past me - again whether this is informational deficit (the fair kind to defend) or presentational felicity (on you) remains unfinalized.

We continue to "this concentrate" of a substance unidentified, and add dirty blood, throw it on a rag, muck it around with also unnamed "instruments" and compare it to two (at last) specific, concrete nouns, whose connections and connotations again fail to connect for me. Somehow, millet bread and dialect poetry are representative of the people who fall for the bad thing of going to war.

That's all I can say, and it feels like too much effort required to arrive at the conclusion. Now let's see if you got my point about talking to critics.
I want to go back
into the danger zone
spewing fire shooting stars
deep frying my heart
but patience is a must
not wanting
so i can have again
to quench the lust

This void is that she could never swallow:
when behind the ravening marketplace,
that pit of commerce, the alley growing
darker with each step, where that day expunged
the moment it happened- removed her space-
from within. She encompassed its shudder,
or so she dreamt. She thought, then, tomorrow
she could begin to love this difference plunged

beyond her Lord. But that feral smile,
his mortal smells filled the Holy Mother
hung on a fiction that could never be:

the virgin's delight; the rapist plowing
past her desire to be defiled-
O to be fucked so immaculately!
Fuck this Duke Lacrosse shit
Not guilty fuck innocent

Don't believe those fuckers
Those lying black-out drunk motherfuckers
Those "let me tell you like two weeks later" fuckers
I don't care who they tell

You're telling me I should prove it
that I'm innocent
Fuck your kangaroo courts
I don't owe you shit
I don't need any friends
I don't need believers
These fucking leeches aint loyal
Bitch you can keep em
I don't need any rhymes
I don't need any shit
I got myself out here
not guilty fuck innocent
I don't need this shit
Bitch fuck your lease
I don't need your car
bitch fuck your keys
Fuck you mean I'm kicked out?
Bitch you owe me thousands
Everything I did
How the fuck can you doubt me?
Cunt you're breaking my heart
Saying that I would steal
You're believing the lies
Fuck this can't be real
Now I'm rhyming like 14
back when I was so young
Fuck should I trust your memory for
you're always on drugs
I mean shit I was too
But I can handle my weed
You were out of your mind
Who the fuck should I believe
Bitch fuck your housing
Bitch fuck your stomach
Bitch fuck your judgment
Bitch I don't even want it
I'm too fucked to rhyme competent
On that old school shit
Fuck your threesomes
These Linda Trippin bitches can eat shit
But fuck that sounds bad
Cause Bill actually did it
This is more like the mattress girl
Or those Duke Lacrosse kids
And they don't need no evidence
Bitch fuck your diary
Fuck you for having the nerve to come here and lie to me
Fuck your drug selling boyfriend tryna tell the police
Tell em what? That your girlfriend left you to come make out with me
Fuck these guilty ass bitches
Damn my conscience is clear
I don't have no apologies
Fuck your whole damn career
I don't need any witnesses
bitch I'm the accused
Fuck your alibi cause pal of mine
my story is true

Lie to my face
Tell me I'm wrong
I think I remember
My own goddamn songs
simple, she said with a glance,
little can dead men do with their head on a lance
or lead riddled.
aghast, yes, there's a chance
when pulled from one world into the sands
lored red middle.
Lathnos het faltern on the high stump
Tious masses rustling their coats in root-eaves below
while Istern hordes trample in a growing spiral
on gods' faces, antipodal.

Sammandrion, sivy settled Satremonger
he may be, lends animate to callowed, mallean Prentics
and holds barred many a mangled law-tracer
but has no heed of his brother

Taphylos, who's none below but the deads' hands
agaze to the primate roil past halted lands.
Can you stop defending yourself so hard? You can't make people like your poetry. It's not about "they didn't get it, I need to explain it to them." It's not about "critics need to reevaluate their opinion when faced with facts about the poem." Remember you're on 4chan.

What you seem not to understand is that people have immediate reactions to poems. The act of reading involves memory, experience, and the subconscious. People can grope about their subconscious trying put into words why they didn't like your poem, but in the end it will be clumsy, and it will be opinionated, and you cannot argue with it. You cannot say "my poem is good because you misunderstood it." If your poem were good, it would produce that impression immediately.

On a different matter, we are not professional critics. We lack the vocabulary and the references to dissect poems. You cannot expect us to behave like real critics, i.e., adjusting our appraisal to each new parcel of information. We are readers, informal critics, and we respond to the primitive elements of poetry--meter and rhyme, diction, syntax, imagery. If you fail to win us here (at the surface of a poem) then you will not have readers and you will not have critics. On the flip side, you are not an established poet; you are anonymous, and we treat you as such.

>I'm sorry, but you haven't even understood what the poem is about. Open the spoilered image mate, it's not that hard.

This is extremely bad manners--the accusation that your readers are stupid because they don't understand your poem as well as you do. An author must work under the assumption that his readers are intelligent, otherwise he will never get anywhere.

>It's *supposed* to sound choppy and awkward. It's about war. Though I can see why that isn't as apparent if you haven't put the pieces together.

No, it's not supposed to "sound choppy and awkward." That is the fallacy of imitative form. Your diction has failed you by being overwrought, curlicued and un-elegant. That's what anon meant to say. And again, passive-aggressively insulting the critic like a child who throws a tantrum when he doesn't get a lollipop.

Realize that people take time out of their day to respond to your poem. If you are continually ungrateful and unpleasant to them, you will alienate yourself. Countless people have died thinking they were unacknowledged geniuses.
try to write a poem next time and not joyce-wanna-be word vomit
structurally nice, but the content isn't giving me anything, particularly the last line.
If you want to have edgelordfedora content, have the execution reflect that.
Practice makes perfect, that we know so well.
Again and again, we burst and tear the coil.
That dull, strangling coil of habit and farce.
Theonan, vie and storm-
only decay awaits,
cognot and lorn.

Anthrotist, pry and glean-
only decay awaits,
mechrous, unseem.

Hilean, sit and know-
only decay awaits,
Tel without throe.

Innocent, stir and rise-
only the day awaits,
all things your prize.
Gonna translate, will try to keep metrec and rhythm the best I can... Also English is not my first language, so I may Loose something.. More interested to see if I did a good execution of the idea, I mean, if it is clear what It is about and of it is decent. Thank you in advance:
In the darkness,
I stumble on the pieces of my life
that hide the floor of my room.
I feel your touch in my amputated arm
and my imagined heart really hurts.
I remember your kisses of sepia
with worn edges ,
I remember your miniature smile
on a chest bathed in blood.
In the darkness,
tears of bitterness make me fall
in the abandonment of my cheap room.
thanks, pretty much what i expected, i wrote it in two minutes.
I never post in these threads because I have peers and professors who are willing to be honest with me about my writing.

Are any of you published?
She perked up
"it takes less muscles to smile
than it does to
However I could use the work-out
I don't have those things so I post in these threads.
And no.
fuken pseud
I was published twice in my schools lit magazine,

These threads are just for fun, idk why people take it so seriously.
me n you both know how easy it is to be "published" in school mag
yup, i was surprised my first submission made it because it was so bad. Second one was pretty ok though.

But yea, idk why anyone would post stuff they'd want published in here, just use threads like these to jerk off with technique, tell some jokes.
i come here cause someone always gets butthurt and defensive over harsh criticism, v amusing, actually i wonder if its the same guy each time
Can I get some feedback on my poem?

this guys feedback is very shallow >>7648048
I don't like you don't change the rhythm sequence (aabb). I get a cliché vibe on some lines (read it, I think it's kinda notorious) but I don't know if that is the intention (as if you think that vibe I call cliche is the romanticism vibe you want, yet from my point of view of the romanticism, you do not get that feeling).

What is the "face" of romanticism you Want to capture? You dont feel like Holderlin to me, but maybe you are thinking more of Becquer... Idk...
thankyou for the criticism, I'm trying (probably failing to capture the english romantic spirit ala Keats but predominantly Byron; do you think it succeeds in this regard? Would you have a look at the second half also - it might hold up better.

And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide,
But through it there rolled not the breath of his pride;
And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf,
And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf.

And there lay the rider distorted and pale,
With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail:
And the tents were all silent, the banners alone,
The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown.

And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail,
And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal;
And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword,
Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord!
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lines composed a few meters from mcdonald’s burgers, during an early morning smoke, february 1st, 2016

in morn i watch a squirrel
climb a telephone pole
and i think: he must think this a tree,
and the webbing wires and appendages
some cityborne disease,
spreading every year,
he thinks: soon there’ll be no healthy trees.
and he thinks: i’m glad i’m not a tree.

— j. keating, Seattle, 2016
You are... Kinda trying too hard. I mean, there is some Byron vibe but you are too focused on getting it that maybe you leave some stuff out, like varying the rhyme (he Does abab too!).

I do get the intention, try to read a Young Edgar Allan Poe poems. I think you will find there what you need, the guy was trying to do exactly as you are doing, but he had... More experience, as he could at that age read the classics on the original language.

There is a certain vibe to Byron, yet, is more about the words that the style, if you get what I mean. And I think Poe can help you with that, see what he does. I see some similarities, on fact, you do sound a bit more as the first poems of Poe than you do Byron.

It's not that you are failing, is that you can improve the result by checking other authors and poems. Good luck!
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>you do not get that feeling
>some byron vibe
>(he Does abab too!)
>more about the words than the style
>you sound a bit more as the first poems of Poe than you do Byron

>this entire critique


this meme is played out anon
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/lit/ confirmed for pseudo-intellectuals
why does this even exist
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The perched coyote peaking below an expectant moon
at a scene of herds, meteorologically swirling,
howled quietly, nudging his befallen mate—
useless questions arise, and a friend dies.
Vengeance: a word reserved for the gutted lost
to stubborn to forfeit a losing match crisp burnt.
More will come—I'm sure but uncertain;
the curtains close and eyelids flicker as the swlnging lights.
Have you ever considered emotional context?
No focus in this piece.

Rip me apart as I have done:

I've never given myself
Wholly to an idea
As glamorous as it seems
I lack the courage to
See it through to the end
And when my judgement is
Received, I can speak truly,
This is what I've perceived.
I don't want to make my own thread for my question but i need to ask...How do I into poetry?

I'm reading homer and I want to get the most out of it. I've begun to wrap my head around meter, dactyls and spondees, etc. But when I read the illiad I find I don't read it much different than I would prose. I feel like I might be missing out on part of the poems effect.
Read it aloud

And desu all translated poetry is going yo be a little awkward
Just feels like you took a journal entry and gave it line breaks. Try conveying the same idea with a different set of tools, like imagery or a character
elaborate please?
I'm not the poet. And I think you didn't read the whole thing.
Hey that was pretty good. What poetry do you recommend for beginners? And where do you learn to read it properly.
I like it, don't understand the way you framed it tho
Any chance I could get a response for mine?
flesh flesh flesh
flesh flesh flesh
death death tdeath
Fabric: always hugging our skin
unless you're poor–poorer than a king
crushed by the weight of his own crown–
and ripple it does, like bath water: mercurial then still.
And fabric: a deep-house club in London,
with soles stuck to sticky floors and dilated pupils
and polyurethane pants filled with plastic impounded powders—
Pietà's shimmers: the holy waves surfed by sight:
marbled fabric forged by God's mirrored hands.

Fabric: semen soaked boxers huddled beneath my bed...
time's tapestry vibrating the words: Great Scott–!
So my preexisting bias is clear - it's the same with all Big Statement About A Political Issue poetry. they can all be reduced to a bumper sticker. "War is bad and it hurts." So I was not on board before we began.

Wilfred Owen's entire corpus amounts to the same thing. The Edwin Starr song of 1969 gets the point across as effectively.

It also feels like a long way to go to arrive at a truism. At this length, we should either discover a string of gems which each pays off its existence, an accretion into a summation of magnified effect, or a narrative which propels itself from within.

Here we have the dirge of nostalgia in abundance, but the structure and titles, one of which is a vocabulary challenge I'm not sure I care to google my through remain untethered. Who is the devil here, and where is the sympathy? If the devil is war, then he seems to be dispatched with less than an equally sinister heart.

Nor am I clear on the function of the telegraphic line length. Beyond the evocation of a telegram itself, or the encoded message, both used in war but neither unique to it, the effect is simply that it makes me aware that I am using orbital muscles to scan down and left a lot more than usual.

I neither observe nor admit the existence of this thread's flip dismissal of the normal assumptions of the workshop, so if you want to explain what you were going for, have at it. I'm always interested in what I don't know.

You ripped this from Fleet Foxes - White Winter Hymanal
Not that other anon, but I thought it was supposed to be funny.
The first four lines are fine. Everything else is shit.
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fucking good.
/r/OCPoetry tier.
really good.
this is good too.
really good.
i like it.
pretty good.
horribly unmelodious metric.
nice and simple. not bad.

wording is not exactly bad, maybe a little cheesy, but i don't find it too melodious and i don't care for your style of writing.

really good. sort of a contemporary pop art poem.

too meta for me. as someone else said, it should end with the third line.

it evokes interesting images, but i don't like the style. i would have avoided using words as gigantic and unpoetic as vy canis major, and it's generally a little too prosey for my taste.

i am dying to know what this is about.

I trace small circles in my tea;
my stirrer my compass
guiding the winds clockwise.
I feel warmth as I swirl.

I dump milk into my tea,
and looking down
on the clouds, I feel strong—
a god of this ceramic hemisphere.


extremely cliché. kind of like a children's cartoon in which the obvious antagonist and all around 'bad man' states his role in the show through singing.

i really like the idea, although i think you should try expressing it i a more poetic way.

>sonnet. Pretentious as fuck but I enjoy writing sonnets.
so sonnets are 'pretentious' now? such a stupid word.
also, those aren't sonnets. nor are they good.

really repetitive but i'm pretty sure that's what you intended. interesting wording, nicely alliterative.

poetry isn't made of rhymes or metric. if you have not even the basic idea of what poetry is, maybe you should go back to your board of choice.

too obvious.
this might get you some pussy though.

this one's better, not sure if you're the same person.

sounds like a walt disney adaptation of dr. faustus.

it is evident you like neutral milk hotel. and the last line is the least of it.

there are many words i am unfamiliar with. not sure if it's voluntary nonsense. but it sounds nice.

this is mine by the way.
i realize a few of you may be lacking in their italian. i could translate it if someone is interested, but at the same time i don't really believe in translating poetry.


è l'odore metallico delle
tue membra sterili
che rallenta i miei battiti e distorce
i tuoi fremiti

dormi, puttana di legno
madre dei miei sogni,
tutrice della mia disperazione.
I really appreciate you taking the time to respond, thanks a lot. As for the problem with the political content, that's what I was hoping to avoid. I don't want it to be a "protest song". There's way to write about war and politics without it making the piece inherently shallower, I was hoping to do that with this but it sounds like you think I failed.

The name has a few meanings, the most obvious is a cultural reference to the Rolling Stones song (there's a few other song and movie references about war maybe those confused you?). Besides that, the "devil" is the middle eastern militant and the imperial soldier/drone operator. The poem is told from both perspectives, and it's intentionally a little hard to distinguish, but "Blood and Water" is the one section told from the perspective of American veterans. The rest are of Afghani militants. Both express an understanding of their similarity to each other, and (a hopefully subtle) understanding that the real devil that led them to demonize and kill eachother is found in the traditions and ruling parties they've been shaped by, but it's not a protestation against it as much as it's a resignation.

I realize this isn't a new idea or anything close to one, but outside of certain political circles it is pretty radical to claim sympathy for muh big bad terrorists and equate them with the deified American veteran. I don't know if you're American so maybe that means nothing to you.

Anyway, thanks for the response. As for the structure, it's for the sake of pacing and rythm, also to try to simplify it a bit. No meanings beyond that.

Hey m8, can you see what you think of mine? You seem to have liked the same stuff ITT I did >>7653329
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thanks for critiquing so many poems

>i am dying to know what this is about.
cannot tell if sarcasm, but I wanted to explore the simultaneous state of both loneliness and wanting to be alone. it's something I find myself in a lot, particularly with distant communication and distant relationships (text, email, etc) and the devices they inhabit. I wanted the scene/speaker to come across a little pathetic, a little confused - at one point appalled by being disturbed and at another frantically thinking what the other person may know or think about them.

I've taken on board the other anon's suggestion.
The lord's work in writ–preesh
This is the opener to a collection I'm writing to win over a girl in my AP Literature Class. We've been doing a poetry unit, and she seems to be pretty into it so I thought this was a good plan.

Give her to me perfect
Give her to me untouched
While the beauty in her cheeks
Still glows with youthful blush
Give her to me with a heart of gold
Unstained by greed and lust
I love her because she is perfect
But I will never be as much

I know it probably sucks, but it's my first go. Thoughts?
Last three lines are bad, rework them

The rest is generic but fine for trying to get a pleb qt
Sophisticated bullshit–no
bullshit is sophistic, and vice-versa.
I'm right, you're wrong.
I'm left, you're gone.
The point is–I'm not going to say irrelevant–
pointless. See: something about pathos:
you and everyone you know–your mother, your brother, your best friend, your dog, archenemy, and grandpa–
will die eventually die.
Here're a few ways that might happen:
plane crash, pulmonary embolism, pituitary cancer,
pancreatic cancer, skin cancer, brain cancer,
tongue cancer, toe cancer, lung cancer,
crushed by a falling vending machine, trip into a volcano,
eaten alive by feral children who have rudimentarily organized their own micro-society founded on primal principles in light of nuclear fallout,
heart attack, stroke, car wreck, rabies,
murder, suicide, or just plain old age.

But we might be able to save our minds onto quantum hard-drives,
which would be cool.
I figured as much. Thanks.
interesting style, there are many images i like, but i am not a fan of social or political art in general. i consider myself an aesthet.
do you read or enjoy ungaretti, by chance?

mine was not sarcasm. it is much clearer now thanks to yr explanation, and much simpler than what i was imagining. sometimes ignorance is bliss.


interesting. i'm going to ignore those two :s in a single sentence for the sake of licence.
>do you want to read more?

Martha was lying on her bed. It was 2.30am and she wasn't looking at Facebook. She lay on her front, arms at her sides, legs extended straight. Think of a plank. On opposite ends:

1. her face and toes were restless in equal measure
2. her hair and toes curled like paper shown to a fire

Her middle, though, was entirely still. She felt as if she would soon be entirely alight. She felt, at first, that two separate heat sources were nearing her head and toes. In fact, they were not drawing closer. No, it was as if her central area was shrinking, her shoulders and legs contracting into her midriff, as if time and space were compressing into her centre, drawing the two foci of heat ever closer to her extremities at either end.

She rolled over onto her back and realised it was not heat she experienced but a flush of cold. Her face and toes relaxed. The playful upper reaches of her room excited her and she thought about smiling.

What it was to smile. At the ceiling? An act. To someone else? It would depend who. She resisted the indulgence to think further along those lines.

It was 2:48am when her phone went
to sleep
it can be
when you are between two… foci? [not quite right]
yes . and on such an uncertain night
how so
i can call
yes / yes

Reminds me of Shakespeare's sonnet 20 but it seriously sounds like an ode to pedophilia familia
Hey chaps, interesting thread. Please rate my poem. It's a poem in two parts. Thank you.

[talking to you makes me happy
it makes me enjoy pissing more]

Do you, when you wake in the middle of the night,
not in your own house
as you expected, and you slip your pearl feet
onto the cold opal floor,
and you feel very strongly
that you are lost, or even that you are falling,
surrounded by your white nightdress that billows ever more with your descent,
do you then, when you feel small, when you feel alive, when your eyes could
close but could not cease to see, when spasms of warmth hit your chilled,
receptive body like electric eels swarming a deep sea fish,
do you then, finally, call that love?
Dystopian novels are fucking cancer
literally the worst genre.
if you write or enjoy them unironically
you should off yourself.
The future won't be just oppressive governments
that want to constantly kill their citizens.
holy shit, you cunts are thick,
to think this possible.
Now, were this possible, why would you give a shit?
for things like this would only come to pass
long after your irrelevant death.
Long after mine, too.
>do you read or enjoy ungaretti, by chance?

Nope, but I'll check it out, thanks for a rec and thanks for the comment
do not mention it. you made me think of ungaretti because of his history with war. he was profoundly influenced as a man and as a poet by his trench experiences, which he often recalled in his works.
weeks then worse
then weeks then worse
at best, & then the end
's to've survived worse coming
by means of preemption-
: so says the ruined mind
to the ruined body
out of circumstance's ruins-
& the body retorts: eat something!
it's almost as good as touch!-
: not the mind, flesh's autochthonous
to the infinite-
: how could that hollowpoint round
've missed the medulla oblongata? the heart
stops, blood bursts from the nose-
: when will this end?, the mind in pain
when i'm done w/ you, answers SOMETHING-
, nerve-endings aflame,
entirely tangent to time-
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part of a larger collection located here called OSSO:


will b commentin on other ppls shit in a sec
Can I simply ask where your inspiration comes from, or from whom you take on some of the wilder content? Otherwise, it is dense. I myself liked 'fondue' and 'roepawlitannie'. The rest doesn't click.
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since we were talking ungaretti, i took the liberty to translate one of his poems.
i don't remember seeing 'original only' in the rules. but i don't really care for rules.


Un'intera nottata A whole night
buttato vicino cast aside
a un compagno |a companion
massacrato slaughtered
con la sua bocca with his mouth
digrignata gnashing
volta al plenilunio at the full moon
con la congestione |with the congestion
delle sue mani of his hands
penetrata |penetrated
nel mio silenzio |in my silence
ho scritto |i have written
lettere piene d'amoreletters filled with love

Non sono mai stato |I have never been
tanto so
attaccato alla vita bound to life.
what the fuck. when did alt+255 stop working?
needs more IMO or i ain't graspin ur context. its ok 2 just have it as "whee death feeling" but seems like w/ a line or 2 u can just unobfuscate the nonce enuf so that ppl can work w/ how this type of expiration's occurring. is 1 person kickin it @ multiple instances? r there multiple ppl kickin it multiplicatively??? is et even bout kickin buckets or just dumpin'um??? idk but i wanna no

do somethin' else w/ this homie cuz ur bein a bit 2 disingenuous w/ how ur approachin the topic. tell me y u think that, as terse n succinctly as possible with the format uve given. those last 3 lines can only rly work when pre-empted n primed by a kernel of thought catalyst - "dystopias r retarded and the ppl who buy wholesale into their author's supposed demagoguery r misled because ____". ur techniques also p. basic but less ppl gaf bout that these days n addressin the primary concern of justification for ur poem-writin purpose will do more than kekin' bout dactyls lack-files

p. dope. cliche but the male/female brain contrast shits lit n if u made it up on the spot u def. got a zenith zoomin up ahead. also if ur insinuatin that feminine part loves gettin peed on thats also funny af ack
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i fuck with cummings, joyce, The Elder Scrolls: Morrowind, House of Leaves, lots of rap n shit and im lookin 2 get in2 n cultivate ergodic stuff n writing from wherever i can

idk if thats rly enough 2 answer ur question could u b a bit more specific??? what do u mean by " from whom you take on some of the wilder content" u mean who do i imitate the most?
>reviews responses to my post
>not the post itself
Oh well it was shit anyway and so is this but what the hell

love was born in one
God shaped all the world in two
but in our father’s hands we were left unmade
I’ll let no one see my weakness
but my virile lie melts in your false-womb
leaving two sun-baked deformities
we will make a half-hermaphrodite
an unstable love
where I was abandoned
my Lemnos
but if instead our bed’s a forest,
my self-same chevrefoil,
we are white blossoms, black fruit
two vines wrapped in loving death-grip
and though our embrace couldn’t be more tight or true
I cannot support you
Take my comments with a grain of salt.

Pretty interesting, but I feel like it would need constant rhymes. Putting a capital at the beginning of every line would make the poem more pleasant to read immediately.

Nice images.

Sounds like the chorus of some metal song.
Good for its size.

Nice assonnances, a bit strange.
>what do u mean by " from whom you take on some of the wilder content" u mean who do i imitate the most?
Not imitation, but more as in where you get your "creative license" or "spirit" from, so to speak. You already had answered the Q, but what I really want to know is what you try to ----achieve---- with the stochastic effects.
>revised a bit

Fuck this Duke Lacrosse shit
Not guilty fuck innocent

Don't believe those fuckers
Those lying black-out drunk motherfuckers
Those "let me tell you like two weeks later cause I think you're dumb" motherfuckers
I don't care who they tell

Fuck you mean I should prove it
Fuck your kangaroo courts
I don't owe you shit
Not guilty fuck innocent
I don't need any friends
I don't need no believers
These fucking leeches aint loyal
Fuck you bitch you can keep em
I don't need any rhymes
I don't need any shit
I got myself out here
not guilty fuck innocent
I don't need this shit
Bitch fuck your lease
I don't need your car
bitch fuck your keys
Now I'm rhyming like 14
back when I was so young
Fuck should I trust your memory for
you're always on drugs
I mean shit I was too
But I can handle my weed
You were out of your mind
Who the fuck should I believe

Bitch fuck your housing
Bitch fuck your stomach
Bitch fuck your judgment
Bitch I don't even want it
I'm too fucked to rhyme competent
On that old school shit
Fuck your threesomes
These Linda Trippin bitches can eat shit
But fuck that sounds bad
Cause Bill actually did it
This is more like the mattress girl
Or those Duke Lacrosse kids
And they don't need no evidence
Bitch fuck your diary
Fuck you for having the nerve to come here and lie to me
Fuck your drug selling boyfriend tryna tell the police
Tell em what? That your girlfriend left you to run after me
Fuck these guilty ass bitches
Damn my conscience is clear
I don't have no apologies
Fuck your whole damn career
I don't need any witnesses
bitch I'm the accused
Fuck your alibi cause pal of mine
my story is true

Fuck this Duke Lacrosse shit
Not guilty fuck innocent

Lie to my face
Tell me I'm wrong
I think I remember
My own songs
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i couldn't review every poem even if i wanted. i was barely under the character limit.
but it didn't really fit my taste.
the new one you posted is good though.

>but if instead our bed’s a forest,
>my self-same chevrefoil,
>we are white blossoms, black fruit
the best part.

pretty interesting. utterly incomprehensible but it's part of its charm.

dystopian novels are not about being possible. i think you're missing the point.

i love the second part.

nice short story.

interesting idea, i think it could be expressed better.

the poetry equivalent of manowar.

do you feel like making a song out of this? i can make the beat.


are you lost?
you look like you are.
come with me.
I would very much like to make a song. I have a mic and a pop filter at my dorm. Needs an aggressive beat.

Email me at kolstiducnguyen@gmail.com
Strive, deprive, and the race takes you
Yield afield, and the wild wastes you
Bend, amend, and the crowds break you
Stride aside, and they'll outpace you
Live to die- the world makes you
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o thats more specific.

i want ppl 2 walk away w/ a disquietin sense that there's only that peculiar image present in what i've written. not in a tapering of interpretation type sense but in a "this can only play out this way" type acknowledgement - that the content and density and pointed pleonasm behind words harbors a dynastic determinism, a "deeming done" playing out in narrative and nepotistic repetition of rendition. b/c that's what the poems r, right? like every poem is a series of unalterable words that derive out a persons consciousness we, as readers and "interpreters", like to pretend to recontextualize to make ourselves feel alive when the words r what r there, and their vessel remains impervious at the time of imprint. the stories i tell keep perpetuating because of an unseemly need to repeat, with the language as bedraggled and desperate to live (even w/ the acute recognition/self-knowledge of their perennial stasis) as what tales it constitutes. i dont like to write singular poems or w/e that stand alone - everything works better as a lattice IMO.
I love this, man. I really like the idea of post-hiphop poetry being a thing, and you did a really great job. The revision improved it a lot.
Well, I'm 18, and she's only six months younger than me. I don't think I'll be meeting Chris Hansen anytime soon.
I didn't even think she was underage it was just your word choice.

still generic as fuck tho
I saw the greatest hivemind of my generation destroyed by Summerkids,
striving hysterical for troves of Stirner sketches,
dragging themselves through the wet black bukaki at wake typing
for a botched critique,
priapic knuckleheads choreographing for the handful bohemian
network by maudlin belles-lettres in a collectively anarchic newtopia,
who underemployment and saccharine cocoa and pretty-miss-wander-eyes and avant-garde
vaporizer pen designs
in recurrent existential paralyses and worthless seconds reimbursed
under the advertisement bar in empty ventilation,
who tapped their motherboards to the primary centralis under the Lel and found
shoddy Canon imitators trawling from the Übermenscher decks
inseminating false Dogma,
who leafed Murakami in a chrome-boring Boxtype with pretzel-toposes underhoods
quantum possessed coolant trickling like piss under a star-spangled diaper
limping off sporadically by a Viagra-suspended member over the hung gearpanel,
who quote you unquote us were handcuffed by the moribund dozens to a shitpost radiator
for dismantling superimposed myths of Heidegger’s Naziism on campus in equally
vainglorious episodes of pathetic curse-hurdling-like voodoo.
who from built up self-repudiation unironically slit their wrists naked until they dress
in loud red to a ballad of Mainländer bookscraps in a solitary bathtub,
who passed tryptamine out like your sweetheart’s plastic smiles on a forgotten moon
or was she cast phosphorescence off that awfully familiar convex screen
we carelessly remove prepackaged slender nuggets’ protective seals to and dip ourselves
like the veritable pigs we morph back to snoutdeep into the trough, guiltily pleasuring crave, who crawls underground for fear of the living and boars into the sheriff's lounge
ostensible his talent as his crowd’s met disgusted countenance
lone sensible in a badland of desperadoes horseback riding away from sunset to the gallows
who traverses by the verses fleetingly
making the loose eccentric excellent in his dance wherever category he mistakenly barged
to himself a resplendent quetzal lying his way out of the beast in the mirror,
a poindexter easily enamoured and an unrelenting shell under the common sun,
who slouches by the kindled fireplace with nobody in sight and declare as any other night their bitter snickerdoodleless holiday, then silently sob under no man’s hail.
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top kek
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ne1 else wanna give mine >>7653864 a roll? i'll hitchu back w/ a critique or w/e.
Your first two lines are identical to this tweet https://twitter.com/shutupmikeginn/status/508799244778889216?lang=en
quite generic but there's a nice simplicity to the second two lines. first is awful. cannot discern any reason it should be a haiku.
I really like this anon. I wonder if there's not a more poetic/powerful alternative to lines like "in the blueish grey" and "side by side."
I think it very weirdly and awkwardly oscillates between trying to be formal/traditional in tone, diction, and format, and not so. just confusing to read.
feels like you're throwing everything at the wall and absolutely none of it sticks.
don't see why this idea should be presented in this style. I would go for something more natural and speech-like
Golden warmth peels from the blue above,
Sweeping all into its freshness and grace.
Cool heads look up - to meet the gifts bestowed.
“Stop that asshole!”, “Ugh it got in my mouth!”
Kolsti? Is this serious? This isn't even on tumblr. Are you behind every nice critique thread poem??
Thanks–! But hey, two colons in one sentence is totally acceptable, while unconventional. Lowry, Gass, Joyce, Pynchon: they all do so: first you must master grammar, then you may dismantle grammar.

Source: I got a 104 on my 8th grade grammar test.
Kolsti, your dallas friend here, we're still gonna drop the south's hottest single sometime in the coming months–I assure you
I have verses for every beat and subject. I'm ready senpai.
Word, will shoot you a text soon.
Whenever anybody asks me if I try
I respond:
I try not to—then I kiss the nearest female.
How was my last Thanksgiving?
Full of bowling terminology.
Lanes full of booze ridden aunts
hinting at fucking Dad's married friend
who has three kids and an undead wife—

So then came Christmas, like a marauding wildebeest
festooned in cheap Moroccan costume jewelry
and wearing a hat made from stale bread.
I received three presents. One was a dead kitten,
the other two were monogrammed.

During New Years, 'Allahu Akbar' echoed persistently—
I've never even been to war—
and I found myself amidst a gaggle of people
all donned with hats and smiles and hugs saying:
happy new year, you'll be dead someday.
So I lit my lucky Parliament
and ignited a firework made by Filipino hands
and a dash of garrulous gun powder.

Now you're probably thinking something about the fourth wall
and how this poem is as erratic as an unmanned firehose, or epileptic raccoon with rabies—
go find closure elsewhere.
Perhaps a moment could be spared to say,
the magic peppered lightly over time
and time again—the lightning of the lime:
it lingers as the crunch enters the fray

And to the sweet and carefully mingled juice-
and-vegetable amalgam, red and deep:
tomato, spices secret—stay and keep
together and not find yourself too loose

Stay cautious as the valiant green contends;
this war you fight will not be versed in good
mannered conversation—this cream! it could
dethrone the reign of red and prove your end.

As Avacado writes your epitaph,
Good Salsa: I will not dare to look back

The most beautiful piece of verse about guacamole I've ever read.

Also, it's very well composed aside from the subject matter.
From 'neath the Purple Grove
Across a thousand valleys.
To the ocean, to the cove,
Where Man's First Day was tallied.

But who was there to count to one?
And how shall they be called?
Who saw who saw the rising sun?
And will they see the fall?
Thanks. It wasn't even my idea. Some friends and I brainstormed for another who never delivered, so I adopted it
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