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Poetry Critique
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Poetry critique thread.

Post your shitty poems and critique others. Let's see if we can get a thread where every single poem gets a critique.

I have a question: what does /lit/ think is the best way to improve as a poet? Other than read/write more poetry, obviously. Suggested books on poetry-writing or poetic form?
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Eat, drink, and be merry
For tomorrow we die
Eat electricity
Drink five of the seven seas
Here is paralyzed sleet
Here is bubble bath rain
Acrid stench and festering tongue
New York to Moscow, Nairobi in flames

I don't know either
What is the answer?
We were told to expect more
And now that we've got more
We want more
We want more

We have moved from A to X
This welfare state is our progress
The size of it all carries us along
More equals better, it's what we want
Our energy is endless, it seems
It's there when we need it
We've got men on the job

We finance clinics to research
A cure for cancer, our least vague fear
A new kind of water
A new way of breathing
Always, somehow, a wonder cure-all
Turns up when we need it
We've got men on the job

You know from experience
The creature comforts, a house that's warm
Your body would choose all this
Of course! It's innate, we're selfish
But what if there's not enough to go round?
Defense is needed
They've got some odd men in odd jobs

We have moved from A to Z
This nuclear state is our demise
Fly away Peter, hide away Paul
Who can watch as the Earth burns, shatters, and dies?
Fail-safe, foolproof, we've heard that before
Good sense is needed
Let's hope we've got men on the job

The size of it all carries us along
More equals better, it's what we want
You know from experience
Your body would choose all this
Postprandial Postulations

Emerald leaves float down from heaven on a breeze
The sky azure reaches end to end
Stainless blue save a rogue cloud pondering
What I'm doing down here
After lunch at McDonald's
Moving without motion
Echoes without sound
Guide me by the hand
From this lost control
In my own world
Will it end
Makeshift she sings in her native jabber
You try to understand what she's trying to say
She says, "You're only as good
As the words you understand"
And you, you don't understand a word

Tower of Babel, Swahili, it's all Greek to me
Bi-lingual, double dutch, gift of the gab
Gift of the gab

We give you firewater, you give us your land
"White man speak with forked tongue"
But it's too late now to start complaining
Too late

Monosyllabic, hieroglyphic, et cetera, et cetera
I think this needs to be more focussed - perhaps just focus on the element of greed and continue that through.

Great concept. Too much reference to colour which isn't important to the concept.

Move the line 'We give you firewater, you give us your land' or change the 'we' and 'you' around.
At first I thought this was a desperate break into the 'Zeitgeist', but you really carried it off. "A new kind of water/ new way of breathing" is particularly great in its so vague, which I usually wouldn't consider good, but your subject matter of the great ideas turned bad by ambiguity really plays it well. Well done.


Maybe it's your intention, but I wish you'd done more. It does feel like it should echo. There's just so much space at the end, it's rather unsatisfying. In any case, you've got something.

The 'etcetera, etcetera' reminds me of Dhomhnaill's "As for the Quince" (Muldoon's one). It fits in well with your theme of translation/understanding - which came across very well, especially the "all Greek to me". Out of curiosity, did you get the "we give you firewater" from "Shenandoah"?
We do not share the ivory tower
yet the space is in your favour.
I can't describe which aspect plays it braver
than the one who sings about your clothes
and doesn't touch a thread
Yet how much can you move to him
across your virgin bed.

Lillith in the lilac flame, what duty can I do?
Leave my body open for the sweet descending shoe
that steps at once in Orchards full and burning down
The seasons turning with your frown
'til the day you see me die.

Kid, I'm not the father you can cut
The bathroom door slammed shut
against the world unbleeding.
I'm someone's son alone in bed
who only needs his mother's head
and breast to nurse my feeding

The empty house of many rooms
are shared with nameless spirits
of the swollen nighthawks perched
upon the apple blooms
Sever me a happy day,
her father giving her away,
we'll move alone upon this place
and take our leave on mother's grace.
>we give you firewater
It's a reference to what the native americans called the stronger liquors we traded them.
I always wondered what it meant. Thanks.
Yeah, more specifically. Settlers would get native americans drunk before trade negotiations and land purchases.
I liked it and would read more. Don't like this:

descending shoe
that steps at once in Orchards full and burning down
The seasons turning with your frown
'til the day you see me die

I keep thinking you fall into cliche, or something incongrous, but there's a sobriety that allows it. Sordid and kind of haunting.
Why all the colour? Weak and uninspired colour too.
No not very good. This took you thirty seconds to write. Why bother posting it?
I like this-

Eat, drink, and be merry
For tomorrow we die
Eat electricity
Drink five of the seven seas
Here is paralyzed sleet
Here is bubble bath rain
The membrane of this love folds you up
in my Jeremiads, pan-sears you over brimstone.
If this sex is a strange tuber
with populous eyes probing the stinking dark
then that's because you gored me, solitary,
on a crescent moon; I shine crisis.

You garbage-compacted me into a hiccup
and I now live my thunder like a blip too!
Your butchery still allures;
by some bizarre grace I pray to be restored
or transformed beyond this,
prepackaged for newer, quieter abuses.

I live nightly on the eve before the rapture,
but the event’s trumpets are neither loud
nor invigorating. Sunday best is stupefaction.
Family-friendly as the remote fondled
to fast-forward through frisky into frosty;
I live the cleanly omission of myself.

Here, stretching out on other people's terms,
shredded in the jaws of their pet sharks,
I splatter so decoratively across the years.
The intervening and hidden time,
though I crave your brutal filler, I spend
prepping a deserted street.

I'll run away but not before I have your head.
A veil was torn this day.
Before, smoke rose through the room;
Now, sunlight scatters the dust
and I can see the men
hanging on the curtain.
We live in ripples, multitudes of nows.
I have wasted millions.

Yeah I know it's more of a quote, but I didn't feel like starting an entire thread just for that.
It's short and crap, but here goes:

Anon a mouse patrol aboard
some sinking ship the Lord did sever.
Ploughing the ancient virgin depth and shored
'neath cancer tropic, forever

It darkness made his good God moot
yet still and solemn stalk he her moist terrain.
Like she his child, this guard is resolute:
he does it for free, and for chain.

There were carols on the kitchen radio, a late
cold night, entering the room
while straightening the blistered Navajo rug, I
remembered suddenly what the first eight notes
of "hark, the herald angels sing" felt like
vibrating through my body that first time—
I was eleven and unprepared,
I remembered when I was ten
and fainting in church from the sweet ammonia of Easter lilies
hosing my nostrils with fragrance
and also the emptiness of it—the lord of the dance,
in an arc of agony, up on sticks…

This is a published poem.
You should take turns reading a good poem and whatever you wrote. Be harsh with yourself.
Use line breaks to create turns.

We live in ripples--multitudes
of nows. I have
wasted millions.
Emerald leaves float down on a breeze
azure reaches end to end--
save a rogue cloud pondering
What I'm doing down here
After lunch at McDonald's
Moving sound
by the hand
From this own world
Will it end
A veil was torn today.
smoke rose through the room
before sunlight scattered dust
and I saw the men
hanging on the curtain.
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.
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
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, wake and rise-
only the day awaits,
all things your prize.
>best way to improve beside read/write
find a mentor. someone who is established/more intelligent/more refined, and who takes interest in your work. obviously much easier if you're in college.

Fenton, "An Introduction to English Poetry"
Pound, "ABC of Reading"
i be inna streets

gettin dat money

or inbetween dem sheets

fukkin yo mommy

i kill da polees

nigga it aint funny

blood at my feet

is so fkn runny

No homo but I have to respectfully say that this poem of yours is lit as fuck and you are one of the realest niggas alive.
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I'm impressed.
My first poem, please be brutal

Possessive lust

How can someone truly know what it feels like to love, I would ask.

But I now find myself among them. Those who think they know. Those who have felt the unfathomable obsession, those who know the unquantifiable possessive lust for anothers soul.

I wish each and every fingering branch of our beautifully complex lives and memories to be intertwined, to twist and grow together. For our every experience and decisions to be inveigled by the others.

Above this however I know this is love, for I my mind is marred by the self preserving premonition that we wont be one organism forever. I feel the ever creeping forlorn knowing that we will soon rip each-others roots out. We will pull away and tear out each-others branches that we so intimately formed.

Love is knowing that not even this stoic apprehension will save us from one another. That when we part we shall never be whole again.
Our time is our time - look, it
Fissures and cracks with age:
Write a book in a year, or write
In three-hundred and sixty five days.
As the nights break the flow, it ends,
Hard-reset for a tired mind,
Spare me change for my infanthood lenses,
River stream that has forked into bident.
Elder minutes come next. Then the blinks.
...And so back it all goes to the flow.
if it can't be sung it's not a poem.
sounds more like you are in love with your own mind and its "beautiful ideas" than a person
this just seems like words designed to sound like abstract poetry without acually meaning anything
What the fuck are you talking about?
How can someone truly
know what it feels
like to love?

I'm among those who think
they know--who have felt obsession,
possessive lust for a soul.

every fingering branch of
Life and memory intertwine,
twist, and grow
together. every experience
and decision-- inveigled

We wont be one organism forever.
we will soon rip each-others roots out.

not even stoic
apprehension will save us
my vestigial limb
flailing useless
at my side
a chicken wing
a fin, a flipper
all the others
with strong arms
Blood at my feet

is so fkn runny

This is a great couple of lines.
Any new poets you guys are reading atm? I normally just go to the library and pick 'n' mix.
every poetry critique thread ever:

>i don't read poems they are boring but sometimes i write poems i think they r pretty gud
I do the opposite, I pick one poet and focus on him until I have a good understanding of him and his poems. Reading and rereading poems to get the most out of them.
The voice had swelled to voices,
dark working men in the shadows
as leaves in the windswept sycamore before moonfall;
countless and circular in their movements.
They sang with a ragged stitch
in their mouths-- they sang with the echo
of a long-cut life dragged through
their tired limbs. Shaking their
tongues to speaking the echo's din simmered
like October winds sanding wheat-fields
down before the harvest,
the tall stalks speaking of grainy
thoughts-- whispering , perhaps, of winter's
oncoming in clouds and cold winds.

The song was perhaps some old
Chain-gang song, or a lullaby
Stolen from some primordial crib
They invoked religiously as they
Faced their masters whips.

Hands returning over and over
to their objects of work, backs
bowing homage to the whole
singularity of a life, Mother Nature,
the stalks singing, the men moving,
the grains falling away from the earth
lifted by solemn hands
life lifted praise
to a god
of grain, a god of wheat,
of those things we see
in our meeting places
and country lines: pasture,
crop, historical development
and seasons unbound by
almanacs or city lines.
Connected only by the sinew
of men's suffering and their will
to live well.
"Mmmmmmmhhhhh" he mumbled
from the back of the pack,
"Negro. What a sound."

Some other spoke, returning
The sound: " and one day, one
Day we will break that word. Break
It over our beauty and our black,
Strong backs. "
Catch me on Tinder I just matched with Ellie Kemper
Looking at our interests we both like adventure
I Bumble with the tumblr chicks who claim they're trigender
They fumble with my lumber til they're blistered up and splintered
If I had a clothing line it'd probably sell at Spencer's
You moldy proles get told I'm more Dave Grohl the ole Pretender
I'm all about the double Es who fuck with old transistors
I'm fucking with the crazy bitch who sleeps with Mister Whiskers
I told your girl come hither she told me just come harder
Asked me if I could Bangor I fucked her in Bar Harbor
I'm the half-yellow Archer, get rekt get torn asunder
Got a lot of promise I'm rookie Imam Shumpert
One time when I was fourteen my kidney got punctured
Eloquently monstrous I'm going Humbert Humbert
The oriental orator I'm Kolsti the Younger
Shouts to Lil B fuck the Oklahoma Thunder
The rhyme scheme is actually super nice but you're saying boring shit.
hi, i’m a slut. what? you can’t be surprised
when you’ve spent my entire life deciding woman equals sexualize,
in ninth grade a man told me i have good blow job eyes
hi, i’m a slut. but what does that mean
i’m unclean, i’m less pure, i sleep around, sure
but isn’t that what you were begging for?
hi, i’m a slut. and science disagrees
but let’s ignore anatomy and joke that my vagina is wide enough to fit
an entire football team or, even,
your narcissism
but no one’s is big enough for that

you think an orgasm for you is like oxygen for me
like when i am going down on you i’m actually sucking up life
retrieving my very soul from inside your stomach
and an orgasm for me is like—well, maybe. if you have time
and since you can’t see it it probably doesn’t exist anyway
i was probably faking it anyway, women don’t like sex anyway
you’re pretty sure the clitoris is just a myth
so when it comes to my pleasure no one really gives a shit
unless i can come like a man because then i’m a fetish

or if i’m a virgin. that makes me a fetish too
but doesn’t that also mean i’m a prude
everything i do is an invitation for your condemnation
regardless of the angle of the delicate arch in my back
marked down on your scale from zero to loose
and if i had learned anything that didn’t have to do with
how to make my hair fall daintily over my breasts
or how to make my lips softer and more like a graveyard
untouched and where grown men go when they feel dead inside
or how to make my aura more alluring, but not too alluring
that’s something a skank would do
i’d tell you that when two opposing forces meet they cancel
so it sounds to me like you just don’t want me to exist.

i am raw meat in a slaughterhouse
packaged according to what you are hungry for that day
i am identified by my thighs and my moans and my sighs
even though you keep telling me i shouldn’t be making noise in the first place
keep your mouth shut unless i’m the one putting something in it
it’s funny, the ones who cry whore the loudest
are the ones who are thirstiest for my blood
it's amazing how many "first poems" get posted in these threads
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sbocciò brulicante di larve e morte
gemendo 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

misera amica mia dimenticata
bestemmi urlando l'ora sciagurata
in cui il rovente fiume traversasti

compagna di menzogne putrefatta
non credi d'esser ora liberata
dal fosso che nascendo ti scavasti?

definitely too social / political for me. also pretty drawn-out.

interesting idea, too much colour.
>>7658472 corrected it just fine.

is this about the shining?

the last two strophes are good.

a shroud was torn this day.
the fumes rose through the aether
the sun then scattered every dust
revealing withered ones
hanging on the curtain.


a fine piece of rare poetry.

i have no idea what this is about. i like it.

gooder than the original.

really good.

The song was perhaps some old
Chain-gang song, or a lullaby
Stolen from some primordial crib
They invoked religiously as they
Faced their masters whips.

Some other spoke, returning
The sound: " and one day, one
Day we will break that word. Break
It over our beauty and our black,
Strong backs. "

Good to know that the rhyme scheme is nice, I wrote that to test it out. The content is admittedly pretty uninspiring.
Sweet rhymes, kid. Do you wannna be a star?
A handful of water you made my child;
Out like a cartoon sky his image lay,
Pink and blue
Coloured old and new
Compiled on an unburnt tray.
Inches, like garnish, up aggressively,
His tight blue vein of greenery bled.
Digit turqousie tensed, you mock your parent
And the eyes the size of the head.
How is "his image" related to the "handful of water"? Is it a caricature of the mocked parent?
Are you the anon who loads his short poems up with a great many colors?
Interesting rhymes, tinkering with the meter could bring them out more. The rhymes of lines 2 through 5 work alright but something's missing.
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?
Is this from somewhere?
Of course
I like it, flows a bit awkwardly from time to time, but it's good.
Yes, that line is definitely poor and weakens and confuses the image. I forced it in there to have a 'You', to have a target, and have it known it was about an abortion. I'm not the other anon and thanks for the criticism.
Nicely introduced and I initially follow you. But the questions are closing us off. You vaguely imply with them something that you've never suggested. Just too short I think.
Thanks for the input. I should mention its a poem inserted into some prose I've been writing, a character sings it. I plan on finishing it when I finish the scene, but I haven't done either yet.
Thanks again though.
Help, i'm trying to work on structure poetry. Is this a good direction?

a walk (primal scream therapy)

maybe today—the morning sun
will cut through the
pine needles

maybe today—my heels
won’t be wet by the
dew drops

maybe today—
i can talk to myself
out loud on the way there

maybe today—
at the well, the echo
won’t sound so damn scared

I want to roar triumphantly and break
this fearful symmetry.
Oh, that makes sense.
The repetition is so predictable that it doesn't do anything to help the poem. It reads the same if you replace all but the first with "and." In fact, I would prefer "and" because it gets in the way less.
Thanks, my other stuff got too wordy and I'm trying to cut back. I'll play around with it for sure.

Maybe Today

the morning sun
will cut through
pine needles
and my heels
won’t be wet
with dew
maybe today
i can talk out
loud for once
and at the well, the echo
won’t sound so damn scared

I want to roar triumphantly and break
this fearful symmetry.
That which consumes us consumes us fully.
I thought this as Joey and I looked on
as an ugly black drug-dealing bully
beat the piss out of yet another Juan
who took it at first, then not, then turned on
a dime to rage, with a blade. Now, dark joys
would be had by all, as we boys looked on
aloner than a girl amongst all boys.

The shadows of forgotten ancestors
looked over our shoulders, and greased our skid
into complicity. We nursed our fears
as the two scumbags did what scumbags did
in such situations. Neither punk fled
for such shit is faggotry, and annoys
even dishonored men, as this. One bled
aloner than a girl amongst all boys.

They both stumbled backward, and held their guts,
with smiles that crafted oblivions,
sickly and demurely. My pal went nuts
with anticipation, like in a trance,
till I shut him up, and explained the dance,
as they gathered themselves, lost to all noise,
till one discovered he had not been lanced
aloner than a girl amongst all boys,

as the other fell dead. He took his chance
and paid. His face now ever in a poise.
Which shit-ass died? You decide! Do your dance
aloner than a girl amongst all boys!
My heart was a swimming fish, amused and unsuspecting
And her’s was the talons of an egret, relentlessly dejecting
As I swam blissfully in love, she dove into the water
As I struggled to make sense of the pain
Her talons grasped me even harder
And when I nearly slipped away, her words persuaded me to stay
Unsure which of us was truly the predator, and who was prey
So I stayed, I stayed, just to try a few more ways.
Like the foolish cat found writhing, his life slipping away,
My wretched curiosity, it just couldn’t be kept at bay.
So I stayed, and when the fun of the chase had gone away
So did she.

But to her I’m ever grateful, for that fleeting euphoric feeling
The one that’s so rare, that you almost believe you’re healing
But it was only wishful thinking, now I’m back where I started
Filled with righteous anger, but deep down; just broken-hearted
I guess this is the cycle, the one that I chose to take part in.
A punishment well deserved, for my own trail of the broken-hearted.
I guess this is just how the world the works, nothing will ever stop it.
Hurt people hurt people, as a predator must hunt its prey.
No sense in feeling anger or sadness, this is just the natural way.
So bottle it up, and put it away. Just get over it, and get on your way.
But take solace, and remember that every predator is also prey.
So rest, and let the numbness return. Let nature have its way.
I gathered myself into a small blue box
and placed it on my desk among stacks of books and reams of paper.
I wrapped a purple ribbon around it, adorning it like a present
to signify that it was truly worth something, so I wouldn't forget.
I unlocked the wooden drawer and dropped it inside, making sure
I locked it back up after. I hid the key in the usual spot and
promised myself that I would be back for it later.
I left the house and began to say hello to people.
I gazed into the eyes of others, and listened with earnest.
I allowed others to fill my head with their thoughts.
Laughing became easy. People became familiar.
People shed their exteriors and welcomed me in.

But still, the blue box containing myself sits in my desk drawer.
This new me feels comfortable.
It sits with ease and doesn't fight with itself
like I used to... But I wonder if it's me.
It gently reaches out and coalesces with others, like some
massless energy possessing so many.
I can't deny my happiness, but I feel as if it is not my own.
I feel one with everybody, but I don't feel one with myself.
I go back to my desk. I find the key and unlock the drawer
and grab the blue box and place it upon the desk.

I unwrap the ribbon and open the box, but inside it is empty.
Nigga, fuck it, 77 Cutlass
I move my ass to Cali with my Indiana bucket
I need to slap a wet one on the frame, a little rusty
They call my shit a scraper in the bay bitches love it
And I'm choking on some Cali good
Been want to cruise on Crenshaw
Since a little nigga watching Boyz n in the Hood
Since Ricky got killed, copping that corn meal
Before the palm trees, pussy and the recording years
I was overdue for a visit
A valley bitch with family in the Chi gave me the digits
The 818, the sex was great, perfect the art of fornication
Put a bitch out the car for a bar, your Cali conversation
All my hoes from way back want me to be chilling where they at
G.I. until I die, but bitch L.A. is where I lay at
My children gon' be raised at where they gon' place my grave at
Since Magic bought the team, he brought new meaning to that L.A. hat
Shout out to the blocks
Inglewood, Compton, South Central to Watts

My home, my home L.A. I ride for youWhen I am gone just know that I owe you

I'm on my way to LAX from JFK, it's a great day
I mean I love New York, but of course
I live out there so don't go there, you heard it before
Ironic my uncle had the king of music on Crenshaw
Cause now I'm the king to music to all y'all
California love, California dreaming
I've seen lost angels, I even found demons
Where you learn to survive and keep your head high
Hit the weed clinic 'fore sativa get your head high
We ain't in Kansas City, but you'll find a TEC-9
And if that tech jammed you better have a toast too
Fuck that, this what we gon' toast to
Everybody that ain't die before 21 like we was s'posed to
For the mail I'm going postal
I heard the baddest females on pacific coastal
If it means anything, I'm so L.A. my dad died on King, nigga

Yeah, went from a condo 'til sleeping on my nigga couch
Popping sedatives, negatives in my bank account
Too much pride to let this pussy industry play me out
Repairing that broken dream, that’s what L.A. about
Shout to Cali Bud, my Westcoast plug
Brother from another mother, he showed that Westcoast love
Nigga, me and Killa Caz was pulling them stick-ups, cuz
Bending blocks with my nigga Box smoking the whip up Blood
Gots to keep it true when I maneuver
I got all kind of homies, Harlems, Avalons and Hoovers
My little homie from Families, he keep a team of shooters
My 60 niggas stay Rolling, my Eight Trey niggas moving
Been 20 years since the riots
L.A. nigga keep it thorough, fuck keeping quiet
Bitch it's on in this war zone where we reside
As I begin let my sins wash away with the tides
Who the fuck I'm kidding? I done tried everything but dying
Flirting with other places, but this Cali bitch stay on my mind
Great narrative but I think the repetition is often unfitting. I enjoyed this.
Kind of touching, I think it's good. This reminds me of a sad girl that I know.
There is a skull sliced in half
carved by hand
protruding cheekbones and jagged eyesockets
it stares at me with hollowed out crackes and gray teeth
On top of its dome my cigarette is screaming to be kissed
to be sucked
to be left without poison or anything else to give
the light of the screen calls the smoke and tricks it
and it traps it in my eyes

a beast resting on a plane furniture
refuses to retire to its cave
even if it cant keep its mouth and eyes open
Dripping lament into absinthe in rumination of her absence
Coping with the reality that my soul is ever-past-tense
Nascent clouds of despair now linger through the air
In the house where she was taken from me.
How could god call this fair?
There – there was the exact location.
And burned forever in my mind,
the date and time of devastation.
I can still hear her last breath – her death knell
and still feel my heart stop, as the rains fell
No flow at all.
It’s still here
The record of the artist who is dead and cannot hear
Whose hearing remains irrelevant because he never cared
About you and your life

It’s gone
The feeling of your friend as he touches your arm
The sound of his voice responding to yours
In a way that showed he was truly listening

And as the record spins indifferent to time
The photographs of life exemplify
What it truly means to be touched
And what it truly means to care for someone

Shakespeare does not hold the profundity of my Grandmother
Picasso’s paintings cannot compare to the beauty of my daughter
And while them and a multitude are smarter
They do not know the intricacies of the hairs on my arm.
I almost killed René
We were playing and I hugged him and I almost gave his life away

I picked his bones up easily
And we danced around and swayed
Then we dashed towards the ceiling fan
That hot Tucsonan Saturday
The city made a path in front of the three or four restaurants
In the ghetto, a haven for laughs and burning dough and such

They even put in some tiles, to make everything all sleek
To try and make a stand, yes! THIS AREA CAN SCREAM
And it really isn’t bad, there’s lots to do and see
Like drug deals, break ins, and smiling families.
Street car, café, urban chic
Think, Think, Think

Embrace the warm sun
Fall assleep
Button down cyclist
He’s boring

Remember homeless girl
Guy with a sign
Legalize Pot my friend
Let’s get high

I am hot air
You’re an idea
To waste away shopping
My ideal
And my poetry will never publish
But you'll leave me justified rubbish
When you grab that $50 drink
And I'll stick it down my 3 dollar sink
Your just a little bit posh
And I'm always laying on floor sucking dry beer off a dartboard
Guess were different in ever way
Except our love in each other's pockets has fully grown over our eyes
The Fighter

against the eternal foe
the body is put through pains
in hopes the hand is raised
and a chance at greatness remains
First poem, no bully

Going Walden

I cast a glance upon the bank
Rows of trees approaching lake
Horizon meeting land and sea
The shallow waves that break

My craft begins to slow and shake
Rocky floor on metal scrapes
Littoral fish and creatures flee
The monster and its wake

My shelter now has taken shape
Rudimentary in make
A place in which I can reprieve
And fill when not awake

From great Thoreau what did I take?
Beauty lies not in the lake
But want of self-sufficiency
A thirst no sight can slake

Thanks. I haven't written anything at all for quite a long time, so thank you.
Really like it dude
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 disparaît.
Et si elle n'était que précaire, éphémère,
Que ferai-je avec mes grands regrets toujours frais?
How the Dog’s Bark Fiercely


I wake. The dogs are
through the undertow of sweat and pallor.
Spittle stretches
from their teeth-
I feel my socks on my feet.

(At 8:13 yesterday morning I saw
her sneakers on her feet, I felt her
fist like an exploding star when she punched my shoulder)

Buried beneath books and pencil shavings I found the journal from May with all the lines I'd written of her being blue-bonnets and shaking me like an aspen and most of them rhymed, most of them were about how we would romp and stomp a world into creation and we did and they were glorious and they swallowed each of us whole with cupped hands and a thousand reflections of the stars. We danced with our lamb in May June July August and September, all merry-go-round-happy before October cut off our heads. I scream for the long summer night walks to make their way back and for the sweaty ghosts and the poetry that poured from my fingertips as we chased phantoms near the hospital until we disappeared completely.

Angel, where is thine
bloom? Be not
silent among
the yawning
nights. Thine words
did once breathe life
my muddy heart.
Where be thine words now?

Where be thine playful fists and exploding heartbeats?

Thou art cold
among the boughs
of Autumn, thou
hast left me frozen
the fallen leaves
and howling wolves that tear
at my breath.

The thin lines of schematic
breath lay themselves out before
me, debating orange angels
in the cupboard.
The spittle puddles on the floor.

I leave footprints in it.

How the dogs bark fiercely
when I remember the feeling
of her fingers through my hair

in the glow of July's dawn.
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shut up in a house
With very dim lights on
they cant get me down here
as above so below
so below
the world is grim
typing on a keyboard filled with dead skin
It needs more images. One of the things I always abide by when writing to heart is to show, not tell. Don't just tell us about the minds you're talking about, show them to us. Show us their memories and never be afraid to be specific.

You've got a lot dealing with plants, so to with that.

The poem has no flow.
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Definitely make it longer, although some phrases are pretty solid. Also edit; it reads like you just typed up what came to you.

Mine is pic related
Seriously, does anyone here do anything but free verse? Do you understand why shitty free verse comes so easily and it's actually a pretty hard format to write well in, and that giving your poem structure (ie thinking about it for more than 2 minutes) can positively impact it?
Contribute Nothing. 18/01/16

An explosion upon re-entry, I saw a rocket ship today
A burst in the addicted sky, a Golden tint to whisk me by
To make legs break, and so in nature
When it comes for the weak, no doors can stop
What your eyes cant see,

And it comes
To make a man of you, It will empty a bottle
Just for you, your smell will seep through
And moss will grow,
On your life force
You rest, shall you not go

I wish to extend mine,
No suffering outright
Releasing all that has tied me
Each day more and more, I await your call
And taunt,
Hoping you will try
I was born knowing, and born loathing
Even as biology came holding
Aware of the moment, spectating the water
Nothing can grow, one with two souls
Must I go blind
Somehow set the mind aside
I try to write in other schemes but it feels ''unnatural'' somehow. I like terza rima though

lol shut up nerd, you learn the rules so you can break them
I know what you mean because I felt the same before I really got into poetry, but it doesn't have to be cheesy. Terza rima is cool, I like Shelley's use of it in English

But amateur poets usually don't "learn the rules" in the first place. Practicing and understanding structures doesn't mean you have to write in them forever, but it gives you a foundation to build on and understand why great writers of free verse do what they do. It exercises a muscle you don't use otherwise, at least.
The key step is learning the rules first.
Can I get some critique on this? If you point me to yours I'll specifically do yours in return
not going to translate? your english is fine, and maybe like 3 other people understand Italian. How can we critique you if we can't read you?
Nobody's gonna critique it. It's just rap-style namedropping, nobody here likes that.
I don't know man I've been posting pseudo-raps in critique threads to decent acclaim for years. The first four lines are fire in my humble opinion family.
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sei miele di sangue e di latte scuro
viscoso simposio d'inchiostro e sale
tumulto inodore d'amor cianuro
e ligneo presente e memoria astrale

amniotico sonno in gomma scarlatta
infami demòni voraci e neri
ripugnan la vergogna tua mulatta
riversan torrenti sui miei sentieri

e per le mie ossa nel tuo catrame
impongo le rose mai vertebrate
negli addomi fiammanti - ed inerti

l'infranto amato verdastro vetrame
rimbomba su strade mai calpestate
e sfregia bulbi oculari deserti

>How can we critique you if we can't read you?
but you can. you need not understand it in order to appreciate it, you can just read it out loud and tell me if you liked it.


could use some work, interesting idea tho.

really interesting.



i like this.


interesting concept, it could be expressed better.


really good.

IV > I > III > II
Frantic, frantic clutching curls and calling out. The contents
Of containers disembowelled are strewn about. All just for a pill discretely
Placed into her mouth. And all was well.

Etched rough and dumb into the back of a vile and aching postcard,
I brand it in my breast. Jealous picture, not just of that day, but of a world not meant for me and
Dangled, snatched away. It’s now her fault.
Her crime is her life, what mine wasn’t, and a grey hand points at empty air.
Amongst the bright tents, and damp embers there, a grime and rain speckled pane,
Amongst the pink, and orange, and all the cold clouds,
Reflects my revulsion.

All of it now just conjures a why,
Meekly spat at my own self on dingy days.
How would this viscous bile take shape? How could I hope to relate
That it eats? Forms shy and shameful rivulets on edges of eyelids that
Never make it quite over, and never know why.

Or how, how infantile I am.
How utterly a doll held above your shape, made like windows, and about
To fall. To have sharp spines rake and crackle through, for an instant, before I am dust.
The same dust you shook out of me, that could have been my fresh snow.
Or the residue, left over from my packaging. Whatever marked me being god or man
Or both, inconsequential now.

The carnal doors I now peek through were
To you, always open. Smashed slats adorn the floor
Along with all your clothes. I’d adore for all to be made right.
The you I see when my eyes close not being some bleak
Celestial creature, above me, wholly un-of me.
But as we crawl, and it stands, what I’d murmur to your hair,
Or you’d utter, to my hands, is inconsequential, now.
And I am left disgusting.

So sprechen wir..

Was man früher hat geschrieben (einst)
ist heut(e) allgemein verachtet,
geblieben ist nur Schmerz und Gold,
sacht beschrieben durch den Vorgang
der beherzten Schummeleien. Heimlichkeit
Und so schreiben wir...

So belebt der tote Henker
den gestürzten Schatz der guten
gehenkten Gerechten im Rauch
der See, voller Sturm und doch, seht,
die Wahrheit wird als falsch vertan,
verleumdet, missachtet - so haben sie´s getan.

So ziehen sie durch jedes Land,
nicht nur sich, auch die Gefahr,
die sie proklamieren in Schrift
und Tat und grauenhafter Gunst,
den Mördern und Lügnern, die,
so sagen sie, Heiler seien.

So sprechen sie von Gleichheit, doch,
die Lämmer, sie ächzen, unter
den Lasten der Erneuerer.
So wird versprochen falsches Wort,
von Besserung und neuem Rat,
was sie nicht bedenken, das ist unsere Tat.

So bitten wir, pass auf auf uns,
sie haben Böses vor, doch wir
verzeihen und vergeben bei
Reue, Scham, Einsicht und Aufbau.
Denn so stillen wir den Hunger
der Toten auf´s Gebot.

So wollen wir nicht richten, so
wollen wir nur warnen vor dem
Umstürzen durch die Geblendeten,
durch die belogenen Lügner.
Nein, wir werden nicht leiden
unter dem Gewicht der Rotfaschisten.
i have no idea what im doing:

look closely
i see the frantic and release,
still trying to rephrase,
to stand a figure in this ease.

by now i was covered,
under the circuit-tree.
my lashes are flat,
dry-stunned on jubilees.

urge to be sensed
in faint of this untouched sea
urge to be sensed
in faint of this untouched sea

vanishing symptoms might scale down the piece.
vanishing systems might scale down the piece.
by now i'll be covered in wisdom and sheets.
Translation by author:

So we talk...

What one wrote earlier (once)
is today generally despised,
only Pain and Gold last,
gently described through the process
of heartful cheating. Secrets.
And so we write...

So revives the dead executioner,
the fallen treasure of the good
executed Righteouses in the smoke
of the sea, full of storm, but yet, look,
thetruth is dismissed as wrong
defamed, disregarded, that´s howthey did it.

So they strive through out every country,
not only them, but also the danger,
which they proclame in word
and act and cruel favor,
for the killer and liars which,
so they say, are healers.

So they speak about equality, but,
the lambs they scream, under
the burden of the renewers.
So they promise a false word,
of improvement and new advice,
about what they do not think - that is our feat.

So we ask, please take care of us,
they want to do evil things, but we
forgive and excuse, by
contrition, shame, insight and construction.
Because we satisfy the deads hunger for bid/command.

So we do not want to judge,
we just want to warn,
of the overturn through the Flashed/Bedazzled,
through the lied liars.
No, we won´t suffer,
under the weight of the redfascists.
He takes a seat in the dark,
painted in porch light.
Old chair, wooden bench, pulling dark red grapes,
like hearts, from a bowl at his side.

He invites me to play -
O quasar of heartbeats and tight chested desire,
among a haze of cigarette smoke
he has the lips of Dionysus.

Dionysian nights and the atar of sweat, I
have danced among your dreams and
sang into your ear a song of satyrs,
piping and kicking among the nymphs.

A bowl of peaches sits by your bed,
I steal one now and then. I bite and
my teeth break the skin,
I taste that soft, sweet fruit.
I can feel it drip from the corner of my mouth.

Cigarette smoke curls like
Hair into the air and out the window-
Black denim coy smile and ashen eye,
here you are in my lungs again, boy.

Like a saxophone,
Like a trombone,
Like brass -
You sing, like a cymbal
you ring-

contrapposto lover,
with a peach tongue.
Some Sapanish?

Hoy ha sido un día terriblemente largo.
Mi cuerpo se siente pesado, mi mente nublada.
Pero mi conciencia no deja de emitir cantos
que del amable sueño me alejan.

Y es que la última hora del día
es pesada y es negra,
porque la brisa nocturna apaga la vela
que mantenía los engendros a raya.

Una vorágine de pensamientos
asaltan mi debilitada cabeza, hasta ahora asediada.
¿Qué me depara la mañana?
¿Cambiará mi suerte al fin?

Oh Señor, ¿he representado hoy bien mi papel?
Seguramente no soy el más honesto pero,
¿he hecho mal o he obrado bien?
Acaso podría haberlo hecho mejor.

Quizá debiera dejar de pensar.
Quizá así el amable sueño llegaría a mí.
Quizá así podría olvidarme de hoy
hasta que la luz del mañana despunte en el cielo.

Porque la última hora del día
es la más crítica y solitaria de todas,
porque no quedan más sitios hacia donde correr
y con mi juicio quedo a solas.
Well damn. Nailed it. There are some things I wanted to critique. But this is just raw emotion in lyrical purity. Changing a thing about this would be wrong
I'm afraid you're gonna have to think of something else anon...unless you are Mr.Jack White

Moving without motion
Screaming without sound
Across an open ocean
Lying there on temporary ground
Welcome Lactococus

Hope is I will age like cheese
A noble rot, stench that stings the nostril
Carapace in cave will swing
Cared for by hooded men, until ripened
My kin will swarm, munch guzzle consume
Prior to this, bacteria will do it's work
Welcome Lactococus
Rather than posting my shitty poems or making a new thread for this shitty question, I'm just posting it here... I'm in a debate with a friend about a grammatical error he made (I'm certain I'm right on this).

Me: I've only heard good things about The Revenant, but then again, my roommate loves LDC and likes anything manly.

Friend: Than yes, I'm not surprised your roommate liked it.

So should it be "Then yes," or how he has it? He claims "than" should be used because he is "comparing the yes and no alternatives" whereas I've argued it's sort of a conditional if/then case. IF the roommate likes LDC and manly movies, THEN yes, he would like The Revenant.
Savior of the people
moralistic reliever,
scythe truth that sprang at birth.
Battle against meaningless existence
coming down in times of clarification
and tormented your mind
Now, arise from the ashes of guilt!
Carved knowledge into trees
fueled by the foregoing burned
you met me!
I actually quite liked this. I felt that the use of the words "fuck" and "cunt" were only there for shock purposes, though. It got a little bit off-track towards the middle; I'd say it started out like a beat-poem, then tried to go into romanticism, but ended up sounding bitter and insincere.

>The Collapse of Irationality, Part One

The space between equations – the empty white
Of open and unchallenged chasms yawns,
Inviting all to colour over unknown mysteries,
Fill the demanding space with tempests, storms
Of clashing infrared and ultraviolet.
The Starry Night of unripened van Gogh’s,
The petrol spill of ambition tainting virgin white,
Violent greens and careless blues, jealousy
And melancholy turning Unknown into Felt,
Transforming Questions into Consensus;
Knowledge corrupts. Understanding purifies.
when i die, i want to die like my grandfather

with purpose, surrounded by the people he loved

much unlike the people in his car, screaming
It's from "somewhere" - yeah.

What does "flow" mean? What property does it refer to? Where does it come from? What is an example of this "flow?" Is it grammatical? Figurative? Which figure(s)? Is it forensic? Of what arrangements or constructions does it consist?

Does it even exist, Puss?
it means your rhymes are shit and you have inconsistent rhyme and meter
What does "flow" mean? What property does it refer to? Where does it come from? What is an example of this "flow?" Is it grammatical? Figurative? Which figure(s)? Is it forensic? Of what arrangements or constructions does it consist?

Does it even exist Puss?
A king called Lust

Don't you hate that feeling?

That feeling of being caught in a web,

lying in a water bed of red hot nails

Trying to escape from your own personal hell

Full of ghosts and gouls, wise men and fools

Spouting word vomit and truths

They deem to be self evident and righteous

But in all reality they're trying to fight us

Out of our freedom and right to life,

Stabbing at us with their knife

Of "true and just" When all it really is is the beast called lust

Controlling the big wigs and men in charge

Controlling our lives and society at large.

Lust for money, lust for flesh,

Lust for power, lust to be the best

Takes hold of our people and tears them apart

When they know deep in their heart

That something is wrong here.

There's no reason to live in fear

Of the beast called lust,

But what can you do?

How do you fight society at large?

Raising your voice to the beast in charge

Is to big of a feat for one little man.

That's why we the masses need to make a plan

To overthrow the king called Lust

The king called Greed, so righteous and just.

We the people, hold these truths to be self-evident

That we are no longer under the thumb of attachment

That we will no longer bow our heads to what we know are lies

That we will stand up and make them hear our cries

Hear our pain,

Hear our pride,

Hear our love,

Hear our sorrow,

Hear our truths that we know

Are self-evident.
anyone gonna critique my fucking poem? i've been waiting for half an hour now
First of all, please make sure you critique at least one poem when you reply.

Second of all, you have an okay grasp of language, but it feels like you're trying to write a poem without ever having read a poem. Also your rhyming is poor; it's too obvious, and rhyme without metre is a bit... Difficult to read.

Please keep writing though. If this was wasn't verse and was more prosaic, I think I'd enjoy it more.
I didn't think you knew. Now I know you don't. You're the menstrual blood troll.

fuck you
ok friend i looked it up and it's a freddie gibbs song.

you didn't "get me" because freddie gibbs is a shitty rapper who makes music for white people, on the same level as lupe and logic in terms of general awfulness. pinata was the worst release of 2014 and the only people who liked it were contrarians who wanted to pretend they didnt like yeezus
I've asked the station chief
but he says
I'm not ill.

I tell him:
That's swell.

but what about me?
I think it's strange that you'd demonize "lust" and call it something to fight but also imply that it's in all of us. I liked the first part most, until
>But what can you do?
After this it gets a bit too corny. Especially "We the people, hold these truths to be self-evident".

And maybe this is personal but
"lying in a water bed of red hot nails" sounds a bit off.

Very nice, anon, I enjoyed this one. The middle part is the best.
If I had to critique, I'd say that the transition from "space between equations" to colours isn't too evident. The middle part seems to apply to a painter, the beginning and ending to a mathmetician. And the last sentence doesn't seem too relevant to the rest of the poem.

this one is very unclear. Is it about truth?
>fueled by the foregoing burned
>you met me!

Original. But the subject of the poem appears to change in between lines?
hi all

After morning and night of rain,
And lanky dusty men in denim digging
The ground up, the sidewalks cup
Pools of rusty red water.

My friend tells me, nearly stepping in it,
That it is fertilizer. They're laying fertilizer.
But no, the earth has just been operated on, cool water
Brushing the blood away from the gash and stitches,
Told to suck, rinse, and spit after scrapings of
Prongs and blades. Or the soil committed a crime,
Not hurt in kindness but needled and washed for further
Needling as in a penal colony.

The rain picks up from its drizzle, and we watch
The puddles dilute, the dirt tendrils separate.
Why is this so mesmerizing?
Bodies flailing, Sirens blearing,
alluring in their calls for hedonism, yet terrifying,
singing addicting melodies to a deafening bass,
loud as thunder,
matched with flaring lightning that tantalizes,
and bewilders my intoxicated gaze.

Like war, I imagine,
though these soldiers do not aim to kill,
(yet filled with similar sensatory thrill,)
they seek to lust or love.
And as I enter into the fray myself, I already know:

Club life is not for me.
it's part of a parody i'm writing, it's not really supposed to mean anything, except create a little confusion. This is what comes after:

No one had any idea of what it really was about, but because of the many possible interpretations, there was a relaxed atmosphere in the majority of churchgoers. Before Pastor Reevrees held his usual "this is where you should give money for" speech, Guans face went white-pale and began to vomit on the black hat of Mrs. Prussian who sat before him. The whole room fell silent and listened to the clatter of the in consistency diverse fallow. Because the hat consisted of woven reeds, it worked like a sieve in which the larger pieces remained in the hat while the liquid part dripped down over her head and shoulders.
(this is a translation)

no need to take this serious
Thank you for the feedback (Collapse of Irrationality here). I agree with your critique, and have attempted here to extend it and clarify the thought process, though I'm worried it's lost the energy and vigour the original version had. Thoughts?

The space between equations – the empty white
Of open and unchallenged chasms yawns,
Inviting all to colour over unknown mysteries;
When mathematicians crowd to scratch their heads,
The artists, in their Mastery, unveil new worlds,
Fill the demanding space with tempests, storms
Of clashing infrared and ultraviolet.
The Starry Night of unripened van Gogh’s,
The petrol spill of ambition tainting virgin white,
Violent greens and careless blues, jealousy
And melancholy turning Unknown into Felt,
Transforming Questions into Consensus;
We must accept the known has limits, just for now.
Okay. Many, many poems have been written about how clubbing is awful, so the originality isn't there in theme, and to be honest isn't there in content either:
>loud as thunder
Just was so obvious. If you're going for the imagery of a club, try and be more adventurous, use abstract to your advantage. Things like:
>loud as desire
>deafening as lust
That sort of thing (but obviously better).

Also, the lone rhyme between thrill and kill was painful to read. If you're going to write a poem, make sure it either rhymes or it doesn't. Be consistent.
I have a serious question. All of these threads where you guys post your short fiction and your poetry, did anyone ever save a bunch of them, try getting them published under different pseudonyms, and actually be recognized for it? Here I'm implying that 4chan writes good enough shit to be published, but did it ever happen?
I won a competition once, but was never published in print. I've stopped sending off poetry for a while, I want to make sure I don't embarrass myself.
You must have reading comprehension problems it's a teenagers angst with consumerism and nuclear threat, probably just played 240 hrs of fallout 4 or something
Posted this in the general critique thread too.


Sweet as jumper on Kristaps Porzingis
Grayer than the temples on 48 year-old linguists
Clooney, Cruise or Denzel, Johnny Depp, maybe Michael Keaton
Who's the female Liam Neeson, 63 and striking?
Sally Field as Tom Hanks' mom no one found it surprising

46 and no kids chance of motherhood got extinguished
Fuck the fuck should I fuck you for your eggs rare as gold ingots?
It's all about the children, can them titties feed my kids?
We keep our seeds for life I mean look at Dennis Quaid
No need for child-bearing hips when you're steady past 38

Looking at the time where are the heirs to my queenship
TV says ten years til I'm four cats, knick knacks and trinkets
Surgical residency overlaps with my peak fertility
Watching as the men in my class talk about possibilities
It's a solid 20 years before time fucks with their virility
Child on student loans? But how's that for responsibility
Stay at home for a year? There the fuck goes all my mobility

Tenure track Slavic linguist
Momma had me in college clock ticking on all that dream shit
Overnight everything turned from "me me me" to that "we" shit
Law school, get that money, feed my kid or finish my thesis?
Fucker don't be facetious you know how this shit goes
And they wonder why the executive board got fucked up ratios
I mean momma did both but that shit can't be for everyone
Mandatory family leave could I guess be step number one
But the beauty thing, me I fuck with older girls
Same verse I talked about my mom? Disregard what you just inferred

Fuck the ageist shit, don't play that shit, Melora Hardin can slay the dick
Shit desu not to harass or be problematic but I hardcore celeb crush on Emma Thompson
Man 60 is the new 40 which is the new 30 fuck the age gap casting man what ever happened to
Maggie Gyllenhaal it's all about beauty you gotta love it
Empty-eyed bride of a bear
Entrail necklace; on a ragged silk bed
Blood of a hundred rats and a few giants
Major ursa, soaked - uncleanly loved
Another passing day with heavy brow
Claw marks and footprints
Sleeps with his wealth
Straggled breaths of dirt
I'm not getting anything of interest from the content of the poem and I'd say some of your language (diction and sentence structure) is too archaic. But if that's what you're interested in whatever. Read aloud, its decent. The lines

It darkness made his good God moot
yet still and solemn stalk he her moist terrain.

are notably clunky I think.

of all of the word salad poems I've read in these threads, this is one of the better ones as far as sound and dissonance. its still word salad though so cut it the fuck out.

the first half is far too simple and the latter half is horrible. "hard-reset for a tired mind?" "Spare me change for my infanthood lenses?" read more poetry please.

whatever man we all like Kool AD

whatever man we all like Baudelaire. there's nothing cutting or interesting here nor pleasant to read nor subtle. seriously, don't even use "absinthe."

I won't deny that it appears to be word salad on first (and probably fifth) reading. I barely remember writing it because I'd been up for three days prior sustained on caffeine and bananas, and my immune system was on the verge of shutdown.

Once I picked back through it though, I found out that it makes perfect sense, but there are definitely some words I cobbled together from wildly different etymological heritages.
word salad can have a unifying idea and theme, but that doesn't make it not word salad thbh

How do you define word salad, then?
Where it says desu it's supposed to say the abbreviation for to be honest

The fact that you used desu in a poem is a pretty decent indicator that it isn't good.

And boy howdy, it isn't.
A hand in my mouth
As life spills into the flowers
We all look so perfect
As we all fall down
In an electric glare
The old man cracks with age
She found his last picture
In the ashes of the fire
An image of the queen
Echoes round the sweating bed
Sour yellow sounds inside my head
same as anyone else's, just allowing for a theme. most word salad posted on /lit/, insofar as it is all trying to ape Joyce or Eliot, is """"about"""" """"something""""
some of my favorite Cure lyrics desu
now stop it
hehe nice spot, mine too desu
wanted to see if an anon would be like ''that's trash! don't quit your job''
It's firmly the best in the thread.

People keep tossing Joyce at me over this poem.

I've never even read anything of his.
kolsti dickriders pls
Ugh, you've fallen a long way kolsti. Try harder. Stop name dropping every eight words. Create some actual wordplay instead of using fuck like a postironic postshockvalue buzzword.
Goddam this is hot
If they hate then let em hate.

Name-dropping is a genre affectation and it fits the theme. Context over content m80.
this is so much better written than spoken in the video
it's fucking tragic either way.
why are you on this board?
one of the worst poems i've ever read and i've read tens of thousands.
Nice bait
I get it now, though I agree some of the energy is lost. Perhaps the change could be as simple as "inviting us"?
Thanks for feedback, thunder was a set-up for the lightning of lights. The abstract is to be found in that I compare to three themes: shipwreck, storm and soldiers, all pointing to the Odyssey (also original, I know).
Agree with the rhyme though, I should've left it out.
Now that she's got greenfingers
Some gardening needs to be done
The cold hard surface broken
The top soil turned over turned over turned

She understands there are problems
So much depends on good fortune
Is this soil still good to use?
Will birds and slugs eat our young crop away?

Now that we've got greenfingers
Some farming will be done
We plough the field and scatter the seed
We sing a joyful song

We realise there are problems
So much depends on the weather
Will there be rain, will there be shine?
Will dark shadows steal our harvest away?
i've been coming back and laughing at this post for 3 days somehow only now just realizing the last word is 'runny' not 'funny'

i'm dissapointed
99% of all rap right here
If it's as simple as changing that, I think it'll do. Thank you.

And I kind of get what you're going for, it's just a bit clumsy - almost stuck between contemporary and archaic language.
I would be a tiger, and her a flower
yes, if were I not such a coward.

If were I not such a coward
I would yow
yowl bowery howls
to my lotus flower

And as I yowl these bowery howls
all would cower
for if I could I would
I would holler, howl, and yowl
at all things flowery.
One of my first times writing, but every word is tearing through my soul right now...

Stranded in My Own Mind

Stranded in my own mind, I die
Torn apart by your whisper
Hanging on to your promise
Like a dying man in a storm
I don't know yet to trust you
I don't know yet to love you
Wanting to rage at the world
But no one to scream at
And nothing to break at
Terrified of what you may be doing
With Him
Stranded in my own mind
My nightmares become my reality

-written by a dying man
It needs some rhymes or some meter - or both, if possible.

>Hanging on to your promise
>Like a dying man in a storm

You should use a better image here instead of a "dying man in a storm". Suggestions:
>Like a drowning sailor
>Like a drowning captain

>I don't know yet to love you
Probably trite.
>Stranded in my own mind
>My nightmares become my reality

Sorry mate.
>I don't know yet to trust you
>I don't know yet to love you

Get rid of one, and re-write the other. Trite
And I told you told you time again
That ain't you going to find your friends
You talking about you riding with them
You dying with them
Those ain't your friends
You lying dying on cement
Mama be crying don't take him
Promise you won't ever again
I'm sure gonna get roasted here. First "serious" poem I ever wrote for some stupid school project. Pls be gentle :c

He pressed his heart on his work
And from the blood that spilled
He formed
"Maybe it's better not to love" she thought
As a bit of her was lost with every word he wrote
boring shit

you might be heartbroken because you're bitch cheated but you're poem was fucking shit

I liked this for some reason. It flowed nicely the way I read it, anyway.

just boring

neckbeard poetry
the fact you think this is good enough to post on it's own blog is fucking hilarious and sad at the same time
The actual hashtags he used on Tumblr when he posted this...

#spilled ink
#original content
#poets on tumblr
#tumblr poetry
#writers on tumblr
#age gap
#wage gap
10 hours ago

Yeah... Nah. I swear /lit/ has been overrun by these types. Fucking nothing at all new to say whatsoever and still believe they're ''poems'' and ''art'' is even worthy of seeing fucking daylight.

Stay on fucking tumblr, faggot.
I guess i knew from the start that it was time.
The cold is in my bones
and i ask myself
if this was just a dream we made
and on the edge of space and time we stand
with a look in our eyes that says
freedom is running through our fingers
like sand.

Sometimes i believe we're a fragment of someones mind
the work of a man with a broken soul.
So lets dance with madness and come closer to god.
Hey thanks for the feedback, I wrote that tiger one. Does it have any merit besides flow? I've been told it's juvenile (although I don't know in what sense they meant it.)
To wake up
and still be dreaming.
To have everything desired
be there waiting.
No need to hide,
no need to cover
your eyes in fear
of the tight rope breaking.

To hold your breath
and stand there hoping.
To light a fire
and mend the broken.
Heart of steel,
hands of gold
hold my hand
and cut out my eyes.
Yeah I'd say the last verse is pretty weak and let's it down desu. It starts off great.
It's never going to be a masterpiece but as a kind of throwaway fun poem, It's decent...
Too repetitive perhaps? I think I kind of overdid it with all the "howls" and "yowls" in the last bit. But yeah I wasn't expecting too much, I'm pretty new to poetry.
When he shoves his huge cock
Inside my pussy
It feels similar to when
You clean your ears with a Q-Tip
But even better
Check'ed and kek'ed

If it was written with more sophisticated words (so it requires some thinking to get the subject straight) it would be a very nice comparison and interesting poem to read

Now it's just too blunt

>inb4 I wasn't serious writing this.
I liked it nonetheless
Found the ''modern art'' fan
Meh. I don't like most modern art. I just found that poem funny because of the comparison. What's wrong with that?
No shame. I'm like Scorsese with the rhymes. One for me one for them. Not that I don't thoroughly enjoy this one too. If you're not one of your favorite artists what are you doing anyway?

But yeah, I use the tags to pander to the audience and get some exposure. No shame in that. Just like if I were to post on /b/ I'd say "get in here" or if I were to post on Reddit I'd say "wow thanks for the karma ask me anything friends."
"Station chief" implies the dialog is between two American CIA spies. "Ill" is a term of art for one's cover being suspected of being false. The brief vignette is a senior spy throwing a junior spy under the bus.

And for the Nth time - I am not the poet.
Legally, in the US, posting here is "publication" and uses up first worldwide copyright - the most valuable one which most publishers demand the rights to, and which for obvious reasons is only good once. Which is why nothing good ever happens in these threads, except for the rare anon, like Irishanon, who don't care.
Name on a plate,
with stagnant air.
Outside I wait,
and breed despair

She’s not inside
Told me to rush
Make points with snide
I sure will blush

Unruly child,
do as you’re told.
You’re running wild,
though you’re too old.

It sure is great
to have no lair.
Inside I wait
and breathe despair.
And now I forgot the fucking name of the poem

It's "Rapunzel".
Warosu is dead so nobody knows.
You sure?

I quite like it. I am not sure I get the meaning of the poem, but the form and meter are great.
You sure?

Really? Since I'm not a native speaker I'm quite surprised.

It was supposed to be about confronting an intimidating authority figure who demands competency but gives none in return. About a professor of mine, actually, hence the title "Rapunzel" - it takes place in the ivory tower and all that. Maybe that's trying too hard to be clever but it was how I tried to make this somewhat clear.
Imprisoning me
All that I see
Absolute horror
I cannot live
I cannot die
Trapped in myself
Body my holding cell

Has taken my sight
Taken my speech
Taken my hearing
Taken my arms
Taken my legs
Taken my soul
Left me with life in hell
bubbitybubbitybubbitybup - bubbitybubbitybubbitybup -

Your message doesn't really come across. Even while knowing what you intended to say, it's hard for me to see it in the poem.

Of course, the meter restricted you, but you did ok.

I would change
>though you’re too old.
and remove either the "though" or the "too". It sounds a bit weird to me.
I suggest something like:
>although you're old

Otherwise, the third stanza is quite good.
You've got to be kidding.

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>implying Metallica has quality lyrics
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Implying >>7671578 knew what he was responding to.
As a first attempt it's decent. Not a fan of 'letters words sentences.'

You see blame.
I walked through directionless fire.
We end habits; not not afraid.
Descend eyes time rise there we beware.
You stank of cold silence, forgotten metallic body.
Looking to rust in mellow warmth.
You were enormous we the strangers my world.
Makeshift Swahili. Great song

When Heaven rains down prophetic waters
Our crops devasted for another winter
and when Jakob the Harbinger of Bad News
Returns from 14 days and nights of pilgrimage
Across fields and lake
Heralding the end

And Olaf the Scavenger
laid his hands on our sustenance
Leaving for someone's empty home

And when Sissel died in the night,
Birthing our third and last child
An abortion
The Heavens are angry again

Have mercy on us, great Heavens!
microgreens in my burgundy corsage
It gargles ambivalently when touched
40 year old man reverse-raped by feces
in the asylum of a water closet
lucifer cascaded upon the divine sandbags of earth's heaving bosom
emitted from it's nostrils were ragged sputterings of fear and lust
Balthazar: exalted shepherd of insubordinate mucous membranes, and all that lay beneath the gilded canape of tree nuts roll-eyed prophet revelates crumbling of flesh-lego metropoli.
Snaggle-toothed, the coffee pot fellated a pyre of scarves and gristle
stop overage non-prostitution
evanescant marmalade-slathered brassieres litter the ground like corpses in a bag of cornchips
"I wish I was in a salad bar" said the pastrami, in a fit of syphilitic clarity
erudite salamanders gave aunt agnes a happy ending massage
Hermaphrodites do laundry with the grace of a malcontented bonobo
arts and crafts with anthropomorphic scabs
I've found jesus in the mouldy drywall
He later died whilst afloat on a barge of fetid oats over the Indian Ocean.
That's that man shit
I'm going resume building in Antarctica
and I'm so pissed that global politics
Got in the way of my vacation
Fucking art majors fucking weirdos but not in my weirdo way
Fuck a country club fuck your "I'm above these hood kids"
Fuck your "riots broke out in the way of my vacation"
Fuck your best friends and your ex-best friend
Fuck your hat-wearing Ferris Bueller smashing cars and hitting kids with his sister shit
God damn I'm feeling judgy getting soft in the middle
Fuck your white parent "don't tell little Katie about her stuffed animal" shit
Fuck you tired for it's the third day and you're so post-money that you're taking theater
Have some fucking perspective
Fuck your MacBook fuck your "fuck the poor kids I work with"
Fuck your sorority and your eccentricities fuck all of it
Fuck the fact that your vacation got ruined by blood and politics
Holiday in a war zone you bitches make me want to delete my tumblr
Fuck your "little Katie can't find out about the precious mug"
I wholeheartedly dick-hardily pray that you all get stricken with something that
Makes you shut the fuck up about your Shakespeare sisterhood
And your "writing plays is so hard it's pulling teeth it's painful"
You're 20 and your day is built around theater go fuck yourself
I was as privileged as you don't get me wrong but at least I'm not a fucking
Cunt about it. I'm going to take my line breaks out when this is over because the only
People who like these poems are soft in the middle fuckers like you
hear, as if by accident
Some name you love, belonging to
A heart now weird and cold,mentioned
Like nothing to be busy with
some trivial human care, is to
Walk upon some stranger's earth
Where nothing flows, and the moon cries
they crack horns together almighty
the does stand impassive and stare
the young dont understand,
the old know already.
skulls crash and horns entwine;
snow turns red, the king is crowned
Not even memeing: I present to you grindcore act Pig Destroyer's Baltimore Strangler, lyrics by J. R. Hayes:

she's got a neck
built for my hands
the way a pine
grows for the saw
they say I hate women
they couldn't be more wrong
she's got a pierced lip
and a mohawk
and a strut
that reminds me of a tiger
I think she's a waitress
at rocket to venus
I've seen her flipping
records at reptilian
the other day
I followed her
all the way
from hopkins to the harbor
I lost her in the crowd
when the o's game let out
I never saw that girl again
and it's a shame
I just wanted to hold her
like an anaconda
The day was uneventful,
Clara needed help
Deciphering the memo sent out
Explaining 'The importance of
Client retention',
Though it had been explained before
In several meetings with coffee and
Scones and hyperbole.

And Scott needed to leave early,
His new wife had called
In a panic about the gas range
In their new home, the pilot light
Had suffocated
While she was out to pick up the
Grocerys and she became worried.

Although today was normal,
I found the courage to at last
turn the lock on my
Bottom shelf drawer and dust off the
Factory-new Sig P-229
And though today was uneventful
Beyond what should be expected
I could take no more.
I know very little about how one judges poetry, and only slightly more about writing it. I have come to learn what I can, and started by doing what I could.
you accidentally clicked a spanish guy who critiqued
no I mean those poems have not been critiqued and need to be critiqued
well shit i dont know spanish

The rhyme scheme is horribly inconsistent and the only sound you rhyme is "-ake," which isn't inherently bad but it makes the inconsistency stand out even more.

Other than that, this has potential to be decent.

"On your life force" is an awkward line, otherwise I love this.
no flow to your sentence structure. difficult to express, but the last three lines are very segmental. also don't rhyme two lines and leave the other two unrhymed.
to you, but also a psa:
if you can't judge it then you can't write it. but you may think you can write it. every beginner does. but really you can't write it because you don't know it. read more--this is how to learn to know it.
Sluts, sluts, I fuck sluts.
Sluts get fucked when I fuck sluts.
No "if"s, "and"s and/or but's. I fuck sluts.
I fuck sluts. Nice girls are nice but no good for nut-sucking,
You'll need a serene night to green-light a butt fucking,
But that'll be easy with sleazy old slut fucking.
Boo to the nice girls. Praise be to slut fucking!
I have a list. A list? Yes, a list of all the sluts I've missed.
I've never fucked or sucked these sluts and thus my nuts are fucking pissed.
So when I fuck the lucky slut my nut removes her from the list.
Another dumb cum-bucket struck from my nut-sucking,
Suck it slut, slut fucking bucket list.

Sluts can be white, black, brown, pink, or almond.
They can be skinny with big tits or be skinny with small ones.
Sluts can be perky, preppy or posh with their brains and their clothes all shrunk from the wash.

But other sluts are pretty and funny and smart.
These sluts can lift all your thoughts from your dick to your heart.
They can talk about science, music, or art.
They can put you together or they can pull you apart.
But don't trust these sluts, don't, don't you dare.
They'll force you to trust them and love them and care.
And then they'll be gone and then you'll be aware
Of that hole in your heart that that dumb slut left there.
I've Given Myself Sixty Seconds to Write a Poem and Ended Up Spending Sixty Percent of the Time Writing the Title Which Is This

Roses are red
violets are blue
no, violets are violet
and perennials too.
Freud Writes Frankenstein

Let it be said
the time has come for me to say hello:
The Queen is dead
by blackmagic melodies and mellow

Platonic fiends hovering over Tokyo
made from the clouds in your dream
atop the eons of which we roam
broken only after it seems

their faces, those of gods or dogs,
discarded cutlery in the trash,
planet, tiger captains, and frogs,
pig eating pigs plump with cash

murder my personality
without all the advantages
so take some hospitality
a tumble of shiny images

or not quite anyway, except
that isn't Toni Morrison, silly–
for the sake of what was left
we shiver in this chilly

room with the amusement park attraction;
as days crawl with the impatient impasse
that is probably muddled in abstraction
I watched her wilt as days did pass

like the columnated ruins, dominoed,
for the nuance or the yolk
but in schematic pseudocode
colliding with the herb smoke

reminding us of its presence
Güte gräbt ein tiefes Loch
It makes no difference,
set me up upon a rock

with ourselves at the other end
to say something pithy and smart,
though the view does ascend,
this is really easy to pick apart.
small rooms, six by six,
can hold a whole world;
a man left inside
will find ways out
On Thursday night,
a man I have never met,
at an event for a school I don't go to,
falsely accused me of throwing my shoe at him. Although I did not throw my shoe,
I need to find this Svengali social puppeteering genius
because I didn't realize that this was the fairytale whirlwind romance
I have been waiting my whole life for.
THIS was my Cinderella moment
and I let it slip through my fingers.
And in the slim chance I did throw a Louboutin across a crowded bar and this man was the only witness,
I plead the fifth.
what happens do so quickly
without waste
the great things above us
swirling and spiraling

what happens do so slowly
at bone growth pace
the ground where we stood
cracked like a skull

what happens, does
and never stops
spread like a plague, brothers:
smear your shit on the walls,
wipe your blood on the tiles,
and cum on anything human.
we've only got the place the one night
i guess real sensitive guy hours is over
time to go back to bein niggers i s'pose
I fucking hate poetry
>let it be said
>the time has come
This is fine. As long as you are fully aware of your writings place in the world... on the tumblr blogs of middle class teenage girls.

Cliche and boring
Someone, somewhere in the world is writing this word for word right now

See above, nothing original at all and people who have done it, they've done it better.

Not even good as a joke

Shit, boring, done to death, shit.
What the fuck are you doing posting in a poetry thread? This is not even worthy of a fucking hip-hop song. I'd tell you to stop wasting your time and get a job but you'd only take it as some ''He told me to quit, I've heard successful people talk about a time when people told them to quit and get a dayjob... This is my one of those, I just need to use it as motivation'' ...
harsh critique
anything in the thread you like?
>harsh critique
You say harsh, I say brutally honest. I've read thousands, possibly even tens of thousands of poems... I know a shit poem when I see one, mate.
>anything in the thread you like?
Yeah, I've left positive replies to a few. Most of the posts in this thread are shit, though.
I like this
Really good
>replying to yourself
nah, it was terrible.
I like this. But you seem to be mixing metaphors in the line about "a signal lost in the city's cytoplasm". Are you talking about signals or cells?
Not him, but hopefully I can someone who can fill that role once I start taking creative writing classes at uni.

As of now, the older people in the poetry club I go to are idiots.

One of the weekly hosts/leaders/whatever writes about race (wrote a poem about a white girl saying stupid shit in class all the time). I mean, it's fine to write about; I just don't find it interesting cuz I'm straight white suburban male.

The other weekly host wrote about 'breaking from the flock of eagles to become a phoenix.' He reminds me of a 17 year old. He's gotten confident enough to feel comfortable driving, but he isn't mature enough to see how dangerously and immaturely he's driving in his bright red Mustang.
lmao what
yo me too that's why I write it
I wasn't the same guy...
Is anyone else infuriated by this asshat and his popularity?
>once I start taking creative writing classes at uni.
Lmao. Yeah, good luck with that.

You're a pleb either way. If you liked that ''poem'' then it's clear that you don't read poetry, at all.
This guy is modern chick crack.
I don't like his writing but I don't let it get me angry.
we can build a fire
it will touch the sky
and burn clouds
it will keep us warm
cook our meat
and be a warning
or a great sigil
a burning ladder to heaven
Yes. It's poetry for people who are too lazy to get into poetry.

>I don't let it get me angry
Not him, but it angers me too. Why wouldn't it? It's a disgrace. Some people read this and believe that this is all that poetry is...
If you're passionate about writing and poetry, it should fucking bother you.
>working on your writing with other people isn't worth your time
>he got on the creative writing programs/classes suck bandwagon

You do realize that any form of practice is better than no practice, right? As long as you can differentiate good advice from bad, CW classes are fine.

Aren't you the dude who writes trite sonnets 'bout Marx? Or are there other twits on here that call everyone "mate" and offer useless like/didn't like critiques?
I don't get angry because I never read it. The few times a girl has shown me some of his "poems" I go through in detail why I don't like it, why it's shallow trivial fluff.
Then I ask them why they like it. The response is laughable.
Also I know that anyone that takes poetry even a little bit seriously would dismiss this guy and in less than 50 years he will be forgotten. Why be angry about a gnat?
>He got on the creative writing programs/classes suck bandwagon
You're implying they don't, moron. Also, I didn't need to get on any bandwagon to know that.
Good luck though yeah... enjoy mediocrity.

>He thinks /lit/ is as small as his social circle
>Tries his hand at mocking but fails miserably
>Uses the word ''twit''
Honestly, shouldn't you be on reddit right now? Or shaving your neck? Posting on your blog?
Please go anywhere fucking else that isn't a board for the discussion of literature or poetry
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beginnin of a broader story cawled "pestongrounddog" found withean:


will drop sum kriteaque-acquiesces ean un sec
i understand that art evolves and you can do what you want but poetry has its roots in oral performance and i just feel like anything you couldnt say aloud just isnt as good

So, what you're saying is, while you're not *that* twit, you are, in fact, a twit.
>while you're not *that* twit, you are, in fact, a twit.

Ah, so you're stupid aswell as being a faggot.

I'd rather be a dumb faggot than a twit any day. Twit.
Explain why they suck then. I explained why they don't. Your response was to call me a moron and avoid addressing my point.
reads like an excerpt - not bereft of potential, but uncultivated. knead eet aut moar amigato.

fucks w/ eet, good ass classical revisionist shit n ur meter's sawlid, keep it movin ack

scrap it, or put it aside when u get better IMO. u've reached the seminal half-cliche point in the purchase point pace towards prosodic perihelion where u comprehend da motions but not the flowshunts. or excise all references 2 Dionysus until u can rly leverage all that image implies n notch 100 notes on tumblr

top kek

evocative stuff. am fuqqin w/ it heavy
Like I said... I don't need to explain why they suck. If you've ever read a single fucking great poem in your life you'd be able to see it also. How can you, an uneducated moron when it comes to poetry, inform someone that their poem is ''really good'' if you don't know what ''really good'' even looks like.

The first two lines from the poem in question:
>Nigga, fuck it, 77 Cutlass
>I move my ass to Cali with my Indiana bucket
Need I say another word? You're a moron. I didn't say it for the sake of it, you genuinely are.

Please, get the fuck off this board until you have actually dedicated some timea and effort into studying literature.

>not that guy

Did someone lift this off a /lit/ poetry thread? Jesus. Where is this dude popular? Haven't heard of him.
And your point is what, exactly?
Please don't tell me you think that because it's some dunce rappers lyrics it makes it any better?

What the fuck happened to this board?
I'm showing you a site that explains the meaning behind the lyrics, that's all. I have no horse in this race.

i dont enjoy prescribin phonetic pronunciation n id rather have different ppl read my shit in different ways as a reflection of how they c words n stuff

roots r precisely dat, rewts, n it aint 2 rewd 2 elucidate/build upawn precipitations of the craft. its necessary even, esp. in a stagnant/dying form like poetry unless we want it 2 go the way of jazz or other amber institutionalized ambrosia-brokered genres of w/e

did u try n read that excerpt? if u dont fuqq w/ it on principle thats kewl but did u @ least attempt 2 unscramble/discern what's goin on?

>That it is fertilizer. They're laying fertilizer.

The repetition here seems weak and unnecessary. You're wasting half a line to say the same thing twice without bringing anything new to "fertilizer."

>But no, the earth has just been operated on, cool water //brushing the blood...

Cool enjambment. I think the "but no" is a bit off, and makes the line run a bit long.

I like this draft of the poem, but I think it could benefit from some more structure, as the line breaks seem a bit haphazard and strewn about based predominately on how long they are on the page, without relying on some sort of metrical structure.

Keep up the good work.
The site doesn't show any meaning behind the lyrics because there is no fucking meaning behind the lyrics. Rap genius is user submitted ''theories'' of what the lyrics could mean, you fucking mong.
Also, anyone with who actually reads poetry and is passionate about it... doesn't need someone to tell them the fucking meaning of something. You're unbelievably sheltered and naive.

Please explain to me why I, or anyone in their right mind would choose to read some moronic rappers ''poetry'' that he scribbled down after having his first brain fart over an actual masterpiece of literature... A testament to the capabilities and genius that is possible for man to attain, that took the author fifty or so years to perfect... while living in poverty, isolation, desperation, and more written by some of the greatest minds that have ever walked this planet...Why? Please let me know!

You are a stupid cunt and blatantly from Tumblr and/or are 16 years old.
I tried my hand at some Cavafy translations:

Honor to those who in their life
define and guard a Thermopylae.
Never straying from duty,
fair and honest in all they do,
but with pity also, and compassion;
Generous when they are rich, and when they are poor,
still generous in small things -
still giving what they can;
always speaking the truth,
but without resentment for the liars.

And yet greater honor to them
when they foresee (as many do foresee)
that Ephialtes will show himself in the end,
and the Medes will finally break through.

>The City
You said: "I will seek a different land, I will seek different seas.
Find another city, better than this one.
All my efforts doomed to fail,
and my heart - like dead - lies buried.
How long will my mind keep withering?
Wherever I turn my eyes, wherever I look,
ruins of my black life confront me, here,
where I spent and wrecked and ruined so many years."

You will find no new lands, no new seas.
The city will follow you. You will wander
the same streets. Fade away in the same neighborhoods.
Turn gray in the same homes.
You will always end up in this city. For other places - do not hope -
there is no ship for you, no road.
As you wrecked your life here, in this small corner,
you wrecked it across the earth.

As you set out for Ithaca,
wish for a long voyage,
full of adventure, full of learning.
Fear not angry Poseidon,
the Laestrygones and the Cyclopes,
you will not find them on your path
if your thought is high, if noble
sentiment touches your body and spirit.
You will not meet angry Poseidon,
the Laestrygones and the Cyclopes,
unless you carry them in your soul,
unless your soul sets them before you.

Wish for a long voyage.
Many Summer mornings when,
with satisfaction, with joy,
you will breeze into unseen harbors;
Pause at Phoenecian markets,
and buy the finest goods,
mother of pearl and coral, amber and ebony,
and sensual perfumes of every kind -
as many sensual perfumes as you can;
Visit Egyptian cities,
to learn and learn from the wise.

Always keep Ithaca in mind.
Reaching her must be your destination.
But don't hurry.
Better to carry on for years,
and in old age dock at the island,
rich with what you won along the way,
not expecting Ithaca to grant you more.

Ithaca gave you the fair journey.
Without her you would not have set out.
But she has no more to give.

And if you find her poor, Ithaca did not fool you.
Wise as you are, with such experience,
you know now what these Ithacas mean.
I am not the anon you spoke with. I saw your argument, thought it was odd you didn't seem to realize it was just an anon shitposting rap lyrics, so I posted what I thought would be helpful.

Fuck you and your little online tantrum here. I'm not telling you what to think, not trying to convince you of anything, and I think if anything you make yourself look childlike and weak but getting so frustrated at obvious bait.

Go fuck yourself, and remember that an anon lazily trolling got your own 16 year old tumblr-visiting panties in a knot so hard you whined for the better part of an hour.

Go take your cringing shitwords to another anon, another thread, because we do not want your pathetic ass here.
You believe that by some arcane virtue you are not less than I am
And you will reconcile to yourself that you have worth
Our minds abjure ourselves from our own abject failure
The dread and terror you feel when you think to much is what you claim is anxiety

a disorder, a disease

Its simply an objective look at your existance
Either do a better job, or fucking kill yourself
Exist as a proof of why you are afforded resources other only dream of
otherwise expire
I didn't write that and I have nothing to do with that post, moron.
I would say this is a little obvious, and too wordy. It borders on being more of a rant than art.

Pull back a little, use metaphors instead of just declaring things, and try to be brief and concise.

On brevity, consider Hemingway. His best word was done on a dare that he couldn't write a short story in 6 words. It was:

For sale: baby shoes; never worn
Instagram mostly
I don't care if it's him trolling or not you fucking retard. It still adds to the discussion. You know, the discussion of poetry... On a literature board...

>Fuck you and your little online tantrum here.
Tantrum? I was stating facts, you absolute faggot.

>I think
And... dropped.

>childlike and weak
And who might you be? Clark Kent?

>Go take your cringing shitwords to another anon, another thread, because we do not want your pathetic ass here.
Oh, I see. You're his friend from Tumblr come to back up your other retarded mate.

Please, prove me wrong on any single point that I've made. Go ahead. This is a thead for the discussion and critique of poetry... Don't blame me when someone can't handle rejection, even in text form, on the fucking internet.

You're a faggot. Posting as if you're the fucking creator of this site and using terms like ''we'' when it's only you speaking. Speak for yourself and no one else, you fucking gimp. Fuck off back to Tumblr, seriously.
You're detracting from any serious discussion by getting caught up and butthurt by a meme, which is also why you're childish and weak. You're not stating facts but opinions, and if I had a dime for every dipshit faggot cocksucker who posted his opinions as if they were fact I would be the owner of this site; I could buy and sell it a thousand times over.

Saying "and... dropped" or claiming your opponent in an argument is from reddit or tumblr isn't even an argument.

You are hilariously out of your depth, and you're starting to sound the same with each post. You've mention tumblr several times now.

You don't have any strength of character, and I imagine your home life is unhappy if this is how you conduct yourself.

>this is a thread for the discussion and critique of poetry

Has only argued with people and called them mean names.

>Don't blame me when someone can't handle rejection...on the internet.

Literally hasn't been able to handle rejection on the internet.
For the record, I'm:

Practice is practice. If you actually read my post you'd have seen my conditional for creative writing classes (that they're fine as long as someone can differentiate bad advice from good). Regardless if you can or can't, they're still a fine place to hone your sense of good/bad.

Assuming I'm "an uneducated moron when it comes to poetry," how am I supposed to learn what is and isn't good? Do I learn by not being exposed to good and bad poetry in a creative writing class? Do I read a lot of poetry on my own time for free? But what does that have to do with the value of creative writing classes? It has nothing to do with them. It has to do with individual and their level of involvement with the medium. If you have a good sense of what's good, then the people with bad senses of what's good don't matter.

You're pretty much just saying that people shouldn't take creative writing classes because they don't know what good poetry looks like. The way to learn is to read a lot of poetry and develop a sense of what's good. Creative writing classes expose you to both typically (peers' work and typically established poets' work).

somebody get this hothead outta here

When we learned we were Men
we became hysteric, armored
ourselves in lavender robes,
went to war unlacing amnesia’s

golden thighs, gave ourselves
new names written in ancient
alphabets we beat into one another,
wrote them in shimmer on stone

walls, as though already hieroglyphs.
I slaughtered an owl, once,
stained the letters white
while his feathers rouged

on a driftwood altar.
When I sliced him at the nape
to read his inner workings for signs
of preternatural guilt, I found

no deformity to speak of:
no tectractys heart, no emerald bones:
just my maiden name, carved
into its spleen, exactly where I predicted.
>You're detracting from any serious discussion
There was actual discussion before you started shitting up the thread right now. Me telling him that whoever that rapper is, he's a fucking dunce and I gave my reasons. He could have countered... if it weren't true, that is.
>which is also why you're childish and weak
Again, you can't be this retarded? You're on an imageboard for the discussion of literature. You have no idea who I am, what I like, how I act... or anything at all, really. You believe you do though, because you're like a super genius sherlock holmes type right? right? You've got powers, man!

>You are hilariously out of your depth
Kek, yeah you're just so profound... that's exactly it!
>You don't have any strength of character
Lmao... what? Are you aware how autisitc you sound right now?
>I imagine your home life is unhappy
Oh dear. All of that projection.

You're a faggot. Butting into someone elses discussion just so you can say ''Go away!!! I DONT WANT YOU HERE WAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!!!!''

If I could convince you to hang yourself, I would.

No. I'm saying you can do whatever the fuck you like... Just remember this conversation when you're sixty years old and nowhere at all.

>how am I supposed to learn what is and isn't good?
You don't need to take a fucking ''creative writing'' class, that's for sure.

>But what does that have to do with the value of creative writing classes?
If you can't see that the cons outweigh the pros, then you're a retard anyway.

As I said, do whatever you want and not that this proves anything but just for fun, look at any artform ever, and see how many artists, writers, painters... whatever took ''creative classes'' over just learning it themselves. Have fun

not samefag. you're wrong.
Use your mind here; I obviously can't know your physical state, I'm saying that you are emotionally childish and weak, and my evidence for that is how upset you are at a simple shitpost and how quickly you devolve into the same arguments and insults.

All you're doing now is spouting tired repetitive insults and memes. You are not contributing to what discussion there was, because:
>I don't care if it's him trolling or not you fucking retard. It still adds to the discussion
Because you don't care about the actual discussion, you care about arguing with people.

> Butting into someone elses discussion just so you can say ''Go away!!! I DONT WANT YOU HERE WAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!!!!''
> Fuck off back to Tumblr, seriously.

You are criticizing me for something you are actually doing.

What argument are you actually making now? None.

I don't know anything about Cavafy or Greek. What kind of criticism are you looking for when it comes to translation?
Your whole post is literally just made up bullshit.

Please provide any and all supporting evidence to back up your outrageous claims.

>I'm saying that you are emotionally childish and weak
Again, implying
>my evidence for that is how upset you are at a simple shitpost
You don't know if i'm crying or wanking right now. So again, you've got nothing.

>how quickly you devolve into the same arguments and insults.
Insults maybe, arguments? Nah. I'm still waiting for someone to refute a single point I made.

>Because you don't care about the actual discussion, you care about arguing with people.
Yeah, I'm totally the one who randomly started crying and telling someone to leave because they told someone that a rappers ''poetry'' was absolutely terrible. Oh no, wait... that was you?

>You are criticizing me for something you are actually doing.
Because you are actually from Tumblr, faggot.

Don't expect a reply to whatever bullshit you post next either. Congrats, you ruined the entire thread by being a complete faggot.
>dont expect a reply
So you're leaving then? Success.
Good work anon. Thanks. Great success.

Also, do you ever get confused with the captcha? Like sometimes, I'm not sure what constitutes a pie, especially when something is clearly quiche.
Yeah, captcha can be pretty annoying. I'd say street signs is the worst one but sometimes the food ones get ludicrously tricky
>select all sandwiches
well what the fuck do we consider burgers sandwiches? and that one looks like a wrap
I left one burger unselected and it went thru
In ancient waters black and deep
Gods of monsters wait in sleep;
An age-old calling beats the shore
To them a murmur, to us a roar.
>What kind of criticism are you looking for when it comes to translation?

I'm not sure.
I have decided to stay here
in this tower above the town
it has no doors or stairs
only a window that I have shut

I just had one that asked me to select the juice, but it had a bowl of tomato soup. Isn't that actually juice?
i don't know anymore
sometimes they ask for juice and its just cups or smoothies. i don't know whats in those cups
i know it's fucking trash. i stole the 'birch leaves sit' concept and the first couple of lines from this book by Patrick Roesle

few enough to count, the birch leaves sit,
weighted with frost:
uncertain of spring,
pausing but to contemplate the spat bile of their home,
a damp Djarum Black stalk.
some falling now, the birch leaves sit,
shaking, chanting murmeredly,
shivering against the winter cold.
around them, noise, mendacity, avarice, pathogen,
commands them, shouts to cough it up,
cough up against the outside world your
bloody bile, spew it back at them,
stub the cigarettes on their squeezed-tight mugs.
still the birch leaves sit
on lunchtime strike.

hey dude i'm digging it
i don't really have any words of advice and i'm not really qualified to disparage it
i dig it.
reminds me of wordier rimbaud.
it feels a little disjointed, i understand liking another phrase so much that you use it as a starting off point. I think with some polishing it could be good.

don't like this part:
>around them, noise, mendacity, avarice, pathogen,
really stops the flow
all these homes are abandoned,
left by desperate people;
food still on plates

i enter and sit in anothers room,
clothes strewn around;
work unfinished.

i leave and look at the sky,
stars a random mess;
to the next house.
hey man, thanks

Thanks! Rimbaud be ma frere.

I think you've got a nice start to this poem, but its not trash. Just an early draft, ya?

I think you have the narrative down, but I think the form (or lack thereof) could certainly use some work. Try evening out your lines, or even attempting to meter them, even if its loose meter. Also, try reading this aloud: there's lots of bumpy words that could be ironed out: murmeredly, mendacity, pathogen.

>a damp Djarum Black stalk.
pretty sounding line, nice sounds. Good job.

It'd be interesting to see each of these stanzas as a haiku. You've got a bleak bleak form, which works well for the content, but I think you could go a little further with it.

>stars a random mess
I like this line: strong image; good sounds.
thank you very much
i did think of haiku but
i prefer this way
Dumping down the pills, I feel my head explodin’
Roll a pound of dope, I gotta keep on smokin’
Money comin’ in, we ain’t gon’ never spend it
Ten thousand bags of kush, we ain’t gon’ never listen
I just wanna be there for my nigga, woo
I just wanna go back to the Bentley store
I just wanna go back to the Lamb’ store
I just wanna buy another Rover though
I just wanna get back on a yacht tomorrow
I just wanna buy another spot tomorrow
All this money comin’ in, can’t never spend it
I swear, all this money comin’ in, we’re still winnin’
Shoot in broad day, shoot in broad day
Shot the whole window up in broad day
Oh that’s that lil Haiti baby, Haiti baby
Oh that’s that lil Haiti baby, Haiti baby
sup future
best poem in this thread, by far.
replace peaches with a less cliche fruit. and dionysus with a less cliche god. and the theme with a less cliche theme. also, cigarettes? really?

You know how to write but have no creativity. Do more research, find a more interesting angle.
Rise, Fall

I have got into the habit of watching my wife while she sleeps,
the rhythmic bud and bloom of her chest as she breathes.
They are more to me than seconds, a better measure.

Rise, fall.

As if it were the rise and fall of an empire,
it means more to me at least.

Rise, fall.

To me a second is but three scores a minute,
we would be better counting the time in the pulsing
of a loved one's chest.

Rise, fall.

Unlike boredom's clock that chest which grows and sinks,
seems quicker for being observed,
the quickening of the breath, the soft sigh of the descent.

Rise, fall.

And I wonder what she sees in her dreams,
and I wonder what air escapes between the seams.

Rise, fall.

The breath of life becomes the hourglass of death,
each falling of the chest a grain of sand dropping.

Rise, fall.

Every breath is one closer to her last.

Rise, fall.
Too much air. Full of abstract nonsense like dreams and hopes and thoughts and improvement and justice and god etc etc

What's your subject? Write about it, not around it.
Can somebody help me make this not shit?
You had a seizure yesterday.
You laughed at the auras
and then
you fell.
I was slow
(too slow)
I didn’t catch you
And your small head
hit the wall,
bruising like a fresh fruit.

On the floor,
I rolled you over
into the recovery position
like They taught me to.
Your eyes rolled back
your lips turned blue
-no surprises; I had seen it all before
yet, this time still hurt more
you were gasping
-or hiccuping,
something new for the seizures and you
it scares me.

blood and spittle oozed
from between your indigo lips
you croaked
and convulsed
while I waited for it to end.
>Can somebody help me make this not shit
Is not part of the poem. Just wanted to clarify that.
The folds of our clothing
Damp with mouths warm, animal air
Heart beaten heat making many breaths stale
Low fog in the stitches and hanging on strings

Soon mildew garments in abandoned house backyard
Becoming yellowed rags in white dew
Where rusted clothes pin spring soon snaps
and spoiled wood crumbles
or at last line breaks

And someday soil chews the fibers gently
Making mud of memories before baking

Come summer a clear dirt clot bursts
with dust under unknown shoe
I just want to be able to communicate my thoughts and feelings through rap music, but I'm retarded and too depressed to write.
i have made a raps about you anon

yeah south side
nigga tryina talk the talk
cant pimpwalk the walk
he try to tell us what he sayin
but he aint sayin a lot
wanna spit fire and shit
wanna be have a big hit
got passion and spirit
but nobody gon hear it
cuz he dumb as a rock
retarded shit on lock
too stressed
too depressed
to take the mic
to spit fire start hype
thats why ladies dont like
his shit smells too ripe
I'm gonna kill myself.
One day, somehow, someway, there appeared a stain

But it was no smear, but a splatter of red paint of the dark shade

That shade of red found after the slice of a sharp blade

And it cut deep and brought shame everyday

People claim time alleviates all pain but how can it soothe this rotten stain

Later the pre-existing paint fades away and turns a shade of grey

That shade of grey found after a loved one passes away

That shade grey found when love is just a hopeless aspiration

That shade of grey found after a state of pure devastation

However the blood-colored stain remained the same


I had only a few ways to fix the wall

End my rage with the tip of a knife

Cut the innocent flesh to splatter more red

Spread it until my wall is covered with death


Maybe I'll hold my breath instead

Perhaps I'll wait to paint in grey

Clean the walls with a uniform shade

Then, I'll be able to live live my way

No more pain to make me insane


Or I could break the fucking wall down

Laugh while I watch it all fall to the ground

As I say my last words before I end it all

"I don't want to live a life with a stain on my wall"


The very next day, there was nothing to be said
A can of paint was selected instead
And I started to paint over the stain
But covered the other colors that laid
It helped, but I could still feel the red paint
I brushed all day trying to clean the slate
However the stain would not be slain
Everyday my life was consumed in vain
Of that filthy fucking red stain
Slowly that pain faded away
But so did my life as it started to drain
It was consumed in a thick layer of paint
But I could still see the stain
So I continued to paint
I stopped caring about life
And wondered how it felt to die
So I took a knife in order to try
And smeared it on the wall with one wipe
Then repeated the cycle again
It was a game I couldn't win
Until one day I cut to deep
And the blood on the wall started to seep
There was too much blood and I was too weak
Be careful and listen to what I say
Everyday is a new shade of grey
Except it's just a new layer of pain
all i can think of is 50 shades of grey when i read this
was this your intention
What else could it be about??
Another day: Another way to die
Another day of Lying about your life
Another day of Hiding in plain sight
Another day of Covering each other's eyes
Another day of Trying to stay alive
Another day of Realizing it's pointless to try

Realizing this are all lies because I'm here alive, right?

Even though I cry alone at night it's better than risking my life, right?

Sucks to write shit on my phone

>shout out to all my niggaz

>all dem greezy niggaz

>and even all dem cheesy niggaz

>yo, yo, lemme start this

>his shit done smell too ripe
>my flow's the shit
>through the pipes
>like Das EFX snappin necks
>best come correct or get wrecked
>Ch-chiggy microphone check
>Dat riggidy raw AW-AW-AW!
>this ain't no telephone sex
>go fetch a beer for me honey
>I only drink that two X
>and I'm the Admiral baby
>I wanna board your poop deck
The writing is all a bit loose, pretty unedited. Would it benefit from tighter metaphors?
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