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Poetry Thread?
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My eyes.... The heck? *twitch* again! I need HELPPPPP!!!!!!!!!!!!! But I need that Hit. Where’s my card? I need to mash this more. Straw? I CANT REMEMBER WHERE I PUT IT! I’m so angry now! Oh wait... I see it, on the floor. "Gotcha!" Like it can hear me....*Sniff* mmm, this feeling.
No... NOO! It’s going to quick... Little more.. *Sniff* ahh, much better. Spinning room “oh Hello kitty mamas busy…” *Knock Knock* Oh no... *Knock; Buzz* who is that!? “It’s me!” Just him...
Ouch! My body hurts. *screech* damn rusty hinge... “Do you have any?” “uhm” how’d he get to the table so quick?? NO WAIT! “HEY DON’T USE IT ALL!” I NEED MORE! *Sniff* laugh *sniff* mm *sniff* just one more... *Sniff*… black out…………..
I'm pretty new to poetry but I think I have potential:

She's like a demon
Her heart black and scary
But I am not afraid
Because she is like a fairy

She's like the Devil
When I go to her place
But don't be forgetting
Your whole life is a disgrace

Her heart is a lock
I have the key
But don't forget
Your whole like is a FALLACY
This is really good! Keep going, this have potential
No poetry to post but, I just read Allen Ginsberg. The poem about America was very good. Howl was good too.
Wow, this is actually pretty good. I want to hear more from you!
Inspired by a photo I saw the other day on /lit/ I posted this poem, but have edited it.

I'll be your sky,
And I be your sea,
I'll be whatever you wish I be;
And if you wish I be your land,
I'll turn to beach and be your sand.
This was way better than I expected, you have talent.
Just read Howel
Very good poetry
why are you wasting your time samefagging on /lit/?
9/10, room for improvement but this is pretty great
I'm kind of floored by this. Genuinely interesting
You have a very special kind of autism.
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wew lad
This is amazing!
so sweet
then came fun
and ring ring ring
is all i can still hear
i want to kill myself

that Vine of a white bull-
dog on some late night
talk show who nudges
a fallen rocking horse
upright clambers

onto the wooden
thing and rocks full-heartedly
to the rhythm of Africa by Toto
will only lead to suffering
for real. /lit/ confirmed most autistic taste in poetry
Dear Miss,

First of all I want to say that I have enjoyed the imaginary possibility, built of course on the fact that such possibility does exist in nature: I have seen the birds and other forms of nonhumanity occur in such postures that must be with men and women....I have imagined myself in such postures with you, where flight was discouraged only by the inherent possibility of the firm horizontal...
As men give vast lands to little papers with line and color, I have imagined more on the surface of your body, giving all the universe in this model....
Yet, I must be curious about your breasts...curious...hungry is the word, to see, to touch, to taste....I am curious as to how your hands undress your body.
I am interested in your mind: will you undress in front of me? Will you permit me the unparalleled pleasure of taking your clothes off?
I feel that if I should have my penis in your vagina I should have your love; for you do not receive the wretched hardness of my desire into the sweet body of yourself without that you have not come to love me for reasons, if love has reasons, I cannot tell....

Your admirer
Ya Ma Tay
Ki Mo Chi
Iku Iku
At my school there was a kid named Paul
He had a limp and had trouble walking the halls
Sometimes he would stumble and then he would fall
Laughter came quickly with a thundering gawffaw
Soon after, his weak cry of pain turned into a bawl
It was unfair, because he wasn't his fault
Nobody helped because nobody cared at all
He wasn't bright, and was prone to brawls
Also, he spoke weirdly with an exaggerated drawl
Although, he smiled each day and tried to remain calm
He had a picture in his wallet of his mom
"Mama's Boy" is what we used to call Paul
It's not taste. Some guy is samefagging himself
This is irredeemable garbage, and your obvious samefagging makes believe that YOU are irredeemable garbage too.
I can see the potential, but I wasn't really feeling the poem. It sort of just reminded me of a sad Dr. Seuss or something while I was reading it
>I got to the last thread late so this is a repost:

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
my vestigial limb
flailing useless
at my side
a chicken wing
a fin, a flipper
all the others
with strong arms


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.
Nearly brought a tear to my grand old eye
This is marvelous, anon. I'd buy a book of your poetry,
Have any more of this fine pussy killer poetry? Thanks man, it was true privilege.
I cried a little and I'm not afraid to admit it. This is what humans were put on earth to do, anon. Make art. Art of this caliber.
Hey man. You did good today. This is choice.
that is fucking good. nice one.

this is mine..
This is pretty good. No complaints from me.
I'm.... honestly at a loss for words. This is stunning, anon.
Hey do you have an email? I'm part of a small publishing company and we'd all love to get some sort of small poetry book from you.
I refuse to believe that you are new to this and you aren't some already highly regarded published poet.
That was a real page turner!
This may be one of the most beautiful examples of english usage I can think of. The first section is literally god-tier.
Am I missing something? It's really good but not THAT good...
It's a troll.

Also, it's not good.
It reminds me of my relationship bcuz she's really messed up but also sexy...

idk I really like it??
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.
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.
That's fine, but it's a very amateur poem. The imagery is cliche, there's zero subtext, ideas lack development and context, etc.
I don't even
Milk, milk, lemonade
around the coroner
dolls are made.
I printed this out and put it next to my bed, it's not like perfect or anything but it makes me smile
This is kind of terrible.
I didn't know good poetry could be this simple and charming, and yet somehow truly wicked on a different level
Relish: pickles, pickles, pickles.
Slabber on the hot-dog some relish
and mustard and peanut butter and
ketchup—yes! ketchup—kill the lights
and squeeze the ketchup onto the dog,
the delicious dog, the delectable dog, dog.
Buns of strychnine—dogs! dogs! dogs!—
binding, an NDA, a double-dose of relish:
the dog's most delicious dish—relish, relish.
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 yowl
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.
Par excellence—!
I didn't know good poetry could be this simple and charming, and yet somehow truly wicked on a different level
Sounds like something you could put into a novel, something along the lines of what Joyce does in some parts of Portrait of an Artist.
I didn't know good poetry could be this simple and charming, and yet somehow truly wicked on a different level
Ironic shitposting is still shitposting
4/10 this prose isn't that great and I've heard before in another form
Hey, thanks—it's rare that I get the appreciation I know I deserve

And thanks again, coincidentally, I actually extracted this excerpt from the novel that I tell people I'm working on.
this sounds like a hallmark greeting card; saccharine and typical. When people talk about whispering 'sweet nothings', this is what they mean.

This might be good if you elaborated a little more on why 'ring ring ring' wanted to make you kill yourself (but done with some tact and subtlety), and if that last line wasn't so obvious.

Alrightish. I personally hate that you stop a line before the end of the phrase but I've seen that some people just love that so whatever. Feels a little too 'referency', like Tarantino would if he tried poetry. That can make things feel dated in the long run.

being poetic is not the same as poetry, and bitches don't want to hear this kind of shit.

I'm going to assume this is a language I do not know, and therefore pass.

I feel like your lines could be a little shorter, a little punchier, and in general I don't care for what is essentially a comic limerick, but I have seen worse so you get credit for that.

Sometimes having a diverse vocabulary can count against you. But good.

Saw these in the other thread, passing.

You're a poet, friend
I can't hold back my tears. You've really made something precious here, anon
Formaldehyde—that's how decay starts,
with form, then biochemical mumbo-jumbo,
ending in a fit of disaster or the opposite:
how apposite. Kermit stares at the jar
(we're still on chemical preservatives)
and gulps a fistful of air, thinking
about those pre-credit, post-story bios
ever-so-present in 80's high-school comedies
like Fast Times or Grease—the frog stares back.

Stay pitted, groove and give out fist-bumps,
check the vinyl player for dings, rent a scooter:
the scalpel winks at the audience and
Kermit gulps another fist-full of air, thinking:
how did I get here? Then, lyrics leap into the fore!—:

Letting the days go by
Let the water hold me down
Letting the days go by
Water flowing underground

And the crowds heads bobble and roll,
rolling into waves of whipping bristles,
a sea of barnicular follicles bending to the ebb
of the sea's alternating bioluminescent current.

Now ask yourself, Kermit or Hermit:
If marooned on a desert island indeterminately,
how young would you go?
How young is too young?
I didn't know good poetry could be this simple and charming, and yet somehow truly wicked on a different level
I didn't know good poetry could be this simple and charming, and yet somehow truly wicked on a different level

>Sometimes having a diverse vocabulary can count against you. But good.

Quite a few of those words are purpose-assembled for the poem, but reasonable knowledge of root words makes them pretty easy to parse.
we must build a great fire
on the shores near our homes
where everyone and god will see it
it will stretch to the heavens
it will light the whole world
and fill everything with warmth
and orange glow
it will last forever; never cool
all will see our great fire
How many average people do you know with reasonable knowledge of root words?

If you're fine with being a less accessible and esoteric poet, than continue, because that is a good poem. But commercial success of any kind needs to be easily digestible.
some anon posted a draft of this poem a few weeks ago. it was in desperate need of an editor, so i took the liberty of improving it.

I'm pretty good at rolling.
I was trained.
"Roll me one,"
She asked the kid who didn't smoke.
"Roll me one."
The first few times, it was a request, until that nuclear winter of a woman set in.
"Roll me one."
She stopped asking.
"Roll me one,"
She repeated, dismissing the ugly, the bent, the limp, the loose, the tight, the ones who
too fast, too slow, and especially the ones with paper sticking out over the filter.
"Roll me one,"
She said, throwing the deficient ones at my face with a flick of the wrist, like a small-
calibre slap,
the bitter fruit scattered on my oily face.
"Roll me one,"
She said through her teeth while I smoked the rejected, having been told not to waste her--
our tobacco.
"Roll me one,"
She said in bed, smiling, staring at me in a language I didn't speak.
"Roll me one,"
She said, giggling, while I fumbled with the papers.
"Roll me one,"
she said, inspecting the firmness
of the cigarette, her head tilted to the side,
disappointed in my whiskey hands.
"Roll me one,"
She ordered between sobs, and again, and again, until the smoke detector died of
"Roll me one,"
She whispers, waking me up from my spiteful sleep in the hallway with a poke of her
pink-socked foot. But after all these years, after the thousands of cigarettes, I have grown
something like a spine (or maybe just a tumor).
"Why don't you roll your own?"
She purses her lip for half a second, making sure I notice, and deploys the answer like a
precision strike, having long hoped for a night to come when affection could be
"Because I like watching you roll for me,"
she says.
I'm pretty good at rolling.
I was trained, like a dog, by a bitch.
And I woofed, and I rolled.
I'm pretty good at rolling.
No more wine or pisco sours
Under wilted rose flower
Now from wet concrete rises the scent
Pungent smoke of herb or spice from the orient

Every morning I pass the cafe
Where, on the patio, second table from the left
I see a Chinese cat drinking white russians
This is Jordan, we do what we like
Stay with me, my five year old
Stay with me, play hide and seek
Stay with me, my five year old
This is Jordan, we do what we like

And this will stay with you until you die
And I will stay with you until you die
And this is Jordan, we do what we like
And this will stay with you until you die

This will stay with you until you die
And I will stay with you until you die
Suck daddy, suck daddy, suck daddy
I didn't know good poetry could be this simple and charming, and yet somehow truly wicked on a different level
I didn't know good poetry could be this simple and charming, and yet somehow truly wicked on a different level
I didn't know good poetry could be this simple and charming, and yet somehow truly wicked on a different level
I didn't know good poetry could be this simple and charming, and yet somehow truly wicked on a different level
Utterly twisted and charming, but not overbearingly so
the last thread was better
this is a shit thread and we should abort it
Retarded as a poem. Probably okayish as a writing exercise...


I dig the last two verses

Sounds like a squeaky bike

Too jabberwocky for me

Love it! Please post more

Kinda cool, but I'm missing a point
It's not that good.
They are making all those comments.
Is poetry just purple prose circlejerking ?
It's a joke, because it's fucking trash
Literally fucking perfect
When she steps onto the dock,
And the winds in her hair,
When her toes touch the water,
Then she knows she's there.

The ocean, it gives peace of mind
And takes her troubles away,
She swims into the deep blue sea,
In search for better days.
I did not know
Good poetry could be this simple and charming,
And yet somehow
Truly wicked on a different level

a 'tour de force' in poetry!
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from my most recent collection: a scorpion, a fork, and a fruit bowl filled with water: compositions by j. keating (2016)

lines composed a few meters from mcdonald’s burgers,
during an early morning smoke, february 1st, 2016

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

— j. keating, Seattle, 2016
But it was no smear, it was 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
It’s the auburn glow that paralyzes me. The steam against the wall. I can remember the feeling of steam in my throat. I see my auburn self in the window, five years old. He moves slowly. He does not look at me. Splash. I hear the buzzers next to my ear, like a barking dog. They clip my ear and I am afraid of them. The yellow glow falls off the walls and floods my room. The window is black and I see myself again, laying down, rolling toy cars across the floor and the plastic clicks. He refuses to look at me. The rumble of the wheels on the hardwood caresses him and he drifts into sleep. My father talks to me. His words are noise and they move to push me to my room. I have heard his heart beating in the recliner, the churning of his bowels also sang. I see his face. My mother’s form refuses to appear. Her voice is not noise, it is silent. It falls from the corners of the living room and it pushes me to the floor. She appears and her face is a clenched fist. Her hair is straight and falls to her shoulder. Her lip balm glistens in the auburn glow. The cobwebs sway in the corner of the living room. I am warm and shivering in the cold. I can remember the feeling of my jeans against my hairless legs. My skin is cold. My blankets are cold. I move to take a shower and the steam sticks to the mirror. The lights are dim and the water is hot against my skin. I see myself in the steam and he is taking a bath after his hair has been cut. Small hairs cling to the back of his neck. He will not look at me. The steam fills my lungs and I am warm. I am trembling. I bend. His brother isn’t born, nor his sister. His cats have died. I dreamt of their guts on the road, dragged and flat. I am wholly warm and in my bed. My eyes are open but I cannot see in the dark. The lights have turned off. After a while of counting my heartbeats, I close my eyes. I will not see myself in my dreams; that is when he will choose to look.
I spent all day thinking about this poem and I just wanted to come back to thank you again
kill the voice
murder the fucker
move faster than him
pill yourself if you have to
just don't let the voice
speak he speaks lies
and confuses
until you're left in unreality
keep clear
or lose fall into
the bile the roachnest
keep away keep moving

yo is that first one about your small dick?
Long droughts,
Those eyes that squirm beneath their lids,
Those aching hands beneath the folds
Of your green jacket

Thirstful bleeding,
Losing what I need most
But desiring more
Those neverending nights,
It's like I'm taking years off

Twelve sisters
Sitting all around you
And you keep holding onto your shadow
Trying not to get lost

Beat off
Waste of time
Of breath
Of air

Hold out
Those eyes they're all around
Not trying to conceal themselves
You're making a fool of yourself
The sands shift

Cry more
Its a Tanka, but I made it rhyme:

Time passes slowly
Sitting down without you here
Seconds feel like years
I see you, now time is fast
Slipping away, please come back
>First revision of a rough draft I posted a couple days ago

Sweet as jumper on Kristaps Porzingis
Grayer than the temples on 48-year-old linguists
Clooney, Cruise or Denzel, maybe Johnny Depp, 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

Eventual tenure track Biblical 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
So Clinton told her drop out and join the job corps
But then what'd she spend two years studying law for
Hundred K lined up but she had to feed baby Kol
EBT at the HEB looking at her like she just stole
Dirty looks as if she's lazy but my mom's an iron lady
26 with a baby and a fresh T14 JD
That there kind of shit cannot 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 t.b.h 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 y'all
Free, black hair, Italian coiffure, hanging
Looser than her attitude, hands dragging through
The herbage. Bounteous chest, swelling flush,
Spanned tight, low and full, a thumb
Pressed to rain-wet skin, fruit
Yielding to the pluck.

Nape clasped in a clammy cage,
Breathing heat, sighing for
The wet communion of lips,
Glazed in nectar, nibbling
The buds and sucking deep their
Sublimation. Swooning clouds of
Throbbing thunder, floating high and wide
Above a snowy plain, pelting its
Smooth with warm rain.

Body clothed in sighing mists, liquid,
Hot dropping noon sinking through the window,
Lighting a bar of orange on her nipples
Her skin, marble pale and soft as
Water, rolling in the tidal heave
Of slow dropping ecstasy, liquid,
Red currents, Cambrian fire,
Glowing on a trembling touch along
The contours of her shape.

I throw my face into the smelling
Grove of her bosom, a suppliant
At the temple of love, making my
Pale confession in its hallowed dark,
As she casts a tired look
From deep and secret eyes,
Glassy opaque.
The mountain,
Covered in sugur,
A reminder of how sweet the world is.

The Mountain,
Covered in pink,
A reminder of how beautiful
The sunset is.

The mountain,
A reminder,
Of a strong and glorious God
Stars in the sky
Don't tend to shy
Away from play
I hide all day
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I'm not a fan of poetry that doesn't follow a musical rhyme scheme. I think it's pretentious. Here's my shitty "overly simplistic" poem.
I really don't care how basic the structure is, I think it's fun.

Is it the intervention of a being, divine,
does cupids bow string guide my line,
or do I truly have a say in what was is mine?
I only know that I love my Fraulein,
and as I wait below the window to hear her chime.
I sing a tune to pass the time,
or perhaps, to occupy a most nervous mind. But when a lovely melody floats above me I know it is my time,
and as I draw closer, our melodies align.
The only thing that could break a harmony so sublime,
is the age old question, surpassing time. "Won't you marry me, my darling Fraulein?"
She's not surprised, and now she has questions,
truly benign.
"What of Lydia? She has love for you, no less than mine"
She's soulless, she's selfish, she's completely malign, to be with her would be no less than a crime.
"What of Susanne? She loves you, she should be fine"
Fine? I'd say blind, she needs new eyes and maybe a mind,
the way she thinks, it's absolutely asinine.
"What of Elizabeth? She's gorgeous, I'm sure she'd love your valentine"
I won't be bound by her confines, I'm a man and refuse to resign, to worship her at her home I call a shrine.
Please I don't mean to whine, but just admit it, you and me were meant to intertwine.
Our love is part of a tapestry, a grand design. You give me a feeling I find hard to define,
"but you know how I feel, I'm naturally inclined, you must know, I'm merely adrift among your mind"
My mouth became dry and I knew the time was nigh,
to wake up in that lone field, I alone did lie.
But for a moment more she was mine... My darling Fraulein...

you've succeeded in not being pretentious, that much I can say with certainty.

I love the first two stanzas, the third seems out of place though. I'd say either drop the overt God or abandon the Mountain motif for the last one. Can I ask about the 'sugur'? Love the simplicity though, very restrained.

>I think it's pretentious. Here's my shitty "overly simplistic" poem.
>I really don't care how basic the structure is, I think it's fun.

You have to stop being so paranoid over being considered pretentious by others; it is stifling.

by the way, if you're doing it for fun no one ever has to see it. you admitted it's shitty and you aren't a fan of poetry to a thread full of people who at least give a shit about this. I'm not sure what you want from poetry, this thread, or your life. might be time to end it friend-o.
I admit it was shit from the perspective of pretentious liberal arts college students who write shit like

"The mountain,
Covered in sugur,
A reminder of how sweet the world is.

The Mountain,
Covered in pink,
A reminder of how beautiful
The sunset is.

The mountain,
A reminder,
Of a strong and glorious God"

If you're a normal human being, that's fucking nothing, completely hollow and empty. I told a short story that has a rhyme scheme that's all "in time"
Simple as that. Not saying anything I wrote is "great". But I AM saying, enjoy eating up your shit fuccboi.

Here's some great reads for you from you and your "thread full of people who give a shit about this":
good looking penis
very feminine, yet strong
would suck out of ten

yeah, normal human beings love tedious rhymey nonsense stories. we're all just weirdos who love making stuff up while you get laid at the kegger with your salt of the earth friends. your "poem" had no discernible structure or rhythm past the insane compulsion to shoehorn as many rhymes into a barely cohesive cliche as humanly possible. admit you care and that you're bad, put some work into the art, or go do whatever it is a normal human being does.
You cant just throw words around with out any example.
what parts didnt make sense? what was NON SENSICAL?
Tedious? That was too long and hard for you to get through? Maybe your attention span is why you like pretentious haikus?
>while you get laid at the kegger with your salt of the earth friends
That's pretty high level projecting friendo. Literally cant even understand what that means, on top of the fact that it doesn't relate to me. Looks like really angry autistic babblings.
>musical rhyme scheme
>"in time"
What you're writing is called doggerel. Your meter and line lengths are random. You have no stanzas.

99% of poetry written now is not in formal verse. That you label it all as pretentious only shows your lack of understanding of the form. There are so many great poems written in free verse. Drop your defensiveness, read great poetry, learn the craft.
Feeling Fucked Up
By Etheridge Knight

Lord she’s gone done left me done packed / up and split
and I with no way to make her
come back and everywhere the world is bare
bright bone white crystal sand glistens
dope death dead dying and jiving drove
her away made her take her laughter and her smiles
and her softness and her midnight sighs—

Fuck Coltrane and music and clouds drifting in the sky
fuck the sea and trees and the sky and birds
and alligators and all the animals that roam the earth
fuck marx and mao fuck fidel and nkrumah and
democracy and communism fuck smack and pot
and red ripe tomatoes fuck joseph fuck mary fuck
god jesus and all the disciples fuck fanon nixon
and malcolm fuck the revolution fuck freedom fuck
the whole muthafucking thing
all i want now is my woman back
so my soul can sing
>Fuck Coltrane and music and clouds drifting in the sky
>fuck the sea and trees and the sky and birds
>and alligators and all the animals that roam the earth
is this bait or nah? I genuinely cant tell.
So edgy, so much random angst with no substance. Literally just words. Good job. Great example of literal angry nonsense.
Keep your day job. You'll never make it as a writer.
Worst poem I've read in all the critique threads.
>Fuck Coltrane and music and clouds drifting in the sky
>fuck the sea and trees and the sky and birds
Why couldn't this person stop typing their angry nonsense for literally ONE second, and think to themelves "hmm, maybe I don't need to refer to the sky twice and a redundant line. Maybe I can reference the sky and birds and clouds in an order that doesnt make me go from sky, to seas and trees, then back to sky"
Its like its just first draft ramblings. LITERALLY drop out of your shitty liberal arts degree. This is a joke.
>The book recalls in verse his eight-year-long sentence after his arrest for robbery in 1960
Literally the ramblings of an angry, poorly educated nigger.
You're less than human if you glorify this trash.
It's a fine poem, maybe 7 or 8/10, but people are overreacting
// I am the Other //

I reached desperately as she
Recoiled away from my touch,
the touch of a hollow man,
Scared for her life and desperate for help,
Feeling alone in a great crowd.

They say feelings can be transmitted by touch.

Later that day,
Another great crowd was drawn,
With axes and pitchforks,
And I was burned to the ground,
Without a word having escaped my mouth.

In your books and classrooms,
You might speak of Mary and her daughters,
You might listen to the stories of black men who dared to touch white women,
But you do understand.

I cannot speak,
But I understand.

I am sorry Helen,
I was drunk and slurred my words;
I never meant you any harm but -
I just hadn't had the touch of a woman,

Well, ever, really - I, well, um, you see, I tried
being nice and being aggressive,
But I was never rich nor impressive,
This old face? I'm glad it's burnt to ashes anyhow.

S- sorry to bother you.

I'm turning 23 years old today.
Can you say happy birthday to me,
Pretty thing?

it's tedious because by the third line I was so bored of reading wannabe dr seuss rhymes I wanted to off myself. It's nonsensical because the rhymes have nothing to do with the stupid little story, they have no purpose other than rhyming. and I was mocking you for considering liberal arts students pretentious while posting your sad little writing for us to talk about. you would be similarly mocked for showing off your times tables on a math board, I don't know why you think art is any different.
>rhymes have nothing to do with the stupid little story
Uh, you're going to have to back that up. Which lines have nothing to do with the story?
>considering liberal arts students pretentious while posting your sad little writing
^literally a liberal arts student, getting embarrassed about wasting his parent's money and his own time
You're not very intelligent man.
>stupid little
>sad little
you need to learn to make a solid argument and not just spout words
try to actually communicate your opinion instead of trying hard to sound right
very entertaining though
^is that a poem btw? by your standards, probably would pass as one if it was shown to you in a different context.

the rhymes have nothing to do with the story, not the lines. i am literally a liberal arts student, surprisingly enough in a thread for poetry critique.

my posts on 4chan get the same amount of rereading and editing as your writing.
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Sugur just refers to snow. I wake up and see the mountain every day so big and beautiful. It's something I love so much. I've always thought the snow looked like sugur here is a crappy pic I took today of it. I re-read the poem and think I will drop the last part.
Anon is a fag,
His life is such a drag,
He takes six cocks
Then tries to walk
But his anus tends to sag
There came a day when
The picture of you
Shown next to your name
Seemed to lose the nerve
To look me in the eye
And I still wonder
What it was outside the frame
That caught your attention
Or held your gaze

And I don't know if
That thing outside the frame
Was something that all
Your other self-portraits could see,
Or if they saw it through the aperture,
Or maybe politely ignored it
Until it got the message
Or waited it's turn.
gone into this weve gone to far
no guiding light a blinding flash
im driving drunk and drifting left
falling swerving pirouette
ground shatters as i collapse
everything breaks when i do
I like this.
Very sad but also enlightening
People don't want to hear about your problems right off the bat:
think about Oprah, she brings people with problems to her show—
and others, but we're focusing on those with issues now—
and sits down and talk with them
about their problems.
People love to hear about others' problems
but only, and this is important, when they have a reason to care.
What Oprah does or says becomes scripture,
and so any wounded lamb, red herring or not, that crawls onto that stage
becomes sacrificial and an archetype for contemporary sympathy.

But that's just primetime talk show host territory,
so what about your problems that youre so eager to tell people about
on paper or screen or web or dreams or pottery,
how do you get the crowd interested?

Well, how does Oprah do it?
She graces the page with swift penstrokes;
A joint effort of mind and heart.
The first words coy, though cataclysmic,
Much alike the prefecal farts.
A cherry fell from the cherry tree,
With nothing in its place,
A turtle who was passing by ate it with much grace;

A cherry fell from the cherry tree,
A blossom in its place,
A Man who was passing by,
Grumbled at its taste.
Accidentally posted these in the wrong thread


Take my hand and raise a plot to expidite hope
to cause ardor to blossom forth from the soil

within the praecordia
rouse the clamoring voices
of the kaleidoscope swarm again

Take my hand and lead me through the snow
I want to get lost again, this time with you


"The castle lost to filial loyalty"
the wretched crier shouting
"libations and exodus to be postponed"

Spilling forth from a singular counter
Hunched over scheming mirth and woe
Dragging a bastion of yet more thrones

beelzebub seated at the head gloating
advisers whispering in ears intertwined
a parliament of drunken fools
hits too close home if you mean driving by bike
yes. you've stumbled onto the secret.
I'd argue that specifying the cherry is from a cherry tree is unnecessary. its a distracting repetition and blocks the flow a little. you could just say the tree.

>poem about oprah
>first sentence ends with bat
>does not rhyme with fat
the fuck it was right there low hanging fruit
I wrote this a few years ago

blemished glass tower
chipped, scratched, marred
shines with a brilliant light

And then changed it into this

glass tower
chipped, scratched, cracked,
glows with brilliant light

But I've never been able to decide which one I prefer.
the bottom one but now it sounds incomplete and uneven
blemished is just an awkward word/odd sounding

cracked glass tower
scratched and chipped
glows with brilliant light

i almost want to put in inner light
but that is your decision
I didn't write this. Russel Edson did.
No, this is only what amateurs think poetry is.
This is an older one of mine, but remains one of my favorites:
Casually from my eyes the sun gleams
A change of face, of change of scene
People around here seem pretty mean
Onward forever, emotionless

I take the chance and I roll the dice
The odds from here look kinda nice
Cold and hardened, a soul of ice
Onward forever, emotionless

From my hands the shadows fall
An aching heart, a desperate call
Pointlessly trying to take it all
Onward forever, emotionless

Into the dreamworld I still try to fly
A hint of pain from the corner of my eye
But I have to lie, with a defeated sigh
Onward forever, emotionless
this is a trick
y one, because i really fucking love this!! Way much more than >>7673468 this is great anon!!
Before i answer, is this serious or are you trolling?
George Washington Carver the peanut wizard
Broke into my house using his big fat lizard as a key
He wore a brown dress
And smelled like piss
He smothered the dog with his breasts
His womanly breasts
The objects of my desire
Never once leaving my mind
As i slumber like a toad
Adrift on a lily pad
Meh, too random
are you trying to rhyme?
I tried to write a villanelle, after thinking about a certain phrase. I have mixed feelings about this poem I think it at least is a good conceit for a poem. I copy and pasted from my g.docs file so hopefully it does the lines right --

My Handy-work Loft Babel

I’m building a tower,
Said my son, and his reply when I asked why:
Just to knock it down.
The tower, half-built, lies dormant in the yard --
Filling my thoughts and fancies at late hours.
I’m building a tower,
Said I, of wispy stones and fleeting bricks,
And at the precipice I will look down at Babel, and pronounce
the only purpose is -- just to knock it down,
With such majesty and disregard, the Mesopotamian rulers will shiver,
From a gust so cold; and each man,
Building his tower,
will shudder at the tempest of time, ravaging the lands,
and each man will know, his withered body only existed:
Just to knock it down.
Until I realize, I am each man, curled in the fetal position --
And when I saw my son’s corpse. It’s as if god is saying:
I’m building a tower,
Just to knock it down.
>Just to knock it down.
I have the word flu
Word nausea- perse
Speak words I don’t mean, I may
I should have taken the word flu vaccine
Alas, not even medecine could intervene
with my fate

Let me list off my wordlfluenza symptoms:
Explosive word vomit ensues its victims
Spewing every word that comes to their mind
A request to stop will surely be declined

We sound like preaching auctioneers
We will bring you to laughter or bring you to tears
We’ll tell our deepest, darkest, greatest fears
To any and everyone who will volunteer

And this sickness
Whimsical sounding indeed,
Would be the band of me
My existence
The quickness
Of my speeding mind car
Was absolutely bizarre
I’d gone so far
And now I’m gonna crash
Into this wall I’ve built for myself

I wanted to go fast
That’s all it was
How naive of me
To think that it would last
I would stop at nothing to reach my objective
But it was only because my brakes were defective
No, this was the wrong move
The wrong turn
Where did I go wrong, I thought
As I watched my world

We talk about phoenixes
Rising from what would be ash
For me? Dirty kleenexes
Yes I rose from that crash
Because I went-
Not into, but through
That sturdy looking wall
I’m invincible, that’s the principle
I’m working off of
Yeah, it’s my life
It’s what I think of as I battle through my strife
Because no matter how sturdy that wall looks,
It ain’t as hard as they’ll tell you in books
Because that wall will come crumbling down
If you give it anything so light as a frown
fuck off shel silverstein
a pile of books in the corner
sits hesitantly like an animal
unsure in a mans home
afraid to back down

we surround it, standing
my friends and i cannot read
and our hands are busy
with matches and kerosene

we are warm, our meat cooked
the commandant is pleased
books turn to nothing
and words to even less

(i dont like this one,
but its written and so
it must be posted)
its was supposed to be it is inside the parenthesis
now my failure is complete
Thank you anon! I will definitely revise :)
Teotihuacan: whenever a booming wind bumps you,
inexorably you proffer a "Pardon, seńor" and continue
holding office as the President of the United States of—
narcolepsy makes it hard to do what you love.

Huskily built—they called it fat in high school—
of stony complexion with a grand vestibule
for a mouth, terra cotta teeth, bones of granite,
a mausoleum for a heart and eyes panoramic

Your shadow gives the horizon a raspberry
and blows the moon a herpes ridden kiss
waiting for something, something amiss
that morphs the facts ever contrary
and turns the data into mist.

But you are where gods are born
where hath no fury scorned
where hath no fury scorned.
Teotihuacan: where gods are born.
glass tower
chipped, scratched, marred
shines with a brilliant light
Depressed, I feel there's no hope.
Breathing is a chore.
But then I wake up next to you,
And life is good once more.
this is only part of a poem

Voluptuous arse,
Where are you know?
on a street corner
calling out and meeting cars
bending over mouth open
to talk with the driver
...serious, why?
Heads pounding,
Heart hurting,
Legs flairing,
Hands dancing.

Also >>7673461
this would be good if it's slam poetry. Not many anima do that.
Twinkle, twinkle, little star,
How I wonder what you are!
Up above the world so high,
Like a diamond in the sky.

When the blazing sun is gone,
When he nothing shines upon,
Then you show your little light,
Twinkle, twinkle, all the night.

Then the traveler in the dark
Thanks you for your tiny spark,
How could he see where to go,
If you did not twinkle so?

In the dark blue sky you keep,
Often through my curtains peep
For you never shut your eye,
Till the sun is in the sky.

As your bright and tiny spark
Lights the traveler in the dark,
Though I know not what you are,
Twinkle, twinkle, little star.
The moon enjoys the view it has
And sings a happy tune.
He watches over the oceans,
And lights the darkest room.
To die young was his fate. A shame it was,
But not due to his youth, but all that wasted time.
A glimpse of life well spent is well enough
So spare me platitudes and condolences
Do not tell me that life is short.
Everyone criticizing the Knight poem is a tasteless idiot. I mean, it isn't great but it's clearly a cut above the amature stuff that gets posted on /lit/.
For my playwriting class we all brought in a small piece of writing that had language we found interesting. We got in groups of three. I brought in the first verse and refrain of Emily by Joanna Newsom. One guy brought in a small part of The Celebrated Jumping Frog of Calaveras County by Mark Twain. One girl brought in a Philip Larkin poem. Then our instructor made us write using the style of the piece we brought in and write from the perspective of the speaker as if that speaker wants something from one of the other two characters. I did this and changed Emily to Eleanor because using the same name would be extra lame.

The frog and old Smiley Webster all say that
The bread of the birch is the base of the belly's beloved
And the whimsical rhymer hoards the riches of Kaisers
As Eleanor sleeps none the wiser but whispers to me
That that man in the bar is a liar, a liar, a liar
Spinning tales of old tadpoles trapped drowning in fish bowls
Who never jump out of the fire, the fire, the fire
So I recruit Larkin and use both our voices to pull good old Eleanor back to good choices
Our lyrical boldness will bound the now-hopeless
With bricks as they sink in the river
Drowning in dampness they'll mildly panic
in stoic acceptance, their efforts invested are sunk costs like ships on Lake Huron
Me and you, Philip, my God what great teamwork
We just put quite a stir of a play on

These kids are sitting in the car
But barely, ‘cause they shake like stretched wires
The hour hides them on the curb
They wait for the dude with a bag
The one with no surname,
and slurred speech

They fear cops but they won’t say it
A bored thumb clicks a lighter
The boys feel Earth pull them inside
Something like guilt is born in their guts
But it crawls along up intestines
And dies in their stomach juices

Jackson gets passed
Bag goes in sock
Lined up and well-measured
The nosebleed is worth it
Forgetting what hurts is

The boys go home and watch patterns,
as they feel the air eat itself
Like the sweetly mauled bridges
that stand between their brain cells
Now occupied by emptiness
a strong affection
for apathy, and chronic lack of sleep
"My father always told me that mud was the spirit of the Earth"


Pick the bone roses from the earth,
muddy haired boy, mire painted dream.
The smell of sweet sweat perfume, the atar

of blood. Thou light-haired
thou ray of pale light-
thy blue eyes sing of championing blossoms,
thy pale thighs sing of of a silent gaze
that carries all intent.

From the dark, I rise, I rise
to greet thee, to touch
a hand dyed red, to kiss
lips sweet with mud.


Through the riverbank,
silt fingered, clay mouthed,
you reach through my eyes.

Hold me fixed, paint me red,
and we'll build mud-brick
palaces that rise toward
pristine heaven.
I really like the second part, as well as the last stanza of the first part. IMO this is what you should work with, because those are the parts that carry the tragically romantic intent of the poem, while the other lines, I feel, don't really add all that much besides verbiage.

I appreciate your use of language, but I believe a tad bit of restrain and directness would be in order, at least in the first two stanzas of the work. Aside from that, I actually like it. The last three lines are a gorgeous, perfect ending.
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shittyshit I did in like 3 minutes while bored
Yeah I get the concern with references getting dated but I kinda like the idea of my shit becoming ancient in my own lifetime, turns the whole immortal word thing on its head

>like Tarantino if he tried poetry

;_; th-thank you senpai
sick troll and double points for edson. posted a russell edson appreciation thread on here a while ago but the only poetry /lit/ enjoys is its own
>post awful anachronistic poems about misconceptions of well-trodden themes in outdated form
>then proceed to call etheridge knight "a poorly educated nigger"

no man, /lit/ is all taste
Has anything of worth been posted in this thread?
Finally, Rods of sunlight collect in my groggy eyelids
Moistly, I walk downstairs to dis-
Cover the sun is already down the moon chute.
Over the bottom and through the knoll
Eerily, thirteen thirteen year old's .
When I heard the first of them I S-
Creamed with mallets guarding the second
Already, tangent tangerines; goes a long way.
Of them, relished in death, mustered they're strength
For starters, I hated a the but and
Chipped Stanza #2

I spew black ink. Vomiting inside the endlessly
stretched balloon, I hope my bile is caught on
the concave, a disgusting constellation glistening
against the blacker canvas or net of ether.

Arrange the sopping granules into a tower
far enough from the shoreline to avoid the
waves, but don’t let the grains dry. Plagued
by Pointillisms, minutiae worries me
with thick heels on bent wrists. How to
describe the fractal! Sorting is so tiresome.

I long for that great smear. To make a clean
gradient. No longer stuck point by point, but
make a sweeping arc. Is it fire or leaves in
the wind? It’s orange, curving to the left.

I hope to sling my guts onto a cave wall and
have my insides coagulate into a painting of
Nimrod. I will plunge into viscera because,
I’m not ready to confront the typewriter. Its
tacky clacking scares me. I am brickwalled
by abstraction.
I wonder where it went,
It sleeps for days, my friend.
And when it wakes
I know it makes
All My happiness end.
I wrote this for my mom, her birthday is tomorrow. First time writing a poem

This feeling cannot be said,
It cannot be read,
I keep it to myself
Revealing my dread instead

You deserve more,
my mentor
On how to love, live and forgive
Even if I listen or ignore

No matter what I say
Let me be clear,
I will never drift away
And in my heart
You will never disappear

My mom is an amazing mother and I don't treat her as well as I should, so I wanted to convey that message
I really like this one. Especially the second stanza and ending. I feel like the part about being president and the narcolepsy line are out of place, however. First two lines are good though.

Scrap the third stanza all together desu
That's adorable,well done
Hey thanks. Solid suggestions
Everybody tries so hard
and I don't try enough—
I have tried since I
received a 100 on a book report in 4th grade,
(Long cafeteria lines don't equal good food)
and they're all so annoyingly worried
(scared, focused, insecure, boring, stupid, etc.)
about things petty to grand: emotive larceny:
the kids do it, the 'dults to it, pets, prozzies, pals—
all guests in this infernal cocktail party hosted by Christ till bed—
sleep: one thing we have in common: blood;
oh and a mother we blame whenever possible.
Fuck the lord he can eat my dick.
Poop exited my body,
The feel was orgasmic.
Nothing compares to the way shit lightens up my day.
Poop forever.
Poop. Forever

There are far better poems about poop than this pile of shit, anon. For example:

Wouldn't it be funny
if The Finger had designed us
to shit just once a week?

all week long we'd get fatter
and fatter and then on Sunday morning
while everyone's in church

I like poop poems
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