Poetry thread

>>8555701
bump

lets get this shit started c/lit/s

>>8555701
Not bad. Has vitality. But the "one step feels like three steps back" is a big cliche. You're probably going for that 'epic' feeling, right? It seems a bit forced. It's not bad at all though.

I ate a tart
And had a big fart
I went to shoot a big string of spit
But accidently my pants did I shit

Vanity, Obsession, Delusion.


And so he looks up at her.
Like a child in his mother's arms.
Blandness behind,
A trashy fantasy in front.

Wrinkled gums
On celluloid.
Sunken eyes, yellow skin,
Mouth agape.

Moving forward in a dream
Like a twig on the breeze.
Light from a tall window,
Emptying the mind.

Behind a glass pane
They all smile.
No substance, dimension,
As we march by, angry.

I order for us.
He sits paralysed.
Surveying her figure.
As she walks down the aisle.

I don't have to be who I am,
Some-times just keep quiet.
He combs his hair with a grimace,
At the fat frown in the mirror.

Her perfumed wrist at eye level.
Wide confessional eyes.
Upturned regal nose.
She wouldn't say hello when I saw her next.

Armchair stains.
Mouldy food left.
Remote out of battery.
Television still running.


Static hisses.

>>8556937
Yeah I was just being honest, I felt that last night but way more intense and I drafted it in my head but I slept and forgot most of it but yeah this is a watered down version thanks a lot

Monsters rise from the ground,
wrought from iron, glass, and concrete.
An old world under shadows drowned, their conquest nearly complete.

Grotesque forms rise to the skies,
Heavens territory is ceded.
The old from consumption dies,
its ancient spirit depleted.

Soulless blocks of glass now stand,
where once stood old forms proud.
Gone are the days of beauty grande,
replaced with a more modern brand.

>>8556964
too much hypotyposis amounting to a bland tone, I believe there's a tinge of a personification in there, but if I am completely stupid, as I usually am, and you're just going for feverish imagery, then you did very, very good on this

>>8557626
I hate when this happens. Let me rotate it real quick.

I'm pretty good at rolling cigarettes.
I was trained.
"Roll me one,"
She asks the kid who doesn't smoke.
"Roll me one,"
The first few times it's a request, until that nuclear winter of a woman sets in.
"Roll me one,"
She stops asking.
"Roll me one,"
She repeats, dismissing the ugly, the bent, the limp, the loose, the tight, the ones who
burn too fast, too slow and especially the ones with paper sticking out over the filter.
"Roll me one,"
She says, throwing the deficient ones at my face with a flick of the wrist, like a small
calibre slap.
"Roll me one,"
She says through her teeth while I smoke the rejected, having been told not to waste her
our tobacco.
"Roll me one,"
She says in bed, smiling, staring at me in a language I don't yet speak.
"Roll me one,"
She says, giggling, while I fumble with the papers, not yet a condom wrapper. "Again,"
she says, inspecting the firmness of the cigarette, her head tilted to the side,
disappointed in my whiskey hands.
"Roll me one,"
She orders between sobs, and again, and again, until the smoke detector dies of
asphyxiation.
"Roll me one,"
She whispers, waking me up from my spiteful sleep in the hallway with a poke of her
pinksocked feet. But after all those years, after the thousands of cigarettes I had grown
something like a spine (likely 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
weaponized.
"Because I like watching you roll them for me."
I'm pretty good at rolling cigarettes.
I was trained,
like a dog, by a bitch.
And I thanked her.

>>8555701
Not bad but the "birds frolic" clashes with the other imagery. I don't know if you've been on any high mountain tops but there ain't no birds up there.
As someone else mentioned, you've got some cliches in there (one step forward three steps back, time will tell, cloud the mind).
It's got a good base, but it needs some work.

got drunk one night and wrote this about an old ex

Sorrowful memories engraved in my mind,
It was from you that I never could hide

Our love etched into the sand
As the waves caress its sweet, tender cheek
Washing it ashore in some foreign land
Where the elves roam freely and the sirens don't sing.

Rhythm lost to an abysm of Pride
Pace taken like the lace of my Bride.
To look upon such a sombre face
as yours - love; I could have only a taste
of content and of stability in this land
where man thrives and the sirens sing on the sand
songs of ice and of ash - where symphonies clash;
where I lie with false memories of you - abashed.

To live in plenty is to die in dearth
With none but me to tell your worth
Live with love writ in sand to die with hope forgone
listening only to the siren's empty, cold song.

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Okay, let's hope it works this time.

Crumpled up in a corner of a bed with red sheets is geezer in a young man's skin.
The sheets may need doing, the rooms a wreck, and his nurse is a wrinkled cigarette.
He stares into his phone, camera to himself, gazing into the digital mirror.
Our skin is drying
Our twinkle is dying
I wonder where it's gone.
He is supposed to be so young and strong but already desires youth. He whispers to himself a solemn hymn:
Soon I'll be sixteen again.
And so he gets up and ready for the day whispering his short epitaph, drags himself through his skin, and sees the bathroom mirror to his melancholic delight.
He sees not a young man, soon to be seventeen, but a flame losing air.
A face covered in wet clay, slowly drying and freezing into place. Crude deviations soon get stuck, wishful goals run out of luck, and now he's gone too far.
He fears a nightmare that haunts him like the sunrise
One that seems so far dark. Frames of years skipping by. Love and curiosity soon run, bye. Weblike thoughts he used hide behind. All blows away like ash.
He tries to cry but only lurches
He wants die but a new thought perches:
Soon I'll be sixteen again.

>>8557467
I feel as though your theme is a bit trite, personally. Extremely similar to a lot of 19th century romantics. That said, it's more or less iambic all the way through, and it has a good rhythm. The repetition of "rise", "forms", and "old" is also pretty slick. I don't know, this poem really isn't in my taste at all, but you definitely have some skill. Maybe focus on crafting an image for "the old" some more, since you focused primarily on the new "monsters" with your imagery.

>>8557635
This is great. It kept me engrossed, and, at least I felt the resentment and rationalization of the victim in an abusive relationship. It hit me right in the feels.

The only constructive criticism I have would be to change the sixth line from
>The first few times it's a request, until that nuclear winter of a woman sets in.
to
>The first few times it's a request.
Of course, it's not exactly my place to make assertions. Again, I really enjoyed this.

>>8557643
Not bad for a drunk poem, but way too epic of a tone for an old ex. The word choice becomes more and more archaic as it goes on as well. Allusions to the Greeks (and Norse possibly?) are always fine in my book, but I would make the language more modern and the tone more personal.

She was the only thing about me that I liked

>>8557647
I really enjoyed this. My only gripe is the "fountain" metaphor doesn't quite gel with the "Every drop a new Picture" line. But other than that, well fucking done.

>>8557716
Thank you, I just started writing today and it's hard sharing it with people.. I agree on the fountain metaphor. I originally drafted that section as part of the painter metaphor, and I'll probably edit it.

>>8557652
8/10

The roadside means more to me
than a lot of things these days.
I walk on it, day by day, my boots a click clack on the tarmac.

See, the roadside knows me more
than friends. And when it's beaten
down by rain, I'll lend it my jacket
keep it warm.

The overhanging canopy, the seeming
guardian of the roadside sometimes
lets through a beacon of sunlight;
it illuminates.

See, I spend hours by the roadside
My boots a click clack on the tarmac
thinking, mostly. Thinking of what would happen
if I turned left rather than right.

Now, crazy as it might seem
I left the roadside last spring
with blisters plastered over my feet
and sour memories in my head

Yet as the winter rolls around again
I can't help but be drawn back to it
like a magnet attracting me to the roadside
and I just can't shake it.
See, as I walk in winter, the mist might
obscure what I see elsewhere; but on the
roadside, the flowers blush as though pleased
that I'm back. Again. Again. Again.

I want to leave the roadside, I really do
if I skip town, I'll only come back
again in the winter; cause the roadside
entices with leaves and promises
that maybe this time I won't leave;
and the mist guides me to a safer place
till I turn over and look at the roadside
still waiting for him to look back
and let my boots go a click clack on the tarmac.

My soul has captured me,
hands and feet bound with chains,
and thrown me into a cart
taking me where I do not know.

I am taken to lands that are not home,
forced to work the mines of merry,
and once I'm settled, I'm moved again,
whipped to sew the fields of pain.

Soul and shadow conspire
to track my every trace.
To break free from my depth's constraints:
that is the salvation I await

>>8557652
Pretty good, but you're missing a lot of words like "a" and "to". And this one line was really awful:
"Love and curiosity soon run, bye."
I laughed when I read that. Other than that, it was a good poem.

Worked on this one for a long time, pls no bully


I miss the old Kanye, straight from the Go Kanye
Chop up the soul Kanye, set on his goals Kanye
I hate the new Kanye, the bad mood Kanye
The always rude Kanye, spaz in the news Kanye
I miss the sweet Kanye, chop up the beats Kanye
I gotta say, at that time I'd like to meet Kanye
See I invented Kanye, It wasn't any Kanyes
And now I look and look around and there's so many Kanyes
I used to love Kanye, I used to love Kanye
I even had the pink polo, I thought I was Kanye
What if Kanye made a song about Kanye
Called "I Miss The Old Kanye"? Man, that'd be so Kanye
That's all it was Kanye, we still love Kanye
And I love you like Kanye loves Kanye

>>8557986
I have witnessed true art tonight. bravo, anon

>>8557680
Thanks for the (you) famalam, I'm not a native speaker of English and most of the poetry I've read is 19th century so that explains a lot.

>>8555701
Sleep eluded me
Or rather, I eluded sleep
Sitting up with a bottle of bourbon
And a revolver trained on the door

I heard the clock strike once
And then a second time
And then a third
And then everything was silent

Whether by sin I committed
Or by proscribed knowledge I gained
The agents of lunacy tracked me
To drink from my moonstruck skull

I heard a knock on the door
And then a second time
And then a third
And then everything was silent

The light from under the door vanished
As a shadow crept towards me
Like a mass of skittering black insects
Crawling along the floor

I heard them call my name
And then a second time
And then a third
And then everything was silent

I resolved I wouldn't let them take me
Fearing that even more than hell
So I loaded a single round into my revolver
And pressed it against my head

I heard the revolver click
And then a second time
And then a third

>>8557986
fucking genius

>>8559381
Angsty. The callback to second time then a third is OK enough but it doesn't really have any impact. If you dropped the first stanza it'd be a lot better imo

>I revised this today.
The Window:
The window was a mosaic.
Its tiles, interpolated and shapeless, repeatedly
Repositioned.
The window was a painter finding their
Vantage,
Ever reevaluating their
Perspective.
The window was an unfinished canvas,
Each brush stroke a new
Vision,
Every drop of paint a new
Picture,
Every splash a new
Depiction,
Every moment a new
Portrayal
Of the same world.
The window in the rain was a memory,
Resurfaced in the dry house, with
Eyes habitually cast down towards the
Same desk in the same room with the same walls,
Away from the wet canvas.

Stupidity is contagious
It is an accessory
Like luke warm boiled ginger
Easy flowing and very acidic

can I get a (You) directed at this garbage:
>>8557813

>>8560611
The window can't be a painter and a canvas familia... Stick with the fountain and just change up the wording to fit it better.
Your writing is great but your editing is trash.

>>8561051
Boiled ginger is an accessory? Confusing language and a hackneyed, holier-than-thou theme.

Every year, the same old tale
Civil arson, saviors fail
Happy is that happy does
Pretty sure I never was

Mayor Tom to Ground Control
Tinker, tailor, soldier, soul
I sold my home for nothing less
Than magic beans of happiness

>>8559381
>drinking from a skull
I sincerely don't think you can have this kind of imagery in a serious work these days. Skull accessories are like fedoras at this point, edgy to the point of cringe. Other than that, I agree with >>8559533

>>8561592
Very good. I like the rhythm and theme, I wish it was longer though. Other than the rhyme scheme, your word choice has a sort of singsong tone that I'm digging.

Visions of that day
Cloud the innards of my mind
Without even a moments thought
Time moves forward
Longing for days old
But making mistakes not so new
How can one fix
What cannot be fixed
It does not care
No matter how much
You can call out
But who will answer?
Forgotten
But when you move forward
as Time does
Then you can truly find peace


I apologize for the shitty poetry I'm trying to get better.

>>8561585
No i was watching some dumb show and the stupidity was contagious and the woman was using it to promote herself as if her beliefs were an accessory she could wear to gain status. And I was drinking ginger tea kek

I don't drive cars
There are things
In the dashboard
That jumble your think-waves

I need to think
I think a lot
About faceless policemen
And the Pentagon

They have black uniforms
With white ribbons
And a gun in their right hand
They never put it away

I don't travel by bus
Every third passenger is a spook
An eagle in human skin

They take your thoughts and wants and memories
And fly them all the way to Washington
To drop on the other president's desk

There are papers on that desk
Letters written to no one
But the papers are blank

I don't go outside at daytime
There are people waiting
On the doorstep

>>8561613
One word: imagery. The point of literature is to describe what you're feeling through metaphor. This also reads more like the outline for a coming-of-age novel than a poem. Find out what feeling inside your soul you want to share with the world, and then craft language that helps do that.

>>8561575
It needs to be more concentrated in my opinion it needs more substance

>>8561622
This was interesting. Poetry from a paranoid shizophrenic's mind, I like that. The short lines match the narrative, but it would be interesting to have the poet have some actual hallucinations and maybe some word salad in there as well.

>>8561579
The whole point is that the window is constantly changing. It's an extended metaphor for someone's personality and outlook on life. It's something different in every structure. How can a mosaic be a literal memory?

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http://pastebin.com/dXM9eGHK

This is my last poem. It's only apt I give it out, find some use in it and throw the rest away. And since this is /lit/, I guess I need to entice the reader with something besides posting just a pastebin link, so here is part of the prologue.

Then,

there,
here and now and fall is all of a sudden rain.
Air to new air and poesy is dead.
A bridge careens in a flood of May,
when many a Mayhap blossoms to kite
small prayers over a river.

Run, water will pray never stop.
Wet yet swift, does the lining of a rinse cloud
drop. A day caught in turbine flux.
It is love o' clock and the world has to go.
Sun set in low brevississimo,
as birdeyes wailed into a color dead east.

>>8561641
Thanks, I think I'm going to rework it so it's longer and more involved.

>>8561654
I know, I just think painter and canvas are too similar. I enjoyed the first draft much better. The more different the window metaphors are, the better you get your point across.

>>8561664
I have no idea how to rate this

In the centre of the city where the great star wakes and sleeps
Ride the women dark and pretty on the horses that they keep
By the ladder in the ground out from which climbs the dawn
Near the children bathing brown in the heat of rising sun
Walk about the tired men with callous on their feet
Careful as to not offend the mounted women that they meet
Such the longest stretch of hours crawls over the baking day
Across the sparkling city towers where it will be shut away
Just beyond a golden bridge journeyed men hide out of sight
They heave it down a jagged ridge and thrust the city into night
And drain the color from the women with the steeds that drink the sun
They ignore the frozen children dancing til the coming dawn

>>8557635
This was awesome. Really good

>>8557635
Love that bit about "I was trained/ Like a dog, by a bitch." Chills man. I agree with the other poster about changing the "nuclear winter" part, and maybe end it with making the cigarette itself a metaphor for the relationship, the "fire" (passion/love/lust) all ending "up in smoke". Or something. Just for your consideration.

>>8557986
magical

>>8555701
This reminds me of my favorite kids book it was about a family of bears that learns to tightrope walk across a misty mountain by a human couple. Other than pure nostalgia though, i don't really like it. The beginning and end feel disjointed from the middle.

>>8556964
I feel like some of it touches on strong emotion but it never really takes off with it, it stays very vague.

>>8557467
It feels a little like a stuffy old man but at the same time it paints your grumbling nicely enough to not sound too preachy.

>>8557635
I've read this when you posted before. It's very bare which i like but i wish you touched more on some of the great feelings you have in there like
>smiling, staring at me in a language I don't yet speak.

>>8557690
Thank you. I've been on the edge about that line since the start. I will seriously consider changing it.

>>8561798
That is a great idea. I would love to work that in somehow. Thank you

>>8561840
Which feelings exactly? Do you have some examples?

It's a continuous work in progress and I appreciate your input guys.
Also I think the condom wrapper might be a little heavy handed and could be a bit subtler, like the whiskey hands. What do you think?

>>8562012
I don't mean feeling like emotions i mean like setting. Certain snippets like when she tilts her head give a very human glimpse into the world your painting. Or with her whispering in pinksocked feet, you can picture the almost tenderness that might show which would keep the victim in her vice. I think those are what makes this piece but i don't think overall i get that from reading it. I didn't like it the first time i read it because it feels very blunt but on the second read i picked up on those and it was actually really pretty good

It is you and I, alone, once again.
From day to night you've stayed with me, my sweet friend.
No one knows you better than me and all you know is I.
Do you remember that time we drank that bottle dry?
You passed out on the floor with such withered eyes,
but I was always there for you, my sweet mate.
And you, I.
Like the time we got so high we thought it a mistake.
You held me all evening on my mothers couch for ease.
Inseperable and natural like trees to leaves.
My best unforgetful friend.
I'll raise a glass to you time and time again,
this one's for you from heart to pen.
I'm glad I found you in this unconditional pain.
Such a good friend, as if we're one in the same.

You Cringe: You Lose, /lit/ edition.

>>8562283
Same fag here, trying to learn how to write better. Please don't be rude, but criticism is what I'm looking for.

Oh mother, I can feel the soil falling o'er my head
I can see the luster break beneath
Oh mother, I'll be fine
Elohim and I have an understanding
Mother, Beelzebub is ravenous, but I'll be fine
Elohim says there is a better place
Don't try to wake me
Oh mother, Mammon wants all of me, but I'll be fine
Don't feel bad for me
Oh mother, Leviathan says we can have more than them
Elohim will understand
Mother, the kingdom is breaking
I can feel the stones falling o'er my head
Elohim says you can have them
Mother, I did it for you, you'll be fine

>>8556946
10/10 really made me feel

Here an old herald heard herds head hither and tither with hefty heaps of urns high with half hacked ape heads.
He heeds the hordes unorderly hammered heels harrumph haphazardly ahead his heightened hair ends.
Heavy heaving hopes hop from him hoarse throat, but a horrified hesitation holds him hanging.
As heckling huffs hike uphill, oh, how he hinges on holy healing to hinder the heinous hounds' haranguing.
His hands harbor vehement hatred for these heathens and their hunt.
Wholly hypnotized by the inhospitable behavior haunting his hypothalamus,
a hunch hinders his hindsight at an hour when he wishes it had been a holiday.
Hence, the unhappy hodgepodge hooks onto his apprehension, and like the hint beholden in a stack of hay,
a howling harpoon hisses past the underheld heir and into the hulking herald's heart, whom hollowly hollers, "Dicks out for Harambe!"

>>8562393
i like it. I am not good at writing or interpretting poetry myself but I can still try to rate. I got kinda of a good feel from the sad poem in a sense of mystery. it was a nice piece of literature. made me feel. good job

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Is my metre any wrong senpai? I think it's a mess, isn't it?

On what year or what month?
Or day, or hour, or minute?
There can't be any run
--Oh, young days were quite fun.
From omens of death, innit true?

Your life was such a waste
But no need for a haste
Judgement is at the gate
--Not bothered about it, wasn't you?
Still God tries to make up with you.

The dusk comes nears the verge
Dawn is in front of your face.
Doth the thief has the urge?
No man knows, all is a grace.

>>8561664
I like this.

>>8561692
What do you mean?

>>8556946
>I went to shoot a big string of spit
what did he mean by this

>>8562283
What are you doing man. This one is one a15 year olds attempt at rap but
>>8562393 is actually quite good. The second is still simple but it is powerful. You do have an edge though because the biblical name drops seem to give it more credence but it does have something to it for sure. It's very hopeless almost miserable.

>>8557647
I like it!

Nothing more, nothing less,
Leave it to rot.
Birth is death
Death is nothingness.
Birth is existence.
Existence is death.
Death is nothingness.
Leave it to rot.
Give yourself meaning,
But it's meaningless
Leave it to rot.
Leave it all to rot,
It will rot for eternity.
Nothing you do will change it,
It will rot.
We are the maggots.
We are the rotting world
Nothing more, nothing less.

>inb4 "edgy"

A poem about nothing
Isn’t the worst
That can come from a malfunctioned mind.
A poem
With a pause at every line
Is pretty bad though.
A non lyrical
Everyday speech kind of poem
Now that’s the worst.
And maybe
I have no depth
And maybe
Women make me uncomfortable
Or maybe
Everyone makes me uncomfortable
And that’s my excuse to be alone.
And That’s the limit of me as a person
And that’s the limit of my depth
And I’m repeating and too much
And and and.
But at least,
I have
A poem about nothing.

I claim a breath of wet and wooden air,
And the sky shows through latticed maples tall and bountiful;
How can I lead all others to this place in silence
Where the stately oak sets still, as if infinite?

The wondrous fleeting peace goes off before
its tail is caught. Was it there at all?
Though palpable, the glow is immeasurable.
Or perhaps to me only, thus I duly form it,
Public and universal.

But
No poet can be prideful:
He alone knows the fact
and
the account.

>literally the first thing I've ever written

>>8555701
Fucking terrible. Do not spell out the metaphor. Create a space for your poem to live. Do not use cliches. The ending is worst part, don't just abandon your imagery unless you actually have something of value to say without it.

The fact that people actually said this poem was decent is why I stopped making these threads on this board.

nah

>>8566509
I wasn't even trying to use any cliches I was just writing how I felt I don't know much technicalities. I am a beginner poet so why don't you just chill the fuck out loser

>>8567445
Hey OP check out
>>8557640
for a reasonable critique of your poem. Ignore the clearly ass-blasted fools, you know they can't write worth a damn themselves.

And there upon the stream's wet waves
The faery danced and sang.
And in the ear of every trout
The faery music rang.

Hum diddle dipple
Hum diddle dipple
A faery kiss in every ripple

And there upon the curving bank
A girl in pearlwhite gown
Called to me across the stream
And laid her stockings down.

Hum dipple dipple
Hum dipple dipple
A faery kiss in every ripple

And o'er the waves I waded fast
To kiss that mousewhite maiden
And tripped and splashed and rose and found
Myself awake, dream laden.

Hum dipple dipple
Hum dipple dipple
A faery kiss in every ripple

How about a limerick

There once was a woman for Cue,
Who filled her vagina with glue,
She said with a grin if they pay to get in . . .
They'll pay to get out again too

See how the trees swing,
See how flowers cling.

Taste the perfect air,
Taste the grass there.

Feel the refreshing breeze,
Feel the crystal seas.

Hear the birds play,
Hear them lock away such beautiful songs,
Yet i cannot decide where my heart belongs?

>>8568026
Competent tier. The refrain could use work. Or you could just get rid of it idk. Keep doing what you're doing you'll end up writing just fine.

>>8568041
Not even organized properly. Definitely not funny. At least Google a form before you use it.

>>8568241
This is like a worse version of this:>>8568026

Rhymes are uninteresting and forced. No meter whatsoever. Payoff is weak. Neither you nor the other anon has written a publishable poem, but where he probably will someday, you have no hope.

>>8555701
In the tartan lilt of childhood I liked to spin between glass cases:
Make death masks blink and bones dance.

I remember paintings of dead boys that followed you with
Their toes, and contemplated the middle distance as if to

Test if they could see the butterfly display on the other
Side of the hall without squinting.

Muskets; crystals; collection boxes; rib-glued Dodo flesh
And the diamond rings of Spanish ladies; there

Was small wonder in the way the faux leaves
Hid the firework-eyes of model lemurs.

Lollies from the gift shop candied my cheeks with the same
Migraine rush I get now only from running in

At five: worrying about bullet-points that went unrecorded
While I was dreaming about the animal-manubrium-placard-poetry;

Being reminded about the lemur eyes by an exploding zeppelin
(And its historical connotations);

Burning with indiscretion, biting knuckles,
Peeling skin, and watching diagrams sit perfectly still,

Wishing my eyes would make them
Dance again.

>>8567445
Poetry is not subjective. There are rules for what makes a good poem and a bad poem. If you post your work in a critique thread and it isn't good, people who know what they're talking about are going to tell you why it isn't good.
>>8567989
Why should he ignore me? What was unreasonable about my critique? How does being critical of a bad poem make you assume that I cannot write myself?

>>8568287
i think opening your ""critque"" with 'fucking terrible' is unreasonable

>>8568295
kek fair enough. Wasn't wrong, though.

I said I was a raindrop,
My friend had disagreed.
A snowflake is all you’ll ever really be.
Though you are not special
And though you are not interesting
The thoughts that you do wrestle,
Will come to sink your vessel.

I wanted just an answer,
To why I am this way.
Must I be so solemn and must I seem so gay.
The person who I am
Is all I’ll ever be
Writing with my hand,
Baked as a cut of lamb.

I know I am a snowflake,
Like everyone on earth.
Whether you're down or happy and filled with mirth.
Not everyone is kind
And not everyone is evil
But what I am to find,
It’s best to keep this out of mind.

>>8568287
My philosophy agrees with the statement "there are no rules, unless you make them". I am aware that my poetry can be bad I am a beginner but I am trying to grow. I am pretty sure I have more potential than 90% in the world

>>8569215
I cant be bothered to with so many technicalities, maybe I will mature

A single glance had brought to view
An image I had squandered
Shattered panes of dreamer's glass
With faces, names and curses

She is the one I'd soon forgot
The soul I could have borrowed
She turns and weaves and ends again
Where shy minds meets the summer

He is spring's perfected bud
Anticipactions of the flower
And were I not what I have been
I might have found me only he

They are well met, these moments mine
This brief, ghostly rendezvous
And I shall set their fleet to sail
Where new minds meet their curses

>>8569215
No, you don't have potential. If you had potential you would be taking advice and not ignoring "technicalities." They aren't these little details you can just ignore, they are the cornerstones of the craft that make poetry work. You can turn a bad writer into a good writer, but you can't turn a good writer into a great writer.

>>8569484
I understand with time and experience you get better and there are certain principles that are reccomended and favored but there are lots of different types of poetry like haikus with different format.

If I post some lyrics that I wrote will y'all rate em?

Sup, /lit/. I just moved here from Pacifica, California, which is on the other side of the bay from here. On the other side of the peninsula, which is probably the least hip town in the whole Bay Area. And you can get a nice ratty apartment there with a nice panoramic view for about $700 bucks a month. Anyway, this is something I wrote while I lived there. It's called Pacifica.

My balcony looks over Eureka Valley.

In the evening, I get to watch the land turn the color of brick, and then aluminum.

On the hills there are trees: eucalyptus and Monterey pine.

And in the sandy bed, a housing development.

Often, I catch my eyes, sliding easily - as if they rolled on bearings, or had been oiled - off the identical rows of houses of people, and back up to the more peculiar trees.

bland reassurance:
A will be A,
B will be B,
and all the world will go on
suspirating gentle
as a wounded deer

what's to be done with a man like me--?
like the shore at low tide:
composed of lonely puddles
that the sun dries

i hate blacks
i hate them all
and i hate them right
i hope they go back
from where they come
back to their lands
and stay there too

>>8568241
beautiful volta! well done

>>8568249
this guy doesnt' know shit btw

>>8565710
I am afraid that this is gay, to me

>>8561766
/lit/ crit please?

>>8562918
try to read it out loud. it's a mess ya. but if you unfucked it maybe it wouldn't be? sorry to be that guy, just my $2 (because my opinions... are worth 100* your avergae boardposters')

>>8569605
the flow is fucked up

sorry to have to say that. I advise you read it out loud, you'll hear where you're stuffing too many syllables in or unstressing them where they should be stressed

maybe some cool idea if you fix it... idk

>>8569525
Yes, that's my point exactly. Each style has rules. Your poem was a contemporary piece and it followed none of the rules of contemporary poetry.

>>8569580
lit crit pls

>>8569644
makes u think... about blacks

>>8569640
You are a follow the rules type, art in general welcomes trying new things. I am not saying there aren't tools for efficiency but I don't like rules

>>8569634
Thanks Can you give an example?

>>8569533
You've posted this one before and when I last read it, I knew I liked it, but something about it seemed off. I think after reading it again I've got a better idea of what you can do to improve this piece.

I'm usually not an advocate of saying a piece needs to be longer to be better, but I really think that's the case here. There's a poem somewhere in there, you just have to dig it out. What you have now is a really good backdrop for something more thematic. You should figure out somewhere to step away from the balcony to and explore some kind of bigger picture. The first thing that comes to mind for me is the old "nature vs. civilization" bit, but you might have a better of what it is you really want to write about.

You imagery really lends itself to nature/civilization dynamic too, actually. In the beginning, you're talking about the sunset (nature) but you immediately shift to brick and aluminum (civilization.) Definitely focus on this back-and-forth, seeing pieces of civilization in nature and vice versa. You can use this to expand on the tree imagery a bit more.

Regardless, an interesting start. I look forward to seeing you work on this piece a bit more and post in a later thread.

>>8569664
No, dude. Look, I get it, I've been there.

"POETRY IS WHAT YOU MAKE OF IT, ITS ALL SUBJECTIVE AND ABOUT FEELINGS."

This is wrong. Poetry is about feelings, sure, but the way you convey those feelings must follow rules in order to be good. I promise you, literally every great poet of any style would tell you that poetry is not subjective.

>>8569664
Also
>i dont like the rules
This is why you will never be a good poet.

>>8569690
I never said that. I recognized it takes skill. But if everyone followed one type of poetry there wouldn't be so many different types. Being experimental is good too and needed so things dont die out

>>8569710
Sure, I agree. But you aren't being experimental. You wrote a generic contemporary piece and it was shitty because of its disregard for the rules.

>>8569671
ya

>In the centre of the city where the great star wakes and sleeps

This is like, all trochees I think. because this could be the next line:

purple monkey ninja camel bacon hentai poop and pee (15 syllables all trochees, except for "poop and pee," which is a stressed, an unstressed, and a stressed [googled it:https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cretic])

>Ride the women dark and pretty on the horses that they keep

this is almost too pat. it's too trochaic. The most childish metrical foot imo. But no metrical problems so far. Still 15 syllables, 6 trochees and a "cretic")

>By the ladder in the ground out from which climbs the dawn

Here's where it goes wrong:

"By the ladder in the--"

is three trochees, but "ground out" doesn't follow that "stressed/unstressed" thing. Neither does "from which"

"climbs the dawn," however, is a cretic. Also, this line is only 13 syllables, not 15.

This took me some time so I'm not gonna do it for the whole poem. Also I'm not an authority, sorry. I only took one poetry class which I did poorly in, but I know when something sounds bad.

>>8569718
>because of its disregard for the rules
>you will never be x

You sound like my grandma, how old are you? I hate your kind your kind need to die off. I already admitted I am a beginner but I am not gonna follow your stupid rules.

>>8569215
It's ok man. But you are bad. But if you're like younger than 18 or so, it's ok. But if you're older, it's not as ok. I'm not trying to be a dick. But I agree with the douchebag guy.

>>8569725
relax m8... we've all been torn up on /lit/...

I myself much worse than you are now. Just relax and don't let your anger cloud your mind. Also follow the rules it's just online step away from the screen nigga etc

>>8569728
I am 21 and that is my 3rd poem I ever made also I will learn and grow but I am not following any rules. In art there is no limitation

>>8569725
I'm 20. Why are you telling me to die? Why are you so against learning and following the rules? Is it because that would take too much work? Because you would just like to be good at poetry without working for it? You're embarrassing.

Also here's a piece of mine called I-85.

If it is to change you,
you will not remember the crash
by the moments during or before.
Your death is not about you,
but everyone else
and what they learn in your absence.
Like your quiet father who
goes to church but never prays
begging God, “Take me, instead.”
Or your mother, faithful,
who taught him how to speak to Heaven,
but never took the time to speak herself.
You wake with a damaged body
that hates your old one even more,
afraid gravity will just shut off and you'll fall
into something much larger than yourself.
You are forgiven.

I-85 is still dense with moving lights
that cut through your field of vision before
fading into cinéma vérité, their glow bending laterally
as they carry away lives forever separate from your own.
You picture them being guided by angels,
downy feather wing pushing forever forward
over cracked pavement and across statelines
into an inky black horizon.
You are no longer one of them
and pull off across the median.
How easy it would have been, to rip the wheel
from angel hands, to ask why your brother
has lived a decade more than you. Your headspace
bleeds dry into a pond of noise.
But it doesn't matter, it’s only a gambling problem if you lose
and you’ve been given back years
to burn.

You think a lot about what got broken
and how many different places the thousand bonesplinters
could manage to lodge themselves. Little deaths,
the heart, brain, and voice.
You like hearing friends speak over the phone,
the way they are forced to be honest
instead of hiding the truth in their faces,
like a riddle etched on flesh.
They would kill you if they knew
that sometimes you wish they didn’t pray.
A stray ember from a shared cigarette catches your eye
and pulls the present into focus
as you realize that you’re far too old to smoke
with your cousin, her pirouette illuminated by cinders.

She conjures up images like
a chemical imbalance would after you
inhale a ratio you didn’t expect.
But it’s too late, and the drug filters through
your lungs and the parts of your body that
God touched.
So, you hold it in.
She smiles.
Exhale.
The reality of it all pours from your chest and
caresses her silhouette
detailing the outline of your worst mistakes,
destined as you are to repeat them, in memory, over and over again.
You can’t tell left from right, or
right from wrong, and
you try not to think about it,
how small you must seem.
Instead, you think about space travel
and how you’d like to pass in zero gravity,
drifting through the black, faced with
the majesty of some distant star, wondering
which atoms you share, and how even the supermassive
can seem so very small from the safety
of the lonely ground.

>>8569740
Jesus christ you have a child's definition of the word "art." Rules are not limitations, you moron.

>Old English tid "point or portion of time, due time, period, season; feast-day, canonical hour," from Proto-Germanic *tidiz "division of time" (source also of Old Saxon tid, Dutch tijd, Old High German zit, German Zeit "time"), from PIE *di-ti- "division, division of time," suffixed form of root *da- "to divide, cut up" (source also of Sanskrit dati "cuts, divides;" Greek demos "people, land," perhaps literally "division of society," daiesthai "to divide;" Old Irish dam "troop, company").

In low tide strange treasures grow,
because of cracks, division is depth,
starfish opaque beneath colored algae.

And so I find my friends,
not in the ocean but in sonder,
water fathom wander,
I accumulate

Until the ocean plain,
and so clear to sea,
flow,
over.

>>8569740
I will admit your ideas have a certain purity to them...

I think that the only important part is how many productive hours you put in. Remember that many browsers on here don't enjoy reading at all and live in a permanent hatred. So don't feel bad if /lit/ doesn't like something you've written. This place is max difficulty mode. You may have to grind on reddit for 100 years to unlock the potential within. But I believe in you. GODSPEED!!!!!

>>8569740
And just for the record, I'm not telling you that you have to follow the rules. I'm just saying that your poetry will not be considered good unless you follow the rules.

If you see rules as limitations, then you are a bad, uncreative poet.

>>8569766
not my thing... feels like there's not much below the surface. How can I sit here typing such cruel things to you? But, by my troth, it's true!

>>8569754
>>8569769
They are for me. I never liked poetry because I thought you had to follow all these rules and go to college to be good but after looking at all the different types around the world I changed my mind

>>8569767
I am/will put a lot into what I do, and I know this is 4chan kek thanks

>>8569767
I agree with you to a point. The best way to get better at writing poetry is just to write poetry. However, if you do this without utilizing the second best way of getting better at writing poetry, READING poetry, you will be bad forever. You have to pay attention to established poets and learn what makes their poems tick.

If you bake a really terrible cake, and then bake 1,000 more cakes in exactly the same way without changing anything, the cakes won't just start getting better out of nowhere.

>>8569786
You don't have to go to college to be good, but you have to learn what makes poetry good. YOU CANNOT BE A GOOD POET WITHOUT PUTTING IN ANY EFFORT

>>8569609
I was just experimenting with unique rhyme.

>>8569789
ya of course. You gotta read the greats and maybe whimper at them sometimes, as a little slave.

>>8569793
Yeah and I am quadrupling down on effort because I am going rouge/renegade kek

>>8569799
>>8569797
I think you misunderstanding what rules mean. Let's take a look at your poem again.

Atop a mountain, my goal is set
Thin air and anxiety cloud the mind
The birds frolic and the fog drifts
The white rope I have been walking on creeks and tightens with every step
It connects mountain to mountain
The past and the future
One step forward feels like three steps back
Am I good enough?
Time will tell

A good poem features strong imagery and generally lives in a particular space. Where does this poem live? A mountain it appears. But what description do we get of this mountain? Why are we here?

"The birds frolic and the fog drifts"

This imagery is weak as is, but furthermore, what's the point? How do these images serve the poem as a whole?

"It connects mountain to mountain
The past and the future"

Do not spell out your metaphors. What's the point of this? If you want to make the mountains represent the past and the future, then make them represent that, don't just force it.

We already talked about the cliche.

"Am I good enough?
Time will tell"

This ending is weak. Are you good enough for what? Again, you shouldn't spell it out, but in this case, we have no idea what the message is at all. Your images are disjointed and there's no clear theme. The last line falls flat and delivers no emotional punch.

>>8569824

>>8569797
^this is me. I'm not the poet

>>8569836
Okay, well my point still stands.

>>8569824
I think it required a bit of intuition.

>where does the poem live, whats the point?

>The white rope I have been walking on creeks and tightens with every step
It connects mountain to mountain

I have been walking on a rope that connects a mountain to another mountain, below me were birds and fog, (because I am high up).

>it connects the past and the future

Meaning the white rope is a time line and i am continuously walking towards my goal/destination in life.

cliche and the "am I good enough time will tell" was just honesty, ok they could have been replaced

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>its the anons write ebon poems and deep feels using large words thread

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>>8557635
> staring at me in a language I don't yet speak.
yea this is awesome

here's something I wrote this evening for a friend:

light falls
and dark falls too
the dark is not nothingness
the dark is light's replacement
there can be no nothingness
on this wheel Samsara
and the light returns
and falls

>>8569851
What does your poem gain from burying its meaning so much so that it requires "intuition" to understand? There are ways to leave your poem vague without completely alienating your audience.
>>8569856
I was going to say that the writing quality in this thread was not representative of the board as a whole, but that'd be a big fucking lie.

There's something infinitely sad about this country:

th'sunbeams stretching out across the desert;

all god's critters speaking softly in the twilight.

Isn't there something sad about it all?

Isn't there something in it that can never be re-found?

This country was too big to hold our hearts—

it was just too beautiful for us to to love.

Our souls weren’t pure or powerful enough

to fill it with our dreams.

Nothing we could ever dream could do this quiet twilight justice—

all god's critters speaking softly;

oh, sunbeams stretching out across the desert!—

There's something infinitely sad about this country...

the "T" at the beginning of your name:
an angel's wings, outspread

>>8569860
I always liked art that required intuition* thanks for the advice

kek

>>8569860
For instance look at this du fu poem

"Behind the gates of the wealthy
food lies rotting to waste
Outside it's the poor
Who lie frozen to death"

you are swearing
by every knit and fold
of the fabric that holds me
together
that
iambic pentameter
is my voice
and stressed syllables
are my footsteps.
you know i am not
a walking piece of
art

>>8569965
fememeism = deepe

The coming burn will pull Mammon’s greed out from under us
And to fall through this fire by your side will be most pleasant
But you cannot serve God and money at the same time childe
For it enslaves once good hearts with sufferings unheeded

Look quickly darling, you might see the pale moon blink
Its kindness prevents me from holding back crocodile tears
So cry if you must, your paper skin will peel revealing true desire

Our labyrinth minds follow forgotten roads that lead to smiling sirens
Wicked they devour dreams unwillingly, leaving only a hollow shell
Silence all for wolves in crashing waves bring about dancing devils
Their shrilling laughter will awaken phantoms to roam these golden shores

The Honeybee (2015)

Morning dew on petals sheen
O'er field and meadow green
Gold and sable, blessed sight
Bound in ceaseless herald’s flight
Flown from some Creator’s hand
Spreading news of blooming land
Kept aloft on wings of lace
Beating out a furious pace
Set to Nature’s precious task
Aid of Man not fit to ask
But gift you give, that amber flow
Thick and lit with vital glow
The Song of Life you interweave
And never respite nor reprieve
To interrupt your busy work
A mandate that you shall not shirk
If only all would strive to be
A steward diligent as thee

>>8569993

Supposed to be grouped in lines of six.

>>8561622

I liek this

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>>8569999
>>8570000
repeating sets of
numbers, like rays of the sun
illuminate all

>>8569993
Why is /lit/ filled with autists who think poetry means trying to forcefully replicate antiquated language?

>>8570180

If you think any part of that is "antiquated language", you need to read more.

>>8570454
You pretentious fuck.

Who the FUCK says "O'er".

>>8570456

Someone who wants to contract the word into a shorter sound for the sake of flow. You retarded fuck.

>>8557788
this is intriguing.
can you tell me more about this?

/lit/ is a good board
I have fun when I read posts
I really enjoy it
It's very good

>>8570465

As the man who wrote that poem, I'm glad you understand my method (not that it's unique to me.)

>>8570456

That other anon is correct. One less syllable there flows more naturally. And there's nothing forced about my language. I certainly concede that I wouldn't use "thee" in my everyday speech, but I also don't speak in rhyming couplets. When I write poetry, which is rarely, I write what comes to mind or sounds good to me in the moment. Least forceful process in my life.

Maybe you'll find this less archaic and more enjoyable:

A brazen flame curls with sweet and vital light
And seems as bright in day as in the darkest night
But it appears and leaves as quickly as a gasp
Leaving those admiring still with only motes to clasp

And bluest pools reflecting as the skies
In eddies catch enraptured wandering eyes
But ever do they ebb, as certain as they flow
With currents some are never truly meant to know

The fall winds blow
But not from Gaea
They're from a heavy machine
Seeking a dream

Never to go slow
A man and his Delilah
Ride the chariot of revolution
Into the city of pollution

Parrelel to the mans dream
The mans eyes stream
Regret of former actions take the wheel
Driving him further into the city of pollution
Never to heal

>>8570478
Hey man, really nice
Nah for real yo that was dope
Totally agree

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pleasure some pussies
eat the ass
get the bitch gushy
don't cum fast

Lately, during certain moments of the day,
in the per usual lazy class or in the dull discourse
of someone much older, a certain tiredness,
a bleak reminiscence of days of sickness and gloom,
of white-painted walls and expressionless faces,
once again reminds me of the staggering fact of
mortality, this unwanted flower of human existence.
There are two deaths, I thought to myself, the death
that comes after life, and the death that is in life.
The death of middle-school teachers and bums,
that is, the latter, the death of marriage and of career.
I contemplate all this while peeping at the married
couple just across the street, their corpulent bodies
asway with sweat and lust. Le petit mort in their faces,
for one last time. I press it and it clicks and I sing no more
of pain and suffering.

>>8571169
cancer

>>8569720
T thanks for that. I don't have any actual education in poetry so i don't fully understand it but I'll definitely look that up. I'll figure out the syllables but i focused more on each pair of lines rather than the whole poem. Wouldn't it get very boring if each has the same amount of syllables?

balls
big hairy balls
add a dick
my face
yours too
never turn down a dick and balls

>>8570465
If you have to resort to objectively antiquated language for rhythm, you're doing it wrong.

>>8555701
>Creeks
Dropped

I have to pee
But i'd rather see
/lit/ poetry
So it burns inside me
A fire burning free
For an eternity

FOOTBALL
FOOTBALL
FOOTBALL
FOOTBALL
FOOTBALL
FOOTBALL

>>8571524

Language doesn't have an expiration date. It is antiquated only in the sense that nobody talks like that day-to-day, or writes academia. There is no rule that governs what flavour of English you should be writing in, especially not when it comes to poetry.

>>8571841
There are no real rules in this world, unless you make them

>>8571841
Sure, but that makes you a bad poet.

>>8572235
Stop posting this you fucking moron. Human beings, as artists, have collectively decided that there are rules for what makes art good. These rules change with the times. For example, read "What is Art?" by Leo Tolstoy. That's an example of what the rules were for good art in the early 20th century.

You can refuse to accept that there aren't rules, but you will always be a bad artist.

>>8572340

No, it doesn't.

>>8572363

Who are these people who decide the rules, and what makes them the central authority? Can you please recite their art rules of October 2016 for me?

>Human beings, as artists, have collectively decided that there are rules for what makes art good. These rules change with the times.

Not even accurate but still proving my point.

>>8572455
>>8572421
>>8572412
>t. people with a child's understanding of art

>>8572363
“Learn the rules like a pro, so you can break them like an artist.” - Picasso

>>8572474

Not an argument.

>>8572478
He's exactly right. You haven't learned the rules yet, so you cannot start breaking them.

>>8572478
you just proved his point you idiot

>>8572503
Okay but your point doesn't completely agree with that

>>8572508
Only half way. He was implying that when followed and actively applied they bring success. Not true at all.

>>8572520
I was not implying that. What I'm saying is that the key to making good art is paying attention to those who came before you. Learn what they did and how they did it. Then, apply that to your own work and within your craft's current artistic context. There is no such thing as a completely original work. What does exist are original works of art that found ways to make the rules work for them.

Your bricks crack like broken teeth-
shards of glass become your wreath.

Streetlights are snapped like broken bones,
A city-block now a heap of stones.

In your tunnels thousands cower,
from death’s fast approaching hour.

Millions of people in an instant dust,
and all man made no more than rust.

>>8572563

Okay, but this whole discussion started with a comment about "antiquated language", and history is shock full of poets using language far removed from what common speech sounded like. Take Wilfred Owen and Siegfried Sassoon, for example. Do you think their poems represent common parlance for World War One era Britain?

>>8572583
I was still arguing with the idiot from last night who was convinced that there are no rules in poetry.

As far as Owen and Sassoon go, their vernacular was much more common for their time and place than whatever you were trying to do, and EVEN IF IT WASN'T, their language isn't forced. It was written purposefully and the language serves the poem. Yours does not and the poem was clearly only written that way in an attempt to make it sound more "poetic."

>>8572604

I'm not even the dude who wrote that poem, I just find the fact that someone latched onto the use of "o'er" instead of "over" as some sort of pretentious, must-be-forced tryharding, intellectually bankrupt to an almost entertaining degree. That's the sort of thing anti-intellectuals indulge in, hissing and spitting venom at anything that could ever possibly be "trying to hard".

And no, Wilfred and Sassoon's poems were not closer to the common speech of their time than "o'er" as a poetic tools would be to ours.

>>8572624
You're trying hard than him desu

Here, this does an okay job of explaining bad poetry. http://www.dailywritingtips.com/telling-a-good-poem-from-a-bad-one/

>>8572634

I'm just trying to have a discussion. Besides, nothing wrong with trying hard. That tends to be how things get done.

>>8557986
Best thing itt by a mile, really good rhythm

>>8555701
With quiet excitement the lighter flickers
A dazzling of flame twirls and dances
I pray that the paper burns quicker
The recourse of one not taking chances

Suddenly I realize I'm a witness
To what is almost magic
The paper has vanished into the formless
And I'm no longer tied to a past so tragic

For I have seen a form of transcendence
Beyond the burning of a single piece of paper
A life was transformed into something else
Gone is the secret once avoided like a leper

Energy, matter and time tell a story
Just seconds of a twisting red viper
Erased a graven, terrible memory
Eternity defied just by flicking a lighter

>>8557986
Nice job, Kanye.

>>8555701
I sit in my cubicle, here on the Motherworld.
When I die, they will put my body in a box and dispose of it in the cold ground.
And in all the million ages to come, I will never breathe, or laugh, or twitch again.

So won't you run and play with me here among the teeming mass of humanity? The universe has spared us this moment.

this is shit but i mean it's the best I've got

The Girl on The Plane

She has such little wrists
My fingers could bracelet those
wrists
Pinch between thumb and finger and press against the skin
Like soft filaments of dust in a
sunbeam
I imagine her kisses taste like starlight and clean laundry
With an ovular halo of clouds
behind her head
It isn't hard
To Picture
An angel

Skin like porcelain only finger
What a cliché
To compare something so beautiful to something so delicate
She brings out a softness in my chest
Not to mark this skin but to worship it
Slip my hands into her sunlight and let her do the same
To hold our hearts together

You belong here, sweet girl
Up so high even the birds can't reach you
Up so high even I can't touch you
Up so high you're touching God
And god is touching you and we're all touching each other and you
Are so beautiful
Your skin is mountains and my fingertips are paper please be kind to my hands I do not know where they fit
But I will fit
If you want me

>>8572563
There are no rules man, sorry you cannot understand such a basic concept

>>8572649

That does sum the matter up neatly, without delving in the "rules or no rules" balderdash which we have seen in this thread.

"The Smith and the Artisan"

A breezy melody gently flowed
From the calm house by the brook.
Every note rose in time with the mallet,
Coloring the air that fueled the blushing furnace.
The piece whispered to the humming artisan,
Silently coaxing the relaxed hands to
Guide the wandering silver
As it manifests its will.

The sculptor, fully immersed in this journey,
Did not notice as the sun finished its own.
The embers in the furnace and in the sky
Cooled in the stream of the song.

“When will you feel complete, my friend?”,
Asked through the sweat of satisfied arms on a brow.
At its reply the artist silently nodded in respect.

The stale air was repeatedly bludgeoned
By the feverous workshop near the road.
Every strike resonated in the panting bellows,
Disturbing the smoke wheezed by the sweltering forge.
The smith exhaled with great force,
Commanding the steel with taught fists
To contort and bleed to his vision,
Demanding it fill the mould.

The smelter, wrought by fatigue,
Welcomed the sun as it left.
The cinders in the forge and in the clouds
Choked at the last sigh from the bellows.

“Why are they never perfect?”,
Whimpered through the defeat of powerful shoulders.
With disappointment the wasted time was
Thrown into the pile of the other forced attempts.

Artists find fulfillment through their labour.

>>8572726
"Ovular" doesn't mean what you think it means.

>>8572832
Why are you a bad poet

>>8572945
Because I started like 5 days ago

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I think I'm ready for publishing with larger magazines. Tell me why I'm not.

>>8572932
fuck is that still in there? shit. well. at least i never claimed to be the next shakespeare like some of the people in this thread

>>8555701
i poop

in my pants and then

i

putthepoop

into
n
t
o

MY mouth

I'm taking a poetry class, and I'd appreciate some feedback on this poem I just wrote. The assignment was to write a poem turning an abstraction concrete, modeling William Carlos William’s poem “The Widow’s Lament in Springtime.” I know that what I wrote is pretty terrible, so if you can give me some advice that would be cool. Thanks.

Solitude is the ship
That drifts languidly across the lake
Its white sail grasping the breeze
And calmly swooning over the water,
Penetrating and still.
Blotted out like smeared oil
The sun shines faintly overhead,
And prehistoric light streams through the clouds.
In the horizon, pillars of smoke float upwards
Curling their fingers towards the sky
Slowly rising above a lighthouse on the rocks,
The monument of isolation.

Consciousness was born from our backs
As we watched the separation between us
and the world open up like a gap.
Now I lie stretched out on the deck
Facing the infinite expanse of the sky above,
While the melodious breeze blows from my soul
And in a moment of eternity
My memories disappear.

>>8565710
edgy

>>8572985
>>8572945

Ladies, please, you can both marry me. The key to producing good works of writing, whether that be prose or poetry, is to produce. That's a maxim I'm really making an efforr to follow and I find, as I'm sure you all do, that whatever I'm currently reading tickles my brain in different ways and inspires me to write different things.

I was reading a book of Wordsworth poems when I wrote The Honeybee last summer, so of course my modes of thought and expression had tinges of what was freshest on my mind. It's not a masterpiece by any means, but that doesn't matter to me. What matters is I wrote anything at all and I'm satisfied with it.

However, for the record, I disagree that antiquated sounding language disqualifies a piece from being good. If I had posted that in a "share your favorite poems thread" as a Wordsworth original, would it suddenly be improved? If you took the time to write out a sonnet in Sumerian, should I be unimpressed because it's a dead language?

>>8573881

Sorry, not key, but rather the way to potentially one day produce something great.

>>8572563

>learn what they did

And how can I better learn a thing than by doing it myself? My dream isn't to publish a book of 18th century homage poems, but I write when and what I have the drive to write.

>>8572832

Also, stranger defending my use of "o'er" as legitimate, what did you actually think of the poem? So far, I'll I've learned is that replacing a consonant with an apostrophe can make two people on the internet argue about what constitues legitimate contemporary poetry. Which, admittedly, has been interesting.

>>8573897

>typoes

Forsooth, my phone hath forsaken me.

Here I stand, at forest edge,
To see the crimson sky,
As morning makes its way across
The e'er brightening sky.

To lay upon the em'rald blades
So brings the wind, a leaf.
And beyond this play of gravity
The clouds show morning brief.

The old stone walls beyond the trees
Shall one day turn to dust,
And all that which is known to me
Shall fade as noon to dusk.

But while I stand, 'neath morning sky,
The long night is at bay.
And so I wait e'er patiently
There for my final day.

>>8573881
I didn't say that using antiquated language automatically disqualifies a piece from being good. If that's what it seemed like I meant, that's my bad. What I meant was that using such language is no longer the norm, and you aren't yet good enough to be breaking away from the norm. It takes a very skilled poet to be able to experiment effectively. As of now, you aren't experimenting at all. There's no purpose for you to be using that language outside of using that language for its own sake.

>>8571447
I think a lot of famous works used the same amount of syllables per line for the whole thing. Paradise Lost for example (10 booX of iambic pentameter)

>>8571447
>wouldn't it get very boring
No. The opposite. Maintaining syllabic rhythm is what makes a poem musical, and subsequently, interesting.

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I hit my bong
and shove my 20 inch shclong
in your girls coochie.
My man, Tyrone, seeing this, throws a boogie.
I impale this calf
so hard, she will split in half.
So bloody is the bed
It's like goon full of lead.
Dicks out of Harambe
I shoot my ember
on this cadaver

i wish
this hoe
would get
muh dik

dirty
abbos
make
me sic

cant
find meaning
browsing
lit

whats the consensus on this? I'm concerned it's a bit too vague...

She is as a star at night
That burns bright, then blushes,
Then fades away;
Lost in the twinkling mass.

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This poet's name is geriatric coprophilia

After the diamond wedding
Our wrinkly bodies naked in the leather couch.
Glancing your stodgy pilars spreading,
I marvel at what droved our tastes be so louche.
Steaming manure touching my lips
I fetch my wallet and leave 10% tips
In your taint.
I breath so I don't faint
But I can't cause my throat is full of shit
Maybe I have to submit and eat it.
Your shit.

I swallow the excrement
Feeling excellent
Rumble in my tommy
makes me feel funny

>>8573977

What would be an example of "the norm?"

>>8573977

And yeah, that is how you came across, considering your first posts critique boiled down to calling me an autist for using antiquated language.

Tive uma mesa redonda
e depois tive um filho.
Como uma anaconda,
Engulo o chapéu e tenho
Uma mesa rectangular.

Assim tem de ser, para
engolir a vaidade do céu.
O raio do caminho
faz-se caminhando, mas
não se faz sozinho.

Em casa fechado no frigorífico,
Vazio a olhar para o brilho
Quando mo abrem e têm pena
Da fome e me trazem almoço
Como ao cão, batendo à porta
Que demoro a abrir porque já
Não tenho polegares: neles fiquei
Sem pele depois de largar a farda
Do trabalho que ainda tenho para
Lavar. Comi-os todos.

>>8557635

this is surprisingly good

>>8565729
I like it

Fazer amor todas as noites
No campismo à luz do candeeiro
De lua alaranjado. Com gemidos
Ligeiros para não-alarmismo, no
Fim do dia tudo fica bem sossegado.

Whenever it rains
I see dirt being washed away
Purity is born out of filth
Filth is cast away

Whenever it rains
My heart aches, and thinks
O God! Is there rain
That washes away our sins?

Whenever it rains
I think it is possible, no, more than probable
because there is no purity without filth
Make it rain God, let us obtain

Cleanliness

Clean our lives and our souls
Wash our faces and our hearts
Make them shine
Let the luster of the heart be born again

Let us live as brothers
With no enmity or hatred between us
For the rain that will clean
I will wait


I know it's bad.

>>8574864
Based on what you wrote, I'll offer you a collection by Louise Glück titled "A Village Life."

Here's a piece of hers that does what I think yours was trying to do, but with an earthworm instead of a bee.

Earthworm

It is not sad not to be human
nor is living entirely within the earth
demeaning or empty; it is the nature of the mind
to defend its eminence, as it is the nature of those
who walk on the surface to fear the depths—one’s
position determine’s one’s feelings. And yet
to walk on top of a thing is not to prevail over it—
it is more the opposite, a disguised dependency,
by which the slave completes the master. Likewise
the mind disdains what it can’t control,
which will in turn destroy it. It is not painful to return
without language or vision: if, like the Buddhists,
one declines to leave
inventories of the self, one emerges in a space
the mind cannot conceive, being wholly physical, not
metaphoric. What is your word? Infinity, meaning
that which cannot be measured.

>>8575032
>>8574864
Oops, meant to reply to this post. >>8574861

>>8574906
There are some good things going on in this one, but it's trying too hard to ride on the strength of its message rather than supplementing its message with visual imagery. A useful tactic I like to use is to go through my poems not paying attention to the words themselves, but the images. I count how many images I see, and if there aren't enough, I revise.

For yours, the only image I really see is in the first stanza:

"I see dirt being washed away"

That's a pretty weak image as it stands, but its something. Build on that. Also, I do think there's definitely some room for some more complex lyricism here. In the third stanza, you attempted an internal rhyme.

"Make it rain God, let us obtain"

That was good and really stood out to me. However, don't focus too hard on forcing your poem to rhyme, it'll often suffer that way. Imagery first.