Critique my poetry /lit/

Candor

An honest man sits
Alone beneath a tree,
And the whole world dares to listen.
A man whose words
Are bittersweet,
But the world does not dismiss him.
In fact, he feels,
With every sin
The world begins to miss him.

An honest man, here, once sat,
And told the world so much.
When on this tree he hung his hat,
The grass forgot his touch.

Crittleton

Quiet little families in short houses,
With large backyards and white picket fences
Stood side-by-side other short houses with equal amenities.
Sitting on streets, that crisscross, like Sunday crosswords;
Neighborhoods protect tight-knit communities
From undesirables

But those don’t exist in our town,
No not ours.
Men who drink their coffee and
Read their paper and
Kiss their wife and
Leave their home to go to their work.

women who raise the kids and
cook the food and
clean the home; and
love the Husband.

Tiny blue-eyed children who go to that school and
Play at that park and
Laugh at that joke and
Study that math and
Love that family.

Every little person,
In little old Crittleton,
Played Their Part, as they should,
and
Every Boy and every girl
Married each other, and
Life was good.

But that was not in our town;
No not ours.

Loud, broken-down families in shabby shacks
With shattered glass windows and tattered tarred rooftops:
Timidly hidden from all men and Women fearful from anger and nothing at all.
Littered with refuse the sidewalks they crack,
The drunkards are sheltered by nightfall.

men who crouch on knees and
snicker on wrinkled aluminum and
crawl on fractured bones and
sleep on beds of bullets.
Women who work all weekends and
Feed all mouths and
Fight all ghouls and
Toss and Turn all night,
Loathe their beds of bullets.

AND WHEN ALL THE SANGUINARY TRACTS ROT

children are children no longer than cattle,
children are animals that growl and that battle,
children are scholars forsaken by knowledge,
children are boogeymen, shrouded under beds of bullets.
And this was in our town:
You pray not yours

. . . . . . . . . . . .

day-up, and day-drop,
you ponder our death.
agog for the answer how
the middle of your city, the middle of mine,
is equally evil, and also, benign.

So travel to Crittleton for all of it’s green.
And stay out of Crittleton for all of it’s mean.

Though alleys shake and light posts tumble and fracture,
We don’t all see the darkness.

Nature Calls

Nights whimpered in silent fear of what might become of them.
War slithered in, with sinister intent, speaking in eager whispers
In the ears of looming shadows that wept dry tears for sunlight.

Murmurs of discontent sprinted throughout: your home; your clique; your self.
Inching further for anger, blindness swept beneath your skull and latched into you;
Your sins are not your own.
Luring you further with malicious speak shrouded by a veiled innocence:
Hysteria lit the path with shadowed light from an envious lantern.

Cheered on by coats of tainted wool, and assailed by coats of tainted challis
You become conflicted.
What now?

Leering from platted comfortability, shadows hiss at you to further on;
Indeed, you do. In fact, with many hesitations, and many trepidations,
But indeed, you do.

March

Splintered bones sizzle under a foreign star,
Trickles of sweat blister, embroider, and furrow your brow.
Misguiding you moreso than pockets with a pretense avowed.
Schoolgirls hand-in-hand, capped-‘n-gowned.
Outspoken words nested in fear choke on bravado…

Bravo, Bravo!
The term is done!

Wormwood parties in your pit,
Your feather withers at the sun,
Enthralled in fear and shadow’s shit,
Your blindness turns to deaf’d the young.

Sonnet I

To love a leaking faucet is to love an open door.
The silent drip-drip of the nozzle
As it puddles on the floor.
The noisy creaking of the hinges screams for my attention.
Though dark may make a child wince
I shut it with conviction.
The tools a’come and out they hop to find a dripping pipe.
With many bolts, a bucket, mop:
A bond is turned too tight.

A day has passed, and now my towels have no use.
The light is lit throughout the night
And sleep has ‘come obtuse.
No longer do I feel a need to scowl at the hunger.
The faucet water tastes a’fowl
And food’s for those who slumber.
To love a leaking faucet is to love an open door.
Without the drip-drip of the nozzle
I’m a puddle on the floor.

Sonnet II

Adorned in skin, glimmering with the allure of a moonlit night,
A leopard lay itself upon the safaric canvas.
Though art often hints that ‘tis better when handless,
Such deified figure demands physic sight.
When eyed by the public in natural light-
The mind never fails to discover Atlantis;
Unveiled in a deep forest, though utterly planless,
I rove through two ovals of blue, green, white.

These eyes can only see so much grandeur
Before they wither and dust.
The blessing of your
Beauty, have it I must.
As a bunny is quick, so am I poor.
But our love is rich: te amo amor.

The Day After You Stole My Heart

The day after you stole my heart I tried to call the police.
The phone rang, but I couldn’t get through.
I went to the station to describe them the thief.
But the doors were tightly glued.

I ran down the street in a frenzy,
Screaming and pleading for help.
But the roads were broken and empty,
And the wind had muffled my yelp.

My eyes burned with a need
And my skin started to peel.
The hole in my chest began to bleed
And the sky seemed surreal.
Afraid, I clawed at the dirt and filled the hole with worms.
Afraid, I glared at the sun and burned the edges of my eyes.
Afraid, I prayed my heart returns.
Afraid, I struck the air with cries.
And as I lie there, sobbing in the mud like a dog, the air replied with the sound of your voice.
And my eyes no longer burned, for in the place of the sun, there was your face.
And as the tears gently struggled to roll down my cheek, your heart wrung the worms from my chest.

I stood, and the sky fell atop my head.
Stiches and staples mended my bloodied wound.
A glowing coat of skin started at my fingertips and began to spread,
And I saw the world around me, and very nearly swooned.
My voice returned with a thunderous bellow,
And I began to stroll down a clean-cut sidewalk.
With every step I took, I whistled hello,
And in another moment, I’d passed another block.

I swung open the doors to the station with ease,
Looked around, and chuckled too.
My mouth spread devilish wide, suddenly pleased:
The day after you stole my heart, I could only see you.

>>8700185
>>8700192
>>8700200
>>8700207
>>8700211
>>8700217

That's all I'm going to post. Critique?

>>8700221
No, fuck off, you pretentious prick, there's already a thread for that.

can you tell us on what aspect you try to put an emphasis upon ? (sonority, structure,themes and images ?) if you tried to use any specific method or coherent system ? otherwise i'm affraid I will only be able to formulate opinion other than my likes and dislikes

>>8700185
I like this one, and it reads very well, its just that the ending doesnt take the whole poem into any direction.

>>8700329
I try to put the most emphasis on the theme and the images in the poems

>>8700455
I'm trying to convey that the man dies in the end of the poem.

>>8700179
>Ilya Repin
No thanks. Shan't be reading a word of these tbqhwy phammeaulamme