Poetry critique thread

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>>8725545
here's on I hope to revise soon
any pointers?

>>8725546
Seems weak to me, there are no memorable images, but the alliteration of the last stanza is pretty good even if the image is nothing special. Perhaps I say this because I am not used to read that kind of poetry, and what I have read I don't like very much.

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Posted this on the other thread, and a couple of Anons (to whom I am eternally grateful) offered some comments. Hopefully here more people will tell me what they think about it. Pic unrelated.

Were you to ask me now, I would not tell
The road I took to go from Primrose Hill.

Instead, I could tell you about its sky,
The blue behind the grey, the hasty clouds,
Impatient as the rain that came and went,
Announcing itself as it left the stage.

Indeed, I could tell you about the road,
The other one, that leads to Primrose Hill:
The riverside that outlines Camden Town
And extends the hubbub of its market;
Tunnels, bridges, graffiti on the walls,
And boats resting on water black from dirt.

And even more I could tell you: the church
In the corner of a street, made of stone,
Its frame as bible black as solid cloud.

And I could tell you about Primrose Hill:
The green darkness of the grass, moisty earth,
So soft it yields under the children’s feet
Yet budges not to hawthorn or foxglove,
Nor to the oak with the weight of the crows,
The shadows of its leaves, another cloud.
Nor to the Hill itself, whose mighty bulk
Supports the stony sky, and grants a view
Of London’s skyline, limiting the earth
To the perspective of the horizon.

And as it gently rains I hear the crows,
The roaring wind, the voice of William Blake,
The graveness of his tone recalls his talk
With the spiritéd sun at Primrose Hill.
Yet I remember not the sun, but night,
The night of New Year’s Eve, my first night here
In stranger’s land, among far stranger tongues.
But Primrose Hill distinguishes us not;
It shoulders all: the sky, the clouds, the rain,
Three hundred people there, a bench, myself.

But were you to ask me what road I took,
I wouldn’t tell, I could not tell, for I forgot.

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>>8725568
that's fair, I've been admitting working around on a subject I've had difficulty tackling. is this piece any stronger to you? (same narrator)

do you think linking these (and other works together will strengthen them?

I'm ruining my
orthopedic shoes that Aunt
gave me last January.
Sinless chromospecter
I recall in her letters.
Titanic vacuum on a sea
of everything.

>>8725546
I like this a lot ανον

Sneaky Fucking Anime Loving Madman Me, 2D > 3D!

sneaky fucking, anime loving madman me!
two dimensions, three dimensions
And you laugh at me?!

you know not this joy nor rage
shall you count your cages
die of old age?

ask not what, why the girl smiling
her heart uncrying shining beeps
blank pleasure through me!

you mock me? you dare mock me?
Ah, though I rage at ye, you
have a point, I see, I see.

anime, 'tis not for thee
you cannot see
this realm of mine alone
lies deep surrounded by a hart of stone

pity to me, pity to me, for the girls I date
are not three d's.

...two d's, you think me mad? a madman, me?
I sigh a whisper and blank, no kiss for me
two d's, I cannot hold my hart to thee

nor hold nor love nor conversate their dreams
for but a dream are ye
I laugh at me!

madman, me! three d's, thy conversation fear'd...

a coward. a cowardly madman, me...

Figure 50.21
Female appears.

Male swims zigzag to female.

Male swims toward nest.

Female follows.

Male shows entrance to nest.

Female enters nest.

Male prods female's
tail with trembling
movements.

Female spawns and leaves.

Male enters nest and
fertilizes eggs.
Found poetry. Campbell's Biology, courtship behavior in the three-spined stickleback


>>8725586

>anime, 'tis not for thee
>madman, me! three d's, thy conversation fear'd...

cringefest

>>8725579
This one I prefer, the first and last stanza being the strongest (they even remind me of Eliot a little bit), but "horrible blanket" is trite, specially "horrible", it breaks the whole image. The second and third stanzas I didn't like, there is no rhythm or form. I see that you tried to make every stanza stand on its own, but in doing that you failed to bring them all together as a coherent whole. I suggest rearranging them and allowing them to flow more freely.

As for joining pieces together to make them stronger, well, you may join a thousand weak links and never make a strong chain. A poem is as strong as its weakest line. Indeed, you can join them and make them a coherent whole, but if you do that in order to make it a stronger poem you are bound to fail.

I'll post it one last time, since I didn't get a deconstruction of it. I really want you to wreck me here. I'm thinking about not writing poetry anymore.

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.
Water and water will drown but an isle, lopped from earth's memory bottom to head.
We go on elsewhere. The raft still rotting and us,
uncertain on a flush piercing of red ingots of noise.
The gulf bent quarreling with a mad wind in a bedlam beguiling dead to the dead.
Water and water black and black overlap
up, up and forever wash.
Verse me a world and we will reverse
to some other thing, life is rinse and rehearse.

You'll rot easy on both sides as a metaphor: no martyr dies to name similars in things.
A word is high heresy, innuendo to joke, is a box of love is a box full of blood.
Kill it. Then lower meter into the yard, vowels mewl in small agony:
A bird in single paradise until man sang its threnody.
Wren wran werther,
across the appalachian sea.
Is death is the word what's worth in itself.

(O' Icon, what the hell do i mean?
Quem cavalo, quem cavalga?)
Snowmen, snowmen everywhere.
But not where we live. Sad, isn't it?

While megalomachina has a brief lemonade evening
sulking in an orange lagoon of sun, while the hour
is simmering, when time i---------
They will know most particulars and come slowly to hate them.
Polite, quick to quip and dapper.
Tea dip crumbling crisps and natter.

Meantime, leave me to whom a poet has created in me
and made us sad and cry and alone, let the
waterworks gush, chiseled me out of stone.
(Never so much have i seen a river,
never an ocean, cashmere nor basmalah.)

>>8725619(you)
kill yourself

Wrote this for my girl:

Heat

A foolish boy, once did see,
a sight of joyous purity
Disguised behind a zesty flare
a golden warmth was hidden there

He doused his urges and desires
vapour fuming from quelled fires
but beneath coals glowed unknown
sparking passions left alone

As time pass, to his surprise
He bore the weight of wanting eyes
Distance now left no protest
as raging flames grew unsuppressed

The flint of fate then lighting true
Lit infatuation well overdue
A new path burned illuminated
As cynic views disintegrated

Embers danced as two declared
Lest death take us we will be paired
But turbulent gusts revealed since blown
More timber burned higher flames grown

The flickering of a candle light
Join by other, burns twice as bright
Pushing the darkness further away
So the candle holders can find a way

>>8725545
wrinkled clouds like an old mother
wind down on happy streets,
kids today know a defeat
but wont have to mantle over it.
the chances are there, rattling change in pockets.
roosters still scream with flying newspapers,
read in backlit dust and small arguments,
the ones that matter, to the kids anyway.

I gave my heart to you, but what a waste,
We tried to make it work but it was doomed,
My soul, it sinks whene’re I see your face.

Our love developed with unwanted haste.
Your smile each morn did cause the birds to sing.
I gave my heart to you, but what a waste.

Your beauty shames the stars in sky and space;
Such grace again I don’t think I shall know.
My soul, it sinks whene’re I see your face.

Your absence overtakes me with malaise,
And loneliness, yet you don’t feel a thing.
I gave my heart to you, but what a waste.

Your love for life, I swear it never waned;
I stood back and watched you dance and sing.
My soul, it sinks whene’re I see your face.

Perhaps I should have fallen for the stars.
They’re not as bright but least I know they’ll stay.
I gave my heart to you, but what a waste;
My soul, it sinks whene’re I see your face.

>>8726547
This is bait r-right, guys?

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Fellow Poets hear my cry:

Dont be afraid of sadness. For no matter how bad times are, the worse they get the better they will be later. Nothing in life is visible without contrasts. There is no light without darkness, no life without death, no love without hate, no hope without despair, no happiness without sadness. So in the end, this is but a beautifull kind of sadness. For we humans are doomed, but gifted, to experience the marvelous univers and the fascinatingly cruel weirdness of life.

La infinidad del horizonte corta mis entrañas
En acecho a el tiempo y la viveza extraña
De la inquisición del frío lento en las manos
Y la escritura falsa perdida en los años

La luz del sol cae agresiva
No hay sombra a mi alrededor que me aguarde
El aire esta vació y sangre viva
Escucho mi voz y mi palabra arde

No existo en el umbral del ayer
La silueta me obsequia la ceguera y el deber
De partir a fuego a mañanas blancos
De surgir en el hojaldre de los cantos

Encuéntrame en los muros de piedra
Muerto entre puñales y plumas
Mis ojos cerrados y mi cara despierta
Simple en los caminos de fugas.

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When, long ago, the gods created Earth
In Iove's fair image Man was shaped at birth.
The beasts for lesser parts were next designed;
Yet were they too remote from humankind.
To fill the gap, and join the rest to Man,
Th'Olympian host conceiv'd a clever plan.
A beast they wrought, in semi-human figure,
Filled it with vice, and called the thing a Nigger.

When I’m woken in fireflies’ wings of mist,
the cold dresses me in my black sweater with the white trees and jerusalem crosses,
and I trolley into the gloom, the train pushes clouds around.
No one wants to say anything at all, but the trumpets play and the guitars
are shocked, wet, and distorted.
Carried away

warm and electric

static faux rain hovers outside every window
no one needs anywhere to go.

>>8727709
La rima no es consistente, senpai.

>a el
>vació
No hablas español de forma nativa, ¿o sí?

La métrica también es inconsistente, onii-chan.

Repites artículos y pronombres de forma irritante.

El lenguaje elocuente no te sirve para transmitir una idea que se ha dicho de mil formas en docenas de lenguajes diferentes de tal manera que resulte agradable de leer, por lo menos para cualquiera que tenga el hábito de leer poesía (por no decir 'literatura' llanamente).

Sin embargo tienes unas imágenes viables, como en la última estrofa.

Es mierda, pero puedes hacerlo mejor.
Además: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e3Rb9mIOivI

>>8728129
Lo siento. La cosa es que esos poemas los hago en 15 min con lo primero que se me venga a la mente y luego los dejo. Nunca los corrijo. Tampoco sé nada de métrica y esas cosas. He querido aprender pero mi universidad es bastante demandante, y lo que estudio está muy alejado de la literatura.
No llevo mucho tiempo escribiendo tampoco.
Gracias por la crítica igualmente.

>>8726472
Solid. I love it.

We left that night our separate ways,
the blessed grass’s fortune roots;
Feeding what little life found us
In that final moment, a sprout
Shooting monumental amongst boot-high
weeds, immense in the iron-fence chassis
Fusing ruptures, her and I the sealed ground.

"Successful swords, who find their mark,
Pierce not like needles fed from cherub’s heart.
For mine doth lay, so hidden away
Within a quiet nook of dust,
Whose glinted blade sat sullied in unrust.

Fair, foul, feminine creature, O’, divine for me
My future's intimacy– of soul, body, blood and mind;
Leave not yourselves to brutish apes
Who fight with vicious swinging fists,
Yet lack the hands for tender trust
Earned, by rights, by thy virtue’s sweet courtier,
And in most modest airs of chivalry.
I live and die in great service of beauty’s charity,
If my breath doth sweeten thee completely."

“Depth of a mudded puddle, thou
Knows not of the stink and sins of man;
Sweet in most excess is sickly,
Seeming a hive in most
Golden attire
One hand upon a cup of nectar
Fulleth over
As sticky fingers blanch its shine.

I think, I think, I dare not dream of dad nor mum,
nor therein the birthed Christ the son,
If by chance thine marriage bed –
Whence underneath the cogs divine its industry,
machinating states of disturb’d revelry –
lies inscribed the wound of revolt."

"Oh, I wish, I wish upon those
Constellated orbs,
To swing their glared apricities
Away from my dark territories,
The spires and clock towers casting shadow
Unceasing over this enclosed meadow.
A quiet space, divined by you
In airs of shelter from the greying hue
Of raindrops, thick and fast, might
Hold long against the storm; o’,
though my endurance bloodies by the dimming light,
I hope my fountain fain will yet quench your fears tonight."

“I hear, I hear the patter of snares
Gone marching softly the rooftop bare,
Punctus contra punctum
With the pounding in your chest,
In tones so low it slips through your throat
Or seized by the quake in your bones.
Thy wounded knight, stoic in the
Shackled tongue of his servitude,
Lies half-dead on the piste of faraway lands,
Whilst the king sits here,
Ravening the feast and spraying commands.
And though the blade still lingers in that bloody cut,
I hear his voice carried across the breeze
From o’er the red rocks and mountainous sand,
To whispering, now,
Ever softly amongst the leaves:
'I fought with faith in my kingdom,
But my fortunes hath forsaken all that I have become.
Father, lover, brother, son;
Torn from ancient chains and flung
at the distant feet of drifting spectres,
wandering homeward over this arid plain.

See now, watch as their caliginous hands
sweep softly the dust from beds of black marble stone,
Rivverrin dry from spurted thoughts to trickled desire,
To lie down, and lie still,
Shapely forms dislimned in their sleep
And become as death effigies buried by the deep.’"

>>8728213
No te disculpes, es parte del proceso creativo y del aprendizaje. Me alegro que quieras mejorar y que expongas tu trabajo a otros. Suerte con tus estudios, sean cuales sean.

>>8725546
Too many pronouns. Good substance, weak voice. Personally, I would remove "On" from the title, and as stars from line 9.

>>8728251
>too many pronouns
if you feel that way, then I may need a major reworking

>>8725578
The first four stanzas are solid, it starts to unravel for me at (29). I dislike "as Bible black as"(29), sounds funny, I would edit to "Bible black as" or "black as/like". That's all I got for first read, oh you need a title even if it's just a working title, might post more after another read.

>>8727725
A lot of this seems forced, though I'm not entirely sure what I mean by that (helpful, I know). Maybe overwrought? Not genuine?

"i'm woken" seems awk to me

a lot of the verbs you choose also seem strange, pull me out of the poem

>>8725579
The first stanza is good. You repeat "there is a great" in stanza two three times and I don't think it's necessary. The third stanza "I hear...ocean's[side note: edit to "ocean"] currents in a static vacuum" (11-12), is confusing. Fourth stanza get rid of "maybe"(14), and fourteen through sixteen is very wordy.

>>8725581
Neat

>>8725594
Good

>>8725647
Last line could be better.

>>8725662
Awesome!

Carolina camellias bloomed in the cold,
After months of rain y climas calientes on Christmas,
The 2016 balled dropped and with it the temp,
And here the coral petals go
Shivering.

Eskimo brothers can huddle for fashioned heat,
Or fling hostile blows, hands weak from cold,
Fingers frosted over, or appearing to be,
Really they’re rusted with
Dried dead skin at the joints
On its way to be recycled.

Brothers and I would pluck the mature buds,
One must be careful with this,
Must be sure to get the base,
Or the flower fell apart,
Musn’t pull from too deep,
Or damn near yank the whole branch.
We’d pluck them and toss them in place of snowballs.

you can only reap the seeds
once the earth has made them glow
but you shall never try and peek
while the earth is still in toil

for thy presence in that field
will make all the seeds weep
and at harvest time it'll be
you the one who'll be in grief

>>8726472
I would end the poem, like the last two lines or final stanza, with a different rhyme pattern to create closure for the ear.

all the words people write build a maze in our minds
a maze that is closed and will clog up our lives
life's path is as free as the sky for the bird
who roams free between trees without mind-forged false needs

>>8727720
Harsh

>>8728264
Nah, just a little tweaking,

>Creating the universe

Alone, dark,
I made places.
Took my flesh,
Rolled it in a ball,
Cupped This in hand.
Pressed us into a stone,
And shattered it again the
Wall of everything.

The shards shined.
Stars, bright, feeble.

Question why do most of you don't use titles? Is it a stylistic choice or something else?

idk how to critique poetry, but i did this a month or two ago

He was jumping off rooftops
And feeling the ground move
When on December third
His foot slipped and he died

He was walking down the street
And drinking his hipster coffee
When on December third,
He saw a body fall from the sky

He had his feet up on the desk
And sleeping with his hat tipped
When on December third,
He heard the phone ring

He was reading the news,
And not registering much
When on December third,
He tripped over a pile of bone and muscle

He had been to the world and back
And was sitting by the window to think
When on December third,
He watched something stranger than the world and back

He was walking down the street
And not watching his step,
When on December third,
He walked into the police chief

And when he realized
What they all were looking at,
Gathered in that weird circle,
He shrugged and walked forward

Last year,
In the sublime May,
When I danced with Greeneyes,
I felt thrills on a riverboat
Too great
To ever
Remember.
I found songs buried so deep
It was like forgotten treasure–
They turned purple when I first listened
And will never turn back.

Night never looked as black
As then.

And I don't remember a moon;
It is my only exception.

I play the night over
Like a movie
But it's lost its juices
Like an old drug.
I haven't found another since.

Each new viewing drowns it deeper
Into the river;
There can never be another Star.

A poem I wrote while browsing the thread.

>Don't forget.

You know, it's just the internet,
Are you hitting refresh, again?
Here, the board is stagnant.
Forever, just wait.

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Crafts and arts magneted to the fridge
slide down after fog rolls in the kitchen
and mother croaks in tow with the toads
who heed a thousand other eye glances
not. To deliver the goods badly and late
is better than to never deliver at—lose
the old adages like a bat bound to sight
when hearing has deafen the palated plight
slowly killing off the silent runners of night.

My lawn chair and I hang out in Marianna's trench
where we're not bothered very often.
The food is good and the people are nice
because they're are no people.
I usually go there to drink a beer or three
and to play rounds of pool with myself
spitshining the 8ball between rounds.
My breath doesn't bubble up because I breath water
which is to say I don't breath at all.
Sometimes I can hear my family think about me
like what they say about leaves in the Fall,
but when that happens I realize they probably don't think about me
because they've all disowned me, disowned me all—
or at least I'd like to think so
to make the trips here easier
when I do come so often,
here, my future coffin.

>>8728566
This reads like two separate poems, jammed together, make a stanza break at "-lose"(12), could help. Add a title. I'm not really sure what this poem is saying, are you being purposefully ambiguous? Also, "not"(9), its that supposed to be there?

be aware that awareness
is nothing but pieces
of the work made in places
that only god reaches

we can use all these pieces
in our daily experience
but when nothing ever seizes
new pieces are needed

if they fail to arrive
nothing will ever stand
if we try to survive
suffering will be our land

if we want them to come
we just need a full stop
for only in quiet and void
can new ideas be grown

>>8725662
ses

>>8728606
You have a strong message, you need to dress it up though. Think of it like a birthday cake, icing and cake, you have good cake but no icing.

>>8728363
Thank you I agree and will do something about it.

I fell for the Bukoski meme /lit/, crucify me

It's the aching behind your eyes on a tuesday night
in a too-small room with too-big thoughts
where nothing straightens and the girl won't call
phantom hands itching to lobotomize
in the streets the bastards abound
the bum on the corner froze to death last thursday
and the rain on the tin's howling for blood
and you've never been one to disappoint

>>8728626
Good, title?

>>8728630
i never title my stuff bro, something like "a gentleman's guide to dying slowly", or something else equally cringe worthy

>>8725613
Tnaks! I'm glad you like the first stanza (most do not, although I am quite attached to it). i'll take a look a horrible blanket, and I've been thinking about full on replacing Stanzas 2&3.

>>8728431
Yeah, the fact that you don't believe that changes the meaning of the piece significatly means the piece isn't translating well. The pronouns were intended to be hugely important, I will figure out how to fix it. Only other thing i'm really adverse to is all the punctuation slowly lines to a crawl (especially the last line). Please don't feel like i'm trying to disregard your suggestions, I think they point to potentially big issues underneath.

>>8728333
The repetition was purposeful, but I'm not sure it was effective. I basically hate the 3rd stanza at this point. The 'wordy' bit was intended to create a rhythm, but maybe I need to work on that too.

>>8728658
I don't worry about it, I'm happy to provide any insight.

>>8728621
thanks for the words. nice image btw, it is indeed the bare bones exposed. i just discovered poetry and im letting it out as it comes.

but wait, if it makes an impression on the reader, aint that its goal? cause too much sugar coating, even if it might give a strong experience at the moment, might fade the cake itself and thus fail to make a lasting impression... which is the goal of poetry imo. impression, not experience. cause the experience of the reader is not the poem but life itself, which he accompanies with the poetry, whose impressions might give him hints of the poets experience which he will maybe find later in his own.

>>8728671
Again, I appreciate it!

A Jaybird, born from contact lewd
Comes crawling through the sewer nude
Then homeless man, a wizard shrewd
Comes up, and speaketh, "Hello dude"

Says Jaybird, "Sir, have you no coin,
For naked man with lust of groin?"
Says wizard, "No, but I have lust,
And soon you'll feel my anal thrust."

The homeless witcher acted quick -
With sticky fingers drew his dick,
And soon the Jaybird knew the pain
The life that anal sluts sustain.

I wrote this for my boyfriend as an example of actual rhyming poetry the day before I ended up breaking up with him
lmao
my other stuff is better bc i only spent ~3-5 minutes on this but it feels important.
>write poem about boyfriend getting raped as a joke the day before i break up with him

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>>8728282
Thanks for reading! Bible black is actually from Dylan Thomas's "Under Milk Good". If you like King Crimson, they also use it as the title of an album and in their song "Starless". I rather like the image, I think it fits with the whole passage: a church made of stone is black as a storm cloud.

As for the title, I don't think it needs one, to be honest.

I hope you can give it a second read, thanks again!

>>8728816
Milk Wood, m8.

>>8728821
My bad, made a typo.

>>8726472
Like it a lot. I would delete the third stanza if I were you. Also change the ending lines like the other guy said

>>8728231
Great work. Do yourself a favor and don't post here anymore. You are better than that

It’s the tender touch, of cold fingers sliding across heated and feverish skin -
If only, for a brief moment two worlds collide


Fleeting and silent in the daylight -
And aroused to fruition in the whispers of the night


The few and the many -
But, for they all experience it as one.


The underbelly of the beast -
Only to rise up under the gloom of the moon


Like a fish coming up to breath -
Breaking through the soft waves and cascading ocean sprays


Only to disappear back in the abyss -
Forever hidden and only glinting at the never ending


The soft whispers, tempting and tantalizing -
To bring awareness into the daily life of the mundane and soft


Yet shied away from, for how would a fish respond out of water? -
It thrashes, contorts and sickens with rot.


It’s the bubble of civilization, the mask that hides -
The cruel, the evil and torn.


The abominations that dance with glee at the slashes accompanying a knife -
Takings of an innocent life, virtue and humanity. From the young, old and the in between.


It’s the sorrow that says a small hello behind the crinkle of a smile-
Or pain accompanying the joy of laughing eyes.


Yet the eyes stay shut -
For what would a fish do, out of water?


To witness the midnight streak, from the upper tiers of life, and glance behind the mask -
And come out still whole?


The mundane and soft -
Turned brittle and stricken.


It’s the tender touch, of cold fingers sliding across heated and feverish skin -
If only, for a brief moment two worlds collide.


Yet, what is there to do, when the pursuers of filth reign, high above in the skies under the blazing sun.
What am I to do, when I’m out of the water?

Posted this one a while ago. Thanks so some anons, I have revised it...

Night Hogs

I cannot explain that sweet music.
It was just playing out my window—
And It sounded real.
And it sounded far away.
And those angel voices
Were buried
By crickets and frogs
And other night hogs
And I know they were real.
God left my window open
For me to hear his angels sing
And his crickets scream
And his perfect guitars play.
I wanted to touch
And dance—
Tonight is a dancing song;
God made tonight that way.
Then the music stopped,
And I thought:
'I never see frogs,
I just now realize,
But every night I hear them.'
They're not far away.
There are real frogs out there.
And I wonder
'Why did God make them so loud?
And why the music so far away?
And where did it come from?
And did they dance?
(You know it would be a sin not to dance)
And was it real?
And will it play again?
And can I dance out there too?'

Those crickets and frogs
Are real.
And when that music played
I think it broke my heart.
And the frogs laughed.

>>8725619
Firstly, the style you wrote in is very strange, I felt like I was reading another language. But at the same time a lot of it did have a unlikely flow to it, and was very beautiful to read even if I didn't understand it.
Also, I don't know if all of that was one single poem, but after the second stanza none of them seemed to go together. It reads like each was different poem.
But please don't give up on poetry, there are some issues, but your style is very interesting and I actually quite like it.

>>8728677
You need a good balance of cake and icing. Your poem has a strong message but it's bland, it's not something I would read again because it's not doing anything interesting, just statements.
>goal of poetry imo
M8 you just started poetry you don't get opinions, you get to reading good poets, understanding the basics of how poems work, and keep writing and RE-Writing.

>>8730072
>not doing anything interesting, just statements.

so poetry is like some kind of drug to stimulate our minds/soul/heart and it is enough to sit down and simply read words on a piece of paper?

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i know it's trash, tell me why

>>8730121
Heroin is a drug. Poetry is an art form, just like painting, there are rules, I'm sorry your upset but it's the truth, it's a bland poem not doing anything, rewrite it, that's my critique.

>>8730192
It's not a poem .

We walked silently, flanked by greenery on
Both sides. We encountered others--criss-crossed--
On the way but remained silent anyhow.
Perhaps speaking would have altered it.
But what was "it"? We walked and walked
All the way to the crust of civilization.

On the manufactured earth's perimeter, we
Knelt on an arabesque. We prayed
And prayed--not to God but to angels
Because the wind shared their image with us:
The empty heaven. I reached down to touch
The tiny bleating waves and we played piano
Together. I pressed the black keys, they
The white, and you conducted. Just like
I said you would. Our etude sounded the
Notes to the tune of doors opening. We
Stepped into the elevator and rode it all
The way down to the earth's crucible.

The perennially circulating abyss had simply
A word of thanks for us. Lovingly, it undressed
Us, and in our nudity we were allowed
To run our fingers along its secret. To reach a
Hand into the dark fire was all we could do.

What changed in us that day? We saw the
Danger--the contracting, tightening force of the
Cosmos before it was born, and it nailed us to
Its opposite: an explosion. Our body parts scattered,
We were told we could never go home again.
Problem is, there was never any to begin with.
But space and time already know that. So we
Did the only thing we could: laugh.

-empty lovesong-
that the ages may pass quickly
was the wish We all had nursed,
still the rain relentless hammers
on Your vanquished window sill.
only You! but You are far
away from any human longing.
are You trodding on the empty
fields of final resting genies
where the last of Us are waiting
that the ages may pass quickly?

For a moment I thought
(as a fool does)
the power was mine
to bring together the pieces
of a broken foundation --
And I was distraught to see
(after my job was done)
several cracks unfilled,
and it crumbled apart
and I cried
But there was nothing I could do
so I quit.

>>8725586
Pynchon is that you...?

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Back then,

I think I was your favorite drug
when I fell through the pink
of your tongue, your sex.
In someone's sister's bed, we gave up
pieces of ourselves.
And your skin was soft, not like mine,
was water, made me wonder
what creature could swim through that bloodstream?
Mighty current of red, rushing out
of your veins and into mine.

And then it was over.

How should I recall that summer?
I think of it, each year,
when September crawls forth.
By then, the memories of July have
caught up to me, determined as they are
to set themselves ablaze, those martyrs
bathed in flame, singeing eyes and throat
with your name, until the season fades
and a stray wind carries me, all the same,
back to January.

>>8728470
Anyone wanna roast me

I dreamed you were lost above the clouds
Wishing I could pull you to solid ground
To a life you never got to lead
I called you down to me
And we ran and danced and played
It was the perfect day
But I woke up and you had to leave
It wasn't just a dream

You say they're lost here on the ground
Confined to only what they see
Not what might be
But they have a life of light and laughter and love
A gift you lost when you left for above
They say in dreams you abandoned me
So you could be free
They don't remember how to dream

I think I'm lost with my head above the clouds
So far up I can't see the ground
I think I'm closer to heaven, to you, than ever before
But dreams make far away fantasies draw near
And nightmares draw them closer still
Untill you can't see around the lies your mind makes
My heart aches
I still dream so I can see you here by me

The final chords of a half written song
So sad the story told
It ends with discord and everything's wrong
Too bad the empty hold

Distort the audio corrupt the files
Static destruction haunting these aisles
Terror and virtue go hand in hand
Shut out the world so mellowed and bland

Nectar of the dark vine
Withers pain of the mind
Violent is the new fruit
Our newest drinking line
So embrace, indulge, express, expand
Invade the places they claim contain the bad
Terror sleeping in streets
Trapped between your bedsheets
Nectar of a memory
A dream you never had with me
Deeper growing the roots
Violent is the new fruit
So distract, divulge, directly destruct
Seems like life runs out of luck
Terror stalking a mouse
Trapped inside walls of your house
Nectar of poisoned breath
Bringing closer to death
Hardening of the eyes
Violent new fruits are blind
So create, crafting characteristic chaos
Lies create illusions of trust
Terror laying next to you
Trapped in webs of lies and truth
Nectar of the dark vine
Withers pain of the mind
Violent is the new fruit
Our newest drinking line

Sing me tonight
Your little melody
Sing that its alright
This is just a dream

Swing down from the starlit night
Where you're captured in memories
Sting, it's just a little bite
The way you pierce through me

All I am is bittersweet and melodic harmonies
All I am is an old friend who missed your company
We do
What you
Say is best to be
We swear
It's true
The words you dare to speak

Inner dialogue speaks in fractured analogies
Mind so distorted that consciousness is a dream
But dreams become nightmares when midnight strikes
And the loneliest cries themselves to attempted sleep
Greatly fearing the moment the sun will rise
And they will be forced to rise to ride this life to the end of their nine to five

Inner dialogue screams that the world is bright
Both morning light and sunset bringing night
Because despite the dreams the mind can't sleep
And behind their eyes is a secret to keep
Of wanting to stand again on two feet
And press back against the weight of the heart
That slowly and carefully tears apart visions of their nine to five

Inner dialogue slowly stops and admits defeat
Under the newest failure in summer's heat
When their own two feet begin turning to ash
Causing systems to crash and then at last
Their conscious dream doesn't seem to be
Any sort of obtainable world to see
And seeing is knowing that they're sinking not growing when they again begin their nine to five

>>8728470
>too great
>to ever
>remember.
Not personally a fan of writing like this. Paragraph breaks mid line annoy me for some reason.
>but it's lost its juices
Change juices for better word. Dunno why. Juices just sounds weird.

>>8731234
>Pynchon
no, thanks for the heads up though. I didn't read his shit even though I know how popular it is. I thought it was pretty clear, but hey, I had my fun writing it. Whatever that dirty bitch does afterwards is no concern of mine.
>>8732218
I'm sure you get it but I didn't. Reading a lot of amateur poetry like mine, I get that same feeling. The great stuff just makes you go 'well fuck' and yours just feels like a mess on a kitchen table with roaches making a motel.
>>8732530
Style similar to mine looking at my other poems, you're using repetition better than I did and the meaning is clearer. I think it's good shit, but then I again I think my shit is good, so we both might be fucked if you think your shit is good too.

>>8732670
I'm
>>8732530 (and like the 4 right before it)
I never think any of my shit is good.
I don't touch poetry for like a month then out of nowhere I spew something out on a paper in 5 minutes and don't touch it again. When I do reread I wind up having to fight the urge to throw it away.

Coup de Grâce

a eulogy for the nights we
didn’t have to speak.

a warm blanketed embrace was
our aubade to the settled serein and
the rising sun who illuminated the steam
of our breath as we said farewell; you, so fair,
made me well.

these nights I long for loneliness
to constrict me &
choke me to sleep but my bedfellow looms over me;

a tumultuous love that deafened you and
weaved it’s way into my long, greasy hair that won’t
ever terrorize your bed sheets again.

if I cut it off perhaps you’ll be free of me.

my God gives me signs and your universe gives you signs.
We read them & burn them down.

I read a bunch of your poems. Now im going to sleep.

>>8726472
http://vocaroo.com/i/s0CEivRraklZ

>>8732526
http://vocaroo.com/i/s1UCMBK09kgi

>>8732459
http://vocaroo.com/i/s132te2nTX96

>>8728606
http://vocaroo.com/i/s15j98z9HC2v

>>8727720
http://vocaroo.com/i/s1ttvvLr1dJt

>>8725578
http://vocaroo.com/i/s0C67lG5kPvq

i just wrote this, pls abuse me

Through the window- sudden flash, as if
paparazzi had been following? I'm not that famous.
Peeking through fingered blinds, I watched the first patters
(mosquitoes can recover midflight from being hit by raindrops i read that in popular science once)
and came to a quick decision;
an intuition;
an instinct?
Shoes- on. Jacket? leave it let's

GO out the door down the road through the woods as i feel upon my face the minute
*plink*
of pinpricks? (piano keys?) no, not nearly so painful- of
the lightest touches given of the fingertips of angels

As the trees slip past I feel myself leave
retreat (re-treat?) into the whorls and folds of my consciousness
as my body moves.

My shirt's gone now.

i just
run
until i can't.

And I'm back- found my shirt (it's a bit damp)-
dragged from God knows where, returning to now.
A warm nose greets me (is that a pout I sense?) as I stagger in (next time, brother)
peel off my vestment and swaddle myself in terry.

I am baptized.

so much depends
upon

a red wheel
barrow

glazed with rain
water

beside the white
chickens.

>>8732519
It feels incomplete to me.
>but that's the point lol

>>8732906
I've read this before...

Two princesses,
dressed to go out,
have toppled over
and come apart.

Most people
lack the negative capability
to appreciate
snuff films.

I’ve always been drawn
to gore
and filth
and real things that happen.

My traveling companion
didn’t want to
see this.
I wanted to take a picture.

To think,
their last breaths
were wasted on crying
much like their first ones.

Perhaps two men
dressed to go out are sitting
somewhere and
waiting for their arrival.

How long will
it be before
they realize
no one is coming.

And tomorrow,
when the road is hosed off,
the two Men will be
waiting for different girls.

Its been a bad year for poets


The floodwaters rose
seeping into our souls
and washed away all
that grounded us.

These are the words left to the wind
for only howls and cries of fright
will be remembered these days
not the silent weeping
of trees waving goodbye.

We argued until the early morning
pitting our tongues in twitching turns
between that T guy with the bad hair
how terrible all these Superheroes are
and how not to burn coffee.

Its been a bad year for poets
for the days have snuffed all light
in favor of fluorescent haze.

>>8733579
I like the enjambment

>>8730984
Someone tell me how to improve this please.

I wrote this about my study desk

Sloping books set to topple

Calendar perched and smiling

Sword of Damocles the tag

hanging now strangling tomorrow

Notes strewn like kitty litter

remnants making me bitter

Powder perfume guard the meds

peeking and forgotten

Man's attempt to curb death

perfumes for the cells and bones

>>8733745
write more poems and get people to tell you why that poem is shit, rewrite it, then realize that it was good the first time and you have no confidence, find confidence, then never get it published because you're happy that you wrote it alone and there's no market for this shit

>>8732861
>http://vocaroo.com/i/s0CEivRraklZ
Hey man, thanks for that. Gave me the chills hearing my own poem being interpreted.

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Sorry it's not just text, I've been forgetting to type it up. Hopefully it's easy for you guys to read. I really think I did well on this one; I would love some advice.

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Not inherently a poem. I started writing a song and it got away from me. Now I'm not sure if I should complete the thought or scrap it and start over. It's not finished, but I'd enjoy feedback and how it is in its current state

http://pastebin.com/raw/xkJh9Wpz

>>8725545
how do I write poetry without just thinking of it as prose in line form

>>8735485
It's all about structure. Intentionally effecting the way the reader reads the content to emphasize meaning. It's digging trenches in the sand so that birds see the silhouette of a man.

Like how:
'Because I did not stop for death, death kindly stopped for me'
-flows and has a rhythm to it. But wording it as:
'Since I didn't stop for death, he decided to stop for me.'
-loses that imagery, vividness, and rhythm that was established before. Meter, flow, imagery, metaphors, and out of the box thinking are the driving forces behind differentiating prose from poetry or verse.

>>8735469
NSA HQ is separate from the USG. OMG LOL

>>8725545
Counterfeit Sumerian silver coins
Rest idly atop a stone hewn altar
Like an interest paid for a debt,
An offering delayed and nearly forgotten

Dancing flame, from sustenance seperated,
Hopelessly gnawing at hte white-hot disks
Searching, fruitlessly, for a meager meal
Fighting the drifting silk of last living breath

They grow more numerous each passing day,
White-hot coin glowing softly in an amber-golden flame
Thrown in to remember, recall times past
When man called God's name, and God answered back

Title: Festival of Fireworks

They blossom in a thousand trees on a windy night
And blow scatters, the stars like rain
While the cart’s vulture-head scents up the road
The phoenix flute plays
To the glint of a cup in jade
And the long fish are a dancing night

Still, your moth-edged eyebrows are the snowflake’s blessing
The gold of your ears, a lighter perfume of laughter
And I have looked for you for all the years
A hundred times over, never finding
But one turn of the neck
A person is there
Where the lights are slowly waning.

LAUS DEO!

Laus Deo!
I've made it all work
I've took sharp cracks from the whip
Of my greatest tutor
But this is what I did it for!

Im swelling with pride
Tingle little flutters to my toe
Like kisses to my lovers cheek
I flush red then died

I gasp for air
This achievement makes
One of the happiest deaths to die

>>8735748

An interesting take on the concept, although I’m sure this kind of looking at an ancient thing and thinking about the mythic past has been done better before (e.g. Ode to a Grecian Urn). I feel some parts are over-modified.

For example, although you want to use “drifting silk” to create that ephemeral quality – you link it up to a lot of words that double upon the effect. A lighter touch would probably be:

Fighting the last drift of living breath
Fighting the drifting silk of last breath

And this is the same with a lot of words that aim to push for the sake of just creating effect without structure – “hopelessly gnawing”, “searching fruitlessly”, “glowing softly”, “stone hewn”. All these terms create excessive ornamentation, and when mixed with simpler statements, offset the flow.

>>8725619
You seem to switch styles from stanza to stanza.

I'd say your second stanza was you best.

The whole thing kind of reminds me of Gil Orlovitz. It's like you put the reader into the scene and then take them out, and you repeat this throughout the whole thing.

Your style is very interesting, but somewhat lucid and distant, which may not be something to worry about with a poem like this.

All that being said, there's definitely some awkward wording in there. My advice would be to put it ti the side for 2 or 3 weeks to distance yourself from it. Then come back to it and revise. You'll have a much better idea of what you want it to be.

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I've already critiqued two. Critique mine and I'll return the favor.

I feel like I am burning
Up inside
My roommate sleeps
And I write
At my desk and stare across at Naismith
My cough won’t heal
My neck is stiff
And I feel like I might want to go away for a while
Put some space between the world and me
Lock myself in a motel room
And drink wild turkey and rail
All the Adderall I can afford
stay up all night and act
like I woke up early
I want to whither and
Turn out a vase of flowers
That I can show to anyone who will look
To prove my life was worth something
If only this vase of flowers

>>8725619
There are some very interesting twists in the words, but if you're aiming for that 'mad-grammar' type style, you need to be either denser in your imagery or lighter in your tone.

https://www.poets.org/poetsorg/poem/anyone-lived-pretty-how-town

ee cummings over here, for example, can violate grammar because he's extremely light in his style. So it feels childish and yet profound.

>You'll rot easy on both sides as a metaphor: no martyr dies to name similars in things.
>A word is high heresy, innuendo to joke, is a box of love is a box full of blood.
>Kill it. Then lower meter into the yard, vowels mewl in small agony:

Something like this is third-rate confessionalism. It's melodrama without any interesting twists from what came before it. When you use any poetic phrase 'e.g. metaphor, word, innuendo' and mix it with the standard love, blood, death, "mewling in small agony", "threnody" -- that's been done like everywhere before. It's only different in its structure and specific images, but same in its sentiment.

>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,

This stretch is interesting and whimsical, but why did you have to go and destroy the tone with the melodramatics? Remember that the strength of a person like Plath was that she could be both whimsical and bloodily sarcastic at the same time. That's why Daddy is such a crazy poem, because the words are brutal but the tone is so childish.

I think you have potential though. All you have to do is to understand focus and editing - and never say more than you need to say while always finding new ways to say things (and not just by coming up with 'surreal images', but by choosing a startling image at the correct time)

My diaphragm heaves, and I walk the hill
That I have been upon – to count my days.
I have seen this path again and again, held it to the vein
And felt the route rush through the legs
While my long stalk
Breaks its prints upon the dirt. It will be gone
By the end of the day.

Every hill I climb is a different hill
As sometimes the trees are thinner sticks
And sometimes the grass is crossed with dew
That opens up like a silver book.
Every hill is birth, and past its prime
And will die
Before I have breathed it in.

I will be my lungs, weightless now, later breaking
And my hill, by then, will be a sturdy brook
Of every air I have taken. I will recall
The youthful look. I will be pained in the face
Until my cheeks heat red with blood
From the plain wood of my legs.
Every walker will walk with me. I will make
As my undertaking –
Kindness into a sacrifice, and loneliness a need.

To the hill I return again,
And the plants have changed, and I.
But this is the hill I have walked again
And will walk for my whole life.
I have stepped the side to count the days
And climbed the slopes of time.
I do not wish for a better thing,
Than my hill, my love, and mine.

Sixteen million colors screen
Blue light over me
I'm shopping for a new screen.

A Consequence of Drought

My russet mountains are burning.
The skies have turned jealous watching their autumnal rug–
A lucid beauty they could never know–
And made the flames real.
I have not seen the fire
Only the smoke.
And my lungs are drying more and more each time I breathe
The opaque eveningtide–
I have never seen such a bittersweet orange
Nor air as thick.
Even as the warmth is sucked
From places where the sun has lived
I know the leaves smolder in the east
And the Westwind coughs like me.
But I have not seen the fire
Only the smoke.

My Darned Dog

My Darned Dog
No longer a puppy yet
He still bites and he still barks
Though his playful prance to me is fine art
And his chomps are in good spirit
Though I still fear it
Could put him in doggy slammer come soon
And in the concrete cell taste the clear liquid
Which looks, smells, tastes nothing
And whisks My Darned Dog with it into nothing
And nothing scares me more

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>>8735932

-the money tree-

Someone gave me a money tree.
I planted it a few blocks away.
Everyday i must tend to my money tree,
hoping it grows big and wide, and makes me rich.

But caring for the money tree is not a simple task.
Sunlight and water do not nourish it.
Only blood, gasoline, sweat, and tears make it grow.
And those things don’t always come cheap.

Plus everyone is trying to steal from my money tree.
It’s small and pathetic right now,
but hey, money is money.
So I had to build fences around it, and keep guard all day.

Now I sit around, surrounded by barbed wire,
with the smell of blood, gasoline, sweat, and tears in the air.
Every once in a while, the greasy old tree coughs up a 20,
and i run to the corner store to buy fresh gas and syringes

>>8735937
I sure hope My Darned Dog never does this to me.

Would love any comments. Have only shown it to a few.

The House Guest

1

There’s a problem in my house.
A wood-dwelling, seasonal pest
That hides from certain spaces lit
By other uncommon forms of light
To feed forever on that unused.
A harmless flutter on stale summer air

Shouldn’t cause a mere frustration –
Nor might the cobwebs on my fenestration
That only spells might dust away
(But are, more than likely, to stay).
I’d have them down – but never out
If they’d ever respond to my Obey.

But I’d never conduct nature in such a way
To make it fear a larger hand
And sweep its homespun trap away –
No – leave it as it is willed to develop –
I have no problem with it.
We let nature be in our natural home.

At least, until our friends arrive
Well to do, wanting to impress
Our slovenly nature on none but us
To hastily make scare the evidence
Wouldn’t harm a soul. No,
We know this problem is ours alone

To be responsible for –
We’ve cleaned the house so many times
That we don’t quite know what else to do
Someone else may have to come and look
Closely at our corners, snuff them out.
But I sense that that won’t work too…
2

By some minor miracle we made it through
That summer, and by the fall, many had died.
The house was cold - they could not grow –
We noticed one day how their webs were different
Stringy, thick - rolled up like a stormcloud
Speckling the interior.

What is it, to wait, and in absence
Of some deeper exterminate
Find a tempering body growing?
Our home had hopes to stand apart
(Keep the outside out and inside in)
But those were dashed – we let them in.


3

Those years we lived in homeostasis
‘Til larger life demanded larger spaces
And I was asked to clean the barn
Spotless as we had found it. But for a pause
I stood, vinegar poised astute –
Unable to spay – spray, nay snuff

Them out. I sighed. Our time had come
And night was closing in. Tamping a final flame
Something inquired within my soul
Must we rid ourselves of moths by trying?
Or is there another way to cleanse a home?
Probably not, I thought, and sprayed.

In the whorl of ancient spires, in the core of Duragh Sin.
As a sparrow's beak on the mount of eternal day,
the Knife whispers on thought made flesh made thought made stone—
to pare what need not be from that which must cohere.
And Heaven's withered eye shall stare a thousand times
as it goes to one who must be, from one who has become,
In the whorl of ancient spires, in the core of Duragh Sin.

>>8735309
If you're too lazy to type it, I'm too lazy to read it. Fuck off.

Man, these are just wrong. Beyond shit.

>>8735272
No problem man. It's a nice poem.

I've noticed that a lot of posters on /lit/ try really hard to imitate the romantic or classicist poets. I think that's part of why these threads are hard to read through sometimes. I don't see a lot of originality in this thread, and a lot of the ones that are are detested and not critiqued.

I don't know if lit is so much filled with good writers as great imitators.

White nose powder faced umbrella
Coming through with 5 diamond rings one on each finger
Gonna teach you how to live and when to pull the trigger
Gonna make you cum like the leak in a wine cellar

(Fuck your credit card
And throw cotton on skin
Because numbers in the air
Ultimately count for nothing)

Push down, shout out
Whisper in his ear
And pull out when he's done
Because there's terms and conditions
To temporary fun

Loneliness is the gift that keeps on giving
And the gift is a charity shop jumper at Christmas

>>8728555
You guys like this?

To the dusk's ruebenesque stubble brushing
deeply against the moorland's supple underbelly
that breathes with the breath of the earth,
askance the moondigger's eyes stare
open in the crowd of faceless masks
blinking wildly when blinking means to ask
how much longer between then and death
by which I mean how long till the last breath
how many seconds until I kick the bucket
or how many till I bite the bullet, say fuck it?
The caterwauling commands emanating from my chest
deliver bad tidings that turn troughs to crests
and the harpsichord tongues maroon the depressed
sentiments called termites inside my home's frame
carpented by Jesus, from somewhere in Spain—
or where the speak Spanish at least.

Nursing Watch

Passing through my fingers,
These bone white digits,
A black wristband.
Pulsing around the face,
This blood red minute
Gave life to time.
Pausing before midnight,
The giver gave in
A glassy eye.

Of lovers
Who look like mother
As they close the door
Don’t say they’ll leave
Dress with the draft
Away on the breeze
She let carry her
Into the sea

Whisper now
Warm new voices
Familiar somehow
Prophecy of choices
Inhale deep
Air the promise
They ignite and keep
Beneath burning sheets

Cold hand on
My naked cheek
The liars leave so
I can get some sleep
And dream of life
I’ll never know
She left it open
The wind blows

When the stars fall from the heavens,
Onto this dull rock;
It is a rather shame,
To see such beauty be mocked.

The people here are restive,
But it is not their fault;
Society, it has a bad motive,
Like an ever-contracting vault.

Was not Sociwty created by us, and us only?
Is it not the thing that makes us mad, and makes us lonely?
Or was it the use of a God's creativity, in the inception?
He or She, would be furious, if not a figment of the imagination.

So Society was, and will remain, a cage,
Handling extreme anger, and rage;
It rules all, it orders all, it is such a thing,
By any chance, is Society our king?
---
Written ages ago, when I was around 12 or 13.

Here is one I've just translated from my mother tongue, I'll point out where there are plays on words.

the automatrix

if today's life didn't lack savory
I'd marry it
a plasticated artificial intelligence prefabricated in the rusted breast of our mother(in my mother tongue the word I used is the old word for mother which is now only used for Mary or nuns)

it is of no importance where you look as long as you don't do it
our heart is beating in sudoku rythms
this is the polyethylene's mathematics that pollutes the atmosphere
swallow down the emptiness and vomit when you take a bite from the rotten apple
it was said in the times of yore
now we're used to it
and we're getting used to the unusual in the rythm of the disappereances
of the clouds high on the ceiling
お前のひぐらしだ。
(you scream although everybody can hear you)
you want out
there is no outside
sin(again, in my mother tongue we use the word sin for saying "what a shame", making a play on words on there is no outside sin and there is no outside, what a shame!)

The Japanese part is also a play on words, higurashi being the word for everyday life, but also for cicadas. That part means "It is your day to day life/cicada". Still, the poem works just fine without it being translated, the idea is conveyed no matter what.
What do you think of it? Is it bad/retarded/acceptable?

I think I'm going to present this at the open mic tonight, what do you guys think? Please don't bully me, I'm very sensitive.

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1zvxMD2dQneRH0iK8KhbitpBZ9XwEaXYStpSj9obaaC0/mobilebasic

Hey guys, I don't usually write poetry but I said I'd give it a go, typed this out on my phone while I was making a grilled cheese. its about a girl, tell me what you think.

Off The Hook

I still think about you a lot,
Even tho I probably shouldn't,
It does neither of us any favours.

You said you were selfish and that you wanted me to stay your friend,
Even tho we knew I couldn't,
You said I was keeping you sane,
I said you drive me mad.

I think about what I'll say the next time I talk to you,
Even tho I probably shouldn't,
But I said I'd come back some day and be your friend.

I thought I was the selfish one then,
Because I wasn't able to stay your friend.
And even tho I couldn't,
I only wanted to be more than your friend.

I'll come back some day and say something,
I'll come back some day and we can be friends again.
Even tho I probably shouldn't,
Even tho I probably couldn't

>>8735927
anyone?

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>>8735927
>>8742499
Its interesting. I wouldn't say bad, but there's not much to latch onto except for the obvious imagery and vague emotions. I don't really get anything out of the poem.
The imagery is pleasant. A blend of red/orange fall descriptions oddly contrasted by the idea of a forest fire, which should match but clashes nicely in my mind. Mountains glowing and subdued by smoke which flows in ribbons on a wind. A lonely narrator troubled by the scene.
I sense the obvious melancholy and frustration, but there's also envy somewhere in the emotion of the piece, I think? Not yours which seems obvious from the first few lines but overshadowed by the somber mood of the rest of the poem. Still, it feels significant, more than is said.
Sort of presents a problem that is causing the speaker trouble, but they feel trapped, unable to deal with it, either because they don't know how or they are totally unable even despite their understanding of the situation. Their hands are bound.
I dunno. Its hard to interpret the meaning of the piece because the emotions and story are vague. The imagery is very nice though. I would say maybe write something more apparent. Its good to obscure meanings with metaphor, but don't go too far or you'll lose people. The visuals are all that really kept me reading, that and a desire to know what it means, but its frustrating when you can't know. Maybe try mixing the pleasant scenery with a clearer narrative or objective.
Perhaps I'm just dense. But that's my opinion. Overall it feels like you're trying to describe something, but without ever really saying what it is or could maybe be. Ironically, this plays to the feelings of confusion and gentle frustration from the narrator, leaving me just as perplexed as he seems to be.
Not bad.

Brain leak, cerebral flow
Rustic spinal cutlery
Neural splinters in cellular eclipse
Bone marrow fountain

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>>8743108

>>8739844
Too obscure.

>>8743184
What does that mean

Block our view
block the light
block the bay
the sun, and sky.
Cranes are swinging
back and forth, back and forth.
Wire frame, then flesh
of steel, glass, concrete.
Now OPEN!
Now LEASING, RENTING
SELLING
Everything YOU NEED!
A woman taps
on the pretty new glass
She has the light, the bay.
Block out the tents, far far far
far below.

>>8739688
I dig it. What if you removed the 'ing' and just had it
>Pass through my fingers
...
>Pulse around the face
...
>Pause before midnight

I think it keeps a better ring to it this way, but I don't know jack about poetry.

>>8739663

Imo this suffers from having too many adverbs and adjectives. There's nothing wrong with dense poetry (I quite like it), but this feels quite forced. Likewise, some of the rhymes read like they had been jammed in there simply for the purpose of rhyme (bucket / fuck it).

>>8728594
You have something here, rather than nothing. The conceit has potential. The deepest point in the ocean as a hang out, metaphor for isolation. I get it. "Spitshining the 8ball" is black twice without coming across as morose. A nice touch.

"/There/ are no people." - a detail.

The family is not clear. There must be discord to have conflict, but I don't scan what it is, or was.

The ragged almost rhyme scheme also falls within my camp - the sense of emotional wheels wobbling on rickety axles which may fly apart at any moment. All - Fall - all ; often coffin. It is fair.

There are many structures which are not syllabic nor sonorant. Simple symmetry, for example, or narrative arc. For example, the lawn chair, which is given the weight of a companion, may transform into a coffin.

This draft, a pencil sketch, could bear the load of something like 10 more lines, which brighten the darkness around the family, and hint at the choice of the trench as it relates to the preference of the speaking persona. Keep the unexplained incongruity of the conceit, however. The assertion of a pool table at 39,000 feet requires no further explanation, and the disjoint juxta affirms a sense of pain without the blow to the nose a direct assertion would inflict.

>>8744068
Why would you say it is too obscure? Is the imagery I try to create too...shallow, I mean not something you can latch onto on a more profound level? I always thought my metaphors may be a bit...weird, but I really tried to make everything understandable and ciment it all under a simple ideology that prevails above all in this poem...

>>8725578
Anyone else want to comment this?

what happens if I try to catch an every day problem of the modern society.inc

being conscious is a genocide to all the fans of Richard Dawkins
being unconscious is an en masse suicide behind parish clothes
to be is a grain of sand in the coffee of the next intellectual to scream "Evrika!!"
not to be is to be "on drugs"
the tiredness of the global warming dizzies even the most sober of heads in the jury and makes him scream "Sold!" from the top of his lungs
if it is still a contact lens that floats on the amiotic fluid of public opinion
not even in the arsenic filled glass in the dead nature will a clear reflexion of the modern woman be seen
there is no need for Kafka to turn in his grave in order to see how the spleen becomes the new bittersweet chocolate in golden wrapped package
likeliest he won't even do it
who would give the worms in there for the worms out here?

the broken neuron of a familiar alien
atop a turtle
is a gas fueled engine forgotten in service
if getting tired is waking up
the day will sleep for another 40 years under the rule of the Egyptians

>>8729102
I've commented before about a poem I can't attribute, but it was about a char playing a harmonica, and the structure of the piece depended upon neither rhyme nor syllabary, but a play upon the word "harmonica." In the first stanza it refers to a metal mouth harp. As the music is over-heard by various bystanders, the word develops into a description of a common experience, now a noun describing the metal instrument, as well as the effect it was having - people were experiencing "harmonica."

By the end, harmonica becomes an abstract transitive verb denoting the ability to confer a brief moment of convergence of attention, will, and belief.

Just an example. "Structure" is such a co-opted term, mistaken to be restricted to prosody. I could make an argument of great length with hundreds of examples that "some kind of intentional program" is the sole distinguishing feature of modern poetry or at least that which succeeds, whatever that means.

Your animals' music appears to me to be sincere. Through the middle and to the end, it is difficult to find much more than an arpeggio of the initial chord of wonder. The frogs also supersede the hogs. I wonder what they could become if there were a progression to the melody, beyond the notes they have already played?

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toads
frogs
the effect of river currents on the deposit of sediment
subsequently
changes in the local wildlife


out
far away
lost jet ski
cocaine
tears
the absence of a past
two or three years existing in a dull vacuum
empty and forgotten weeks and months


sunshine
rain clouds
falling trees


temporary sculpture
finite shore
small towns in
Maine Rhode Island Virginia New York Colorado Illinois Michigan
any place with a large body of water
I suppose


Chaparral lips
Riverian hands
forest ecology
leftover food


come
take
breathe
leave

>>8745148
It's a place piece, so it confronts, or is confronted by, the tradition of place pieces. Since I smell a smoky trade paper Norton nearby, you must be aware, if only by dint of Bonglish origin or association, that a place piece is going to be interrogated as such.

So we are in the company of daffodils, or skunks, or misty mountain winds.

It lands closest to a meditation, one of those Norton word paintings whose take home impression is one of intentional selection; in which we detect a second voice saying "and I choose to look at this because of that, and then I choose next to examine that because of this." Which is all fine and dandy as an apprentice piece, like the gold coins they used to paint on the master's floor to see if they could get him to bend over to try to pick one up.

The only place I would mend the torn canvas is where "gently rains" is contradicted by apparently simultaneous "roaring wind."

It demonstrates a studied awareness of a Romantic sensibility and tradition, but having been there and done that, I find myself still on my feet.

>>8744104
I like this
however
all of this can be expressed without the bluntness that occurs within the middle of the stanza, caps is not needed, reads like being hit over the head a bit. otherwise -- this is good! very pretty in an odd way
>>8739844
absolutely phenomenal! I only wish I could read it in it's original language...

however, the switch to japanese seems uneeded. you can rstate the same thing without needing to resort to, how should I say, 'cleverness?'
that is your biggest flaw here. you're good. show us that you're good, rather than how clever you are. no one is effected by cleverness, cleverness leaves no lasting impression
.>>8739663
Put the Thesaurus down. Express something, mean something.

>>8745274
Actually, I've switched to Japanese on purpose as it is a language not known by many and not understandable unless you have some prior knowledge of how to read it, so that you don't even have a clue as to how it is pronounced.

This is because it all goes perfectly with the next line, that you scream, but everybody can hear you(your life, although they can't understand it since it's in "Japanese". Of course, Japanese can be replaced with any "insert weird script language here" and the concept holds water. It isn't about what the Japanese part means, but rather about how you not being able to understand it connects with the next line. At least that's what I've been aiming for.

Where are the words when you need them?
By God, what fickle a mistress creativity has become,
As I am eager to please upon every circumstance,
Watching her draw about her release with an ink-stained tongue.
She swallows my words, my aspirations
By God, am I to exchange vows with this woman?
The wedding bells carry the same notes as they have for the past centuries,
And I am finding myself ever more frustrated on this altar,
Than when our summers had been spent in the throws of our lust, a symbiotic warmth in the winters.
You left me quaking in wait for your next dose, a brilliance that would was guaranteed to dazzle and amaze when I opened my mouth,
And it was your voice.
You great unfinished symphony,
Am I your ghost writer?
Do I dare spend my days with a woman of such reputation amongst the population,
Your abominable aphrodisiac leaving me to grovel at your heels,
Spit at my willingness to please,
Wring me at the neck for my train track, one and done mentality.
You were mine to own,
To call upon and will you to my fingertips,
Because I could not stomach the idea of finding you anywhere else,
And you redeemed the little I had to call my own.
Was I in love with just a phase?
Be mine, or consume me;
I would much rather a fate by your jaws than a life of mediocrity,
To be swept into your maw than to accept my withering ability to write,
Forgotten within your constricting gullet to prove I am of more use as food than I am a creator,
For what am I to leave my worth dangling so delicately before your eyes?
I've grown ever tired of anointing myself with titles,
Carrying myself on matchsticks,
So that I may be consumed the masses I believe to be surrounding me, pressuring this reaction-
When in reality, I ony submit to you,
Your blank pages staring me in the face with a hunger I cannot satisfy,
A lust I no longer can find within me, the very mantelpiece of who I identified myself as devoured by your gnashing teeth.

I hope to be swallowed by your stories,
If it means I become but a sentence in your Lovecraftian sonnets and crafted words,
And that I may be rendered original in some regard,
I welcome you with open arms and my eyes closed.

>>8744089
It means I don't like your poem. It doesn't appear to have any substance.

>>8746069
A pretty vase can be appreciated without containing anything.

I Love You

The world is dimming and soon it will be dark
The skies are being painted blue to grey to black
In a whisp of frayed colours
Sewn together by the life that never dies,
Paintbrush strokes of a symphony on repeat
An everlasting youth that will surely have no end
Much unlike you
You, who are worth a thousand skies
A thousand symphonies
A million dying nights, A million living dawns
A million days on earth
A million dreams away
But we are not the skies
We shall fade and not return
Our blues and greys will fade to black and there will be no dawn
Our colours have but one palette
Our symphony has but one chorus
Such is the beauty of mortality
Of the knowledge that it is not forever we are gifted, but just enough
Just enough to love
You gave me not forever
But just enough
And that is the most beautiful gift of all

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>>8746515
Ah, but if only your vase was pretty!

And what use is an empty vase anyhow? It will always be waiting and wanting to be filled, only an ornament without purpose.

I'm not unwilling to appreciate your piece. It just doesn't say anything to me. I personally am of the persuasion that poetry should be meaningful, with purpose. Doesn't mean it can't be simply beautiful and expressive as that's a purpose in itself. However it strikes me that yours is neither.

Don't be discouraged or offended, its not personal. I just think perhaps you could do better. Maybe someone else will see your work differently.

>>8746040
>>8746539
Are these both yours?

>>8745125
Thanks compadre, I appreciate the thorough feedback—solid stuff

>>8745274
i didn't use a thesaurus i swear i just poorly use big words to make meself look bright like a light

>>8744226
you're entirely right for the most part

A fox was followed once
Behind a hedge
And then another

Lacquered black
Fashionable beast, she was
Carefully buttoned undercoat of brown and white

Surface values only, this was known
But there was much debate in the Senate
About the look:

Chin slightly dipped
Behind a lattice of black, that green
Like looking through tall grass into a pond

Old men talked in circles
But in the end
The people's will was done.

The fox was captured
And a great triumph held
With elephants and music, fireworks and cake.

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From a slanted perspective,
it was not him to fault
Who to blame but our God
for a young man’s curious thoughts?

A freethinker by the day
and a religious by night
His mind was the battleground,
his ideas -- the fight!

Always destined to greatness
in his own little head
Guided swiftly by spirits
of those who are long dead

Astounded by nature,
though very little tan.
A tad bit misanthropic
but a lover of Men

If he’s not mentally ill
then what on Earth goes on?
“He’s just a romantic fellow,
He loves putting a little show”

But is it really just a show?
It might just be an addiction
How can one even live
in such horrible contradiction?


He’s vagabond in disguise
Who keeps saying “the world is done!”,
but knows very certainly
that his life has just begun
P.S.: This is my first and probably only attempt at writing poetry so any feedback would be nice, thanks.

>>8746782
Wew, I even fucked up the formating. Guess I should kill myself indeed.

>>8735825
sounds like a shitty nu metal song m8

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I don't usually post my work, but I'm kind of drunk and want to know what you guys think. OC, do not steal.

Skinny Children

I sat, Saturday morning
Sitting with a ghost
Blowing broken rings of smoke
To the rafters
My soul dripping
Like spit for my laughter
The wind whipping
Stripping my soul
Of its shiny shellac veneer
Without you here
My dear
I am alone.

>>8746907
I really like the flow of lines 2-4. Like a smooth lyric flow with a sudden halt. I think maybe you should focus the rest in s similar style, because after reading that the rest of it felt kind of jumbled and I couldn't get a feel for it. Also stripping my soul is kind of an emo line

>>8746920
Hmmm... I often do that in my work. Begin with a fairly strict pattern and then break it or sporadically move between structured and unstructured. I've been told before its kind of odd. I guess maybe I'll have to stop that, or at least be a little more uniform from now on. I always try to ease into it though.

>Also stripping my soul is kind of an emo line
I get that. But its meant to be literal in relation to the following line. Something is being removed. I used stripping because "shellac veneer" is like wood coating, which is "stripped" when removed.
Does it make more sense in this context? I guess if I have to explain it it should still be changed anyways...

Thanks for the thoughts.

>>8746575
I only made the first; the I Love You is another OP.

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it was the first poem I ever wrote t b h

>>8746907
>shiny shellac veneer
Nice.

Your wordplay is cool and I think the poem reveals itself easily. Good reveal and setting up 1-4, lines 5-8 evoke the confusion of loss and the last three lines are concise & deliberate.

But going back to lines 5-8, try to use less gerunds. The -ing ending sounds nice and round and soft everyone knows but there's no challenge to it. (Can't remember who wrote that it sounds like an apology but I think that description fits) Try an -s ending, it's sharp and fits with the short lines well for a something like

>My soul drips
>Like spit
>For my laughter

A little change of phrasing and arrangement alters that dramatically, I think for the better.

Just my thoughts. I haven't reviewed anybody's work in a time, hope this is food for thought going forward. Good work, keep writing anon.

>>8747237
Same anon, one more thought. To be more deliberate, I'd also take out "like"

It's your creation. Nothing is akin to anything, it is what you say it is, so that makes

>My soul drips
>Spit
>For my laughter

Okay, done now sage desu

Girls in their winter clothes
A tree’s falling leaves
Shade from the sunshine
A cold windy breeze
The moon’s somber face
A shadow’s dim light
The things that I love in life
Just don’t shine bright

A song whispered sullenly
The sun’s gentle flare
Soft snowy fields of white
And long flowing hair
A night’s somber, nipping breeze
A distant church bell
My mind slowly crumbling
My thoughts locked in cell

For all the causes that I’ve fought
And all I might as well
For all the care that disappears
And passion that’s been quelled
No more time to stand around
No more time to grieve
For girls in their winter clothes
And trees’ falling leaves

>>8747237
>>8747239
This is very good advice. Its clear and constructive. I'll definitely consider cutting back on the gerunds and using "like"less, the points you made were good. I don't think I'll edit this piece specifically, I rather like the way it is. I feel the choices I made work. But moving forward I'll definitely make use of it. Thank you.

>>8747223
I like it. Very modern. Reminds of the poets of New England circles I've read. But it seems better than most, more genuine. Rather comfy and simple, not really any extraordinary style or structure, but certainly personable and pleasant, nothing feels forced. If this was your first poem I'd like to read the rest, it shows promise. Quiet good quiet good.

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>>8747352
Thanks a lot, it was my first so I didn't try anything too drastic with it. Experimented more with later ones like this which I wrote about a pretentious acquaintance I know.

>>8747396
This one is also good, also feels genuine. The anger is palpable. Also a bit more complex, but still mostly unrestrained. The standard/slant rhyming adds some flavor and the vague hints at patterns offer light structure. A bit comedic actually, but still serious because as I said, the frustration is very apparent. Also, while still possessing a very modern feel, I think the more complex language, rhyming and structuring brings a sort of contemporary feel, like the poetry prior modern works. So it adds a sort of flair.

Reminds me a lot of the way old world medieval and Renaissance poets would send each other diss poetry, kind of like rap beefs. They'd insult each other in incredibly vulgar and personal fashion, all in the form of a nice poem.

>>8746566
I understand. Thank you for the feedback.

As I Say

He always told me
"Thou shalt not kill."
On my twelfth birthday
He shot a raccoon
In my backyard, leaving
Me to watch it twitch,
Plead, cry, bleed,
Die.

He always told me
"Thou shalt not steal."
On my fifteenth birthday
I had to visit him in
Prison. I felt guilty
Just by being there.
That new television was
Too good not to steal,
I guess.

He always told me
"Honor thy father and mother."
On my seventeenth birthday
He came to live with me after
His mother threw him out
For punching his father in
The mouth.

He always told me
"Be not guilty of the sin of envy."
On my twentieth birthday
I awoke to find him gone,
My keys gone, my car gone.
Bound and gagged in the
Stolen vehicle's trunk were
Trust and Good Will.

He always told me
"Your life is not yours to take."
On my twenty-fifth birthday
I saw the story on the evening news.
I saw the pictures of a young man's
Body, still, silent, surrounded by
Empty prescription bottles.

He always told me
"Do as I say, not as I do."
On my thirty-third birthday
My bed feels softer than ever.
I lie still, silent, surrounded by
Empty prescription bottles.

>>8747612
Blogpost: the Poem

The reader can't identify with any of the stuff you wrote there, buddy, he will always think it's either shit or lame. In my case, it's both.

While
I sit
in some lecture,
My mind drifts off-
Behind my eyes there is Elsewhere.
Other shores under different suns. Daydreams of buying a nice place in Tangiers
or attending swingers parties in the Caliphate.
There. Staring off into space, while in that
classroom, I may find myself in the
ultraviolet aisle of a Walmart® searching
for the new Chex-Mix® that has valium in it.
My weary head might sink back into
other visions. I could be sitting on a waterbed while watching Seinfeld;
The episode where Jerry woke up and found that
he had turned into a cockroach.
Scenes that feel like actual memories might approach me.
There was that time when someone handed me
a pamphlet for the Cult of Cthulhu. I didn’t read it.
This continues on and on and on from now until
my mind can no longer wander.
I sit and think of how many lives
I’ve lived outside of this room,
and other rooms,
and outside of myself.
This nebula of Absurdity vibrates
back to form and line and order.
My geometries go back to being Euclidian.
The pilot comes over the intercom and announces
an upcoming assignment for the course-
and I leisurely float
back down into
that
class.

>>8743011
Thank you very much for your words. I try to make most of my poems pretty vague, usually I want to leave the meaning for the reader to contemplate, but make sure they get the emotions I'm trying to put across, which I think you nailed. I actually live in East Tennessee and we have some really bad forest fires right now, the smoke is everywhere and it just kinda inspired me.

Two princesses,
dressed to go out,
have toppled over
and come apart.

Most people
lack the negative capability
to appreciate
snuff films.

I’ve always been drawn
to gore
and filth
and real things that happen.

My traveling companion
didn’t want to
see this.
I wanted to take a picture.

To think,
their last breaths
were wasted on crying
much like their first ones.

Perhaps two men
dressed to go out are sitting
somewhere and
waiting for their arrival.

How long will
it be before
they realize
no one is coming.

And tomorrow,
when the road is hosed off,
the two Men will be
waiting for different girls.

My seat is warm; I've occupied it since the morning–
A stiff and drowsy awakening in a blue Lethargy.
Blue from the sky, which had no moon, nor star, nor sun–
Just shapeless clouds arriving in Saturday.

I know nothing's happened but daydreams dreamed,
Leftover homework left for another day, I accept
And laugh apathetically at all the free people dancing–
Getting lucky, getting drunk, getting high off Saturday.

The ideal is just a fantasy that maybe I'll once enjoy
Once upon a time that I cannot anticipate
I don't see anything but blue; yellow's a forgotten color
Saturday is just a loss. Sunday looks no better.

>>8725546
>Remove "us."
This poem clearly isn't a love poem and we never really learn who the other person is, except some vague lover cliché. It's about a person and the thing they're creating.
>Why the italics?
>"The shards shined as stars" is almost impossible to read. Don't introduce tongue twisters accidentally.
>Move the "the" at the end of line 7 to the start of line 8.
The enjambment doesn't do you any good, and "the vitelline walls of everything" is arguably your best phrase, in terms of acoustics and in terms of what it means.

>>8748141
it's not a love poem, but it's supposed to play with the royal 'We'
i'll rework it to get that across.
I can agree with the enjambment issue

I'll look at the sonics of the last line again, but i'm not sold.

the italics in the series are meant to signify a quote to help establish context (the other piece's quote is corrupted however)

thanks for reading it, your feedback is appreciated

>>8730011
>>8735813
>>8735839

Thank you all for the informative responses.

I am after death in the no place
But because Death is on vacation
Everyone gets a day off
To go to some yes place
And mine is the ice cream factory
Where I lasted three days
As a teenager, boxing fudgsicles,
And there I am back on the line
That whispers like a long tongue
Dark prophecies about my co-workers
And just like before they come down
Faster and faster, and in my haste
I cut my finger on the edge of a carton
And pretty soon the foreman comes
Shouting down the line about
"Can it possibly be fudgsicles
With BLOOD on them,"
And he traces the trail to me
And starts bellowing like
A whole orchestra in a pit,
But this time, because
Death will be home soon,
I do not guiltily acquiesce
Like before, but instead
Unwrap a fudgsicle, and biting
Off a hunk down to the stick,
Say to him that he is beautiful,
That they are all beautiful,
And he should give them all
Vacations and raises in pay,
And just then, to everyone's
Astonishment, when it looked
As though he might really blow,
I just faded out, like in some films
Solid to vapor to wisp, to nothing,
But not before I scooped up an
Armful of bloody fudgsicles to take
Back with me, something frozen and
Sweet, and bearing the sticky mark
Of seriousness, my life so handily
Upon a stick.

>>8739844
Hey, guys! I wanted to ask you something and since this is the only place I've posted my poem, I figured you are the chosen ones.
A friend of mine asked me if I could recommend her any poet similar to my style since she really is not into poetry and it was only my poem she got to read. I myself am not into post-modernism, since I'm not really into naturalism and language brutality and whatever.
Do you think you know any poets who write as encyphered as I do without resorting to imagery too...intense?
Not in a good mood, can't seem to find my words. I'd be very appreciative if you could lead me to some poets. You guys are da best.

>>8747808
predictable structure, no rhythm. try again, or don't

>>8748121
I mean, it's okay, pretty mediocre though.. write about something interesting

>>8746776
I love this. It captures the elusiveness of what people call the "essence" of life, different for everybody, celebrated too easily. Maybe we should just let it go.

>>8745199
enjoyable & breezy, yet somehow elicits clear imagery

>>8735939
I like it. Not sure about the "plus" though, another "and" will do.

Hope a voided

Avoided my hope today. It was coming at me, that
hope and I took the path away. Down that street
I voided my hope. I'll find another on the way.

Avoided my hope yesterday. It came at me, I afraid
ran away. It's too scary, let my days be the same.
Fortunes for me? They will bring shame, doubt,
blame, grime, clout, require my technique
Voided that hope. Good riddance I say.

Avoided that hope tomorrow. I told it never.
It listened. How kind, dear hope, you listened
to me. However, do I have to keep reminding
you not to call me? Will void, again and again.

Avoided my hope, forever. Time has past, future
sealed. I'm glad. Never again will I meet a hope I
need to void again.

Here come the answers
They'll arrive soon enough
I know they'll be here
Oh, no, don't get up
They'll come to you
They have the matches

I shouldn't get up, anyways
It's dark, I might trip and fall, then what?
What good are the answers then?
No, I shouldn't try it
I might break my lantern

I wonder how much carrots cost

They're not coming, I know they're not
Matches aren't very bright anyways
They probably tripped and fell
All the more reason to stay

I'm leaving
I'm going to find the answers
You'll trip and fall, then what?
I'll crawl
Hit the lights, please
They cost money

>>8749795
carrots are about 2 bucks for 2lbs. by me
otherwise it's pretty good

>>8749795
2/10

>>8749325
I don't write about things that aren't interesting. Everything I write is a unique feeling or thought that I feel strongly. Nonetheless thanks for the feedback.

Maps in braille
and satellites made of clay,
the 52 hertz blue whale
and pheromones on the subway,
lost like prepositions in an acronym
or Anthony Hopkins as Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman—
head movies of Splenda sweet honeys
fishhook my cheeks and pull softly—

oh, and the other day I was catfished
by a hooker named Kylie
to whom I was too nice to deny
my tentative patronage—

I drove home listening to I Can't Get No
(Satisfaction)
deleting files of putrid pussy smell
preventing the download to complete—

but 120 degrees is children's temperature
for hot cocoa and/or coffee and/or tea,
so dollars spent on time wasted
is every Thanksgiving Turkey ever basted
and every race ever hasted
and every link ever pasted
to the wall winding away in waves
caving in on cones and rods in caves
blinded by the sanctifying darkness
that renders hemorrhoids in the light
every night.

Now hit command 4.

Three little letters
I'll never understand:
T, R, Y:
three little words (never birds):
tea, are, why
drink to be questioning
why I drink, walk, and stop mentioning
the brown bagged bum catching my eye
slumped lowly over the curb, probably high,
leaving us disinterested, ignoring the why:
pain, drains draining drops of rain,
and the invisible demise—please—
we (who? me or you?) continue
and I turn to my friend again
to ask him why
he thinks he tries
forgetting the 25th before sleeps simple start:
call 'em triple z's.

Sleepwalk into the bookstore
to hear the silent paper echoes
of cradled candles tasting of water
only to meet a Betty Birch
eyeing Into the Seven Woods
twirling her hair with a chopstick.
"I like that thing you're reading,"
words hit her in the face
like canon-balls made of styrofoam.
"You have something on your face
and it looks like 'dondé estabas',"
words hit me in the face
like eyelashes cut from race-horses dead.
"Pick me up on your way to wherever,"
air-shapes escape my ham-hole
like a new-mute soprano.
"But I'm staying right now
but watching Robocop 2
and Stalker later with you,"
air-shapes escape her hair
like an elevator handshake with the Pope.

Seven years later my son tells me "Dad
why does Bambi make me so darn sad?"
And though I want to go on
I just change the song—
and sing along
to the songs and songs,
the changing of the songs.

>>8750577
hey I really like this but that's probably because I wrote it

>>8747396
http://vocaroo.com/i/s0jnoCMl51us

Personally enjoyed this one. Your wordplay is fun.

>>8750455
>I don't write about things that aren't interesting.

But you just did.

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Why almost all modern poetry (at least in English) doesn't have rhyme? Does it mean more creativity, or does certain poem become an avant-garde one?
Or people are that much retarded and can't find proper words to make rhymes? I thought being a poet means that you actually CAN find words to express your thoughts and do it gracefully.

>>8751477
Tradition now is to have some meaning that the reader is supposed to get and how you get there with the language is what's admired. Some people want to splurge out and arrange a bunch of words to their liking and others put actual work in.
'Good' poetry is clever poetry in my opinion. There's nothing else to judge but how clever it is, yeah I see you don't like the fact that your ex broke up with you that's nice. Did you say it a cool way? Did it rhyme when I didn't think it was going to rhyme? Does it sound nice? I think those are the only things that matter with poetry. The rest is wanking off.

Fireflies in our bellies
guide the way through the woven branches
as my hand slips into the
knots in your back
to unravel the frayed ends
and let you come fully undone.

>>8751795
Yes, you're right. But still, rhyme is a basic thing in poetry and shouldn't be ignored just because an author delivered his message. Absence of rhyme on its own doesn't make any positive effect, but almost always it means that author is just lazy.
Of course, poetry should have as little rules as possible, but when someone neglects basic things it probably should be done for some effect or have some artistic value.
Ignoring form for meaning is not something that should be admired, though in some maximalistic experimental genres it may be considered a good thing. But let's agree, we talk about not that kind of poetry here.

>>8751477
Really it comes from a misunderstanding of modern 20th century poetry by contemporary poets. All the way back to the 20's when poetry was really beginning to be deconstructed and revolutionized. There occurred eventually a split between those who considered traditional styles superior and those who wanted to push poetry further. As a result the "traditionalists" removed themselves and began writing poetry exclusively for other "high-minded" individuals, while the modern movement began to write for both the thinking and the common man, i.e. T.S. Eliot vs Robert Frost.

This had the effect of popularizing poetry, which eventually became over-saturation in the current post-modern era, where people confuse the deconstruction and style of modern poetry for lack of structure and freedom, presumably allowing anyone who can string descriptors together to write "poetry".

So now you have people with no understanding of what poetry is or should be writing poetry. They have no interest in communicating profound thoughts or creating new styles or subverting old ones, thus degrading the art. They believe poetry need not rhyme or have substance to be poetry. There are examples of this in this very thread. Its almost an ironic age of poetry.

>>8751845
Yes, but how many people would even want to take poetry seriously these days because of this? You have to already think poetry is cool to understand the difference between an amateur spilling on the page and someone who is putting a great deal of effort in.

>>8751868
There's the rub my friend. The pain of we who love poetry to ever be associated with posers. Not only do they not understand and lack skill, they posture and act superior and intellectual to everyone else.

Poetry has become a temple for psueds. And the hoighty-toighty perception of traditional poetry coupled with the hipsters of today have entirely ruined poetry for the masses.

I personally still think there is hope for revival, especially seeing the trend of literature's new popularity. One can only hope and strive.

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>>8749320
minor edit

>>8749419
I have suspicions that may be a real poem troll, translated from a non-English language, or available only in print. I lack the encyclopedic enormity to prove it though. It's just a hunch.

>>8751842
There is a ton of poetry from the last fifty years which rhymes. Also the forms have never been abandoned. There were a couple of big sestinas within the last couple of years.

So I reject the blanket generalization that form is dead. It comes from paying selective attention.

For the rest, the idea of "form" has vastly expanded since the early 20th. Marrianne Moore almost never rhymes, but her "forms" are more rigorous than any Italian.

Now we have narrative forms, semantic forms, syllabic forms, thematic forms, memetic forms, etc. Most poems which appear formless as compared against the traditional prosody handbooks actually are attempting, or executing, a structure of their own.

Which is not to forgive the truly lazy, or truly deceitful, of which there is much. Some Trees indeed. But as for simplifications into A and B, Occam was a STEM guy, and never traveled here.

>>8751868
>>8751899
What is the "structure" of this poem?

Always

by Mark Strand

Always so late in the day
In their rumpled clothes, sitting
Around a table lit by a single bulb,
The great forgetters were hard at work.
They tilted their heads to one side, closing their eyes.
Then a house disappeared, and a man in his yard
With all his flowers in a row.
The great forgetters wrinkled their brows.
Then Florida went and San Francisco
Where tugs and barges leave
Small gleaming scars across the Bay.
One of the great forgetters struck a match.
Gone were the harps of beaded lights
That vault the rivers of New York.
Another filled his glass
And that was it for crowds at evening
Under sulfur-yellow streetlamps coming on.
And afterward Bulgaria was gone, and then Japan.
“Where will it stop?” one of them said.
“Such difficult work, pursuing the fate
Of everything known,” said another.
“Down to the last stone,” said a third,
“And only the zero of perfection
Left for the imagination.” And gone
Were North and South America,
And gone as well the moon.
Another yawned, another gazed at the window:
No grass, no trees…
The blaze of promise everywhere.

>>8725546
Vitelline is really out of place. You've got some really basic words and then you toss down a smart boy word. Work up to it or use more sophisticated language in the rest of the poem. It isn't very memorable and is rather cliche overall. Maybe poetry isn't for you.

>>8752794
cliche? pls explain, that last bit was just insult btw, not critique

>>8725594
hahah so cool, man

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PLEASE!!

>>8752605
It is called "free verse", I think. Many lazy poets try to write like this, because some good poets did so, so why bother?

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Crossposting(>>8755076) from the critique thread because I'm a shameless bastard

Translated one of my own to Spanish, not sure if it is poetically and grammatically and idomatically correct.

Estabas como
Una naranja
Acre, dulce, vestida
Desvestida, como yo pele la piel
Gruesa de tus espaldas
Y antes fuiste desnuda
Pero aun vestida
En el encaje blanco
Que mis dedos diestros desenlace
Y antes fuiste desnuda
Y mis labios se lazo en
Tus piezas pequenas, redondas
Abrazando la textura de mi
Piel contra tuya
Mi lengua se muerde
Con cada paf fuerte de acre
Mis ojos brillaron con el dulce
Dorado como el babeo abajo mi barbilla
Hasta el amargo de la semilla no miya
Exploto en mi boca.

Offer, acceptance, consideration
Duty, damages, breach, causation
Life in being plus twenty one years
Though, Civ Pro is what promulgates my fears

>>8727720
get out lovecraft

wew this is old

The population roared for no more;
That autocratic, affectating king who sat perched upon a gilded pyre,
An act-in phoenix awaiting his trial by flames.
So often would he fold himself into the crowd and serve as an earpiece to his reign,
Whoever speaking low and ill of him to be slain.
Quietly, but of course, as they swung from their mortal chain;
His audience would observe, smiling upon his subject as any ruler would
Though, if they swung from the barracks, it was a matter of if he should.
The country’s crescendo began anew when that man of that blameless disposition
Wed himself to a woman of ill position.
Many a mouth ran of tales of her infidelity, a deflowered woman at the height of her ability;
A monstrosity, the people cried, and demanded that the king be tried.
Rebellion swept the country at a blistering pace
Lead by a silver mercenary and his companion with a sharpened face.
Consumed by a wrath for their homeland’s depravity by the king of hummingbird morals,
They appeared on his doorstep in the midst of an aristocratic couple’s quarrels.
Seizing the queen, cornering the king,
Their appetites for retribution had devoured the two in its full swing.

>>8755073
Did you notice that the scale of things disappeared gets bigger by orders of magnitude each time? That what starts as a quirky conceit ends up being a conversation with and about the concept of negative capability? That the conversation takes place in a context of dissipation, which suggests parallels to the process of dying?

There is most certainly a structure there, and its reasons for being are much more provocative than the humble trappings of the characters suggest. It even pre-figures a pop-lit icon:

"Only when you have lost everything are you free to do anything."

Italo Calvino would agree, with both Mark, and Chuck.

>>8756182
Comma splice at the last sentence

>>8754510
I chime in more in curiosity about whether this exchange will produce anything like an advance of our mutual understanding of how this kind of piece is supposed to work, than with any intention of delivering any operational insight.

I think we are supposed to be reading a description of an emotional state, and that state is a pleasant one, since 'cloud nine' is an aphoristic phrase referring to a condition of happiness.

I can wrap my head around 'stop motion blur between movement,' and can follow 'expressed as a fraction of light,' at least in the mode of a blind man being led by the elbow, and hoping his nose does not intersect a door jamb.

So too for 'pretend like we're young,' through 'leaving.' From there to the end, the weight of un-anchored abstractions crushes my hopes of arriving uninjured. The alleged crime which crashes this party, especially, arrives with such mystery as to confound all search parties who return to the ground above to seek its clues.

Upon review, I can see where the 'gravity' has been traded - elliptical assertions of floating up, of being 'higher,' of being on a cloud in the first place. The crime however is a successful one, in the sense that you get away with it free and clear of any explanation of why it is in there.

I am aware of various schools whose manifestos launch with assaults on syntax, semantics, grammar; whose common cause is disdain for the sentence. What differentiates all of them from the canon is that their specimens all require an instruction manual to "get it."

This is the reading of an orthodox-er. What have I missed?

Remus and I,
Reanimated from the waves of time,
Were spawned of sparks and wire
And of a stream of viscous gel.

Remus and I,
Withheld by the wild,
Found help from the royal wolf
And heard a bird's toned cries.

Remus and I
Left without mankind.
Beyond the screen and ideas of our minds.
Let us bring a grand place into view.

Remus and I
Stole your young and all the undying
As ringers for construction chimes.
Innocent walls went up.

Remus and I
Built circuited lines
And society spilled inside
But a place like this needs only one king.

I
Am the coming right,
The holy light,
While Remus is not foreseen.

The asteroids are starting to reign down.
The belch of ignition echoes clear
through the atmosphere.

I stand here with a calculating expression
on a mountain top.

With a baseball bat.

O'Day had a triangle sandwich, and sat next to me.
He hath many tongues
So it is gone, so soon.
I know he might take off at any time,
and I would have to go for him into the goom.
He said
"I hent been marry
Since I was sixteen
Before I went to West point."
(He stopping to rub on his nose)
Carbide mad wrungler is he
I lived in Town heights, and I knew every man.
He'll never come back, because he died in a storm.

>>8757797
The women all had names of distant
cities they had never traveled to.
Though they let me into their suburbs
to explore their carefully landscaped lawns, in bushes
mountaintops
places where we wont speak
only whisper in cautious tongues
"Be careful"


And made promises (though in no way could have conspired)
to leave me at their city gates
once I ruined the rug.

>>8757830
shoot didn't mean to quote that.

>>8757392
This is pretty cool Anon. The language is a little simple for my taste, but that's just me. I love the flow and theme.

I am a pretty whisper in the night;
A breaking voice in some sad song;
A freezing ocean within a frozen body;
The night's alive, the night is strong.
The universe looks down at me
But I look across its twin black sea
At houses cruel; houses bathed in light.
The moon is invisible tonight.
And winter's poisoning my feet
Pain invades, warmer hands defeat,
For now, the sting of this true wind–
So quiet!
Why can't young February roar?
How thankful am I no car speeds by,
Laughing at my freezing ocean, frozen body.
My only friend is the night
And I carry on the conversation–
A pretty whisper counting seconds;
"I won't go in, I won't go in."
I'm a broken voice in abandoned song
I'm poisoned feet walking
Into the cruel house bleeding cruel light.
I am leaving, alone as I am,
The moon was invisible tonight.

Houses sit still in their squares
Dogs wait behind fences
Whose owners sit at tables, on chairs
But trees stretch out beyond boundaries
For borders they seem not to care

warning this flows like a river of bricks

i should do a vocaroo to illustrate how to make it work but even i can't manage to pull anything great out of it so i guess i'm just trash posting

would still appreciate a comment as i'm attempting something more like a flow of consciousness and even if it wont be great i at least hope it can be interesting

la ,d'où je véhicule mes eructations érailées
moins même qu'une ébauche
un tracé si grossier
cette pathétique chose, figure erronée
se trouve pourtant en osmose

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>>8760885
p-pls respond...

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I'll try to critique some that don't have many comments when I get the chance.

trees are nice
cars are not nice
but cars can be nice
what's up with the jews?

>>8757821
Your word choice is unusual (obviously), and I think this might be the poem's main strength. Words like 'hath' seem out of place, so my attention is drawn to them. The problem is that I'm not convinced these odd words add anything to the poem except strangeness. For example, I'm fairly certain I understand what you are referring to with "triangle sandwich," but is this the best way to refer to his sandwich? Or is this poem just meant to be strange or esoteric? Only you can answer this; only you truly know your intention with these word choices. Personally, I think you should consider whether everything you use in this poem contributes to one purpose. This poem is so short I don't think you can get away with multiple points, though I think you could use some of your odd language choices to your advantage: multiple interpretations seem possible with this style of writing. Overall, I found your poem interesting, but definitely not my style and seemingly incomplete.

>>8759081
My problem with this poem stems largely from its first few lines, though other lines turn me away too. Basically, it seems very 'emo' or 'goth.' It seems cliché because of this, like something a high schooler might write. Rather than feeling sympathy for the speaker, I'm inclined to snicker and wonder if this poem is meant to be ironic. That being said, I think the line "Why can't young February roar?" is actually interesting. I wonder if you could focus on the metaphor of young February; I feel like there's a lot of unexplored potential there. This poem is actually at it's best when it's not focusing on darkness. I recommend considering what this darkness means to you as a poet and how you could portray this metaphor or feeling without making it sound like a poem by a teenage vampire.

>>8761293
Good job. I honestly can't find a single issue with this poem. It's very eloquent and intellectual. It's truly a moving poem, an excellent example of minimalism. Yup, darn tootin', this here's a masturpeese.

I know something is missing but i can't pinpoint what went wrong. I posted it a while back but haven't been able to come back to it with fresh eyes on my own. Help.

Tall are the sandstone monuments of pattering secretaries on delicate ankles connecting men to men and money

Fountains of modernity trickling from lightbulbed steeples down down and misting over rushing nobodies

Tar covered cobblestones breathing in the next ideas of the great society, witness to the ones that were

But the streets are slowly sighing and the scurrying citizens are panting on its slopes while the sky seems farther away.

H.H. and Annabell

A garden setting; a sprawl
Of stars above, painted in white messy dots
Amongst a backdrop of dark purple-blue,
And hard tufts of green grass
Upon a rocky earth that my and Your

Feet danced upon—running away to
Whatever seclusion You and i might find in that
Maze of bush and bramble. Your hand guided me
As i gave You my feet—happy to be led away,
As long as i was with You.

Your parents, those vile creatures that loved You,
But not us, ignorantly slept in the home
You ran away from for a time, to be
With me, the boy You could not love,
But You would dance with this boy.

Our little feet finally stopped and i
Reached out for what we both wanted
Me to find; and i found it, as You found
The scepter of my passion. And i
Remember that You leaned against the bush

With Your mouth open in a quiver
And Your legs around my hand in a twitch
And then Your parents were heard by the snapping
Of twigs and You forever pulled Yourself away in anger with me.
Annabel—Black Woman—You ruined me. But your conscious is White as snow.

>>8761898
Overall i dislike it but i do really like the last part and i like the idea. I think the lower case i's are on purpose and they turn me off completely along with the capital yours. I think the middle part is just already cringey (i don't mean it like a meme, it's uncomfortable and awkward without being meaningful). The little boy stuff and the scepter combine just awfully. I would take out the part from your parents until this boy and take out and i found out while you find my scepter. Just my biased opinion

Mine>>8761883
is

>>8761964
Also sorry I'm on my phone and falling asleep so hopefully you can understand what i meant

>>8761898

>But your conscious is White as snow.

Do you mean conscience?

>>8761883
I like the repetition and the play between greatness in terms of size and greatness in terms of man. It ends with what I'd imagine is a sigh as if to say "There's nothing anyone can do to change this, but there's something not right here". It seems to me that it points out that our large cities may make our accomplishments look greater and our prides are supposed to be indulgent when we see a new skyscraper rising, but there's still something not there that makes us unhappy. That said, the choppiness in the first line doesn't flow with the rest of the poem. The second and third sentence in the first line detracts from the overall theme of the poem. It leaves the reader feeling confused about why we jumped into society when just before we were focusing on the singular. This could be intentional or at least a happy side effect for you.

Thanks for the feedback. The boyish innocence/awkwardness combined with the sexuality of the scene is intentional, along with the upper and lower cased words as symbols of his worship of this girl he loved, but I'll have to take a look at improving it. It might not have the effect I'm looking for.

>>8762017
I completely set myself up for that, the first line isn't part of the poem, it's me asking for help with the poem... Im ooh a phone so i didn't realize it would first as though it was al one piece. The poem starts with tall are the sandstone monuments. Does that change your perspective?

About yours, i completely understood that was the intent, it was maybe too obvious? I don't mean to sound harsh, and i know in a sense you're gong for this, but it almost just sounds pathetic.

>>8762032
That makes so much more sense now that I reread it with that in mind. My bad, and no worries about being harsh.

Personally, if you asked me if I were to add something to your poem, it would be something along the lines of:

a foundation of rotten cots and peasant huts, skeletal fossils that bolster a new civilization; the streets, our circulatory system that runs on the death of Past and the future a dead dream for tomorrow's Man.

Not exactly like that, but that general vibe. I don't want to sound pretentious by giving you advice on what to add, but I don't think it a good idea to advise you to take too much out of what you already wrote, as I like the general idea of it and the way it reads. Sorry if I'm not being much help here, but maybe someone else will come along and give you better advice.

>>8762075
It's interesting that you added that because i actually had this idea of sort of the ground shifting exposing prehistoric life and adding the modern to the old. I don't love what you wrote and it's not quite what i meant with the idea of the poem but that was cool thanks. Not pretentious at all it was thoughtful

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there are a lot of things I think about doing but decide not to do

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I am totally unappreciated in my time.
You can run this whole park from this room
with minimal staff for up to 3 days.
You think that kind of automation is easy?
Or cheap?

You know anybody who can network 8 connection machines
and debug 2 million lines of code
for what I bid for this job?

Because if he can I'd like to see him try.

There are inexplicable sounds at night that are either far too loud or far too quiet. and in my mind of course i hope it is rain, but it's a dry night so certainly it is mice, louder than mice have ever been chomping with loud mice teeth and lumbering with great mice paws, of course, or thieves for sure with mice like silence quieter them any human they creep across my 1930s floorboards that otherwise groan in the wind but the slight whisper of movement, likely entirely imagined, is obviously my doom.

>>8762183
3/10

>>8732861
i appreciate this bloke, as should all

>>8762168

10/10

Italian Sonnet: The Daytime Bartender

The daytime bartender cleans,
Wipes the shot glass sparkling,
Looks at the bar stool, disheartening
Old man’s drinking away his means

The man’s got kids in their late teens,
Their hopes and dreams darkening
The booze taking from their offering
Just waiting ‘till someone intervenes

The old man bends over, his arms shaking
To his lips he puts the glassware
Swigs the whiskey, feels his throat burn

The daytime bartender, heart breaking
The only job in the world where
One hopes his customers never return

So Close

I had a great uncle who invented a drink he called 4Up.
He died without writing down the recipe.
His brother took up the work, and produced one bottle of 5Up.
He could not remember how he did it, from what we now know was Alzheimer's Disease.
My uncle made 6Up.
It didn't sell at all.
But little did he know how close he came.

KUMORI: I must be like the old-aged lion,
The hoary and grey-haired king that does not wear the silver
Of age like a pajama for sleep,
But as an armor for battle,
And fights with greater fury against the younger cats,
In whom it is still burning the healthy color
Of sun, desert and wheat, the color of flesh
That seems to be modeled with amber and honey.
However, I must roar sovereignty
And ancestral majesty upon the young ones
And make lusty spring fear cold winter,
Punishing the ones who hurt me with hell.

The original is in portuguese

File: 1479932790629.jpg (40KB, 640x640px) Image search: [Google]

40KB, 640x640px

>>8762125

>I'm lying in bed feeling very sad and lonely and ashamed
I physically cringed at this line. Le epic "I casually talk about how want to kill myself xD"

The rest of your poem I actually enjoyed, but it ends too sloppily.

>>8763679
Cute, I feel like it could be expanded upon

>>8763693
Not bad, but it sounds like it would be better in portuguese.

>>8763660
Great ideas behind the poem, but some of the particular phrasing is cliche (heart-breaking, drinking away, hopes and dreams darkening, their offering)


>>8761231
I wish it was more connected, and the words "nape" and "bosom" don't seem to belong, but otherwise this is a good poem

>>8763679
Better in Borge's original danish.

Fake a smile as I dream my life away
One step forward, two steps back they say
Ashes of pictures that once were you and I
Scattered in the backyard so the Phoenix doesn't rise