Poetry Critique:

The one point left without neglect of my own mistake will hold the contempt for awhile, now. Now while form tempting the old will makes me often neglected, outed, left pointed once again.

>>9657987
It's decent but some linebreaks are clunky, especially the last four which I think is structurally the worst part of the poem. What you're attempting there is nice, but the language is uninspired and circumlocutionary. Oppose and vigorously aren't strong enough words to end a poem.

jingle bells
batman smells

>>9657987
i don't know why /lit/ is obsessed with styles long since past. you write like you belong in another era.

you're poetry does nothing to speak of your own perspective, life experience, or modern engagement. it's merely stands as an example for your admiration in older poetry. its dead on the page.

And then when we became obsolete,
when waters pulled us back in the cave,
bees became metaphors,
where were we you and me, leaves
of a tired tree's branch?
When a bird became to faith anathema,
Sisyphus idea of hell and being,
wind a possibility to rest,
o where were you, branches
separated from root?
Now speeds the ship, piece falls off

Frighten me dawn when night soothes;
if and when I die leave outside the fort the body,
spirit may leave may not leave may return.
If not infinite, hell is purgatory;
idleness feeds next to fruit and water.
How are poems never ending
when we haven't slowed down,
when we are than fire faster.

bumpa doo

>>9658268
his style is much more recent. it's his subject you're responding to, not the style. the reason you find it circumlocutionary is because you're the kind of person who writes circumlocutionary when decrying a more modern style as bygone.
>>9657987
last two lines of first stanza are awful, the rest of the poem needs work on its assonance and consonance, and you should really read it out loud because those line breaks take from it. you should work out which Tyrian dye you mean, because the likely contender signals wealth when it is well washed in colour, like linen is improved in texture by its washing.
>>9658329
first five lines are very good for repeated sounds but you might want to tame back that alliteration a bit. you could probably cut the sisyphus and wind lines and the "o" from the next line and tighten the poem, especially if you put line breaks naturally in the rest of the stanza.
you should probably say pieces fall, not piece, keeps with the lisping s.
>that second stanza opening
do you really think anyone's going to believe you understand how to use a semicolon but not how to use a comma for the vocative case? like the sisyphus mention, this looks like icarus flying too high. you might be better taking this stanza and cutting the top line off to make a separate poem. if-then-else formulations don't fit with the first half. it would be stronger making it a different poem.
you need to work on a coherent image, not borrow them off /lit/'s beginner's lit recommendations as edgy references. you would be better if you were less extended because you're not commanding your own references and they are swamping any image you really could competently handle. i'm letting you keep the roots and cave thing because it doesn't matter whether you're trying to make le epic plato and deleuze references there, and it would hold to an audience that knows nothing about plato's cave. sisyphus you have to loose though.

Swish swoosh swing
How's your liberty doing today?
I couldn't tell you the same thing,
Not that you'd be listening anyway

It seems to me like snakes aren't looking to bite,
You only rile animals if you stink something awful to them.
But hey, I'm off with my wife to meet her friends who I hate,
We're gonna play some games that I don't enjoy,
And they're not even cooking!

So it is, so it was, so it will be

>>9659278
>first five lines are very good for ... etc
thank you very much

>>9659305
put it to a beat and you have some conscious rap

>>9659318
this is good, even where it's strange. however: why the capitalisation for the birds names and why have waxwings at night to contrast with wrens which are more likely to be nocturnal? for a poem ostensibly about birds, you're kind of failing the twitcher test.

>>9659321
shiieeet my italian's showing

>>9659377
My ego would like to devise some sort of explanation saying it was to contrast the birds against their natural ways as does the narrator his own. But in 100% percent honestly, while I did know the Wren is nocturnal, I did it to purely preserve the rhyme scheme. The shame!

>>9659447
>daily reminder twitchers will travel to make sure you know birds are important
nabokov fans probably would make a thing of it too.

>>9657987
>Tyrian robes hang wet with dye and reek with wealth.

Good alliteration. Good line. However you seem to have problem with integrating your vivid imagery with a natural rhythm in the poem. The natural rhythm or flow disapears from the poem after the first sentence according to me.

>the clouds smooth by patrician hand but first Phoenician wind.

is this sentence not grammatically incorrect? Not an english native speaker. If it is then i would definitely redo the line.

>pomegranate-heart

the image seems forced and banal to me

>>9659318
i like this

im not literary enough to explain why i like it, but it flows well

>>9658329
If it makes sense at all, this just kinda dips in and out of itself. Kinda like when a well made poem shifts around it's baseline meter, except here it's not entirely good. It's more jarring and breaks the flow rather than sifts around it. You have some good lines, and I believe you would benefit from a combination of stricter form, better punctuation usage, and letting the words and rhythm come more naturally (as I said, you more force the changes rather than feel them occur).

>>9659511
Thank you.

>>9659318
You better be trying to publish. No matter how patrician a reader you are, you will always be a bottomfeeding /lit/ pleb if you don't try and do something more with your life.

>>9659885
I needed to hear that more than you can imagine.

>>9659885
>>9660075
gay

m awake on my bed
The covers only half cover me
The sun blankets the wall
and tells me to rise
up from my mattress
dress and drive to work.
The walls of my cubicle
are the same as my neighbor's:
White with brown flecks; a uniform
design that continues row for row.
At lunch I unwrap my sandwich from its cellophane
Ham and cheese again, just like yesterday
On either side of me are my friends
Jacob and Aaron; talking about anything
I'm responding, but I don't know what I'm saying
My mouth is moving making words without noise.
The tv is up too loud.
I don't remember turning it up
but I did.
The microwave spins around and around
And the tv dinner bubbles and burns
cold on the inside and charred on the edge
I'm eating alone
my silverware clicking
the off switch on the tv.
I'm awake on my bed.
The covers only half cover me

>>9661217
Nah, dudes right. Even if it's not as good as people are making it out to be, I shouldn't be writing for this board. It's a fucking waste.

>>9659278
You appear to have conflated two responses to OPs poem.

At night—the light turned off, the filament
Unburdened of its atom-eating charge,
His wife asleep, her breathing dipping low
To touch a swampy source—he thought of death.
Her father's hilltop home allowed him time
To sense the nothing standing like a sheet
Of speckless glass behind his human future.
He had two comforts he could see, just two.

One was the cheerful fullness of most things:
Plump stones and clouds, expectant pods, the soil
Offering up pressure to his knees and hands.
The other was burning the trash each day.
He liked the heat, the imitation danger,
And the way, as he tossed in used-up news,
String, napkins, envelopes, and paper cups,
Hypnotic tongues of order intervened.

To the MOD who deleted my poem, I genuinely thank you.

-SR

Fire fell from clouds
But the boy watched the earth.
Women screaming, shrieking,
"Daddy, or those swans."
The father cried. The father
Placed the blanket upon his boy.
And said, "yes son, swans. Swans."
And the boy skipped
And the fire fell beside him
And he lookup up upon his father
Squinting at the aether's blaze
And he whispered "I wonder oh
I wonder what it is they think about."

Then it was black.
And the black drifted
Beyond the horizon.

>>9662002
I can't see what he's conflating? The first post he quotes is a response to OP, and he doesn't seem to be mischaracterizing it.
Or do you mean he's responding to that guy and to OP?

>>9657987
>>9662036
I like two. The rest of you need to tone it down and start simple.

>Time Worth Living
The life he led went nowhere and he didn't mind
So many hours
Days
Weeks
Dancing
Dreaming
In his selfish mind
Still, he was kind

I check my feed it's the same few things
Live streamed lynchings and SpongeBob memes
I stay inside to beat the heat
Smoke to eat and then smoke to sleep

I've posted this before but I'd like some new feedback:
Candle in the dark
Obscurity
doesn't scare me.
You bark
but you don't bite.
Your dark eyes could smite
the night away.
Making the sun,
the only way
to run
Away
from this obscurity
like this candle in
the dark.

>>9663904
it's honestly awful. the line breaks, the cliches, everything.

your line breaks aren't creating poetry. they're making it sound like the kid in the wheelchair in malcolm in the middle talking.

>>9663933
3-6-9's tells no lies

>>9663904
Terribly terrible bad bad not decent awful worst thing woo

>>9663590
This is honestly fantastic.

A take over
as a tumultuous calamity has been
plastered against my eyeballs. Tiny men
repel down from my eyelashes,
with long poles with glue rollers fixed to
their end, and apply the horror over my vision
like a new billboard is going up.

People can't stand to look me in
the eye: the sun's rays pass across,
so that the paper becomes translucent,
and now my naked bloodshot eyes are
crying out to them. Or in dim light they
can't see through it, instead the wicked
joke comes into play: mine own Dr. TJ
Eckleberg eyes advertise someone like
me and someone like someone you
probably know...

I think this is a bad poem, but maybe someone will read it and think the basic idea is good.

>>9664305
Samefag. It's garbage.

>>9664467
GOAT

>>9663590
The dialogue needs some serious maintenance, and swans are too much "this is a go to symbol for grace"

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>>9664516
OP here. how does the dialogue need maintenance?

I've always sucked dialogue.

A continuum of rain pours up from the floorboards
Syncopated by the Peter pipers drum roll.
The rubber on the road punctuates the static between notes
Culling the herd of children
Into hobbit holes trademarked by sightless feints.
The destination is the journey
Reminds us of communicative properties
Such as the Dallas/Ft. Worth
International airports. Stop me if you can,
Say when if you catch me.
I'll be Tom if you'll be Jerry
And Ben'll be none the wiser, no more
Than angry men sitting in a room
Arguing over the placement of Ö
In the new worlds newfangled alphabet
To be named in time due unto itself
As others hath fury as a woman scorned in hell—
Hounds hopped up on meth
Rabidly file taxes
And flee the state
Scoping out resistantless paths
Offshot a road not taken,
Offbeaten and not traveled
By any streetcars forgetting their name.

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some size up a statue
and turn yells into screams
others blow up a plane
to better see the asymptote
tickling the tips of our tongues
like heaven's clitoris coming forth with sacrifices
made of unpacked ideals
glittering in the apples of our eyes
drum-filled with sweet cyanide
and calls from our local law enforcement agency
asking us to pick him up again
just one more time
or so help me god
i'll break down like the van
hailing cabs to leave town
as long as forever stands
its godforsaken ground

The pastry shop closes at 8
in the morning before opening
the Ziplocked bundle of children's hair
saved by mother's weaving memories
of squeezed hands in church
followed by a stern look like a seal
protecting its cubs from waltzing sharks
who fling air bubbles from serrated gills
and grow manes of algae along truncations
reminiscent of mysterious sky-dwellers
floating past celluloid neighborhoods
watched by somnambulant patrolmen
who cauterize bloated carcass wounds
etched on posthumously like lapidary indices
of Mary's busy sons and daughters
who ran (exhaustively) a derelict carnival
home of spherical hard mesh eyeball sidewinders
and caracals leather broken in by
Barnum's retarded Niece named Helen
of Troy of Keller of Mirren of Prancer of Vixen
who by virtue of virtue relinquished bona fides
pro bono to the semi-conductor's wand
magically able to synthesize caterwauling
into superfluid mellifluidity bound to extinction
an instantaneity meted out by metered beats
digested en vogue by the Hostess CEO
and exhumed in the most willy-nilly fashion
most inconceivably called the square dance
of cats snubbed by lofty atoms and eves
of a new day's dawn postured as night
elsewhere where the sun don't shine
also known as the better part of rock
numero uno—the one rhymed with mirth.

>>9658268
Exactly, it's like someone trying to paint like Caravaggio. It's simply bullshit, one should find their own style.

>>9658268
>lit is a singular organism and I will treat it as such

Here's a little something I wrote on the bus. I call it:

The Partisan


When they poured across the border
I was cautioned to surrender,
this I could not do;
I took my gun and vanished.
I have changed my name so often,
I've lost my wife and children
but I have many friends,
and some of them are with me.

An old woman gave us shelter,
kept us hidden in the garret,
then the soldiers came;
she died without a whisper.

There were three of us this morning
I'm the only one this evening
but I must go on;
the frontiers are my prison.

Oh, the wind, the wind is blowing,
through the graves the wind is blowing,
freedom soon will come;
then we'll come from the shadows.

>>9666713
>find their own style
meme

>>9667290
>wrinting like a XIIth century monk isn't a meme, find your own style is

*tips fedora*

>>9666845
t. Leonard Cohen

>>9667387
>if other people are a meme I'm not

>>9667676
>I'm a meme because anon in a greentext told me so! xD

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>>9667764
>not falling for romanticist originality memes is a meme because anon in a memearrowtext declared it to be so *farts for emphasis*

>>9667803
>originality isn't a meme

lmao then explain me greek and roman poetry, you fucking faggot.

>>9667854
who are you quoting

>>9667892
You.

>>9667895
you're not very good at it

>>9667902
Tks. Have a good day.

>>9667907
u2

Wow the thread needs to 404

"mother"

she always hears me cry
merely shrugs as she walks by
and then they wonder why
i told that bitch to die
i told that bitch to die
i told that bitch to die

and once i went to try
to put my dick upon her eye
and then they wonder why
i made that bitch to die
i made that bitch to die
i made that bitch to die

>>9664454

I think you mean rappel, not repel.

>>9666845
Yuck. Cliché

>>9666649
Has potential, occasionally strong rhythm but way too cringey at points
>heavens clitoris
I died, so bad

>>9663810
would work as song lyrics

>>9668281
lol yeah that the main intention with that line, cringeworthily cliche

>>9669231
>cringeworthily cliche

Poor, clueless anon

>>9669492
why do you think im clueless?

and please don't use this question as further proof of my alleged cluelessness

>>9666713
point to the poet i'm imitating
show me how i'm imitating them

>>9669522
Because I only quoted two words and you're hung up on one.

sorry if you cringe in advance

You shed a lot of tears
when it became apparent
All my personalities
had grown along the years

I feel cold at night alone
Thanks to how the room is made
It's a lot like ours
Bright, clean and monotone

Every day is a hard hello
To maybe friends or pals
What I want is not the same
as what I should seem to know

But when it's as though I can't talk
The days are pretty lonesome
So I raise my head and look up
To count the numbers on the clock

They dance like a parade
One after the other and refrain
One three twelve ten
There's enough to last a decade

When I feel afraid
That you'll never return
I watch the arms spin
And count the numbers again

So let's draw these digits
One hour until four oclock
I've got tons of time
One mere hour is sixty minutes

I eat up the seconds in pairs of two
Twice as fast I become someone new

At four I think I'm finally done
But I can't help but start another one
One more just means more fun
And more friends in the long run

At five I had become genuine
Fulfilled by the magic of two lines
Nothing matters in my mind
Except numbers and number signs
And all of me I can't confine

I'm glad I can say I have made friends
You always wished I socialized
Another year you'll have wait for me
For another year they'll stay at my side

>>9669602
and which one would that be

>>9666705
how much RAM do you expect my brain to have

>>9671241
Like 2 niggabytes

hehehe

It's just about pasty pastries

heheh

The leathery tank of Ayutthaya,
The powerhouse pacifist,
Brought tumbling by an alopecic monkey
With a metal trunk.
The ape meticulously picked
The red flesh from the cumulus-colored bone, exposing
The gears and pulleys, examining
The teeth and tendons, until finally,
He collected what he could carry into his rucksack
And flew home.

>>9669589
>imitating past poets

Lmao this is not the XVth century anymore, pal.

Your hands fine and slender,
your hips big and tender,
all night and all day,
spin my head a painful way

Been a while since I wrote poetry and I need to go get my muscle back up. I Spitballed this today:

Crouched in the woods,
showing all the goods,
the sun catches downy hair
and makes it glow just right there,
like she's made of light; a special being
and this is a very special thing
to be here, in the woods with her
a moment that will not re-occur.

bamp

>>9658329
I can't stand this type of poetry. There's an absence of soul that reads like lofty sophomoric imitation of the past. In the end it just settles as bland.

Yo yoo
Dog
What's good
Yo

White women

>>9673390
Groovy

Welp I like to make poetry in characters as writing practice for stories
I figure it's not very good but here it is
I buried all my friends
It's getting harder to feel
Bottles and needles wont do the trick
Don't even bother finishing my meals

Thinking maybe on what I should be Maybe become a cutthroat
Kill anybody that looks at me wrong
Riding out with a hot gun

Nah but that ain't good music
Just a played out song
Hell, the family is not even gone
Just smaller anyhow
Instead I will find a new home

Raise a couple of sons
Teach them to dance
And fight like dogs

Doesn't seem quite right
Crying for too long
They left me some good memories
Not bad for dead scum

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>>9675299
Bump so I know how shit this is besides my awful formatting and grammar

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>>9657987
Am I a retard for thinking all of these are crap?
Do you have to be a poetry guy to like them?

>>9675325
No

Poetry is similar to music in alot of ways
And most music sucks

>>9658017
Feels very run on
Not enough breaks hard read

>>9659321
I kek'd

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>>9659401

>>9658329
Your diction isn't simple enough. Too many meaningless pseudo-symbols.

>>9663810
I unironically would love to see that worked in a full song

Has the kind of honesty I go for in lyrics

>free verse
End this meme. Start writing strict iambic meters and only start roughening it when you've mastered them.

>>9663904
Could stand to be more original
The line breaks definitely aren't helping

>>9669704
Interesting
In a sperg getting better kind of way
The parades simile distracted me from the emotions you were trying to get at

Personally I'd like this more if the whole clock business was removed to make it a tighter read but that may just be preference

>>9673438
I don't know it sounds right and hit good buttons
But the rhyme at the end seems too "poemy" for lack of a better word

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Why are there still critique threads when you can just email the greatest living poet to help you?

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-2KZI3AHdi4

>>9675420
>rhyme at the end seems too "poemy" for lack of a better word
Hmmm

>>9675420
>>9673438

Why not use 're-appear'? You get assonance match on the word before, and a less clumpy ending - even though you sacrifice an 'o' sound on the final line assonance.

>>9675420
i feel like if someone posted the perfect poem it would still get a bunch of random criticisms. you see this type of behavior on /ic/ too, someone might post a literal photo trace of a figure and you'd still get someone redlining the proportions

>>9675493
Hmm, maybe, but I'm not sure I like the way that sounds.

>>9675529
Anyway, it doesn't really matter because no matter how you phrase it, the last line is still a cliche that would appear on some holiday postcard.

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>>9675398
Good advice.

>>9675739
>he thinks that meter exists

>>9675744
Gotta write like this:

She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that’s best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes;
Thus mellowed to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impaired the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens o’er her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express,
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.

And on that cheek, and o’er that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent!

Before you can do this:

Some little splinter
Of shadow purls
And weals down
The slewed stone
Chapel steps,
Slinks along
The riverrock wall
And disappears
Into the light.
Now ropy, riffled,
Now owlish, sere,
It smolders back
To sight beneath
A dwarfish, brindled tree
That chimes and sifts
And resurrects
In something’s sweet
And lethal breath.
This little shadow
Seems to know
(How can it know?
How can it not?)
Just when to flinch
Just where to loop and sag
And skitter down,
Just what to squirrel
And what to squander till
The light it lacks
Bleeds it back
And finds
My sleeping dark-haired girl —
O personal,
Impersonal,
Continual thrall —
And hammocks blue
In the hollows of her eyes.

(Both are still great)

>>9659511
>>9659885
>>9660075
>>9663554
Fuck now I'm really curious...

>>9675764
I'm still around. It's wasn't some amazing life changing poem or anything. It was just a well constructed poem about the strife of looking for your place in life outside yourself when you're already equipped with everything you need, wrapped up in a birdsong metaphor.

>>9675759
Or you could not give a rats ass, like Robinson Jeffers did, and write like this:

https://www.poemhunter.com/best-poems/robinson-jeffers/margrave/

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>>9675807
Yeah, not giving a rats ass got him pretty far

>>9675815
Are you sure that's the same site?

https://www.poemhunter.com/robinson-jeffers/

He's listed as #208 of the top 500

>>9675815
Have there been any poets that work professionally? They aren't like artists or writers that can actually produce something worth buying and selling.

>>9675815
Wait, you were talking about the link. Try this one:

https://www.poemhunter.com/poem/margrave/

>>9657987
I like it but agree with a couple of others that it lacks a strong ending. I don't understand the criticism that it's not "modern" enough, use whatever style you want.

>>9675835
A little eccentric for my taste. Beautiful, but not what I look for in poetry. I like poems to be a little more condensed. At times it felt like I was reading more rambling than a focused thought.

(Feel free to try to edit this to make it better, however you want, (add your own writing if you want), and then maybe I will try to add more on top of that edit))

are moon tops aspiring to gently wish the sandy wind to blow over the smoke another ways any ways, and when the tide goes theres only one setting,

the ribbons of shimmering nighten gales shines the trancendent day, by the creek a river mixn doths in the smooth translucent pools spurling with light speckles cheerily daunting the

and there at the bottom, nestled between some shells and weed of sea, a pearl of sorts, a message in a bottle, a port eel, in a shoe a horn, a silver conch, a sharks tooth, a church bell,

turning these items over and over and mixing, and what with one at a time or

everything is forever fine and then what then
and its all about qualifying activities, shoots and ladders

perchance the mer chant a penchant for penitence
the ide goes in, the ide goes out

a man, der, sal, has been spotted under a rocky stone in a wet dew jungle
who cares
there is only on and on
there is only scurrying from and to
to build one and two few

under the spangled canvas sky
sending a letter to be caught up by the inner net
denizens
there is only the structures
there is only being structures
there is only the work load
the mother load, the pay load
there are many games and races
there are many lines and shapes
there is much step right uping

hark, herald, has been being done, continuously more and better,
what to say of all that is done that appears to should be impossible
the things people put their bodies hearts and minds to
there is so much time
there is so little time
its difficult to believe the level some people are on,
operating at
vfasty moving maximum capacity

something about running away but eventually where to but there are actually grand differences
but some constants always remain

something about a proud apprentice, the beauty of a valornt master, virtue and valiantcy taught with craft
think of all the skills and trades and crafts
think of all the businesses
think of the central nodes
think of the work of nets
stones of gem
pillars
foundations
walls
ceilings
towns
homes
electronics
engines
plumbing
systems
nodes

its not a small price to pay but whats the alternative
well trained for millennia
it is loved, many ways of love, and hate
many operators operating operations
everyone performing in the round
the costs of celebration
how many days
how many things must be done
all the atoms and geometry
God Bless School
so many interesting things
substances spirals
spires

are you of the proper,
what of culture
how many schedules of what kinds
this is what the world is mainly made of

what of what is mostly

we are all together and we are all apart
further than close, in ways more
in many ways not at all
but always almost alone
though there is so up close and personal
only characters to try to play
no escaping a certain clockwork
front and center every day?
what would be a world of no complaints

contexts, perspectives
each person you have seen, all people, their own relation to being human, to history, to the world

whoever you are

the roof top mountain flowers love to live joyeslly, dubiously, sprouting buds and love over the sunshine stadium, the lumber yards, the winding roads, saturns sourjourn, and but then theres always the city, the town square, the market place, the architecture projects, the modern vistas and massive zones of polished perfected land, though spruceful greenry too, botanical gardens and the like,

rantoniom al ten ra ta elbonium bontarera folti for to el co de no like the ah yes send a mar eh the same time come again the metagonium the hypro sphere


ability stay, runs the blue bonnet
go so
stay

ok lets see
ok lets see then

drips the blue bomper

run the yellow jaguar
cut the blue ribbon
tie the purple knot
set forth the jumping antelope
rise the furious wingspan
develop the dreaming way sign
bash the morphful memory
brazen the timeless moonight
caress the laying sand sound
emulate the basket weavers lantern
envelope the time storm
run circles around the central square
possess the dream garden
tame the dream dragon
pass on the sea of legs
open the ark world
stomp on the ungrateful scenery
do not yank the unfurling cherry blossom
gleam the glistening sweat oft measurements of brow
empty the containers to know how things fit and fill
rush the meteoric tapestries
politely rumble the metabolic chambers
recall the limits pushed past to
exclaim the force
exasperate the layers and their details there of
unite the frontiers
fluctuate the rhythms happenings
harmonize the queer queries
exemplar the touching stone
sensify the broad and narrow
conduct the shocking set of epiphany
celebrate the best text books
understand significance
enjoy the freeway
climb the mountain of expensive tastes
look across the river at oryan
bless each day
enshrine the etchings of perfect remembrance
build outward, upward, down and in
excel excellently

are you not getting the vibrations from the sun?

signed: Taylor Maxwell

religion, realign, relegion

>>9664467
Nah it's okay
Not good but not god awful

>>9667958
Basically

This one is crap. i don't browse /lit/ much. But here, a couple of my thoughts from some days ago.


''New Text Document''

I am a flower that is rotten but is waiting to bloom. Some, unfortunately, have a Vice Versa fate. Atleast i think so.

But, time plays a key part.
Time.
To the weather that shall be emitted in my heart.

It goes. It goes. It goes.

A line that's fucking everything up.

It's four in the morning and i still am not sleeping because i like to wait for the sunrise. It leaves me with only silence,
filtering me of all things that could affect me. Nothing that can get out of my head and ricochet off my static and eternal walls. And when that happens, it leaves only one thing that sits still in my mind.

My thoughts.

Always the same pattern.

I made peace with the fact that i'm a broken piece of glass long ago. i'm just searching for all my parts with a glimpse of hope that i can finally arrange myself.

And that same time and that same line seems to flow faster at dawn, or at least i'm feeling that effect. As if all my pieces run away faster.


And why do i feel like i am hungry? Hungry for someone just telling me that they love me back?

Would that be my final manifest of eternal comfort? Will i even care for all the pieces of myself that i've shed?

Oh, do i love exploring this lake inside my head. But oh, do i curse the fact that it freezes once i lay down inside my bed.

And while my dreams slide on the lake, the dammned timeline takes its time, reminding me that i still can have her, use her, for something to make.

BUT I AM SO FUCKING SCARED, FOR GOD'S SAKE.

Steinbeck’s light truck saw a land turtle
lumbering across a glass-littered road
and swerved to hit it.

The freshman on my track team
found a turtle and kicked it against
a tree.
Its guts oozed out of its shell and
still alive it breathed heavily (hhuuuuhh)
and turtle blood and the
animal terror of not-knowing-death bubbled
from its mouth.

We stood over it and righteously
made the blond freshman as he cried,
made him pinch its neck until
its slowly churning stub legs fell still.

Steinbeck’s land turtle lived, but then
no upperclassman made Steinbeck’s light truck
turn about and face it.
The driver is unnamed
behind a windshield
windows rolled up to keep out the grit of the road.

>>9676933
in the beginning of the grapes of wrath steinbeck uses that turtle as a metaphor for american individualism, suggesting that can't be killed no matter how many blows it takes or how slow and miserable its life is.

>>9675539
You're right. I should cut the entire last thought and replace it with something else.

The Best Medicine

Sitting there looking forward ahead
Days like these mostly filled with dread
Man clad in robes rises to the occasion
Speaks vehemently good of the dead
The dams can be heard breaking few rows behind
Like wildfire it spreads and they pine
A devilish grin starts to form
He was kin and still refuse to mourn
Let out a chuckle untamed
Win an eternity being ashamed

______________________________________________________

Something very personal that I just thought up, haven't really done poetry before.

>>9676190
I take it that you're not a fan of ol' Walt?

Jeffers was capable of condensed verse too though:

Love the Wild Swan

"I hate my verses, every line, every word.
Oh pale and brittle pencils ever to try
One grass-blade's curve, or the throat of one bird
That clings to twig, ruffled against white sky.
Oh cracked and twilight mirrors ever to catch
One color, one glinting
Hash, of the splendor of things.
Unlucky hunter, Oh bullets of wax,
The lion beauty, the wild-swan wings, the storm of the wings."
-This wild swan of a world is no hunter's game.
Better bullets than yours would miss the white breast
Better mirrors than yours would crack in the flame.
Does it matter whether you hate your . . . self?
At least Love your eyes that can see, your mind that can
Hear the music, the thunder of the wings. Love the wild swan.

An Ode to the Place I Always Was

"I hateth the board of blue and salmon,
let them dropeth from the infernal web
and far east doth go the yellow merchant
and doth cry the the lone pleb."

blue vans
and black vans
i wanna be like batman
fuckin peoples shit
and being hella rich man
im gonna do a handstand
on a beatles cover band
i hope you people understand
that i just dont give a damn
fuck your daddy and ill fuck you too
pardon my language
i meant to say screw
driver is a baby
and that chick is a dude
wheres my car?
who the fuck are you
kill urself cunt
u measly runt
dont try and front
we know itsa stunt
ill stomp ur head
and paint my walls
with the brains from you head
and the cum from ur balls
no homo homo
mr solo dolo
going it solo
witha handsome cholo
killing ur
mama
childhood
trauma
killing daddy
patricide
raping ur granny
slip n slide
fucks ur deal
sorry bro
ive got nowhere else to go

>>9666845
Good stuff, anon

>>9657987
Here's a couple paragraphs of my unedited shitty angst. It's not really interesting or stylised like any of the others in the thread, nor does it leave much to the imagination but I feel the need to post it anyways;

Another wasted night trying to fill holes in my chest
Listening to some other guy scream about how much he fucking hates his life
Why can't you fix me?
Why isn't this working?
I've tried nearly nothing and I'm out of ideas.
I'm scratching my skin raw just to find the joy pain brings
The anger, the hatred
I don't know why it consumes me
And everyone I know sees it
Hangs around me in a red fog
Obscuring everything I touch
And I can't bear to see things not torn apart
I pick at everything I touch, even my own heart
I jump in holes, I scream and run, I kick things just for fun
I want you to see me
I want you near me, I want to be inside of you and tell you how great are all the things you do
Inside me was a beast
But maybe he's dying
Maybe I miss him
Maybe all I can do is keep crying
Because I don't know how to do anything anymore and it's destroying me
How the fuck can I be anything when I can't even feel correctly?
The apathy is killing me, like it's killing all of you
These bonds will fray and fade like my love of colour and the world will blow away
Dust and ash inside my veins and my head
The fire's gone in me, the pye's already lit
A slow fade. Like in a movie. Like the ones I can't feel anything from anymore.
A slow fade that people see and that no one knows how to stop and I can't tell if this is me or if we're all secretly fucked and our parents never told us.
I just want to know how to be.
Before all of you hate me.
Before I say the same things every night and it doesn't mean a thing.
I'm closing up into a cocoon.
I'm numb and satiated inside but please light it on fire.
Give me something, anything,
To burn brightly in me and make me fight.
Make me want to see the blood and power rushing by my hands.
The beauty of the cold ocean and the viscera of the lambs.
Because right now I can barely stand.
And I was once strong, whether I'm forgetting that or not. And I know I can.

>>9679485
Rather than write crap like that, you should just read Sylvia Plath's Daddy & learn how to write angst poetry with beautiful imagery and wonderful music

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems-and-poets/poems/detail/48999

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1MB, 200x150px

>>9679485
>reading the first few lines like

File: 1459356019243.jpg (148KB, 737x464px) Image search: [Google]

148KB, 737x464px

>>9679444
Trips confirm that you're shit.

>>9678695
I'm a huge fan of Walt. What does he have to do with this Jeffers guy? Or are you saying because I enjoy condensed poetry? Walt wrote all over the board, and it is his subject matters that draw me in.

Here's a throwaway:

Skin white as porcelain.
Goosebump condensation.
Rose petals circulate
fornevermore
round shattered skin.

Quiet. Quiet.
Mother will never find it.
Hide it. Hidden.
Shhhh, it's okay,
the mess is swept away.

Dust drips from my fingertips.
Residue of the adieu.
Mama magnifique
is blessed by the silence
of this shattered vase.

An attempt at a reformulated villanelle, untitled as of yet.


I was born in the autumn months,
At the margins of city life
As the village began to die.

As the trees there were showing signs
Of a rusting decay on leaves,
I was born in the autumn months.

From between ivied-garden walls,
All the children went running out
As the village began to die.

There's no fruit that can grow, or bloom,
Only shortening days out here
That are born in the autumn months.

There's a shop, now destroyed, and empty,
Like a gravestone, to mark the day
When the village began to die.

If I'm lucky - or maybe not -
I'll return to that place and time:
I was born in the autumn months
As the village began to die.

>>9679290
Your use of anachronistic language does not make you appear smart or educated, only pretentious, and it obscures the meaning in the verses.