Poetry Thread and Critique

To divide is to be alive.
Split the loam, plant a seed,
split the vine, bud a leaf.
When it's grown, pick the food,
wash the grime, eat the fruit.

Famished fish chase for spawn.
Careful deer pass through grass--
Father leading little faun
'long some granite cemetery
finds a body mourn a body
hearing planetary song.

Rhythm after rhythm
divide within spaces,
combine leaving pauses,
compose offbeat paces:
To be living is division.

The body stares at letters etched
and raised above a sunken grave;
A two-foot tall monolith
standing just at half his heighth--
tribute to dividing patterns
spawning inconsistent matters.

"Who am I," the body states:
Splitting loam, planting seed,
splitting vine, budding leaf.
"I have grown--I'll just bloom,
not divide forbidden fruit."

>>9730804
The spoken words have no fluidity. It's not very fluid in tones and unnecessarily so. If anything this poem should be quite flowing

I promised my father to not be a bother
To all those who share in our name
From dear old grandmother to sweet baby brother
I'd cherish them all just the same
But father is dead and I find that instead
They are driving me fucking insane

>>9730946
I agree with this guy that the spoken words in the last two lines here >>9730804 are a little disjointed from the rest of the meter. But in all its not bad

>>9731022
Short and sweet. Nothing outstanding, but it's good for what it is. Nice flow.

>>9731272
Decent imagery but weak overall structure. You're too loose around your rhythm though your meter is consistent. It feels half full of life. Could be pretty good with some reworking.

How is this for an opening line?

>The ground shook and a howl which sounded like the Earth crying followed, whether it was shrieking in anger, happiness or sorrow, I don't know

>>9731686
I see where you're trying to establish a rhythm, but you have no an inconsistent meter. You need to manage the syllables between your phonetic repetitions.

Do you see it?

There; right before you--
The dim yet gleaming pond
under moonlight that you've found?
Lucky too, as cirrus clouds surround the
silver spoon dipping in the tarn.
Gentle may it be, still ripples form--
The stars among its welkin grip
dripping to their home.

Purple grasses cover blackened stones
lapping up the basin.
The susurrus breathing whispers
brushing against your skin.

Do you feel it?
The frigid mountain wind
slipping off of frozen peaks
that whisk the wispy clouds?
As distant air and eagle shrieks
prick the quiet with their sounds--
Do you hear it?

Kneel beneath the bristlecone,
between two blue bugles.
Dip your fingertips down, below
the icy water's black-crown hue,
strewn with star and studded moon.
Glide them through the lunar elixir--
superpositioned in mountainous fixture--
and suddenly smell honesty's perfume.

Mountain air fills your lungs
as clouds soon cover moon,
and darkness resumes--

Did you see it?