Poetry Critique

is dis good haiku?

The cicadas buzz
A bird’s whistle pierces through
Like light through the trees

>>9984050
no

>>9984050

guess the setting

A palm beetle grub
One-dollar delicacy
True tropical treat

Floating foliage
Forever purgatory
Clouds carry canopies

>>9983867
Sorry, I do not speak bamboo sticks

>>9984051
thanks senpai

Read poetry to learn to write poetry? I wanna learn about the ideas behind the "rules" of metre so I can apply them unconsciously.

>>9984097
That's not too hard. Just write shitty thing in Iambic pentameter until you don't have to think too hard about it. and you'll be good.

>>9984050
>the
>through
>like
>a
>the *again
these are filler, cut them out


>using a simile
juxtaposition is what you should be using

>>9984056
>delicacy
wasted half of your poem on this word. it isn't worth it

also: 5-7- is not a good idea guys

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>>9983867
Night fell, and a sudden gale
arose to fill my worried sail,
and cast me from the waking shore.
I dreamt my troubled passage o'er
an ink-black sea, and through a vapour pale,
a mist which, sour on the tongue and stale
ran through my lungs, and for my eyes a veil
had knit. I prayed whatever had assailed
my weary spirit, and set to rout my wit would fail,
my senses be restored and breath once more be hale

Lo, in answer to my prayer
an emissary, sable-haired but fair
and wearing the visage of one I loved, Sibéal,
Threw from my sight the poison veil,
set my stagnant heart aflame,
embraced me with her slender frame
gentle, frail and fair.


Needs a lot of work I think. If it's even salvageable

>>9984585
you didn't write that. :o

All is vanity
Save for the death in my dreams
Become hope by day

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>>9984602
I did man.

>>9984097
Read poetry.
And read lit theory, i recommend "The Art of Poetry: How to Read a Poem"

>>9984050
It's a good start but other anon is right. Too much filler trying to get 5-7-5 that doesn't really work as well in English and the "like" ruins the juxtaposition

>>9984585
nigga why do you write like ur in the middle ages lmao

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>>9984703
These are the middle ages phamme

>>9984585
You have a good ear.

I like the hexameters and tetrameters, but not so much the pentameters. Solid rhymes all around.

As far as content goes, maybe less of a narrative approach and more contemplative. I know it's metaphorical, but the imagery is sequential, so it may as well be a narrative from the reader's perspective, and the poem isn't long enough for the metaphorical journey to have the weight it should have. So for example, you could develop a scene from this journey instead of summarising all of it.

>>9984585
I love it man. I can't say much more than that unfortunately, but know that at least someone read your work, loved it, and would read more of it. Sometimes just remembering that can help you keep going. If it means anything, I'd be your friend just after reading those two stanzas.

>>9984717
what ages are we between, then?

"Go on without me" i said
And they did.
Oh shit nigga.

>>9984737
>I like the hexameters and tetrameters, but not so much the pentameters. Solid rhymes all around.
I knew there was something wrong with the meter

>o it may as well be a narrative from the reader's perspective, and the poem isn't long enough for the metaphorical journey to have the weight it should have.
Thanks, this is useful. It was actually supposed to be longer but I ran out of steam and had to cut a lot from the middle. I might come back to it later, this is my first attempt.

>>9984741
Thanks, that's very heartening to hear

>>9984694
I don't even know how to critique these kinds of poems. Don't know if it's stupid or I am for not getting it.

>>9984236
5-7-5 is fine, they just need to apply it better

>>9984644
Do you, by chance, have an ebook download of this I can nab? That'd be instantly helpful! Otherwise, I'll have to remember your suggestion for future purchases.

>>9984585
You're very near my level of poetics. Where you start these images and develop them decently, but then fill in a bunch of space to maintain footing and form. With your ear, you should be able to hear when a line sounds right. This doesn't mean it's always going to be the same number of syllables per line, nor feet--though most of the time it will.
Not bad, but my point was that some lines ramble a bit in order to meet their footing. Just write out the imagery that's there, regardless of consistency, then edit over what's written to tweak it's formatting.

A green buoy and its green light flash, warning
ships not to come closer to shore, where
around a point two currents meet
and clash in ever-violent waves.

Up on the rock, she basks in moonglow.
In the low boat, I’m whipped by seaspray.

I could go up to her, climb the rock and bleed
on the barnacles that she did, feel the salt
in my cuts like she did, slip and shriek and be
lifted up and dragged down by waves, like she did.

I know the steep way; she’s showed me.
If I climbed for her, the waves would carry
the boat to someone else’s shore,
and we’d be together
on a moonlit rock in the water,
and be there together
when the moon fades and the sun burns us away.

You refuse to ev'r move
You have always stayed idle
The cells within you remove
And of life, you are deem'd a bridle

So please,
wend out and live
Pluck fresh the ripe fruits of life
Gratitude you must give
for, if 't not you eat fruits of strife

>>9985672
Really wonky meter at some parts, like the second line.

>>9984097
http://4chanlit.wikia.com/wiki/Poetry

>>9985722
Why the contractions?

>>9983867
What most ill conceived of emotions
What most useless speck of feeling
What good has ever brought aversion
Hate for naked flesh, for recorded defeat
Is it not better
to face it all
And shame's eyes meet?

>>9986176
The contractions aide in the visual aesthetic when one reads the poem. Despite the fact that the word ever is two syllables, the contraction gives the word a shortened look. The contraction if't was also done to shorten the poem and also the line's syllable count.

I have not written poetry for quite some time, so it would be greatly appreciated if you could give some critique on this poem (if it is possible due to the short length of it).

dry cavern—
sweetsour scent of spices
in a crush

dry cavern—
memory of spices
in a crush

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i wrote this one a while back for my /hgg/ bros, so don't say it's a stupid copy&paste. i did it myself.

a poem for my dearly beloved, beautiful and loyal wife emelita:

your hair is pink
your pantsu is white
i want to come deep inside

you're impish, always happy and fun
you may be a bit dumb
but you are still the shining star, you are the light
that is guiding me through the dark night

for your age you are a great wizard
your aoe damage spells save the day
if i should walk in the flames to save you from harm
that's a price i would gladly pay

when you're sad i want to fucking kill myself
when you're happy so is my world, too
who cares about the autistic swordswoman and the slutty elf
because the one i will love forever is you

Winter in Hangzhou

The surrounding hills were devoid of form,
E’en those in the fore, the dullest of blues.
And the sun, content to sleep till the morn,
Let clouds bathe themselves and swallow the hues.

And the lake, reflecting as it ought do,
Found nothing worth the effort to reflect;
A sleepy mood seems to have donned this nook,
Indeed I’ve fallen prey to its effect…

And as my thoughts like the scene before me,
Duly began to dally and obscure,
Through gullies and mud did they make to flee,
Till my sweet did my memory procure.

Let the hills shroud together and cower,
And the clouds bathe and block the suns splendour,
Let the lake paint feeble watercolours,
Let Nature style her milieu so tender.

For fear not! Unlike this cold wizened clime—
No frost could e’er coat your image in rime.

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we'll build a great wall
to keep out dirty migrants
traps really are gay

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>Lo, moon, need not our companionship!
>In favor yet to watch idly by,
>As the sunbeams off countenance drip,
>in refusal to let the ground run dry

I have to apologize
It's an awkward thing to say
But let's be honest here
Love can't be locked away

This is the reality
I'm in love with your personality
Let me violate the right
to hide my feelings away tonight

I'm blinded by your beauty more
Than the pain of aerosol vapor
Your desire is like a signal
Within the melody of a whistle

Orders can't restrain my heart
Passion goes beyond the court
Let me be your company
without being put in custody

The Japanese call it nanpa
It's just romantic mania
for YOUUUUUUUUUU

>>9986693
>cold wizened clime

nigga have you ever been to hangzhou

>>9988780
Lol yes. I wrote it in front of the West Lake at winter time

>>9984585

honestly, I like it as is. Better than my attempts at "real" poetry

>>9984703
>Madame, ye ben of al beaute shryne
>As fer as cercled is the mapamounde,
>For as the cristal glorious ye shyne,
>And lyke ruby ben your chekes rounde.
>Therwith ye ben so mery and so jocounde
>That at a revel whan that I see you daunce,
>It is an oynement unto my wounde,
>Thogh ye to me ne do no daliaunce.

Shakespeare is not even "medieval" you Philistine, and his is more "modern" than that. It reminds me more of Victorian neo-Medievalists

>>9984624
Grave Patriarch

Perturbed, but with myrtle given,
To a grave and aggrieve the livid
Old man who made family as patriarch;
Mine tears to swell when spoken
On the edges of grave talk.
The supple tendency of daughter
Of age’s time as conversation to slaughter
“Thou pass the tombstone of age
With succinct endeavor, prodigious
In each man’s day,” His gaze with part,
“Thou speak of times when man was at start.”
Two souls depart with meaning,
That atop and below or above, he spake,
“Thou who sees, thou undone death’s deal”—
Life at a hundred times the year
Grandson of one and all whence he feared
The myrtle of blossom and petal
To live once again unfettered:
He who to time crosses in great amount
Shall wealth with better year felt.

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>>9983867
wut, I have this pen

They are there
Here

One shell in the sand
In the rain
There are animals nearby
And their noses touch

Two hands touch the fur
Their noses and fur
We look forward

Her halo dimmed
Parts the way

To be nearby, hi
All that's inside
Again, the other life

Otherwise, again, than us

>>9989986
Good.

dry cavern—
sweetsour scent of spices
in a crush

dry cavern—
memory of spices
in a rush

>>9990007
Good.

This mental dissolution
Takes hold of my souls confusion,
This diluted cry
Runs its hands through my life:
Don't be negative, can't be negative
Have you ever seen yourself
Have you ever clawed out its eyes,
Have you ever named yourself
Have you ever been someone else
Have you even seen yourself today?

Emily Pool sat on a stool
Painting a blue blue-jay
She then used teal
The bird became real
And her painting flew away

Cliff is coming home tonite, Seagull said. Seagull was five foot four. When she walked through the doorframe of the Bakelite hut she often hit her head on the robust cornicing, but she put up with it. After all, her father had smelted the house before he died. The only other bird in the library is Knop, Knop is a bird also. The two birds are sitting together, reading by the light of an orange lamp. Yes, I imagine he’ll arrive soon, Knop said. So the two of them read again. Seagull is reading a book by Swiss Redskin, titled: How to Call a Fireman to Fix Your Mistakes. It is a very thick book, over two-hundred pages (which is quite a lot for a bird, whose eyes are very small). Knop is reading a book too, the book is titled: Technology, Process, People.
The two birds sat together in that small room for an hour before they were join by their brother, Cliff. Cliff entered the room and hit his head on the top of the door frame. Seagull laughed and stood to greet her brother, Knop was still sitting. Brother! We’ve been waiting, Seagull said (Knop said nothing but gave Cliff a nod). Cliff’s break began to glow red, he was overjoyed to see his siblings. He gave Seagull a feathery hug. The Trio had once been quite poor, but now they were rich.

I just want attention.
(It doesn't matter how, at first.)
My cage is too small, exoskeleton too tight.
(Eat the mold: eureka, it's penicillin.)
Give me fame or give me death.
(Taxes and liberty shan't do, Mr. Eaper.)
If you give me the map, I'll become the legend.
(I plan to marry the margarine in the margins.)
The theoretic is the applied.
(Maps are so territorial.)
No canvass is blank when beheld.
(What the ______?)
Post-pretentiousness characterizes my character.
(Mustard and onions once could.)
Puff puff pass on the torch, ye monkey of the porch.
(Racism dies when white men can publicly say the no word.)

>>9989953
no u don't anon stop lying for no reason, it's weird

>>9986563
pretty good

>>9990007
could definitely use some work

>>9990058
overall i licked it, though have you ever considered diversifying the last few liines

>>9990088
cute, in an infantile (relating to literal infants) vomit kind of way. like babies are widely recognized to be cute, but when you have one draped over your shoulder, blubbin' the wubs, and it starts to eject partially digested tit juice onto your paunch and brown bandolier, it suddenly becomes softly gross, a quiet disappointment (or at least that's how my parents describe it)

>>9989986
you've dripped wax onto an imported Foghat LP and labeled it Vandross for the moroccan merchants

>>9987664
an absolute nonentity, means nothing to me

>>9986582
this isn't high school english anon, you don't need to plagiarize to get a good internet grade. just try and be yourself

>>9986200
you can't distill a shot whisky from a singly grain of sorghum

>>9985722
dude youre not a canal evacuating a neonate, chillout with the contr'ctions lol

>>9985672
i didn't read it but i can tell you that it needs work

>>9984585
like The View, it has an audience

>>9990255
this reminds me of Milton during his glory daze

>>9990301
>>9990007 is mine. How would I improve it?

>>9990301
>you can't distill a shot whisky from a singly grain of sorghum
W-what?

"A Manifesto"

Damned be tradition, the corner-foundations
of the pagoda and mosque, the jurassic,
polished, well-varnished, in-slow-ambulations-
round-the-bejewelled-cathedral-enclosure-
understood; burn the commandments in classic
letters that cassocks in motley dipped foreign
fingers in ink to inscribe; let exposure
flake the decaying old virginal parchment
sheath and the papery helms of their horsemen
confident faces emblazoned upon whose
masks are the picture of vacuous assent;
let the remaining air bathe your lewd tattoos.
You’re weighed against a spurious ballast; knife
the ropes, free yourself—what can you lose but life?

>>9990301
>>>9986563
>pretty good
>>>9990007
>could definitely use some work

what did he mean by this?

>>9990419
10/10

>>9984050
The thing about Haikus is that their short nature doesn't lend itself to wasted words or syllables. Your Hiaku in it's current state has many.
First Line: "The" what purpose does it serve? It doesn't give your line any meaning so ditch it. Also Buzz is kinda weak. Just saying

Second Line: "A" again what purpose does it serve? Ditch it. Also "Whistle pierces" is weird because to "pierce" something is forceful wordage and whistle...doesn't sound very forceful or pierce worthy. Your words need weight to them. Use better ones.

Third line: "Like" don't use like in a poem. You're cheating yourself out of a stronger image voluntarily. Saying "like" in a poem is like reminding the reader "HEY YOU! Don't get to lost in this poem because it's just words on a page and I wanted to remind you of that." If something is "like light through the trees." Than it IS light through the trees." remember that.

Also NEVER EVER repeat words in a haiku unless you're feeling ballsy or they actually serve multiple meanings

>>9985672
great imagery, but conflicting structure
fix it and itll be really good

>>9990301
>canal evacuating a neonate
>contractions
god damnit

Apologies for tiny grammar mistakes. I'll critique tomorrow. I'm too tired right now

Thoughts are proving fatal.
Stricken down and grinding sparse.
My mind a temperance,
Sleek But cryptic burden
laying dense Conflicted harsh.

The back of mine, it's ache
And brow of dripping sweat.
My wish supine. For dismal
thoughts I now beget.

Quite Conflicted tense
But budding soon to blossom
of dark and dreary days
Now brighter they Commence

At ease my driven husk,
An appetite No longer.
Relieved I sit at lunch.
Of brighter things i lust

Beforth a changing tide.
Draining out and leaving
Nothing bar her shimmer
And back to work i stride

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>>9990260
Jokes on u these things are the reason I'm broke

>>9991012
bump

she frequents the cafes she's a girl about town
two nights ago she let a brother down
now we go looking round and around
oh what shall we do with this girl about town

Bleachers full of bright-eyed spectators
Each gripped with hope they have transfigured
And projected on the spectres that dance below

Cut grass and ash and floodlights
Corn dogs and paella and sweet nuts
Sweeter tasting in the mild evening air that swoons

Each and every cheer juxtaposed with
The gut-punch of crushing disappointment
A total annihilation

Clouds assume a lofty perch
Above the incandescent crescent
Starched shadows of things inconceivable

And it is time, now time
To reap the day and exhume the night
And to be born again and to die and to remain the same, always

>>9992298
change a brother to another and make it less fucking scary

>>9988326
You could have an eighties hit

>>9986693
You lost me

the somnolence of thunder clouds

ashy clouds, a somnambulist
over fields,
spittle from your blank mouth
drips down,
slicks the stumbling of
your steps
and plays torrid feedback
booming from your tumbling
lisp

weeping lustily, in our flooding
bare foot prints.
ringing bells atop your
rough scalp,
suturing gummed metal
in your
teeth, cough up and pour
thoughts into iron pipes
scattered

about the damp moist mossy growth,
filling their
bleakness they are feel half
empty;
a partial satiation.
your saliva
makes bloated stomachs sick
and makes our bile toil
soil.

as the shattering of the tree
stumps you pass
with your looming ashen
coating
our teeth and our dry tongues,
we drink
from the rusted pipes we
laid out like catchers for
dreams.

but i, like those still uncovered,
become meek and
disillusionment for other
darkening clouds
like dust will then sleep
on our breast,
tickle our necks,
and dump questions
on the shirts
we lent to all
the others
we slept
with...

alone i am stuck mumbling
mutely,
for the slumbering burnt
clouds, now
half awakened above,
have parched
my aforementioned
rambling and rumbling
hopes.

Atrapado en un callejón sin salida
con la única opción de bregar,
voy mirando a las esquinas
en la búsqueda de un portal.

La luz es tenue,
mi andar, huidizo,
cada paso que doy
un posible último suspiro.

>>9984236
>>9991218

Man I was sort of messing around but I really appreciate the advice. I'll keep it in mind for future poems

When the moon eclipses my heart
I reach inside for another sin,
When the tides begin to crash
And I let the cataclysm in.
When the memory starts to weep
Like sinking ships at sea,
As the storm approaches your peace
And when all I taste is hate.

>>9994915
Some nice imagery
Rough line transitions due to starting w transition words for everything, Like, As, And etc.

>>9993264
Some really cool shit. Poor title, weak ending.

>>9984694
I LOVE IT
not brilliant or genius but still jazzy.

The aporia,
A ragged beach awash with
folded butterflies


White vapors arise
From rain-infused cobblestone--
birds on Angelsea

>>9990329
make it better

>>9991012
>what can you lose but life?
literary esteem

>>9991698
so then the jokes on u, twice

>>9993264
>>9994936
i case anyone cares, here is an updated version.

the somnolence of thunder clouds


ashy clouds, a somnambulist
over fields,
spittle from your blank mouth
drips down,
slicks the stumbling of
your steps
and plays torrid feedback
booming from your tumbling
lisp

weeping lustily, in our flooding
bare foot prints.
ringing bells atop your
rough scalp,
suturing gummed metal
in your
teeth, cough up and pour
thoughts into iron pipes
scattered

about the damp moist mossy growth,
filling their
bleakness they are feel half
empty;
a partial satiation.
your saliva
makes bloated stomachs sick
and makes our bile toil
soil.

as the shattering of the tree
stumps you pass
with your looming ashen
coating
our teeth and our dry tongues,
we drink
from the rusted pipes we
laid out like catchers for
dreams.

but i, like those still uncovered,
become meek and
disillusionment for other
darkening clouds
like dust will then sleep
on our breast,
tickle our necks,
and dump questions
on the shirts
we lent to all
the others
we slept
with...

alone i am stuck mumbling
mutely,
for the slumbering burnt
clouds, now
half awakened above,
have parched
my aforementioned
rambling and rumbling
hopes.

>>9995324
Just how bad is it? How do I improve it?

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This one I don't know how to categorize:

I knew I was dreaming
when you whispered, "I love you".

I want to fuck you like I never loved you.

5-7-5:
High strung, feverish
Warm unlike wintertide breath
Filling my room whole

5-7-5-7-7:
Thick forest pupil
Lost within the green of ferns
Labyrinthine church
Thwacking branch playfully swat
Chirping warblers call the heart

>>9985415
You're not getting it because there's nothing to get. It's just empty pretentious garbage. The typesetting is a dead giveaway.

>>9986582
Make it stop.

Reach
Like the sun loaned you to the earth
Maybe that’s what we all
Mean to say
Creating yourself
Means saying hello
Taking fears for a walk
Build anything everywhere
Til your everywhere
Make everything
one

Never tried to write a poem before, so I just rambled this down in 5 minutes, for you guys to tear me apart. Please be gentle.

One afternoon, I was struck.
Suddenly, thrown out from nowhere,
I was pierced,
By the spear of despair.
As it dug into my flesh,
All the way, to the core of my heart
The cold metal melted,
And the silvery liquid dripped into my veins.
Down through my body the liquid ran,
And gathered, at the pit of my stomach.

There it lay, like ballast,
Heavy, dreading, reminding me,
That I was the only sailor on this ship,
Heading toward a predestined shore.
Yet, there it lay, heavy,
Making it hard to chose another path,
Or another shore.

Remember when you were dumb
You worshipped Barney like a chud
Die, you fucking Barneyfag
Now there’s just retardation in your eyes
Like the downie that won’t die
Die, you fucking Barneyfag

You were fucked in the crossfire of Leach and Parker
Clutched in their tight grasp
Fuck off, you faggot with retarded laughter
Fuck off you manchild, you retard, you downie and die

I hope you die in a dune
I hope you die soon
Die, you fucking Barneyfag
Taught by those who aren’t right
His purpleness filled your sight
Die, you fucking Barneyfag

You found your own way to ignore smart decisions
Clutched in his tight grasp
Fuck off, you dumbass, you failed emission
Fuck off, you sperg, you asshole, you degenerate and die

Frozen tundra, snow sunken heart-
land--once rich with green grass-and-trees
and wildlife sipping water--

silent lay you, minus the breeze.
That gentle death-filled hymn hums wan
off frosted limbs without their leaves.

No bird flies in those grey skies. Gone
are the mice, and all butterflies.
Bled of warmth who's life, for it, sung

under breath or roaring battle-cries.
When frozen dirt was damp and soft,
heavy feet fell heavy bodies

to pack the earth--to dry and crust.
Their sightless souls now icy ghosts
whose bony clutch, as snowy dust,

does--from cold chattering teeth--grow,
even in death, tighter each day
in flee of a heavy fate below.

Their fingers claw, at glacial pace,
up-on the emerald floor-skirt
of a beige queen's rolling ballgown,

who's married to the sun, not dirt.
Mirrored in her frost-blue eyes, fires
faint but pure burn but small and short--

Dim beads of dying flames: pyres
alight top a frigid tundra
'tween lifeless-tree-like irises.

Frozen tundra, snow-sunken heart-
land, rest on wounds, to scars in peace.
Pass-by moons and emboss stars

in quiet snowfields hung with trees.
Time, soon again, will warm and thaw,
and radiate with brilliance.

>>9997197
>up-on the emerald floor-skirt
>of a beige queen's rolling ballgown,

>who's married to the sun, not dirt.

Area I'm most uncertain about and feel I need to touch on the rhythm.

The Light

The light shine on my flaws
But why not all?
I was once a good man
Who stood proud and tall.

Gave my light to many,
even those that need naught.
rendering my heart
to a closed-tight knot.

Forgive me light,
for these pleas shall rot.
Just like my hope
With Solemn thought.

Please criticize me

>>9997327

Your theme is nice, and I like the progression but the prose is a bit clumsy, so just tighten it up.

It always helps when you read it aloud to hear the muddy parts.

>>9997347
>prose
>talking about a poem

>>9997327
this is a nice little poem anon.
The first stanza is enjoyably simple, no pretension at all and communicates a nice image.
>rendering my heart
needs work, I don't know if 'rendering' is the word you're looking for. It sticks out doesn't go too well with the following line (which I like quite a lot) "to a closed-tight knot"
your last stanza might be over doing it tho.
>just like my hope
I already understand that this has happened, you don't really need to say it.
All in all, nice poem - with a little work it'll be solid.

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Is this a poem?

Blood blood.
It leaves me, like sweet dripping honey.
Missing five members without palm.
I move the invisible hand,
unable to be seen by my tired eyes.
Frustrating frustration,
squeezing to squelch an awful pain.
"Remember to breathe," mother said
as I strangled myself.
SQUEEZE!
The phantom hand gripped with glee.
"I'm sorry, I'm a bad girl."
I laughed empty air, falling down.
Pain.
Warm skin dyes into white.
I forgot to close my eyes
as I gurgled a bit in my throat.

>>9997347
>>9997360
>>9997407
Thank you all, it was my first attempt at a poem and i will improve on it some more.

The sweet smell of a great sorrow lies over the land
Plumes of smoke rise and merge into the leaden sky
A man lies and dreams of green fields and rivers
But awakes to a morning with no reason for waking
He's haunted by the memory of a lost paradise
In his youth or a dream, he can't be precise
He's chained forever to a world that's departed
It's not enough, it's not enough
His blood has frozen & curdled with fright
His knees have trembled & given way in the night
His hand has weakened at the moment of truth
His step has faltered
One world, one soul
Time pass, the river rolls
And he talks to the river of lost love and dedication
And silent replies that swirl invitation
Flow dark and troubled to an oily sea
A grim intimation of what is to be
There's an unceasing wind that blows through this night
And there's dust in my eyes, that blinds my sight
And silence that speaks so much louder than words
Of promises broken

>>9993324
rate it

LANDLORD LEECHES
SQUASH THE SCUM

>>9997969
I wrote this on the wall of the students' dormitory I was living in at the time

not yet edited just a draft (is not the title)

sound the mantra out loud:
I'm different
I'm unique
I'm loved
I'm complete
then think about the last time someone called you special
and quietly ask yourself what that means—
sourpusses and bitterants alike
lend themselves to a harsh nobility
that decries the soppy vicissitudes of caprice
captured at each moment by rhubarb rumbles
quaking through the infrastructure of the social id
so much more powerful than the ill-named superego,
but let's stick to the first syllable of psychology—
carry on careening about with the lower level chariots
racing to the beat of sunlight fading by into the bright night
turning dark days into a whiff of the glory daze
destined to collect dust like Earnie your uncle collects retro video games
the poster orphans of obsolescence in sentimentality's cape.
The zoo cages animals, the riddle reminds of compartmentalization,
the stranded shout for bars to rattle,
the prey beg for fears to battle,
the losers fail to fail in their muddle,
the winners lose and reflect in the puddle
the right turns left behind their emblazoned trails
while the bystanders lose themselves off the rails
and pause as a single hermit uncovers the holiest of grails:
dying a Senna death, a Mozart death, a sewer's breath.

Your cantankerous cunt of a grandmother is just scared,
loosen her gravity and change her Dependz.

oh how did that happen the wise owl said to his friend Robert De Niro who was sitting on a tree and looked at the stras frankly and with sprakles in his eyes which reminded me of robby bubbles. Sparkly was also his soul which longed for universe but did not fly above the earth but rather rested timidly in body and feigned bonding with heart but the wise Owl was smart and said: Robert De Niro, are thou aware of the worlds misery? And robert said: Losing illusions is like death to me and i love it. I love truth. And one truth is that miser is just an illusion. But the owl shaked it's head and said: Words! Words and Truth! Hahahahah! Words and truth you idiot. And Robert De Niro looked with deer eyes at Wise Owl and said: Stop bullying me. And the Wise Owl said: WhO's bullying who? Am i bulling you? Or is it your self that bullies you? If Misery is an illusion, in the sense of us s individuals framing something unframed as "Misery" then so it is you who is creating bullery and not me. "wau" said Robert De Niro and pondered and looked at the stars who were moving slightly faster than usually on this night but they ere not as fast as the falcon from the Star wars Franchise who moved at beyond lightspeed levels and was well known for it's unique design among people across planet earth. "The Millenium Falcon," added Robert De Nori and drew a picture of it on the tree's leaves and the Tree said: hey man, that's tickling me" and De Niro laughed and said: "Wau, this is crazy. You can speak and feel?" and the tree laughed and said: Nah, actually not Hahahahha. And then it was quiet again and Rovert Deni Ro felt anxiety rummaging in his hearts because there was now silence and he wanted people to say something to him. He had hoped secretly that the tree would hug him and craddle him like a little baby and pet him and give him nice kisses and scratch his ears and hair so that he could fall asleep in peace and love and also with no bad thoughts or terror striking his heart as usually was the case. The Tree was busy dying though and it was a long and slow death very much unlike mans death, which was quick and sudden, even when prolonged from the relative eyes of man. "How cute man are!" said the Wise Owl and chuckled a tin bit and then thought of how much effort men invested into their lifes, hunting after illusions of which the well knew that the were illusions or maybe not. Disillusions are like bullets said DeNiro and this time The Wise Owl did not intervene but rather felt a lot of love in it's heart for now Robert DeNiro and his misery seemed quite loveable and admirable. Man now seemed beautiful to the wise owl because even the president sometimes must stand naked, and because all man live so short and die so sudden and because they tried so hard and believed in so manyfold things and loved and killed, and hated and accepted and rejected and because they nodded in unison and joy when sitting in circles and exchanged compliments and where excited and felt

A Tree stood proud and obscenely over mother earth and swayed left, turn right like a criminal in the wind and then shakened it's leafs from the top so that acouple fell down but below was the annual mom meeeting in the forest of Nottingham and the moms were there to discuss issues of importance to their social circles. one mom was topmom and the other moms accepted her and there was a flat hierarchy aside from topmom and moms were nice and friendly and accepted each other and when one mom was plebeian and very naive and felt strongly with her heart and little with her mind it was liked and admired and graceful feminine smiles of knowledge and understanding. To a Male it surely must have seemed strange and weird! What strange and foreign creatures females were. Even the more primitive and uneducated one were intent on appearing civilized and even if more direct and vulgar, they were listened to. They were discussing the case of Deadly Wounded man Tollo. Deadly Wounded Man Tollo was the man of Reykjavik, a woman of great beauty but also a woman of great desire. Deadl Wounded man Tollo had loved her greatl, for Reykjavik was a paradise bird. So shallow and superficial, it took great delight in it's own superb beauty. A smile of her was capable of making the world melt! Scientics had proven that. And the sparks in her eyes. Oh the sparks in her eyes. and how she loved herself! How beautiful she loved herself. And how she delighted in being lvoed and how she delighted in her own voice. And hw she delighted in being seen by his eyyes. In hearing him speak poetically of her beauty, how she learned about herself through him. But Deadly Wounded Man Tollo had been long wounded and he had been wounded when he met Reykjavik, he had been a man of the desert and of the arktis and in his heart was turmoil for he could not find rest and but so Reykjavik looked in his eyes with some sadness but it was sadness too pass and not to dwell and she said nothing but looked with sadness and moved on. And Deadly Wounded Man Tollo remained and hurt some more, he hurt terribly for he knew that the truth expressed by Reykjavik was absolute: He was not deserving of her love. He would love her, would he not? But when he saw her with some roses in her teeth running alongside some man from a country in the heat he had to admit that he had not been deserving of the paradise bird remaining with him. did h enot fully accept that she was only to look in his eyes to see a reflection of herself and then fly on and on, to different planets and worlds, casting a rainbow behind her so beautiful that myths, even in our age, emerged from it's appearance? The trouble in the eyes of Deadlyy Wounded Man Tollo remained and he laid down on the ground which was earthly earth, with dust and grass and worms. And there he laid and remained. If only i was a paradise bird he thought and there he laid. His wound was bleeding. He was a lonely man. If only he had wings, if only the earth would let him

le Man with hat stood in front of wallz and unsheathes his penis then he let go and streamed urine against the wallz and it splashed and created clouds of stink but not too stinky and ran down the ground like rivers but larger in relative size more like a flood and it actually engulfed his leather boots but man with hat was manly man and leather boots were of leather but not to be valued beyond syymbolical meaning which signified decay, so the pee striking the shoe was totally d'accord. But man With Hat had trouble standing on firm legs and shakened left and right spraying but atleast he did not fall down he thought while spraying and laughing and then he actually feell down from laughing too hard and landed in flood of urine and being drunk he stuck ou this tongue and tasted and said: This tastes like piss and laughed but nobody was impressed. Rather civilized man of older times shakened their heads and said: What has come of the world! and even Sokrates said this and shakened his head but among others they walked away and left Man with Hat in piece. Then all of a sudden Frank Occean appeared and picked Man with Hat up and said: he dude, you should stick that thing backj in your pants bro and hol' up you are MAN WITH HAT he said and was awestruck and did gay noises but Man with Hat looked at him with drunken eyes who also were bloodshot if that is aggreable to be said and Man with Hat said:"1,2,4" and walked down stars but Frank Ocean did not let go and walked behind him and asked him: Where#s your home?! and Man With Hat said: I'm loong away from home, i'm on a different continent alltogether. I miss mom and dad and sister and brother who stayed there but i can't go back he said: Why did Frank Ocean respond and Man with Hat turned around slowly focussing first with his eyes shortly on an advertisement image that was fixed on some advertimesement image spot at the Subwayy Station and it said: Buy A New Iphone To Belong and Man With Hat was appaled by this new clever media strategy which ironed the subtle social mechanisms that were involved in the whole I-hype and thus attempting to rendering them inefficient as in: We know that we like to belong by buying these products, we are doing it ironically and fully aware of it and it's all crap but atleast i can fully engage in the hypocrisy and so on but Man With Hat did not belong to this crowd, he actually bought his Iphones because they were very reliable and userfriendly and also perfectly integrated into the Apple Cinematic Unvierse so that he could upload easily his new movies and images and drawings or apps to the universe and then download them from his Other Apple Devices which were an Ipad, an Mac, another Mac, an Iwatch and Ipod Nanon and an Iphone 8 and also an Iphone 7 he didn't use anymore now that it was outdated but kept it as an accessoire, just to fizzle around with different iphones at times and being confused as to which one was the right one because they booth loked identically an

"So i gout of my Mazerrati Ventolo with 700 PS and looked at the flashlights from Paparazzi" he said to the mirror. The dude was naked in truth, he was overweight and chubby but his hair was thick. His eyes were ugly and ind f freaksih to be honest. His name was Purposeboy which was joker for what determined him, exacted him, was his lack of Purpose but in return he was constantly on seekingz for purpoze but did not find it! One could easily wonder why this creature stuck to life for if all he wanted was purpose but he never found purpose was not all of his desire perfectly denied! Ha! That is true depression. ha! That is true misery! haha! Can you imagine? All existance lived in a lack of expressed desire! ha! Can you imagine finding UNLUST everwhere because in all your struggles for purpose you would fail? But my empress would say: But wait a second, why this fixation on purpose. It made me wonder but i figured it owas one of mans silly assumptions of finding ways towards true pleasure. As in: Once i found ppurpose i will finelly find pure and neverending joy. A fixed image or something.......... But in truthiif you were sitting, be honest now or you will regret it, if you were sitting on the roof of rich kids with too many white wine and they'd say: hey Ferguson Urquart why iz u so unhapy would you be able to tell the truth Woiuld you say? I am virgin i want to stick my erect penis into a vagine though i do not know why and they would say: But you watch porn? and you said: Yes i do, i watch porn in which several dicks are stuck in a single woman and i one of those man! And they'd say: That's a females fantasy you moron. And I'd say: Nah my dudes, you simply did not understand the sort of hunter mentality, when you and your group of fellow hunters strike down on the hard to hunt prey and the pride and joy makes your dick 11 inches long and you stick the prick in the womans speakhole and she, desiring to be conquered and raped starts sucking wildly as if she would die if not sucking to her best of abilities and it's all primitive and osrt of primordial in it's intensity and the other dicks also tear her apart and when you come you come hard and semen spills out of her nose but at this point the group of friends is alienated and politely ask you to leave the roof for they are more the tame folks and not much for such things to be discussed so with a sense of humiliation but also false pride oyu leave and say: Fine. I wanted to leave anyway you snobs and the guys shouted: Dude, yoou're a fucking virgin talking about gangrape. You can't say anything at all to any male or female. Get a job and some status and get a wife and you#Ll be okay bt stop with this bullshit. And i didn't respind but rather jumped down the building and died. "oh fuck" said the girls and screamd loudly and shreking more than shouting and there the polioce came and arrested me for suicide and at the trial i was judged to be sitting in jail for eternity and the trial was actuall

dog Dog Dog. Dog. Dog. Dog. Dog. Dog. Dog. Dog. Dog. Dog. Dog. Dog. Dog. Dogm. Dog. Dog. Dog. Dog. Dog. Dog. Dog. Daaaamn. Dog is damn. Damn mndog. Dogdamn. Dogdamn. Dodamn enter enter ente script. Enter: Now Start. Script enter: Now the story starts and guitars start playing for the guitars are the voice of gods. The Guitar is voice of God Enter. Mom where are my cornflakes enter. Mom i'm hungry,. Confrlakkesss. Enter. Mom... MOM! Mom. MOOOOOOOOOOOOOm! Enter. MOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOkm! OOOM. Enter CORNFLAKEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEES! MOPM COFNRLAKES!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! crying enter. M;OPOOOOOOOOOOOOOm! MOOOOOOOOM!. MAMA!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Enter.
MAMAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA CORNFLAKEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEES. cornFLAKEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEES! cornFLAKEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEES MAMA! MAMA I WANT CORNFlAKES AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH! MA MAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA enter
MAMA I WANT CORNFLAKES MAMAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA CORNFLAKEEEEEEEEEEES MAMAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA MAMAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA mama i want cornflakes MAMAAAAAAAA I WANT CORN FLAKEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEES! Mama pls. Enter Mamaaaaaa. mama. Manma i want cornflakes please AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHh. said the child and waited but mom was gone. While child was in kitchen room and waiting for it's daily cornflakes so that it could leavy for school with filled tummy and the dosis of sugar it by nor required in the morning to functon properly the mother had slipped in bathroom and died because she bashed her head against the bathtub. The blood was spilling tightly from her wound. I think she wasn't fully dead by now but the son was sitting in the ktichen turning his lack of confrlakes into a universal portest. He was being bullied in school for being fat. He didn't have any friends and his computer had been taken from him because he lied. he was vastly lost in the world and wannted his cornflakes. He felt he had a right because he suffered so much. He didn't suffer before school had begun. He had been happy. His mom forced him to go to schoo. He said in the ktichen and screamed he wantedhis confralkes. But his mom was dying.
MAMAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

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Have you heard about Mayakovsky? He's one of my favourite poets (yes, I'm russian). And I just wanted you to understand his style.

The poet
Must be an actor,
That dances and singing
As before the end!
Without any help
By any protector
With smile in the one
And a gun
In another
hand!

nines
evrytime
sublime
underneath the citrus
snotgreen scrotumhightening
touch the tips
broach to breeches
bois make noise
makers make marks
deleteriously delete it
ripple feet replete shit
stop drop and roll one up
cut and run the risks
asterisk the cat o' nines
reinvent the zero in the mirror
kill the last of em
dine dash and ditch ding dong
the witch is dead the song
pebbles strewn in straw cakes
carrot cake uptuned coquettish steaks
baritone balustrades i am the don
time to iron horse the corsette thong
to love her is what i have
chimney cricket yodels in the bag
dutch lag at the disco with the NPCs
curate cosmic rhythms on my MPC
big mac sliced up keys on my new PC
typing 666 resting with piece
999 flipped jetsam double berry gat
millimeters converted to winces splat
winsome curls enmeshed pony tales tat
go for tit so I split and shout that's that
(propeller plane burnt sky tip to the mad hat)

>>9998422
I like it

Some pain ought not to be helaed. Rather it must linger foreveiral in one's heart. At an

As the brightness of day sinks beneath the earth,
As the darkness of night veils the horizon,
As the coldness of air sets upon the world,
So does the anguish of loneliness upon my heart.

Finally I can breathe,
Finally I can move,
Lastly,
I can see.

The darkness of night has illuminated all things;
All things that the brightness of day has obscured.

The darkness of day is no longer there;
No longer there to protect me from the brightness of night.

I am in sollitude,
I am in sovereignty,
Yet,
I still persist in agony.

The rose of this worldy life,
The rapine of this virtous strife,
Has alured me;
Alured me to the depths of ardous blithe

Why must I be allured?
Why must eros be so crude?
To bring me to this tempestous blight
To such torturous heights

Why must such a device be contrived?
Why must my heart be so deprived?

Oh eros! Why must you do so?
Oh eros! Why must I be so?

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>>9999345
Great word play, unfortunately the poem lacks depth beyond that.

>>9999350
Thank you for the critique. What do you recommend for me to do, to bring depth into this piece?

>>9999357
If you strip away the (elegance?) of this well thought out poem, what are you left with?

Someone who regrets the fact that she (or he) is in love with 'eros'

If you can sum up the poem with the last two sentences
>Oh eros! Why must you do so?
>Oh eros! Why must I be so?
Why bother with the word play? either) keep the same simple idea, which by the way - isn't "bad" per se, just a little too, linear.( or you can leave the reader to interpret their own idea of that it means, by keeping it some what cryptic.

All in all, I really liked it.

>>9999382
Interesting.

So if I were to take out the last two lines and elaborate more, would that create more depth?

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>>9999357
not him, but:

Only the first stanza does anything. The rest feels like it goes nowhere to me.

>To bring me to this tempestous blight
>To such torturous heights

being this purply is dangerous, btw. be sure you're more than comfortable sound like a normal person before gilding yourself.

>>9998422
Have you ever heard a prog band that couldn't keep time? That's what this sounds like out loud and its not a good thing.


anyway, here's a first draft guys, help me find what's in it plz

>>9999388
I wouldn't say so, you've got the hand of a poet but the soul of a post card.
The poem seems like something you would scribble into a napkin while waiting for coffee, though I'm being a little hyperbolic.

The poem has this sort of contrivance to it, almost like it has an agenda to come off as fanciful.
I would suggest writing other poems, something that reflects how you feel deeply, with the same word play of course; just a little bit more, robust.

>>9999414
First of all, thank you so much.
Second of all, what I'm thinking of doing is in between the first stanza and the second, I'll elaborate on personal reflection. I would like to then use the second stanza to create this dramatic effect of repetition.

All in all I would like to emit the last two lines,

Also, your description of how this was written was fairly accurate. This was sort of written out in the whim of a thought, but it is still personal and reflects myself.

>>9999345
stop writing rhyming poetry, it is so fucking boring.

>>9999350
As the brightness of day sinks beneath the earth,
As the darkness of night veils the horizon,
As the coldness of air sets upon the world,
So does the anguish of loneliness upon my heart.

Finally I can breathe,
Finally I can move,
Lastly,
I can see.

The darkness of night has illuminated all things;
All things that the brightness of day has obscured.

The darkness of day is no longer there;
No longer there to protect me from the brightness of night.

I am in sollitude,
I am in sovereignty,
Yet,
I still persist in agony

What's your critique on this?

Keep on,
for by God, there is kingdom and out.
Kingdom is as easy as a children's walk, marching silly in a sidewalk puddle.
The trouble in your gait is not unnecessarily,
and children can help, I do no doubt.
Keep on, odd and miscellaneous.
And on, sharper than a wounded lover.

Heart is where the living dark goes under.
Under, resurfacing, shrinking and out.
Ruder than an umbrella insults shoes, but can turn your whole in
where the like-minded gather.

>>9999441
Man, look up what
enjambment is.

But forreal. End stopping every line like that shows screams "this is a slam poem" usually.

Also you left a period off the end

It looks like you're trying to use a very particular brand of parallelism that unfortunately fails due to the relatively common sound phrases you use.

>>9999453
This is another poem that I've decided not to complete. It was meant to be a full-fleshed story, but I am no longer interested in completing it - for personal reasons. I decided to use excerpts of it in other poems I've posted on /lit/. These are the remaining two that have not been used.

And Abigail was no taller than Kindleberry loved her
- longer than socks stretch winter onto the clothesline.
with the red roses, tulips, hyacinths and the blue morning glory
and the attic, by the door out the half-published sky.
Were only she here, were could once his eyes meet her
- as true Abigail is higher than kite sends to receive her.

[...] Oh, so out of Farfallen, out of any good pore
- come too small to feed porridge or bigger than to decline.
with the flowers bowing, the clouds driving late sun like dory,
through attic and door, with the face half-shy
came anyways Kindleberry for a balloon.
Asked he the blacksmith but couldn't find its ore.
The florist's advice cost him a bouquet.
The judge insists that's what jury's for.
Went off last to the children, exhausting done from the day.
Not a soul for love of Kindleberry, not children, could say.

>>9999471
Ughhhb i really wanted to like it but it's tryhard knockoff joyce. I think you're being too creative with flow and form without having a good foundation with description, imagery, vocabulary, emotion

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No advice last time.

Murder me I'm
an inmate and you're
a reflection of
an echo.
smoke in a mirror in a mirror in a hall
of mirrors you're
evaporation
condensation on my glass and where
your face was,
black hole neutral emptiness,
your outline charged
on the velvet sofa,
goldenrod bush
knee-prints that spaghettify an astronaut in .05.

Call me clichè, seems every house I Iive in's haunted and
we all know what that means.

At last
Plants can live without sunlight
And humans can live without love
Our Gods have an appetite
For money and blood

But we keep them satisfied
And hope they reward us well
That we will all be purified
And the sinners sent to hell