Poetry thread
I wonder if people actually frequent this board...
A damaged mind with a picket sign
THE END IS NEAR, THE END IS NEAR
But I'm still fine.
NOW IS THE TIME FOR PANIC AND FEAR
Even a blind man steers clear
The prophets drop tears
There is news for them to hear.
WAVES ARE CRASHING
GLASS IS SMASHING
We are over the pier
YOU SHOULD HAVE HEARD
NOW IT'S CLEAR
.
..
.......
the end is here
>>7384991
what's with the rhyming
It's as if someone placed me in a large cylindrical washing-machine and turned it to steady. Something from the outside but from the inside it's vomit inducing and repetitive.
>>7385045
Poetry can definitely rhyme.
And could you elaborate? Sounds like fun though.
What you're about to read is entirely unconventional and very experimental, so if you were looking to savor some old school rhyme and meter digs then keep gawkin':
Shake that
ass. Shake
that ass. Shake
that ass, Shake–that ass.
Ass, shake. Assshakeº
That ass shake ass that
Shass take thass at shake
ass shake that ass shake it
rump yeah dump in the rump
yeah junk in the dump
yeah trunk in the rump
yeah shake
shake
that ass
that
ass
oohh yeah
denouement
shake
that
fucking
ass, person.
>>7385072
go away Big Sean
>>7385067
>poetry can definitely rhyme
this one's a genius in the works
Yeah, obviously. What I'm asking is why did you go overboard with the rhyming? Is there a reason for it or did you just think it sounds cool? Because it doesn't, which is where the analogy comes in
>>7385092
Here's one that I'm pretty sure doesn't rhyme...
But yeah you're right.
Do keep me part from those visionaries;
Gods among men,
Who do hold that sacred poison,
The poison that kills repetition.
That foul beast's fur our ancestors were wrapped in,
so warmly.
Brilliant they are,
There is safety in that foul beast.
I'm too scared to run;
But by far happy enough to live.
So sing the songs of the new,
but I will hum my humble tune,
That so many souls older than mine,
Rejoice in.
>>7385081
Nah dude. It's Cave@ EmpTOR Browsa the Wowsa. I wow dem ladies on the daily ya dig?
Remember the name.
Damn this some crazy music
You know the girls always gon' lose it.
I be chillin,
I be sippin,
But just never go and confuse shit
I lay wisdom like confucius
Little bit crazy dont make me lose it
Got so much paper it's retarded
Call that shit my rainman
Not-so-bright boys tryna hate
Couldn't see them in my ray-banz!!!
Ayy gatti
Its lit
2015 poetry swagswag
>>7385118
I mean this in as constructive a way as possible.
You write like a fag and your shit's all retarded.
Why are you aping old timey speech? You sound like one of those fucking Hobbit poems from LOTR. If you have something to say say it without fogging shit up with some weird fedora aesthetic. If you DON'T have anything to say (you really don't seem to) then quit flapping your cum-hole.
Poetry starts with FEELING FEELINGS. If you're just going to spew the textual equivalent of a steampunk meetup because you think you're clever don't waste the time.
These are supposed to be lyrics to a song built around a Tanzbar drum machine emulator and a wall of sound of clean electric guitars.
Patent Foramen Ovale Part 2
Do your candles burn lower
When your mother leaves?
When your bedposts play the violin
On your rosy rosined teeth-clenched grin
Take my spirit to your sweat-stained sheets
Am I there when you can't breathe?
For the sights and sounds and cries that drown me blind
Is it me still by your eye's mind's side?
On the ferris rides and flare gun sighs and heaves and streetlamp fleas?
From above you'll come and fade the front into the patchwork scene
While mood shifts run the circuit track
Your eyes they had an asthma attack
And the troves of doves and the trumpet guild are playing on one team
When the push does shove your love's a bitter grapefruit green
My God
The razor cuts from the ankle shaves
And prim and proper paraphrases
And the hazelnuts and the cocoa guts
That I made for you for the holy day
All wading through your stomach linings
The devil hides inside the timing
Just shrink into your breathing aid
Till your pupils vacuum up the shade
And you're all alone and that space is home
And in heavy air, when spirits share
The sour apples and chlorine
Your head and hair and lungs and shoes will flood with catecholamine
And when your heart pulse turns too fast turn me away
Cause I refuse to be there when you die on Robigalia day
Oh fade my sight to black, on the backlit screen
Cause when the push does shove your grapefruit love's a bitter shade of green
Are you the things outside of me?
Do our movements cycle separately?
Does your pixeled love fly from above?
Have we made it to the meat?
Are you the things inside of me?
Beyond the cogs and vinery
Where our bones can twist and somersault
To the clouds above the shoal
Come on, come on, hey, hello do you feel whole?
Sitcoms, romcoms, and microblogs all stirring what I see
An open sunroof doesn't bother me
>>7385181
ugh rude & vulgar
and i wont stop writing poetry because i enjoy it!
thanks anyways buddy
>>7385191
This is incredible. If the song thing doesn't take off, I hope you can put together an anthology of poetry. This is like. Visual, heady, and so precise it may as well be embroidered instead of typed. Don't stop.
when shelley said "poets are the unacknowledged legislators of the world", he was right..
and there's a reason they're unacknowledged.
>>7384991
Jesus, like, I honestly don't even know where to begin
>>7385195
Keep practicing, best of luck.
>>7385191
>My God
FUCK
how do i get into writing poetry? haven't had any formal education regarding poetry
>>7385531
What does that mean?
>>7386119
>>Poetry starts with FEELING FEELINGS
>ugh his poem was bad but i guarantee anything you write is just as awful
This.
Webbed fingers dancing across boards
Plastic and keyed upon tables
Or rotorless phones in silence.
The sentiment sings electric.
The tide rises, nets bursting open,
Crowding the solitary catches
Limply dancing in the false light,
Eager for cleaning, still gasping.
She shows me her thumb through the wire,
A stringy daily ritual,
In profile, her scales glistening.
Fillet knife drawn, I carve inward.
>>7385559
I read it in zizeks voice and it broke my flow.
Great poem though, parts towards the end remind me strangely of AnCo.
>>7386227
A pretty decent poem about the neet life
Bundled Mind
Weekly witness a joyful expression.
Enough to trigger lasting happiness,
But circumstances holding the reins
Keep barring us inside, rendering helpless.
Mutual dislocation and divergence -
A guide to abolish the recess,
Sadly, too far to alter the distance.
Stranded just a sentence away from bliss.
>>7386385
I really don't know.
It might be because i'm tired, but i'm having a hard time figuring out what you're trying to say. Which is fine, but i feel your language doesn't strike me enough to warrant it.
>>7384991
I have tried to make my first translation of russian modern significant poet random poem. Her name is Alina Vituhnovskaya.
I am the War. I am convoy of inaudible reality’s servants
The Whore-God was trembling. And rapacious goblin had been laughing at him.
Young soldiers were shouting in the shameless sky
From the loaded fingers. It is easy to die young.
What did Mishima see in the trivial Sun and Steel?
What does hunter want to know from killed by himself?
Young soldiers were shouting in the dull sky
From the loaded fingers grasping anxious smoke.
Marvelous carnivore walking around is bored
Whore-God is defenseless like yellow rubber toy.
And who puts Lolita’s stockings on crutches?
Who will get Lolita’s legs into one's head?
Is it analyst of zeros and anal mists?
Is it criminal lunatic and pocket maniac?
Is it Prince of cocaine and connoisseur of dangerous frauds?
Or is it clumsy Gumbert, who is totally obvious?
Captain of Darkness. [She is] atheist of absolute zeros.
Whore of pistols. Killed soldiers’ prostitute.
My dead flash like wicked bride has hung
On the beautiful major’s skeleton and it is falling to Hell.
I am the bride of crosses. I am lively little sun of swastikas.
The queen of Kunstkameras, the chief of concentration camps
Outrageous curator to whom insolent clearness of Death
Is preferable than false coward ideas of Art and Reality.
Instead of black squares, squares, squares
There is a man, a man, a man on the wall.
It is a man, not a worm, not a tamed tin soldier.
And I like it, I like it, I like it.
The crazy curator, curator, curator
Is the axe’s or penal colony’s devilish friend
Instead of black Hell of tamed square
You have hung Malevich, silly dressed in the old coat.
>>7386385
Bland. The explicitly stated emotions are dull and vague ("joyful," "happiness," etc.). Maybe that's intentional, but it's still boring. Try capturing them with descriptions instead of saying them outright.
The metaphors are trite and get mixed up, like in the last half of the first stanza with circumstances "holding the reins" and "barring us inside" simultaneously. All I can think of is getting held hostage by a stagecoach driver.
The structure is obedient but superficial.
Chew On Lexapro:
dollar tucked
between fingers
fucked snorting
hard steel
on cocksucking whores
virtual love girls
raped by everyone's
untouched flesh
give them pills for suicide
call this lifeline
and you don't wanna
jump. full on train
to your face goodbye
they drill a switch into your
face and flip it and
no matter what you’re happy
happy happy
happy happy
crying whores
and i'm happy
raped children
and i'm happy
gagged on society's cock
and have nothing goin
nowhere but
i'm happy
>>7386472
Send it to Hot Topic and see if they publish it
>>7385045
I don't get why poets still rhyme and use meter and shit. Language has changed, that's for 19th century shit.
It's like using uselessly archaic words to sound 'poetic'
It'll probably be completely gone and laughed at when used in another 25-50 years
>>7386491
not exactly what I meant but whatever floats your boat amigo
>>7386488
Lol, thanks. If only they had a publishing house.
>>7386499
Ya man, that's what I meant. That's why I said and you didn't....
I am absinthe weed
Bitterness on lips
Bitterness on words
I am absinth weed.
And moan above steppe.
Is surrounded by wind.
Stalk is thin
And it is was broken
Born by pain
Bitter tear
Will fall to the ground
I am absinth weed.
>>7386491
It's pretty much the literary equivalent of a fedora.
Small sand-sown isle upon blue sclera;
Oceans lost from cont'nent shelf;
Fire-froth formed from some sunk caldera;
Only cast'ways know your wealth.
Brouchure borne vistas: empty expanse;
Long beige-beaches, footprint clean;
Soulless shores, all abandoned, advance
Your desert island scene.
No companions as companionable.
Preserve of Gods and Beasts.
Temporal tourists, pithy praise full,
Can know you in a week.
I've learnt this from all the plaitudes
I read in my despair:
No-one who speaks well of solitude
Has ever had to live there.
>>7386532
hehe, I like this. Good ideas. The last stanza seems a bit out of a place though. I mean the first three give that feeling really well. The explicit last stanza doesn't seem necessary.
>>7386555
The contrast was intentional, but I'm not sure if the reason's enough to support it. I'll play around with replacing it or adding another to make the transition smoother. Thanks, man.
>>7386382
Thanks bro, I write what I know
¡Ay Jose así no se puede!
¡Ay Jose así no se!
¡Ay Jose así no!
¡Ay Jose así!
¡Ay Jose!
¡Ay!
One day-
I asked a sighing bough-
If he evermore did sigh-
For none but a wren
Naught said he-
But his limbs frowned towards the west-
Towards the galloping peaks-
Where I saw an autumn sun
Peeping freely about its shoulders
Tell me if it makes sense to you. My lit professor said he loved it, wondered what you guys think.
IM TOO HUNGOVER TO GET UP ILL JUST A WRITE A POEM
i heard of a glorious place
far up north
where the sun never comes up in the winter.
can you imagine? a place without a bloated
fireball staining the skyline? where all the stars are too
far away to hurt your vodka-soaked eyes?
the sun, that egotistical asshole whose
mere presence blots out the remaining billions
of stars that prick the sky.
can you think of an entity more conceited
more arrogant
than the sun?
'wake up d-bags im here'
is what the sun wishes he could yell every morning
when he creeps into your home like Kramer from Seinfeld.
we invented clouds to not have to deal with his shit
and he still doesn't get the hint.
fuck you dude, go home.
Tarballs
We finish
the night before shipping.
The sculpted glass is still warm,
and the flakes of dancing smoke
dot the tar water within.
We are done.
A can of beer spits bubbly static,
and my mind collapses,
sandcastle-like.
A woman in the balcony
lights up with restless
hands, but steady eyes,
it takes a few deaf clicks
to fight the wind,
but the cigarette burns
and she smiles, defeated.
A man sits next to me, unfazed
by insomnia and cheap vodka,
vomits charming gibberish,
run-on sentences of love and hope.
And those words,
like the ash on the floor,
are communal property,
their perpetrators
indistinguishable.
The motor mouths overheat
and smoke-out midsentence,
leaving us stranded in silence,
and neither music nor drink
nor sleep can keep our minds
plugged so they begin to leak.
All we can do is think
the same thought:
This has happened before but–
A distant roar shakes the ground,
the metro has awoken.
She walks back in, cigarette dropped,
he shuts up, bottle half-gone,
and we watch helpless
as the colors of daylight seep in
uninvited.
It wasn’t enough
to get lost in each other’s thoughts,
but as long as no one speaks,
we say in bloodshot stares,
the night will stay still.
But the pretense wears off
as clocks fire and life resumes.
Under the doorframe,
we say coerced goodbyes
and tie up
the loose ends
of looser talks,
stalling until
either the sun
or all the cigarettes are gone.
Five hours later,
we tear each other off
and they go to sleep over different oceans.
‘We should clean up’
a voice suggests,
from behind a door I forgot was there,
its sing-song tone
and the morning yawns
pierce my eardrum
like a rusty needle.
'What’s wrong?’ saiys the nail gun.
Two years later,
on that couch,
during a deafening snowstorm,
I complete
the thought:
– this will never happen again.
How to know
it’s the mechanics, you see,
the rhythm and speed of your speech.
the words don’t mean much– like these.
people would say “Is Tristan dead?”
the rhythm and speed of your speech:
as quickly and predictably as your vanishings.
people would say “Is Tristan dead?”
I knew, but how, I couldn’t quite tell.
as quickly and predictably as your vanishings,
I looked for that green olive jacket and I knew,
I knew, but how I couldn’t quite tell…
from just the jacket and the speed and the dim heat of your speech?
I looked for the green olive jacket and I knew.
it’s the mechanics, you see,
from just the jacket and the speed and the dim heat of your speech,
the words, don’t mean much, like this.
>>7387244
>saiys
>dancing
Tyoo and cliché. Try harder.
>>7387132
this is clever
cheers anon, i liked it.
What I thought impossible got me ensnared.
It might seem silly at first glance,
But many things appear dim when compared
To the shackles of circumstance.
>>7387263
the verb dancing is a cliche or just smoke dancing
what it isn't is
rarely worth the time of day
think on it, okay?
>>7387353
very nice anon, that's gonna stick with me
>>7386521
i liked this
>>7386472
stop
>>7386227
hikikimori summed up perfectly. we'll all make it bros
Rain may render turpitude
To fall amid tranquillity
Humble in docility
My island in the fog
Sun does beg us to express
Our passions;paint an arabesque
With blessed blood from holy founts
Icarusian hubris
Grey is day and pale is night
Within my sanctuary court
Ecstatic in my ichor vault
A spectre prone to sleep
In fire is found the noose of light
That struck the lofty minaret
Locked within egoic blight
Quality made lacking
>>7387588
>Icarusian
it's icarian bro
and icarian hubris is kind of like saying ragey rage
>>7387601
>it's icarian
Damn, I wanted this to be wrong so much, Icarusian is such a nice sounding word too
I do get your point about the tautology as well, I guess it still needs some work
Short poem, wouldnt mind some crit
Shuffling streets with missing
Limb and faces,
Sometimes too many limbs
The insipid voices cry out in
Baksheesh vernacular
Fluttering lashes, fingers, tongues
To grasp all that can be grasped &
Pregnant with anticipation
Drunk with tortured inflection
A pool of brown visage
Calloused hands, knobs for legs,
Arms that stop at wrist, elbow
Lurking behind a façade of order
Immense repeating chaos
A sea of red dots
Swallowing and consuming
Disabled by the disabled
Tumblers of spited rocks
Roll over the slaked tongues
Of the innocent and the sorry wanting
A high from the absolute bottom of the rungs
I. The DVD Case
I was five—
black lilac pinned under transparent plastic
a sheaf of naked butterflies slipped out the clear cocoon.
It was on a shelf, a plastic case I could not touch
Do Not Touch: Butterflies Are Blooming
but I could grasp and turn it
see glistening on the waves
scared of butterflies
but not these butterflies
drawn like moth and flame, flame and lilac
still on the front wings spread out
making butterflies of thighs, sucking nectar
saw the sawing motion
cut
the lilac’s branch
II. Before the Towers Fell
I was five—
the fever shapes:
ghost lenses,
St. Elmo’s fire on the faucet
reflected chalk outlines
two rectangles
the century infested and would soon collapse—no epitaph.
the bathtub: the colour of old news.
At night memories wash together
like bubbles and twitching freak-bugs
the century crawled up
crashed! into my bathtub
sweating, smashed!
guts are coloured ketchup.
It twitches with its hundred legs, the old century
the way of coloured ketchup goes
III. The Petrified Forest on Lesbos
I was five—
saw the sawing motion:
two ladies pinned together, making butterflies of thighs
shimmering on boats, floating the water
moving
and sort of
losing
itself
in the image on the cover of the plastic tablet.
They were sucking something up off the coast,
oiled bodies made water slick by motions, rubbing
half degrees and suntan lotion
suntan lotions and a few degrees
near trees that grow on stony beaches
swaying in the wind that carries sunburns
as midday prepares to die again
and it’s all orange as the sun itself.
The weight of wind brings down the lilac branch and breaks it on the glass beneath
glass and plastic, black along the beach.
But it was just the cover, right
not the real—as if the real could really fall that way
IV. Destruction Comes
I was
>>7388035
V. The Garbage Fire
I was—
climbing out the hole
the stench melted plastic carried by a breeze
auroras skittered over torn trash bag skies
spilled all over the bay beside
uncountable white faces and black rimmed eyes
seeing if those men could synchronize
an L shape past the lines, there’s only one—
the perfect middle between the lines.
The city glowing with a lying heat,
an after burn
a sundering breeze
that sent a special type of oil through the beams.
Wind through wind chime trees
safar safar safar
past salt statues that glow at night
the hours after
the still wind shushed everything out of sound but safar
and sight but garbage fires always choke and blind the homeless:
a lilac pale comparison
the butterfly exoskeleton
and all the branches turned to sand
can’t keep them warm like this great garbage fire in a garbage can
If dawn could come
it would come now:
trash bags hang the sky
choking sea turtles whose eggs hatch three-eyed
crawling on the beach
tossing the junkyard back
reflecting the body water
floating face down—
they thought I drowned
in a chlorine cesspool.
Heat stroke’s no joke
when your everything is burned.
VI. Rebuilding Sodom
I was—
surrounded by pillars
salt and lilac branches spread out on the orange beach
waves caught light in ways they never had before,
refracted beach glass
caught the birth-bloated body-rafts
held together by seaweed
bumping against the pier.
From the stony wood we built a city not unlike the old one
held together with seaweed,
a blasted ruin,
atop a blasted ruin
VII. The City of Lights
I was nineteen—
But dead cities do not breathe
if I leave, Jack, would you mourn me like one of your French girls?
Heard about a goddess turned off lights
weep and tears on dusty streets disappear
an echo of the century
which was off a year in the first place
killing an eagle with a rock, a robot machine with oiled parts
and in Beirut too, they’ll tell you
isn’t that a band?
The Milesian thought that everything was water
that we bubble up around ourselves
and when we die we feed lilacs and centuries
and come again as rain—
chaos. Killing Leviathan, his yellow belly disappears in salt sea
torrential downpour, at least 40 days
rusts our house’s horseshoe: good luck you say
as if you were here, it’s been how long it’s been
out there in the rainstorms, saying:
“at least it rains.”
>>7388056
VIII. Christmas Eve
I was—
Selling salt to cannibals that roam the sea
their painted faces hide from us re-civilized
they wear necklaces made of DVDs
and recite enchanted melodies:
For Christmas comes but once a year
And with it acid rain.
Watch out, here comes the Christmas troll!
Krampus is his name!
Leave out eggs, cookies made of cactus fruit
Or else he won’t give us any coal.
We get coal cuz we’ve been good
And we need it more than food.
They sing it as the rabbit hops
cross shards and sherds of clay
not pottery but Nestle bottles
melted by the kilns of Before Day.
It comes to lop the heads right off
of who knows who and when
pray it’s not you it chooses then
when it comes on Christmas Day.
They eat lilac like it’s lotus
they hunt savage centuries that roam
and the fire says to the moth:
and the moth says:
Heydidja ordoran ektralarj withektra saasij
(Jesus Christ, I'm sorry this is so long).
>>7386385
The use of consonance as a structural element capping the lines is really annoying desu. You can use it but using it that much, and at the end of the lines, just turns the music into muddle.
>>7384991
a limerick in remembrance of John Berryman who
wrote six-line sonnets for a while and then jumped
bouncy Berryman knocked the knoll
oh my on that icy day did he roll
at last his good God
put him under the sod
where Henry do donuts, casket n’ all
'Stoic acts are to be admired',
Such was my naive depiction
Before its hefty burdens backfired
The products of my conviction.
>>7388146
this is pretty god, the second line could use some smoothing. Love the ending and the intro.
>>7388717
bump
>>7386491
poetry can rhyme,
and still be fine,
at least mine.
>>7388056
i'll speak for what i assume to be the silent majority and say "well done, for the most part."
huge fan of The City of Lights in particular, although Rebuilding Sodom is up there too. I found the rest a bit ambiguous and, occasionally, sloppy for my taste, though there were some bright moments. I think i understand the symbolism and i like what, i think, you have to say
Can someone post that picture of Flannery with the poem about a guy leaving her with an STD in her pussy. Or just post the poem.
On nigh, atop craggy throne,
The opportune nihilist,
Scoping out through iron sights
For tempting new dismissals,
His eyes set on dim sundown.
He wields his trusty partner,
And with clumsy triggered hold,
Backfires his noble blank
And curses a distant god,
The same who recruited him.
Every hopeful poet's morn,
Coffee steam and tobacco wisps
Twist and mingle toward
Wistful meditation,
To summon the early muse.
Prayers unheard,
She escapes with a snicker.
The wind blows her answer,
"Fuck off hack."
We shrug and relent,
Shuffling back in our dens
And clatter on disregarding.
>>7387666
Natas Liah
There's some good stuff in there. I find the inconsistent punctuation odd and I would replace the ampersand. "Pregnant with anticipation" is a fairly trite phrase that could be easily worked into something more unique.
Bemused lurking
Uttered nonsense
Muddled pretense
Piddled patting
>>7384991
Red squares painted in wall
in a dark alley of a loud city
red painting the walls and the floor
of ever bar in the city
flowers on the beach
flowers painted with red
flowers in every corner and every alley
flowers painted by reality
Booty Butt
Booty Butt
Booty Butt
Booty Butt cheeks
>>7389938
Thanks! I usually disregard punctuation entirely so i just sort of threw stuff in there. Appreciate this, thnk u!
A fart
A splash
A thunderous crash
I stand up to admire
The bangers and mash
That I've gracefully left
Behind in the loo
The colors
The textures
The smells of my poo
It's a sight to behold
It's a smell to be savoured
There are corn kernels in there
I wonder if it's flavoured
Plastic shopping bags and withered leaves
Drift lazily down deserted streets
I'm having trouble lighting my last cigarette and there's no sheltered bus stop in sight
Just when I manage a light
The fucking wind blows my smoke right out of my hands
Goddamnit
>>7390391
I lold harder than I should've
>>7384991
I still need to metrify this, to cut some of the fat and improve the metaphors, but if you guys are willing to take a look.
>A courtesan reflects on the choice of life that took.
The banquets of the past are all mold now, my love, all the doors are closed.
In many beds, love, in so many beds I tried to collect honey,
A bee wearing pearls and diamonds, fancy dresses and shoes,
But still only a confused bee, lost in the wilderness of the world, without a nest.
I searched for the honey of caresses, but got drunk on the sour wine of artificial fondling,
So many times intoxicate myself with the juices of ephemeral contact.
I collected some poor grains of affection-pollen and, desperate, used it to feed myself:
(Rare was to obtain this food in all those nights of evanescent ecstasy)
All this was done with fake smiles, with masks of pleasure used for facial expressions.
So many years, love, so many moons spent with bacchanals that tasted like loneliness.
And these panting carnivals, these sweat baths,
These nights that witnessed strange flesh and strange flesh fuse together in raw knots,
(In ephemeral bouquets of human flesh with no fragrance of tenderness):
All that time the soul within me sat alone in her dark room,
Only a small candle to light it, my true self,
The true self who contemplated my other self, the porcelain cocoon,
Acting like a beast between the sheets, the vain effort of a female that wants to feel loved.
So much wasted time, my love, so much wasted beauty.
So many moons, so many galaxies thrown into the trash, so much wine drunk in vain,
The night champagne that distorted into sour breath in the morning:
All the glories of the world rotting for me when all that I wanted was you, just you.
On those nights all I wanted was your company, to be yours,
And that the chest that pressed my hot breasts were yours,
And that my whispers were slowly poured in your ears,
And that the hands on my hips were your hands,
And that it was your warmth I felt inside my womb,
And that your eyes were the ports where my eyes could dock.
But I did not know I loved you so much, and you did not dare to take myself for you,
And now you get older with her, and she is the one who feels your warm grip on cold nights.
Hand in hand you both walk into the snowy years, together,
I only have useless gold rings in my empty and cold hand.
Yes, yes, my show is now ended, my flowers have withered, and the spring is skimmed in autumn:
I am old, and the clowns and jugglers left the stage;
The fireworks silenced the peacocks of their voices, the sky is dark and frosty;
The chairs were emptied, the lights are out, the theater is a void,
And there is only a thin candle inside of me as companion for the thickening night to come,
The night is growing sooty, and in walk alone into her dark woods:
My little candle soon will be blown, soon, very soon.
And my love will die without being tasted and rot inside the earth like a silent scream,
I'll howl silently for eternity
>>7390703
Tl;dr
i have to admit,
you're all utter shit,
but dont quit
>>7389239
Thank you very much.
I'm glad you enjoyed it.
One goal I had was to start off ambiguous and then crystallize the images in the later sections.
I realize now that goal is kind of stupid and makes the beginning look sloppy.
>>7390773
Please, just make an effort ;)
>>7386491
>>7386527
As A Stone
The locomotive clattered through;
it sounded not like a tornado.
Nor the ocean as it crashed
and sifted like the breath
of a conch shell at all;
an even exhalation, withal.
We may be relatively doubt-free:
no one has ever heard a Banshee.
There are many types of drum
which are actually rather loose.
A profound eulogy delivered
in squeaky voice yields poor succor.
When one of these silent cars whiffs
by, I commune with the first
farmer who abhorred the first
car he saw, and mourned
his horse the loss of its primacy;
he knew futility,
and now so do I.
That the church is permitted to peal
its carillon at dawn is neither pall-
iative nor ever meant to be. The bells
were never clear. What the clock tells
to be Matins or Vespers may well
mean a daughter's train and veil,
or be the dreadful clang and call
that one of our neighbors is dead.
>>7386491
>>7386527
May Apple Gulch
I make a fish sandwich and I
sit, one at a fourtop, and eat it,
alone as the gravestones
where great great grandfathers,
are also never visited, closer
now than ever to their high-brow
view above, unconcerned for blue
light screens and earbuds' white
cry they have been replaced by.
Hands, pecks, bushels, drams,
the chain, the league, the talent; the
standard candles now make demands
in pixels kilometers long, angstroms thin.
Shakespeare and Chaucer might shake
hands but could not understand
each other, English having reached
its fill of war, trade and French bits.
We are all about thumbs now, see
the pretty girl about to fall in the
fountain for lack of looking? Counting
characters instead. Not an actor,
a movie star. Her erolalia
could use some work. Should
the peaches be eaten, we
know, now, the day, though
darker, is not all lost. Rather
say that, remembered wrong, today
still is better than forgotten. Will
any of us be so lucky?
Kings of apple barns singing
in their sky blue chains don't begin
to double-check their figures: Too few
memories that bother to care why we
are dying.
after the estate sale
only mothers garden left
her strip of retail flowers
aside the stone pavers
to the chain link gate;
her tiger impatiens agate
veins, bubblegum geraniums,
purple loosestrife volunteers
and other family-bereft
guests. Down the pavers
gusts tumbled sweetgum
spike balls to the gate,
while Munchkin sunflowers
bowed to the code-compliant
fence they must be shorter
than to die here.
>>7384991
My first personal reactions, which should be discarded at all costs, is that sounds like music lyrics, and it reminds me of Far Cry, a Rush song.
Never one to discard evidence of canonical learning, nothing offends here. Not even the judicious use of caps to emphasize. Nor the inaudible use of periods to extend a kind of suspense, suggestive of Morse code, growing astonishment, or realization, or both.
Other than as a pop song, though, some meat is missing from the bones; or say I do not need to know why it is we are dying, but it seems like it would be less confectionary and more like art if we knew who, or a who, is, at least, observing.
So, a scaffolding for a structure as yet undefined. Somehow. Or a rock song. As a rock song, she's ready.
>>7387221
OK. So. A vignette. Adhering to common diction: check. An almost Japanese sense of the spare: check. Aspirational expansion of scope toward the grand: check.
It evokes the notion of angels singing hymns to the sunrise. So well enough.
One lexical nit. its shoulders. its the peaks? or its the tree? Plural peaks or shoulders would take "their," I think. Its the bough?
No matter, it is clear the bough sighs before the sun and peaks, and has the decency to keep it to himself.
poem/10
>>7387244
First, it makes me want to lie down and take a nap immediately because I am exhausted, though it is several hours till bedtime. Evoking a bodily reaction is an ancient spell in the poet's bag of tricks, so however you did that, keep it.
Skepticism accompanies all multi-page verse, and it is not erased here by my above praise. Before looking at the lines, it must be said, it is not at all clear where we are. I am initially given to believe a glassworks, and have seen those flakes of liquid smoke in such a place.
The cast then becomes less associative as we pan across them, though they are not offensive, they remain more cryptic than I believe you might wish. As well the overall context, which may be as much me, as you, since it may be necessary to possess a vocabulary of inflection which I lack to piece this one together.
For the lines, beer spits static, sandcastle mind collapse, deaf clicks of a lighter, the simile of ash and words, these all delight the weary-ing reader.
There is a motive the source of which is not bravado behind the instant contrast of she smiles, defeated, which is not contrived, but also somehow not developed. Again, push for this goes to the house.
vomiting gibberish dances the tightwire in a way that Howl would approve.
The motives and causes of this union and dissolution are again challenging an unarmed opponent from doorframe to oceans - the glass blowers gathered from around the world for a one time run?
the tactic of cleaving in two the first and last of the thought is well taken, and we need not twiddle over typos, though I would also like to know the source of the nail gun's empathic curiosity.
So there is something here, and it is a something not in vain, though it wears a cloak slightly too opaque for me to say for sure whether, good, evil, or indifferent, it is a quality thing of what it is.
>>7394604
Thank you anon. I will keep in mind your comments, they are helpful.
>>7386491
meter is the only thing poetry has going for it. forced rhyme schemes are the worst though
The Black Chair; two years living with chronic pain.
Come take a seat, just you though,
Settle into a place where time passes slow,
Ease yourself carefully into the hollows,
Mould yourself likewise, to give in and follow,
To the deeper black corners, where you sink deeper in,
And sigh, eyes shut as the changes begin,
The world grows quieter; muted it moves,
Past you and the Black Chair, whose presence disproves,
The relevance of voices, the company of crowds,
Seated among standing; a divergence that shrouds,
The quality of closeness, the ability to see,
Yourself as if standing, alone; the Black Chair and thee,
Numbness grows as time passes, shift in the seat,
To relieve the discomfort, no rising to feet,
Numbness to aching, and aching to stretch,
All the parts that are still on the Black Chair and etch,
All their tales of the longing, the tremor and twitch,
To be up from the Chair, to desire the switch,
More with each moment, as moments arrive,
Which call to be standing, so much to deprive.
With the keenness of watching, comes the heat of the thought,
That the actor is seated, in the audience caught,
From his seat in the chair, he may not act on this day,
But must watch with deep longing, others act in the play,
Come take a seat, just you though,
Settled down now, surrendered, and time passes slow,
The hollows have entered, carefully merged,
Yourself and the Black Chair, no longer diverged,
From the deeper black corners, you understand and have learned,
That those in the Black Chair, are different returned.
A ROAD SPLIT IN TWO AND
I TOOK THE OTHER ONE
THAT'S ALL, INNIT
>>7387256
Typical, though not happy, that no one has yet invoked the word Pantoum. So there you have that.
Under the terms of its constraint, it functions as such. If it is possible to imagine a waveform of success where amplitude is the depth of evocation of empathic emotional charge, with large amplitude representing angelic joy and mortal devastation, and with a flatline representing "tl;dr", we are transmitting here in the near infrared. Which is to say, a narrow band, though far from flat.
I suspect that part of the maturation of the final spin is that someone broke a bond with "I" and "I" has come to terms with the comparative value of words to actions by way of the revolving door of a form which either spirals into infinity, or spins itself apart, so an apt choice there.
There has been a tendency, maybe since the 60s, or maybe the 50s, to place a word or two of astonishment, nay even approaching transgression, in such pieces. Sometimes the effect is contrived, sometimes it succeeds, as the success of the first glimpse of the vampire's fangs confirms one;s suspicions as to one's misgivings.
See an example here:
http://notmattsiegel.tumblr.com/post/24419685455/dorothy-wordsworth-by-jennifer-chang-the-daffodils
There is room in a traditional form, especially in the chainsaw massacre which is poetry's current moment, for the occasional splinter under the fingernail, and upon a third reading of this, I want one. Figuratively speaking.
poem/10
>>7388035
It is not for no reason that the poets who are allowed to exceed one page per piece are all the names revered in marble upon the shelves atop staircases behind columns.
You are trying something just beyond your ken as yet, though happily unlike pilots who attempt Pugachev's cobra stall before their thousandth hour, this one here will not result in a fatality, nor a career flying freight to Guam.
Just a couple examples, because I see you ended with the proper parenthetical embarrassment, and that is as it should be, and the Old Ones smile upon your initiation.
I [subject] could [verb] - fine
see [verb agrees with I] - still ok.
scared [passive verb requires "was"] - the static begins
sucking [subject now totally obscured - who is sucking?]
saw [same]
cut [same]
Somewhere in this telegraphic style, the basic grammar has come delaminated from the thematic intent. I can't follow you on your emotional tour de force if I don't know who is whom.
And notice, that in every poem you admire, that they don't allow that to happen. Even Dylan Thomas, down two pints of rye, always does his damage in a grammar which is consistent, both in its internal terms, but also in its encoded and quite intentional deformity.
Compare:
Never until the mankind making
Bird beast and flower
Fathering and all humbling darkness
Tells with silence the last light breaking
And the still hour
Is come of the sea tumbling in harness
"Darkness" is the unambiguous and grammatically perfectly correct subject which is both making flowering and humbling, as it is also the subject which "tells" and it is also clear that the "still hour" is the thing come of the sea, etc.
Without some observance of those rules we share between writer and reader, we are committing an act of exclusion.
necessary developmental indulgence/10
How would the tree atop the church
Both stretch and live as one--
The wings of wood to call us death
Take bulb upon the sun?
Petals, every one
To beat the fronds into an ice,
Where dance we may, a petal each
our moments into day?
To arm ourselves upon the grass,
To sprout into a wood--
In nova fert animus
The shapes end day as should.
Hum wood worm
hum wood worm turn
wood turn earth turn new
and how does it taste?
>>7385181
You sound like a bitter cunt m8.
>I mean it in a constructive way
Proceeds to write the most inflammatory and ambiguous criticism. Congratulations?
Aesthetic does not preclude feelings, Its good to try and stay as contemporary as possible, but not everyone is some fucking immaculate god such that everything they write is an elegant conversational piece. Its a process, one that deserves criticism but not under the guise of someone saying "quit flapping your cum-hole".
>>7384991
Here's some juvie poetry from when I get bored inbetween classes, think these two are semi-alright:
I tire of this mire
Its intractable depths
And unusable palimpsests
Impotent ire choked in fire
Bells and whistles
Flashing lights
Ground to dust by pestle
Starved of meaning, take flight.
>And
I took a walk last night,
winter's frost laid bite
upon my naked fingers
to my core, the cold yet lingers
My boyhood aspirations now sublimate
Intangible, hollow, evaporate
On blue skin it is writ
A pitiful life as flit
Morning's caress soon rises
His snow covered face it surmises
The tears denied by numbed visage
Fall freely down frozen cheek: his only lineage.
>inb4 edgy fedora writing
Its quick shit written when I feel depressed, what do you expect, it helps me get along.
>>7394751
hey pretty good for juvie age! You express yourself very eloquently.
>>7394695
This is easily the best advice I've ever received.
Thank you so much, mysterious anon.
I'll follow your advice.
In slight defense of my poem, the subjects are confused to reflect the confusion of memory.
But I agree with what you said. Thank you.
>>7395144
he's the hero we need
I posted some Ashbery in here once and two people said it was shit. These threads are always odd.
>>7390664
Critique me pls
>>7394650
critique pls :)
As I used to wake up early to match my clothing on the perfect body parts, my lipstick chapped my lips and I held him to the same goodbye. And he told me I looked fine, and I asked him if I looked okay. He'd squint his eyes at the wall, and in the concept of silence between 'us,' I decided not to care about the answer and to tune out what translated response couldn't actualize.
...
I went to my room and sat naked, waiting for a beginning that never manifests from and into the singular composure of the anhydrous mind.
>>7390664
Transgression, in general, fails to evoke much interest in the absence of thematic development, associative context, personality cult status, or some conjunctive combination of some or all three. We can argue about the relative value of Bukowski and men's fashion all day, but my associate Theo has some questions for you.
>>7394787
become a walking dead extra and die
faggots abound
cannot vote up
cannot vote down
legion of idiots make me frown
will this poem get me laid
some say no, some say it may
sure is cheaper than a lobster dinner
maybe if i write good she'll think I'm a winner
I purchased my love with cash
for me there was no other kind to get
sing attractively in untuned strings
sing attractively about love anyways
that dream that has never been truth-made
that dream that was beautiful to get
for he/she that got cursed out of Eden
is Eden still Eden
neet
alone with my books
strewn across the walls
insulate the halls
of my empty house
yeah I'm alone
but I've got proust
and other dead assholes
of times before
my only friends in these times
of distractions galore
but it's no big deal
i think i'll go to /r9k/
after I eat a happy meal
smorgasbord thanksgiving dinner
made me the reverse of thinner
fatter chatter intoxicated bladder
unto the porcelain throne my bowels did splatter
Painted in noise I crawl
A dog in the field of all flowers
Which way to run and shout
When North is just a lying South
And West of me the East awaits
I look up
And the eye in the sky winks
>>7394650
It has been covered elsewhere that Confessional and Therapy have developed an uneasy relationship, and neither Lowell nor Plath nor Bishop -- we imagine -- look down upon the legacy they started with much kindness on the rightward side of that ledger.
Which is to say, the suffering of others, while valid and necessary as a reservoir of verse thematics, requires a compelling offer of embrace in order to maintain the surrogate experience.
There are a number of received forms developed by minds suited to obsessive attention to the details of agony, among them prominently the sestina, which I was at first drawn to lay the template upon seeing six line stanzas, only to find, after the thrill of the above Pantoum, such was not the case here.
Somewhere between training and graduation, there must be a decision about whether we are imitating an old master, which if fine for the painters should be fine for us, or whether we are addressing an audience of the living.
Sadly, holiday obligations press at the moment. Consider the degree to which each line conveys artistic intent. The tension between sparse versus dense is a rich vein to mine, worth the struggle.
>>7396385
line breaks he said
confused i am
he also said
abandon your rhymes
doing it wrong you are
he said
or she
who knows
what gender identity is this person
do not rhyme here
oh fuck he is right my .emacs is corrupted and my newlines are fucked up
>>7396402
yeah i can tell, you were just in the middle of a bunch of his posts.
get rid of 'attractively' because it doesn't mean anything. the he/she is your prerogative, but it doesn't really fit the rest of the poem.
>>7396410
>>7396389
Painted in noise I crawl
Chris Kyle ghillies suit motherfucker
A dog in the field of all flowers
Done killed 3 insurgents
Which way to run and shout
All of which are targets
When North is just a lying South
Fucking North Korea
And West of me the East awaits
Nuclear Holocaust
I look up
C13 runnin down the strip
And the eye in the sky winks
Apache helicopter target system
I shit my pants
>>7395144
>confused to reflect the confusion of memory.
Yeah, it's ok, I got that. Think about the difference in artistic effort (and reward) between, if you will, a portrayal of confusion versus an execution of confusion.
>>7396426
I can't tell, so a generally well-established path is to start with
http://www.poemhunter.com/wilfred-owen/
and study the modern war poem tradition from there.
Other high points include this list, from Stephen Crane on down.
http://poetry.about.com/od/ourpoemcollections/a/poemsofwar.htm
War poetry is, also in general, reserved for execution by those who have fought, or, in an aligned subgenre, those directly related. Though I have posted it before, and more than once, I continue to find this one bears repeated reads:
http://www.thenation.com/article/dorothy-wordsworth/
I'd suggest for anyone who actually wants a real critique to not post here, these people don't write or actually read. We just post memes, you're welcome in an advance.
>>7390703
Lost love and wasted youth are extremely well-covered territory so when confronted with this length of disregard for the power of density (brevity not alone, but freighted and packed as tightly as the walls of language can withstand), the level of difficulty engaging the charitable principle (that notion that readers of poetry should extend a willingness of disbelief despite evidence to the contrary on the chance that there is a payoff buried in all that duration) goes up to Olympic levels.
Here is one of those arguments that will last forever, but which, nonetheless, each of us must settle privately - what is the minimum definition of a poem?
"Not prose." Well, then how can you tell? I refuse the pornographic proposition (I know it when I see it) because it fails to operate in a way that be described in either a royalty contract or a syllabus.
"A poem is verse." Again, not measurable. Merely an invitation to contention, also known as a troll.
"Poetry is structured." Aha. Now that can be agreed upon, while still allowing for the dissent of personal taste. And yet, the wag will point his yellow fingernail straight at the word structure and bemoan its ambiguity.
"Poetry is verse structured with some kind of programmatic intent that is accessible to more than one reader." WA LA - "so it is possible that I could write a poem whose lines are structured on the basis of the Fibonacci Sequence, but because readers who lack mathematics won't get it, they can agree it exists if explained to them. Which still leaves room for agreement and disagreement about the relative success of the piece within the presented intentional structure." Yes.
All I can see of programme here is a chronological review of regrets. Until the programme has more to offer than a timeline of mistakes, you have succeeded in communicating an effective ability to get inside this character and explicate her, but I feel separated from the presence of a poem by the distance of several successive drafts of intent.
If we speak as readers, we can admit with pink cheeks that one of the more pleasureable moments is the one in which the piece makes us feel smarter than we may be.
When you think of the people, or characters, most memorable, it is almost always because of one defining feature. Cynics would call it catchphrase cheapening; these are fauxseurs who fail to internalize poetry's low origins. I would put it this way - what makes her voice distinctive?
Because, as she stands, she's pretty all over the place. A bee, peacocks, fireworks, wine, snowy, gold, candles, etc. There is no throughline style or symmetry, or revelation of a thematic or associative structure to her choices of figure.
No one wants to sit next to the talkative drunk at the bar who lacks the self-awareness to stop talking about the inequities of the tax code in excruciating detail. Yet another drunk whose worked on his material attracts a crowd and leaves with a girl.
>>7384991
Oh boy
>>7396685
Why you so smart?
I'm working on the poem right now, using your suggestions. Thanks again.
>>7396853
I don't know, but you can help me, along with any other anon who is actually interested.
I read a poem in a journal once. I believe it has been anthologized. It is based on the word "Harmonica" but it is not the famous one that comes up on google.
It's programme, as I've described it, was to, in each stanza, shift the meaning of the word Harmonica, from meaning "a small metal wind instrument" to, at the end, "a Latinate noun referring to the inherent harmoniousness of all things."
It really worked and was disarmingly small and relatively simple in its diction. I can't find it anywhere. It is an example of epistemological shifting at the virtuoso level.
>>7385181
This guy knows what's up
>>7396829
thank you, I liked your review: you really have read the material and tought about it - this means a lot to me.
>>7396889
ill ask around anon
>>7396889
Sounds cool. I'll tell you if I find anything.
I assume you can't remember the journal, right?
>>7397080
No. It was handed to me informally by a faculty member in 1988. "Hey, I thought you would like this. It's your kind of thing," with a sticky note in the page. She was right, and I worked on workshop pieces to imitate it.
"I need it back though."
So I gave it back a week later. Or so.
I can't remember enough of it to try to reconstruct it, but in schematic pseudocode, it went like this:
I am playing my harmonica on the porch. [steel mouth harp]
The Harmonica moves the air in waves [mouth harp, but also the emanations from it]
The Harmonica waves travel through the trees. [now not a steel mouth harp, but an expansionary effect of it]
The Harmonica vibrations expand beyond the range of hearing [now clearly a phenomenon of harmony]
Until everything becomes Harmonica, Harmonica, Harmonica [a noun referring to an evoked general condition of this poem's universe]
It was by a man who clearly owed a debt to Elisabeth Bishop, because the closing cadence intentionally echoed the rainbow, rainbow, rainbow ending of The Fish.
It is not worth a treasure hunt; the reason I thought of it was that other than pushing the word Harmonica sideways, it had little other structure than a four line stanza - no rhyme - and little in the way of flourish, other than a jeweler's attention to the detail of how the word was placed in grammatical context so that it could be increasingly detached from its original semantic charge to become a declaration of metaphysical well being.
In other words, a poem.
>>7397623
>atheistrix
>>7397571
Damn, that's pretty cool. I hope you find it.
I assume you're a professor, then? Or were, at least.
By the way, I followed the advice you gave here >>7394695
Here's the (hopefully) better version of my poem, if you feel like seeing how poorly I misinterpreted your critique.
http://pastebin.com/UBxCFRGr
How's my sonnet /lit/?
In golden shawl the trees they rustle now,
Standing a lazy tall they do recline.
But not is this what aches me, or quite how.
This auric cloth on cloud would have you mine,
A lock of yours would spin a thousand more.
Grey matter greyed but more of thought askew,
A mind some flurried foot and dust and floor,
A fumbled blank, but all in chase of you.
My cells do hum! For you they galvanize.
They rattle honest cages for your touch.
In blinding mist they plead, seek for your eyes.
Another time? I’ll only hope as much.
A flower cut? And brings forth plumes of ash.
My mask is made of such that swords all clash.
All criticism welcome
>>7397763
You should know I can only keep this up just so long before I get agent's assistant disease, a syndrome of mental exhaustion in which reading a great deal of material one would never choose to represent for publication accumulates in memory in higher and higher piles until the sheer exhaustion and effort required to confront the next thing is accompanied by overwhelming dread that you will have lost your ability to remain objective about it and just chuck it at the next knucklehead who sticks their face in to ask how's it going.
All agents and agent's assistants can attest. If they wish.
It's still really long, and though I can, with effort, trace the subjects to their verbs, I am now no longer certain that I am smart enough to assemble their collective deal into any coherent summary.
Having said that, I was never big on Elliot, either. There is a reason he's in every Norton of the 20th forever and all time, but taking 433 lines to say, "man, we really screwed up an entire civilization's worth of stuff" strikes me, involuntarily, as a bit 1920s of a thing to do. I mean, it's not like they had television (in the main), or the internet to radically accelerate their brains' information processing speed. Their epoch had a reasonable expectation of languor baked in.
Somehow, though I know you won't like it, it does not feel the least bit controversial to point out that ours does not.
Now I'm not saying that there is ever any such thing as an F for effort, but at this length, there had better be at least one display of fireworks every stanza, and I mean fireworks, and I mean every single stanza.
For example, The old news bathtub is good, but it should represent the bottom, rather than the top, of your expectations (and mine).
And there are two things which should, in English, always be given special and skeptical consideration: astronomical objects, and weather.
It's because there is, in fact, a finite number of ways of describing the sun, moon, wind, and stars, and after a thousand years, we've run through just about all of them.
So, and this is just me, I'm continually asking myself how many words does it really take the wind to get the flower from a to b? Because I'm thinking 16 might be 9 or 10 too many (lookin at you line 74). And I'm not pointing this out because I need anyone to say it's good, but simply to establish that it is possible, 8 words can do this, starting with gusts tumbled >>7394506
Finally, the structure here precludes drafting success to the Eureka point. One guy's opinion, however informed, is still limited by his tastes (however narrow), which he can't choose, and not everything is every critic's cup of tea.
Just by way of saying no hard feelings, here's a guy getting away with length, and doing it with shameless programmatic panache:
http://www.clivejames.com/poetry/enemy/enemy
and especially,
http://www.clivejames.com/poetry/bookenemy/gabriela
which is a whole lot smarter than it looks.
I wrote this while pretending to be high:
Diddle
Diddle
Didsle (oops, typo)
Diddle diddle
Aaaah
Indeed
A boat is not a goat
If it will flow
In a moat.
I wish I had a guitar
So I could pluck its G string
From my heart.
It would make
A most
Beautiful sound.
Those with too many faces
Find each-other in plenty of places,
Meanwhile we, whose mask is one,
Fail to render our stillness undone.
What do you think?
>>7397909
Again, thank you.
I see what you mean about length and fireworks.
You're a damn fine critic, anon. I appreciate all your effort.
Century Legs was an experiment, as you pointed out. I had been reading a lot of modernists, and it shows.
Amusingly, I hadn't read the Waste Land (or any Eliot besides Hollow Men) when I wrote the very first draft. The similarities are obvious now, though.
I just want to let you know that you really have helped me. I appreciate the fact that you don't make value judgements in critiques. That's a hard thing to do.
I know you won't, but I'd like to know your name so I can read more of your stuff.
And no, there's no hard feelings. The fact that you spent so much time on a poem you'd "never choose to represent for publication" is encouraging in and of itself.
>tl;dr
You're a cool dude and I appreciate the effort you put in.
Secret Lovers
An hour's lust gushed
against her mushed
inner purse; her face
near the curtain lace
into the cool night air
says, "I can feel it there,"
and the ribbon of my
breath with hers flies
the sill up skydark
where the moon marks
her approval - a beam
entwines our seams,
the silk vapor dissolves
and the moment resolves
into sleep, softened into
blue clouds suffused
instead with threads of you.
Bottle Message
The whale didn't mean it.
Just a true pure accident.
I saw her aqueous heave,
her baleen cleave the wave,
the tectonic shock below
the frequency of sound,
the locked up wheel,
the wound down turbine
whine. The wind's shriek
the same pitch as her
panicked, stricken cry.
It was not her fault.
The props are popped,
I can feel the freewheel
spin in the throttles'
too-loose handles.
This far out no one
will find us, the ship
worth five days' search
at best, is also lost.
And here I thought
the storm would kill us.
She did not ram us.
A broadside strike,
me sliding the face
down a 4-story curler,
she only wanted her
calves to get air,
and to survive,
I imagine as much
as she wanted
her own next breath.
And me mine
Clearance
as the big-box bookstore fixes
red strikeout stickers to vacu-sealed cellophane
it becomes clear that what was 39.99
is now 19.99
they find me biannually—
catalogs counting new video transfers
restored from original negatives
rechristened with auteur approval
i begin fabricating myself
a mahogany bookshelf
standing some-odd years from now
some-odd years from last clearance, too
and on its slants, lines of spines all aligned
alphabetized
anthologies organized
so i know where you go
rest assured;
on that day i will own a box spring
and if i am to drink wine
it will be the kind opened by corkscrew.
>>7400653
I actually really like this. I'd say the "the..." list in the first stanza doesn't work as well as you think it does; it reads like one of those things that other people may have brought up and you dismissed as them "not getting it". That is to say, it's something you like a lot but readers don't. Still, really interesting. I'd say the line "the same pitch as her" could be accented a bit more, maybe with a comma in the previous line or maybe an em dash, but I think it deserves a bit more break to take full effect. And the "4-story..." should certainly be "four-story", just for continuity and clarity. It looks prettier, too. Overall, really cool and interesting poem, needs a bit of fine tuning IMO but really great content.
>>7400525
This is okay. It's well-written and has some nice rhythm and word choice and imagery, but the presentation and subject matter are pretty dry. I just mean that it reads like another college-level poem about sex, nothing special or bringing clarity to a topic or idea that has been done to death before. I think this is written by someone who knows how to write but not how to pick poem subjects that really shine a light on anything spectacular.
>>7398052
Have you ever been high before?
Could work as an art piece, maybe on typewriter, but not my thing at all.
>>7399993
A little too sulky and >tfw no gf for what I'm looking for, but it may not read that way to an audience off of 4chan. With that said, it puts the poet on a strange kinda pedestal and is a little holier-than-thou. Remember, poetry is born out of insecurity, and poetry reads that way. No matter what, writing makes you pathetic to your audience, and you need to work with rather than against that.
>>7397825
I do like the content a lot, and sonnets are pretty hard, but there are a lot of wasted syllables that were clearly thrown in to work on the rhyming structure. Lines like "Standing a lazy tall they do recline." read like the words "a" and "they do" read like pure filler. So I'd suggest keep the poem but thicken it up, make these words work for you and not you for them.
>>7387234
Just write prose dude.
>>7385191
Part 2? Where's part one?! D:
It's the best I've read so far in this thread and in a very, very long time. Wow.
>>7397825
well I'll start by saying up front it isn't good, and while it fits the form it's an awful sonnet. sorry. I'm not william shakespeare so my critique isn't work his (read him and then read yourself), but here's some:
> In golden shawl the trees they rustle now
who are you, Cormac McCarthy? gross af. Doesn't sound good, waste of space, cliche subject and slow development of it (golden shawl is cliche, trees in the first line of a sonnet is a cliche, them rustling magnifies the cliche...)
> Standing a lazy tall they do recline.
more pseudo-faulkner. faulkner failed as a poet for a reason. you say nothing interesting in this line, you just tell us the trees lazily stand tall. it doesn't advance your poem in any way. it's fucking boring. there's no grace.
> But not is this what aches me, or quite how.
the setup is weak, so when we get to "you", we don't care about "you". I don't know why "you" should even be in this sonnet.
> This auric cloth on cloud would have you mine,
okay I'm just getting tired so I'm ending now, there's just nothing in this sonnet, it's all filler, you need to read more sonnets, you need to read more poetry, you need to read more. and then write more. get something like oxford book of sonnets and spend three hours dissecting each one.
>>7401790
I didn't post it originally because it's more of a straightforward verse-chorus song lyric plus it recycles some of the motifs.
Patent Foramen Ovale Part 1
Are you the things outside of me?
Outside the polished hardwood sheen?
In swollen sweat-stained sweet red sheets
With my spirit alone and your pillow case
Slow down your pulse won't keep pace
Notes of holly, pungent breathing
Rosy feeling, blessed me
My god
Are you the things inside of me?
The tightly woven gabardine
Where milkweed brushstrokes shade the scene
And the limestone statues breed
Are you there alone?
Have you come for me?
Who's induced the inner workings
Of your bleach-stained jeans?
When my spirit's alone with your pillow case
Calm down your pulse won't keep pace
Notes of holly, pungent breathing
Rosy feeling, blessed me
My god
>>7401932
>Where milkweed brushstrokes shade the scene
>And the limestone statues breed
This is awesomely beautiful imagery. Good job.
>>7401932
yeah this is pretty great, do you have a soundcloud/bandcamp?
>>7388056
looks good pal
>>7401960
No. I'm recording at my friend's house over Christmas break though. Only thing I've ever recorded is a calculus rap about integration by parts. I have something of a lisp and I can't sing at all. I rap pretty damn proficiently and I write well but I don't know how to sing (I'm somewhat tone deaf).
>>7384991
>NOW IS THE TIME FOR PANIC AND FEAR Even a blind man steers clear The prophets drop tears
"Syllable count" do you know what that means, OP?
>>7401967
I am no great singer but I get by with my own recordings. As for the lisp, forget about it; no one cares. Listen to the Mountain Goats or Belle & Sebastian or Daniel Johnston. A weird voice isn't anything people with taste find objectionable.
As for singing, just start with one note at a time. Play a tone on the piano or guitar or something, and then just try to vocally match it. Then try another note. Then take your melody and do this for every note until you can acclimate yourself to the key. Then practice it for a few weeks. Then record it.
You're not tone deaf; you just need to persevere and feel confident that your work warrants exposure.
>>7384991
My hands contain a more perverse touch of Midas, a burden I am forever forced to carry with me. Instead of everything I touch turning into gold, it crumbles and breaks, turning to dust, slipping between my fingers ever escaping my grasp. Eventually the pieces rebuild themselves, the cracks filled with a concrete mortar of hate, resentment, anger, and remorse. I try to tell you, warn you. Your ears are open but you do not listen. Like the ones before you I will break you, tear you down to nothing, only to leave you to rebuild filled the same anger and self loathing that comes from knowing you could have prevented this all along.
Softly standing across the room,
And standing always when all is past,
My grand clock reflects through the gloom,
Wishing its message to me fast.
But it and I realized far away,
That his message means nothing,
And as time slides past the day,
Its truth brings ears everything.
The pain and rigor my hand knows,
The damage the books have done,
Can't distance more the wind that blows,
Or change what it has told me is one.
This clock sets the timeless truth down,
That life is passing by without bound.
---
This poem is about how time moves, and how we can't master everything we wish to- there's a purposeful change of wording every time time is mentioned to represent distance, which is finite and measured, as opposed to the infinite. The message it, the time, has given me is that worrying about using what there is to live in is the only way to eventually realize that that truth is really what makes it definite, and ultimately personally fulfilling through absolving our fears for the future. Sounds awfully like kierkegaard, but I thought it was neat when I was writing it.
The clumsiest poet
Stumbling through the poplar grove
And doesn't even notice
Though his toes bled a little
The bathroom's a sacred space
If faith is under the left nipple
That's the king, no
Martin Luther, you might have seen him riding on a, green Markham
Clutching a Hewlett Packard
Indeed, he's ageless
I don't worship Norse gods or stone fairies
At home on a cracked iPhone
Alone and hairy, casting post-modernist abra cadabra
It starts like this
I thought they might have killed me
So I read the Hagakure
On a very long drive from
Chicago to here holding viking spears
And I cried a lot of...
But you know I kept an ox bow lake
In my thoughtful cave
And we both thought in gray
Or shades of
monochrome
This monotone is great to
the monotony of seeking your
own philosophy to
justify the dimples in its face
(on its face?)
So we bought a couple six packs
And pretended we didn't hear
When the white attendant said "nigger" fast
Pollo in this menudo
And we're all feasting on this naïveté
I guess it's picture day
I guess it's pizza day
If purity of heart is to will only one thing
Then you have some explaining to do
I can write like Auden
I can jump like my last name was "Blackman"
I can rap like the son of Mike Ladd
Let me take out a full-page Vice ad
That supposes it might ask
If negro voices 'was' just one tight fad
This is an all-seeing-eye eye patch
[1/2]
>>7402068
I don't know, but
These days, most the time
I'm chillin' in the hollow of
The sea slacks
Back in high school I wanted to be abstract
Not like her or you, but pretty cool
In my heart
Was always more Busy Bee than Debussy
Lunch line headsets had me thinking yoghurt backwards
Plug in the bathysphere
Lake Champlain is crystal clear
I owe it to myself to speak free
I could never forget
Eating ten dollar sushi
Feeling rich
That was '06
Then I wrote a lot of mean shit
But only got love in my heart
To go along with all them sad ships
That never came
But that's just life
And life is strange
How do you change the way you change the way you feel?
Rain to wash the window clear
Wipe away constellation atmosphere
Blue lagoon, my isolation
Now I'm paper plane folding
Myself into a fortune
Hoping some missing ocean will find some luck
Life in a fish bowl leaves me floating in the punch
Just trying to stay sober
Never read the Hagakure in truth
I'm still stuck on Murakami
Outside the words
Looking down from vistas
Through open windows moving
Grass on sand patches, movements
Swathed by red clouds, see dead sounds
Dead sea snails – circling metamorphisis
Circling dumbly lit intellectual grumbling
Circling humbly
Numbly picked from keypad
Like Cabbage Patch Kids
Wondering sullenly
Make more humans relate
Make more human mistakes
My humanity places it's head on dinner plates
Eat myself
Without feeding myself
Retreating inside cell walls
Sitting, wishing you were here
Next time you're gone
Just remember to buy yourself a souvenir
>>7402001
don't tell us what it's about; if you have to you've already admitted failure!
Some of the word choice is interesting, but the structure lacks cohesion. The syllable count is all over the place, and the line count is pretty abruptly changed in the final stanza. Really try and consider the effect this is going to have on your audience, as it's stuff that really sticks out.
>>7401300
bump for some feedback on this?
>>7402104
Yeah, I was a little hyperbolic and harsh. Sorry, I just hate falling into the circlejerk pitfalls of feedback threads. I do think that the poem imposes this belief that some sort of belonging is equal to shallow vapidness, while genuity is equal to discomfort and disbelonging. That's where I take issue - I think it makes the poem sound cold and callus and unrelatable to people who consider themselves genuine and still at home. I just don't get where you're getting at or why; what a reader is supposed to get out of the piece.
I do enjoy it's simplicity and succinctly, just not what those factors are in service of, I guess. It may just be personal preference: don't take it too hard.
>>7401932
These metaphors are so specific that they have to be about something. What inspired this?
>>7401394
>>7401804
Thanks for these you guys. I honestly should have worked on this way more before posting it. I don't want to abandon it entirely because it's about a girl that was a friend of mine and we're now dating, and I'd like her to see it maybe.
If I do delete it all I'll write something else for her, not in sonnet form. Not only is it tricky, but as one anon said I haven't the first clue about them. I just sat down and wrote it one day without much consideration. I'm studying poetry, but not any sonnets as of yet, so will correct this before trying again.
Thanks!
>>7401317
Actually, if we are to believe, even charitably, that this is
1. the text of a paper message, written in nautical distress
2. on board an ocean going vessel which is rapidly sinking
3. and is intended to be an explanation for the loss of vessel and crew
4. and is further intended to be understood as addressed to some interested party, perhaps even unnamed loved ones, then,
the whole thing is massively overwrought. The poetics of such a moment must be captured in an elliptical brevity, a nearly telegraphic evocation of an experienced and veteran sailor frantically reaching to capture the essential information of the collision, his sense of resignation about its inevitability, the irony of this flavor of tragedy, and maybe only then, the almost accidentally elegiac last breath. This is how it ended up, after consultation reached agreement as to the above. I was persuaded that the absence of a final period also serves a function, though we remain apart on exactly what that function is.
Bottle Message
The whale didn't mean it.
It was not her fault.
And here I thought
the storm would kill us.
I surfed the face
down a mast high curler,
struck, broached.
She only wanted her
calves to get air,
I imagine as much
as she wanted
her own next breath.
And me mine
>>7402121
>don't take it too hard
No, I appreciate your honesty. You're right, some genuine people might feel at home but I fail to find them. Sometimes you think you found one but weeks, months or even years later he/she turns down your expectations, your image of him/her changes but you refuse to believe it's true.
...I'm getting carried away.
I think you didn't notice the difference between 'faces' and 'mask'.
>>7402173
I wrote them both in the 10th grade. I had a crush on this close friend of mine who was out of school with a then-mysterious autoimmune condition. I had a similar but much less severe thing with my heart that flared up in 7th grade and 11th grade and after it happened in 11th grade I retitled the pieces because she still didn't have a reliable-looking diagnosis and it reframed the writing as less about some high school crush and more about heart conditions and love.
>>7402001
hi I'm from Brazil, I loved your poem
a walk (primal scream therapy)
maybe today—the sunlight
will cut through the
pine needles.
maybe today—the my feet
won’t be wet by the
dew drops.
maybe today—
i can talk to myself
out loud on the way there.
maybe today—
at the well, the echo
won’t be the scream of a coward.
There rapes Dick, his hair in pigtails
Here spouts Jane, nose to nipples a chain
Blue hair, redistribution
Same tits, retribution
Title IX ombud's gonna fuss
And they don't know they don't know
Androgynous
Clueless as the snow, drink each others eaux
Androgynous
Don't get zim wrong and don't get zim mad
Ze might be a father, but ze sure ain't a dad
And xhe don't need advice that's sent at xer
Xhe's happy with the way xhe looks
Xhe's happy with xer gender
Mirror image, see no damage
See no evil at all
Molestered dolls and urine stalls
Will be laughed at
The way you're laughed at now
Now, something meets boy, and something meets girl
They both look the same
They're overraged in this world
Same hair, revolution
Panasex, evolution
Tomorrow who's gonna fuss?
And tomorrow Dick is wearing pants
And tomorrow Janie's wearing a dress
Future outcasts and they don't last
And today, grownups dress the way that they need
The way they tried to do in the last centuries
And they love each other so,
Androgynous.
The screen illuminated his wrinkled skin with a pale turquoise hue, emitting sporadically with different intensities from the face of the Television.
A lifetime of opportunities, given up in trade, a sideline lived life, a choice he had made. What was it that settled him down, that nestled his frown and furrowed his brow.
That held him still and made him wait, did he have too much on his plate? Or not enough, he blinks, yawns, and rubs his gut.
His wife was there, she would watch too. Sometimes she walked and lived life through. Helping me do the things a man would do.
She taught me all there was to know, that she knew.
From there came my interest, of not cars, boats, fishing, sports or woodwork, however when i would work, it would be gardening, painting, writing and baking.
A boy was raised plain, like the flour he baked, instead of fishing from a lake, he painted one, or wrote about it on slate.
On saturdays, football was not optional, he played the seldom respected defender, watching his team win or lose, regardless of what he did or how well he would do.
He couldn’t run fast, and only trained once per week. I suppose it would help if he wasn’t raised by someone so meek.
The sidelines quickly became his home. He gained weight and started to slow. His footwork led to tripping himself, his kicks wavered, and then instead of rostering for the next semester's season, he pressed her to let him sleep in.
He knew how to talk to girls, but not to woo them. As if that was an option, he was nothing to them. A friend at most, a tool at least, nothing compared to the athletic beasts. Who had fathers there, to push them ahead. To make proud of, he had his mother instead. Who said things like, you’re fine the way you are, even though he was not, and he knew this.
From there came a steady source of insecurities and they would last for years. They took away beautiful days and replaced them with tears. They took a hard worker and made him give up. He felt as if there was no name to live up.
and so he sat away the day. from the start of the week, to saturday. He sat.
He sat, the light illuminated his blotchy skin with a pale turquoise hue, emitting sporadically with different intensities from the face of the tube. Listening to sad tunes, wondering how he would be if he wasn’t raised by you.
>>7403758
Wow, are you glad I'm an orphan. Because in any part of the world I've ever been in, you breathe to life the slightest word of bad mouth against Mother, you better be sure that everyone around is too drunk for a fair fight.
But I, being alone, am completely on board.
The question that I would recommend you address to make this dangerous of a project succeed - I'm not kidding, in Boston this could get you killed - is the question,
What is the range of ages during which a child is not responsible for its life, and is it really the artificial and arbitrary 18 as defined by bright line law? Or is there some subtle matrix of age, aptitude, will, and conflict that makes the question much more interesting?
In fact, instead of reading lines, I propose that the transgressive theme of this whole piece is where it should go - which parts and how much of the rage those who know it feel toward their mother is justified, and at what point do we the full or half-orphans (single parent children are half-orphans, yeah?), become sniveling brats who need to own our failures?
That's the jagged trail to blaze here. On one side, the raging river of self pity and nEEt wallowing infectious disgust. On the other, the jungles teeming with Plathian fangs which spit Psycho venom.
I have no girlfriend
Where is my girlfriend
Is life worth living
Without a girlfriend?
That feeling is coming on
The one we all understand
That feel when no gf
The feel when my hand
Your hollow gorge can never fill,
Gourmand! Engulfing motes and worlds
Alike – no preference do you take
With cold and even strokes you cleave,
A slow bi-section, stellar-scoped,
Turning loves to chaff!
>>7385191
Please tell me you have a blog or something
>>7388146
boring
>>7405207
It's not on there but I'm at postmetakolsti.tumblr.com
"Bedroom"
this damned internment of carnal ecstasy everlasting
shadow knows, it's movement pushed by our winds to it's masting
all these things we had thought in passing
it's a shame what we do but more what we don't
this space is the place;
this space is the place.
>>7384991
How sharp is the now
When it cuts the time in half
Sends the pieces each to their own direction
At the blinding speed of white light, into
eternity
"my niggers and i"
we be ridin' dirty,
no celebratin' thirty.
"bitch"
i beat my bitch,
not a single stitch,
yet she bitch
The June Bug Does Not Live Forever
There is no fountain of youth for the small black bug
Faintly Fickle Memories of May and summer
Eight years old and barely alive
Unlike us humans,
The June Bug does not live forever
>>7405267
Does anyone have proof that this is Kolsti?
Oh god I found a folder with stuff I wrote when I was 12-13 I thought I knew how to write lyrics and poems and its all just awful. So here's an unfinished rhyming poem /song thing by me Anon. let me know what you think
I never asked for perfection
All I wanted was the truth
I looked passed all your problems
And tied myself a noose
Your a wicked little bitch
With a mindset to deceive
If your innocent than prove it
Give me a reason to believe
Your a sick and twisted masterpiece
A never ending pain
Your another pointless tragedy
The reason I'm insane
>>7409180
Fucking left my trip on, fuck me
Well there goes the anonymity
>>7387678
'T''seems ye but doubled-down on wings in-twaine.
>>7389883
>nigh
>craggy
>nihilist
>iron
>dismissals
>dim
>clumsy
>backfires
>curses
>same
I can't help but peer into you and tell you that I'm sorry.
>>7389920
Glad to see a spade stamp himself a spade.
>>7390222
Nice trips, also: you saw another anon write a similar bump and that other anon was me.
>>7390391
Repetition: useful, useful, pragmatic.
>>7394705
What are you trying to achieve anon?
>>7397825
Strangely conventional in its attempt to steer away from content of convention.
>>7400525
Saccharine and laconic: a girl I once fucked would like it.
>>7384991
Poetry didn't die, it was just rendered obsolete by song artists, song writers are our new generation of poets.
>>7409280
obsolescence is becoming the new death; death is becoming obsolete
Title: I Never Edit or Revise Anything I Write Because I Believe Genius Flows Naturally and Infallibly from its Channelling Agent That in This Case is the Unabashedly Narcissistic Ne'er-do-well Whose Work You're Hopefully about to Read and Enjoy
I wanted to want to be taken
seriously;
I wanted to be taken,
but my jester hat kept falling over my eyes
leaving me crestfallen, laughing in disguise.
Whenever I'd sneak a sidelong glance
at a girl, wielding a needle of chance,
I'd only see the immanence of a vituperative dance
and crack-wise
thinking of blue eyes
and the elephant turd in the room
swept under the Persian rug with a toiling broom–
gloom, doom, Vroom!, Celestun's moon in June–
I am something like Spam
or maybe Ricky Wysocki's 'The Room.'
[Now let us all take a moment of silence
so we can hear myself breathe.
That includes you, John.]
Where was I when? Well
as the memories flood my menstruating mind
like an Indian seamster's corrugated roofed home
decorated with smelly children and a poor person’s potpourri
during a rabid monsoon resembling Zeus’ diarrhea, I recall:
Class was always difficult
and ending in 'ass'
aside from the literal
which was just sass
rather than littoral
(like the hole of my ass
whose cheeks are bicameral).
Butt of course I had my troubles,
perpetually sidelined
(I didn’t mind)
like Barney Rubble
sporting post-vasectomy stubble;
yet time went on like it is now:
a second at a time, that's how.
So I once asked Miss Communication when our paper was due.
She said: "No [I'm you], I won't do your paper for you."
But that was just a joke, and so am I.
Yet a mirror that can reflect itself
is equivalent to the number of digits in pi.
Now, for more fantabulousness!
Brought to you BUY Oscar-Meyer “I-don’t-have-a-problem-with-my-dick-size” Wiener™
“We don’t use subliminal advertising!”
Deadpan, bacon is and in a;
tongue-in-cheek, bacon is in a way;
brought home, bacon is and in a;
Porky the Pig, bacon is and in a;
I hope you get what I just did,
so I can figure it out: I kid.
Anyway: That's all folks!
9/11 was a hoax.
P.S.
Rhythm forever has eluded me,
and left me with her boring brother the Blues.
So I slouch and cry out "ollie-ollie-oxen-free!"
and kill more than time with a bottle of booze.
Luckily their lovely cousins Rhyme and Reason
are here to stay with me this holiday season
(to say nothing of their exile for treason
of which I believe involved the Queen’s anus bleedin’).
The end is scatological,
eschatological and unexpected
leaving you pensive with expensive pensions
and a stress list of who you forgot to put on the guest list
and then hence this: you get licentious or pretend to be pretentious
or steal another inventor’s inventions or wonder if relentlessness is endless.
My baby momma, you be the crepuscular shower of titmilk-white light ineluctably drenching my soul,
the hot-and-sour grease stank wafting plump-n-furry cunt and sloppy-joe meat asscheek anvils fissurin’ bout my dick.
Brenda baby,
I love you baby.
Yo ass taste so fine
just like chocolate wine, baby.
Oh yeah, and Brenda baby,
I had yo baby, baby.
Never thought would I see the day of
Interpreting factoids, fictions, and futile fronts
Gingerly while obeying crony crooks crazed and cracked.
Generosity only lurches so far before crumbling to the floor
Either by choice or by switch-bait allure
Reconciled with the status quo grand tour ransacked
Surreptitiously by home brew niggers.
>>7384991
Fä dör
Frände dör
Även själv skiljes du hädan
Men ett vet jag som aldrig dör
Domen över död man
cum in my ass nigga
suck my ass nigga
soak me
please me
show me
ohhhh yeah
nigga that how i like it
how i need it it
oh yeah
you please me
you show me
you fuck me
it s time for it
yeah for me
the d
let me lick it
let me suck it
let me please it
yes
fuck my cunt
pound my ass
show me the good time
rail road
to a good 420 fucksesh
oh yeah
its the build to
what you cant believe
itll make you
consider suicide
you faggot
dumb fuck nigger
Madmen, Mad Dreams, and Aye
Mad Perdition.
Mad Devils are screaming & pounding the sands
By which, in screaming - They are mad for these axioms
(They are mad for their symmetry, their certitude, their song)
Wrestling (in-through) with the great width of the land,
Propounding the latitude of the evertudinous Why...
This sand is time and matter,
Count it - Sand Reckoner, count the time from time dis-evaluate
Count the years by which,
To which – shall Create
Ascension
To the stair,
Overseeing
The sand, the bugs, the sand
Raised up - Ligature: from the sand – Old filigree tail
Acquizits a Penchance for Self-Organation - Formates -
Count by which, over the bends - The naked body,
(that slithers, across the hills, pluming up the tundras)
The red pockmarked body of a million watching - watching eyes
When you, great Serpent, of hot-bellow ferment increate
The grand engines embedded protrusions nestled in your scales
That seeks thy ascent, in bounds of expulsion to explosion
Climb thy Obsidian Tower, thy rocket-wind, thy wend,
Fire sculpting backflow overdriven, forward, forward, forward
Mechanized detritate spewing from thy unholy rectum,
Chewing forward updrift thy mountainous uncertainty,
Variegated noxum fume infected from the turbines,
Timeless Roman-Candle sparked upon the apex,
Whenceforth... dislodged from thy maternal cerements
Enters into (and breaks beyond the glare)
Enormity of Air, Air, Air
Great Worm, when thee have left thy stars
Will thee hold Memory in thy steadfast momentum?
And light a serenade for the billious epidermi
That you have forsaken to the fire and the sandstorms
>>7409301
Title: I Am Writing a Poem to Review a Poem
>2Po-Mo4U
>>7400525
"instead" gives the last line a freighted connection to the title, suggesting that this is an extra-marital affair, or otherwise illicit moment of dalliance. I can only surmise that the motive is that secret lovers are also lovers of secrets, and that "you" is not "her." Not a completely lost tension given couplets that are interrupted at the end.
I am not my grandmother or my mother
although they are flowing into me.
Into me I am not them
And I will not take this beating
Beating down like the rain
Beating down like the rain
Without a sound
>>7386472
Holy smokes, mamma-jamma! Now, that's what I call EDGY!
I read this at a poetry reading last night. I swear people thought it was funny.
>This is a poem I wrote about getting my wisdom teeth removed
Ow.
>>7409723
I too, enjoyed Dune.
>Thy
>Thee
>Whenceforth
>Aye (lmao)
No. Bad. Fix these. This is 2015. Archaic language does not make your poetry deeper.
On the whole, I have no idea what you're trying to say. It's not horrifically bad, but I can't get through your anachronistic language to find out what the hell is going on.
The worm is civilization, maybe?
If I'm missing something, tell me.
I did really like "Enormity of Air, Air, Air"
This is a personal thing, not related to your poem: I fucking hate the word axiom. I don't know why. I just hate it.
>>7409662
more swedish
Here have two:
The Aral sea
Its broken hulls
of would be reef-
Had not the sea
pulled back its skirt
and left the salt
and iron bones
for winds that should
have been the waves.
____
Springtime's flowers
A bed of grass amid
springtimes tender flowers
kissed by pleasing showers.
Jewelled in dew they hid.
The soil had held their shape.
Blue canvas stitched a roof
The grass still blonde in youth
softly framed her nape.
___
>>7385181
You have to be 18 to use this website.
The path, worn marrow deep
leads me again to stagnation
The space choked with growth
too solidly fibrous to civilize,
pitted by the bites of countless mouths,
too small to kill but not to change.
It hurts me just as much,
the both of us poised here at the top
Intimate as two strangers could get.
And just when I think my shell can’t take the pressure,
her lungs empty and I breathe her in,
watch her eyes go from windows to mirrors.
>>7409959
What is this from again?
I haven't read a single poem in this thread,
I haven't bothered listen to another voice,
I have considered that no one will read mine
(And if they do, what difference will it make?)
Day after day, I am nothing but a pattern,
A pattern that I haven't chosen; I feel as if I've been chosen
Against my will, I think my choices have made me, and not the other way around,
I wake up early (today I didn't),
I shower and eat (today I didn't),
I go to college, and fight the anxiety created by late buses, (not today)
I spend hours and hours sitting 'listening' to my teachers, I eat lunch, go back to class,
But not today.
Today I spent the day home. I skipped classes,
Woke up late. Unplanned.
The stress of a failed responsibility. Where is it?
All I feel is the burden of silence.
Like white noise, I listen to my old neighbors talk,
Like white noise, the walking footsteps outside, the voices urging at the café,
Dogs barking, the wind making its sounds, everything doing its thing,
Each thing speaking its tongue; yet none saying a thing. (What of that?)
I lay on my bed. I have the whole day for myself;
(Well, not the whole day. I still have to complete that project,
It's due tomorrow.)
What will I think about?
I've been depressed. Maybe I should do nothing.
But my project doesn't really care about my depression.
. . .If my teacher fails me, I'll just kill myself. If my parents call,
Complaining about my poor performance, I'll just kill myself. Will I?
Well,
I can't bear to feel any more pressure.
I can't bear to have any more problems to solve,
Because why would I, when there is a much simpler way out?
(I think of my little brother.
Lord knows how much I love speaking and playing with him,
I wish I could be with him more often.)
. . .What do I want?
How can I answer that? I suppose I just want to sleep forever,
I suppose I just want to lay on this bed right now and wake up never,—
—What will I think about?
Think about how things have changed so much.
Everything seems to be worn out and old, cruel and cruel,
And I'm afraid it's not just me. I think I'm just pioneering acceptance. But I won't resign.
>>7384991
This always gives me goosebumps
Two roads diverged in the woods, and I-
I took the one less traveled by
And that has made all the difference
>>7386472
you made rape and suicide boring
>>7385191
You should cut most of the pronouns and conjunctions and you'll get intense picture of what you're trying to build
>>7410118
Very nice. Restraint, ambition. Care.
poems/10
HOSTIS MEUS
Lord God, I have seen my enemy now face to face.
My enemy, who hated me before I was born.
My enemy, who deceived me as soon as I was old enough to be deceived.
My enemy, who humiliated me when I was strong, laughed at me when I was weak,
fooled me with a foolish hope, tormented me with the bleakest despair.
My enemy, who mocked my family before my eyes, who raped and defiled my friend before my very eyes.
My enemy, who would make me his miserable slave.
My enemy, who would see me burn in hell eternally.
Lord God, I have seen my enemy now face to face.
Give me that true sword, my God, I will now slay my enemy.
I will massacre his children, before they grow strong enough to persecute me.
I will hate him forever with a pure and perfect hatred.
My God will save me from enemy, from above I will see him fall into the pit.
And for as long as I have lungs to laugh, I will laugh.
To see my enemy burn, God, it is just.
It is just, for he is evil, and a murderer from the very beginning.
Amen.
substance abuse
hey truckerboi,
like 2 b my toy?
drink my piss and snort my shit.
open up,
let me in,
scar your skin,
with my chin
oh tell me dear brother
am i the man
they make me out to be
or are they all just fools
clad in jesters dress
like me
nothing but bearded ladies
and audio-epilempsy on the tele
so
i go out and get battered
have a drink with
the motley mob
dear madonna whereve you gone
since our days on chairs and benches
or that marvellous first snow
slightly covering the trenches
the sheeps time has now almost passed
the devil held me just so firmly
in his dreadful, bony grasp
but only briefly
never worry
the likes of me
shall blossom
amidst dust
>>7403993
>>7408021
>>7411246
>>7409665
There is a poetry to be found
in the desperate fling of shit
at the wall of dysfunction
which 4chan has become.
The possibility that a nonnormie
could contribute OC which is
on topic for a given thread
is abominable to the lowest
functioning among us.
Especially on /lit/,
quality of post is
equivalent to a modicum
of success in life which
this cohort finds abhorrent.
Their pain, their lack of anything
better to do, their predisposition
and obsession with misplaced
possessive claims bordering
on The Exorcist level snarls,
is so meta-the-stuff-of-poetry
that I cannot begin to describe
the self-involved spirals
of dissociative implications
all this implies. Space cowboys
And Japanese scrimshaw.
Crom laughs at your four winds.
She's a coyote kid, a culvert sleeper
The world she stalks is many-teated
She drinks her milk from streetlight dugs
She closed her skull, branched out her lungs
She slaps her arm, makes baby breathe
She lasts the night neath lectric eaves
So vast the womb, so fast the child
who pays her chord out miles, far miles
black ribbon, tracing alleys, knotting subway turnstiles
webs building to building, weds flesh to the wiles
So the mothers pin laundry, so the teens throw up sneakers
so the mayor runs energy through
the chord that goes passing down each-every byway
Shocks the kid, lights the city anew
Coyote kid, run now faster if you'd never be born
Run across all the world, all the sky
Unspool and Unspool, truss your mother in lightwire
Trade your flesh for a day that won't die
Two coyotes chase a gang
of badass raccoon bandits
up La Cienega and the bay and cry
are roared over by the redeye
to LAX from, wherever.
The raccoons reach the dumpster fortress
and taunt the street thug howlers
with Crazy Sauce in plastic ramekins.
Four yellow glow-marbles smolder.
A bus trundles past
and it's a wipe transition -
the coyotes as if edited out,
made their clean getaway
and the raccoons ain't rats.
In a square of dingy light
a shopkeep watches
from his stoop. He howls.
"They not far. They never far,"
he says.
"What did you say to them?"
"Shit man, what I always say.
Split up. Post one at the dumpster."
"Why do you think they don't listen?"
"They do. They just too much in love."
"Maybe someday then."
"If they live long enough."
A raccoon chattered and dove deep.
Another licked her paws.
A third gazed at the moon
shimmer in a puddle
and said a prayer for love.
We are the dead ones
Painting dull gray skies
Cursing this cold, pale sun
Behind our eyes,
is a heart of stone
The things we left behind
What we thought was wrong
Our humanity, our love
Our marches unending
As we reap what we've sown
We are the New Gods
This is our creation
i know it’s your first time here but the only rule is not to kill anything, not to kill even the smallest part of anything
there's nothing beautiful here
go home
I was -- New
Climbing out of the hole.
A foul odor carried by the breeze.
The trees around me barren and empty.
The sky somber and unknown.
I was -- Learning
Wandering around an empty town
Littered with scraps of a once prosperous life
There was a man there, or a woman
Thier face bone white with soulless eyes.
I was -- Growing
Fighting for my life
Fighting for a cause I was thrown into
I just wanted to find what was mine
My son and my wife, both taken with time.
I am -- Savior
Leader of the new world
My throne sits above all else
But I know in my mind this is a lie
This is not how life should be.
I am -- End
A flame dancing through the trees.
An unstoppable enigma, a forced creation.
The most beautiful thing they will ever see.
And the last.
Inspired by Fallout 4
>>7384991
Wielding racy aphorisms I billy club your color line
Refusing to join forces with your indie-stud wunderkind
I rather embrace what your city slum undermines
And encourage the idiom bump-and-grind
Sickly glum of unbuttoned minds
I prime my condemned shell to excrete
A lithium honey wine for you frowning fucks
When trend arbitrators present my tortured lore adorned
Gags are soaked in chloroform
You get the same if you're poor in form
With your flip full-tuck and triple-lutz into this icy brook
War is sworn on my forlorn psyche's soot
that's all I got so far. Can I get a critique?
>>7410061
The 'thy' fits the scansion. The last part has the mix because the first 2 lines are more evocative while the last 2 lines are more mellow (in that Saint Exupery way).
Im a language poet over anything else, and I did try 'the' for the second last stanza in every configuration. It didn't fit the cascading railroad rhythm that I was trying to pull off, whereas the archaism does. So I probably won't change it. Anyway dislike for mixing terms i view as a taste thing as much as your hatred for 'axiom', since it feels like an arbitrary criteria as well that doesn't take into consideration the movement of the words separate from their age or biases (Wallace Stevens starts his great poem Le Monocle de Mon Oncle with an archaic decree as well anyway before shifting into conversation)
Anyway thanks for the critique, appreciate that you read it.
I purchased some love with cash
All I wanted was to tap some ass
No words of kindness or affection
Just uncensored lustful actions
Precious money wasted, seed spent
Bed full of shame and regret.
I look out the window at 2AM
And question myself as a man.
>>7412452
it's shit
>>7411749
bitch ass nigger,
gon' pull the trigger.
my nutz a lil' bigger.
Life is a white bitch at a death metal concert
In the sense that you're vaguely interested
in the surroundings but,
have no real knowledge of the situation and
what you see vaguely scares you.
This is the same for relationships with women.
Someone save me. Come and intervene.
My uncle gives good damn advice,
But he's nowhere to be seen.
I'll keep checking your status
See if you've made new friends.
New photos of you clutching people and drink
I will do that for now, until the good days
outnumber the bad ones.
I will do it because I don't want to do it.
Someone, please: intervene.
>>7413501
Reads like an average r9k post with semi random line breaks.
>>7413505
Hey fuck you that took me hours.
>>7413501
I actually really like this. It's got a nice rhythm to it. the only thing I'm not a fan of is how it's doing the whole try-hardy 'no-real-use-of-poetic-mechanisms' thing, where you just use prose and make spaces and occasionally end the line with a conjunction.
El enredo despiadado
está aferrándose lentamente
entra por la garganta
buscando un lugar donde quedarse.
Me miráis con vuestros iris
verdes venenosos
este hostil cuerpo
no encuentra humanidad entre vosotros.
Las mil lunas rojas han bailado frenéticamente
me han creado el malestar de los locos febriles
hipnotizada y con sabor a azufre
cada vez que te lamo
lágrima repugnante
habitándome
me incita al caer,
rabiosa, baja
ansiosa,
se funde en la carne
He tocado los sucios pianos
dejando rastros de mugre entre tus dedos.
Por ti fundo oro en mi lengua,
por ti ahora el arte es niebla
sequedad y muerte.
>>7411749
Pretty accurate, actually. Though your phrase (which is exactly what it is because your poem is literally just a paragraph that's been line-cut) "quality of...finds abhorrent" is unclear and slightly stilted. Also: "implications all this implies" is totally redundant. Other than that, solid and entertaining diagnostic poem.
>>7412452
You're clearly trying so I'll do my best to give you constructive critique. Firstly, you alienate your audience with your diction. The majority of the words you use are esoteric and appear to have been selected with tweezers, carefully though superficially. Poetry isn't a pearl necklace where each shiny, impressive word follows the other, it's a painting where each word is a brush stroke that adds to the composite, context reliant portrait or image or narrative that you're attempting to create, to share with the reader.
Secondly, you should ask yourself: "what exactly do I mean by 'lithium honey wine for you frowning fucks' and once you apprehend exactly what it is that you're trying to convey, ask: 'what's the best way I can communicate this thought, feeling, or sensation?'"
Anyway, that's my two cents.
I wanted to want to be taken
seriously;
I wanted to be taken,
but my jester hat kept falling over my eyes
leaving me crestfallen, laughing in disguise.
Whenever I'd sneak a sidelong glance
at a girl, wielding a needle of chance,
I'd only see the immanence of a vituperative dance
and crack-wise
thinking of blue eyes
and the elephant turd in the room
swept under the Persian rug with a toiling broom–
gloom, doom, Vroom!, Celestun's moon in June–
I am something like Spam
or maybe Ricky Wysocki's 'The Room.'
[Now let us all take a moment of silence
so we can hear myself breathe.
That includes you, John.]
W-where was I when? Well
as the memories flood my menstruating mind
like an Indian seamster's corrugated roofed home
decorated with smelly children and burnt potpourri
during a rabid monsoon resembling Zeus’ diarrhea, I recall:
Class was always difficult
and ending in 'ass'
aside from the literal
which was just sass
rather than littoral
(like the hole of my ass
whose cheeks are bicameral
and stuck to a flask).
Butt of course I had my troubles,
perpetually sidelined
(though I didn’t mind)
like Barney Rubble
sporting post-vasectomy stubble;
yet time went on like it is now:
a second at a time, that's how.
So I once asked Miss Communication when our paper was due.
She said: "No [I'm you], I won't do your paper for you."
But that was just a joke, and so am I.
Yet a mirror that can reflect itself
is equivalent to the number of digits in pi.
Now, for more!
Brought to you BUY Oscar-Meyer “I-don’t-have-a-problem-with-my-dick-size” Wiener™
“We don’t use subliminal advertising!”
Deadpan, bacon is and in a;
tongue-in-cheek, bacon is in a way;
brought home, bacon is and in a;
Porky the Pig, bacon is and in a;
I hope you get what I just did,
so I can figure it out, too: I kid.
Anyway, That's all folks!
9/11 was a hoax.
P.S.
Rhythm forever has eluded me,
and left me with her boring brother the Blues.
So I slouch and cry out "ollie-ollie-oxen-free!"
and kill more than time with a bottle of booze.
Luckily their lovely cousins Rhyme and Reason
are here to stay with me this holiday season
(to say nothing of their exile for treason
of which I believe involved the Queen’s anus bleedin’).
>>7412452
The reckless abandonment of traditional everything in verse and prosody has led to the predictable (and predicted) confusions, not least among them that titles used to serve the practical purpose that bailing wire serves on the farm. It holds the bail together.
Look at all the hay Keats made with that single little preposition: Ode /on/ a Grecian Urn.
Whether first or last, a good title tells us what you think the piece is about, or what you want us to think the piece is about. A bone thrown makes the poetry eating reader more generous.
And though the computerized debt ledger of violations now far overwhelms the pocket change count of rules, context continues to hold off the Huns in the battle of publishing success. John Ashbery not withstanding, the poets collecting $20 from the New York Review still allow us to know what they are talking about.
The developmental phase you are currently experiencing has been vocabbed here as "try hard" though there is no charity in the coinage.
I get that you wish to communicate a pyrotechnic blaze of imagery in the effort to make some declaration of defiance against an array of yous and theys. The words aphorisms, idion, lore, and gags suggest this is a meta-poem, a poem about making poems. Or something. I would ask the rhetorical question whether anything is lost or gained if you want me to be on your side, to know what we are talking about, and who is whom?
Jack Nicklaus used to advise future champion golfers in training that it is always better to strive for power first, and worry about control later. I consider this excellent advice for poets, too, and would say simply that control is, in this dying form, its last virtue. Enjoy the moment - grip it and rip it is a fine conduit to the relish of youthful power.
Again we face our own demise
Left with nothing but regret
Yet we needed this surprise
We left without it set
Schrieks the eagle last breath's wave
It fell unto our oblong state
We dreamt of something new
Yet who welcomed are of few
And then they killed and then they won
When yet in a sense they lost
Could they remember mori
And how she took her life?
When the Vocation Is Over for Good
Because Death is on vacation
Everyone gets a day off
To go to some yes-place
And mine is the ice cream factory
Where I lasted three days
As a teenager, boxing fudgsicles,
And there I am back on the line
That whispers like a long tongue
Dark prophecies about my co-workers
And just like before they come down
Faster and faster, and in my haste
I cut my finger on the edge of a carton
And pretty soon the foreman comes
Shouting down the line about
"Can it possibly be fudgsicles
With BLOOD on them,"
And he traces the trail to me
And starts bellowing like
A whole orchestra in a pit,
But this time, because
Death will be home soon,
I do not guiltily acquiesce
Like before, but instead
Unwrap a fudgsicle, and biting
Off a hunk down to the stick,
Say to him that he is beautiful,
That they are all beautiful,
And he should give them all
Vacations and raises in pay,
And just then, to everyone's
Astonishment, when it looked
As though he might really blow,
I just faded out, like in some films
Solid to vapor to wisp, to nothing,
But not before I scooped up an
Armful of bloody fudgsicles to take
Back with me, something frozen and
Sweet, and bearing the sticky mark
Of seriousness, my life so handily
Upon a stick.
>>7415018
You have a unique way of writing, and me likey.
Have any poems you'd like to share?
Empty hands is all I have
Picked clean and left in the valley
Evelyn, I still live those summer nights.
Parched lips, for calling your name
I'm left to rust all the same
I hear the doves more clearly now
And sing, on sunlight high and ripe,
Of the sacrifice and harvest, I partake in both.
I drink from a basin of fermented rains
And again my lips repeat your name
Rate on edgyness, scale of 0-10 pls.
The Cosmos Wrapped in Latex
Generations whisper of a place beyond the dark
where everything can be seen from a drone's-eye-view
and the whole world appears not like a pale blue dot
but like a dead flea observed from a moon in Andromeda
which is to say it looked like nothing at all.
People say that in this place beyond the darkness
there only presides a great yawning vacuum–
void of all light, color, temperature, space, or even time itself–
and so it tires from listless existence and yearns for company,
it pulls everything towards it, yet remains forever an arm away.
Brave men have journeyed towards it to discover its mysteries,
like the emboldened world traveler's of yesterday searching for the fountain of youth, or the worlds' edge,
or a fly drawn towards an electric grave,
but like a man at the moment of death,
they have all returned speechless in their failures
and desperate in their attempts to do as the game says
and try again.
I'm ready to get shit on.
Just around that corner
I have a friend
The kind to play with in the snow
To pretend our years will never end
But in this great big city, time will always pass
Minutes roll to hours
And hours into days
My friend knows I care, of course
Just the same. Like the old days.
When a day never went by without a word being said
The times when we were young and thin
But days have turned to years
Our youth fled far too fast
Now we're tired weary men
Old from lives spent building our name
I miss that friend
The one just around the bend
Tomorrow's just the day to reach out
To rekindle things
Minutes roll to hours
And hours roll into days
My friend knows I care, of course
Just the same. Like the old days.
Then that call comes
The one long awaited
And news is not as you expected
My tommorow has come and gone, yours more than mine
I wasted all our time
All the while you lay just around the bend
I'd give you all the time I have left
To keep, not to lend
But it's far too late for that
Dear friend, I should have spoken sooner
You were just around the bend.
Rate my edgy poem?https://docs.google.com/document/d/1muUNU-Ixci5jfmoYbUOOtIJyNo4cEJeTDkQxkywcDkw/edit?usp=docslist_api
>>7415194
The thread has at least six of them, anon. Look for the ones no one will reply to, or which were replied to with a dismissively shallow response.
>>7415374
You couldn't have just mentioned them in your comment? It would have made things a lot easier for me, and for you to receive commentary.
>>7415400
i dont think he wants to let the fact that he's insightful color our perception of his poetry
Hello.
I've been advised to cut the following piece into stanzas, I tried my best in that respect. Apologies for lack of respectable meter. I'm posting this because I can never seem to get what I'm doing so WRONG when I write, as if perennially banging against a hard barrier of language. Anyways, please take a look and bombard me with whatever.
I.
We return, and with us heavens.
When you smile, the youth in simple things springs to kiss the face of permanence in my eyes,
and fancies light in the air. Something is falling from the sky, whistling in agony, wailing in high cadence.
screaming penance top to bottom. I wound up plenty beastly, my cauldron of sin foams, never vanishes.
Though I, in my years, bedeviled what Methuselah’s fingers cannot count to remain, I set heel to altar,
crying out fine details with every pinch of my skin, the multiplicity of shades one as under the vicious yellow haze of summerrise
or second the crypt ferrocyanide fiend, darker than to repent, tucking her breeze onto us goodnight all fair and well,
the vascular marathons and my indefatigable red heroes singing the corporeal chantey by my chamber doors ajar,
dentures I know of and bruises left unbandaged, every tuft of hair unique, and the count of ruptures, scratches, graze and motley others,
to the feet soles midway to the kneecaps up my femur to the thighs, up my rod, lodged in my spine’s discs,
tumescing in my stomach then lending itself out from the knot by my clavicle to the shoulders twain to the humerus,
by every bicep tendon be it calm or terrified sick, to the ulna, rotating my axis in radius to the wooden palm,
not atrophied but withered in love’s long pursuit, downward, biting away my knuckles’ rust to the fingertips,
the swelling of my lips and blush, the extraneous flesh left hung in blasphemous error and the ears,
nose crooked and handsomely put breast, every and any shed tear weighs a hundred spoken truths,
every stone on the earth rummaged and overturned.
II.A
If upon the idea chanced a weathered traveler,
ravaged, one man fully synchronized a most satisfied man, man out of his mannered ways,
man sly and broad, cunning man, ruthless and much more or less pitiless man, what becomes of our man?
We lift him in our ranks, sure. We suspend him in swelling sea, under the sky, below a cloud,
there be no kith of his the stretch of his eyes long they discern.
A man is stultified, and our acrobat pinwheels like divine, but truthfully, only now the archangel relays his instructions.
Our man is mad, and drowning in diabolic laughter retraces in true health the pith to his thinning soul
and stun, hot thunderbolt.
Tickle me this, mortal: In the metamorphoses of man: if the question is moot, why answer it?
>>7415407
II.B
And had our man, beyond a newly prized jurisdiction of his alone,
to lend charitably away from his aura, unsheathe as it be, and look down my barren throat
then what trepidation to whichever niche should the bodhisattva
exploit? Who am I among the 'Alamîn? Whence my umbilical seal chastened, whereof innocence?
III.
Mute is my kettle, Reverend Death. Beshackle me to an anchor in Lethe, toss me in a misshapen mirror.
Perhaps I might find sovereignty in the shoals, groom to severed bride, and they encase me lovingly.
O, beingness is a tired ceremony, tug at the curtains, sweep, rinse, repeat!
Lord’s the Word, I cannot speak. This vaudeville is a work of ingenuity, but
only Twixt Whoever Divine would lose the script! And amidst the shrapnel
we still scrape ourselves at hopscotch and piffle at each other’s shortcomings.
This book is uninspired.
This too must pass the myriads and break away.
A tale of defeat catapulted by weak tongues.
By apegunning David, sling! You are sung, no matter.
And the crowd would fain carry you off on their shoulders.
Life is a hidden fun, kids and snails, puddles, grass.
I want to hug the innocent lot.
Wipe their better tears on me, loan from their mirth. To enjoy joy.
In the highest order, then so let it be.
Amen.
IV.
If and well when I am cold
A finespun piece gone fettered pled,
Taut might like Lord, sinks below the bed,
This then I am when we unfurl.
O, speed aloveways, jading pearl.
What good save you what ages old
Or drums the rib in love’s accord.
>>7415407
Read double the amount of books you've currently read and you'll be able to fix this.
>>7415406
Sounds like something the anon in question would say. I.e., I'm on to you, you surreptitious snickerdoodle.
>>7415420
Specific books?
>>7415407
Stanzas and meter aren't your problem. What you need to do is stop thinking that expensive words equals poetry.
The best thing you can do is read actual poetry (nothing by amateurs) to increase your knowledge of the form.
>>7415444
He probably means just any book or author that gets frequently discussed here or is held in high esteem by critics. Though the truth is, almost any books you read will increase verbal fluidity–even John Green. In fact, I have a friend that decided to prepare for his ACT just by reading a bunch of novels and he ended up getting a 34, so as long as your putting your eyes to paper, you should be good.
