>2016
>writing poetry

There is no good contemporary poetry, just get over it and create something truly original.

>>7900230
I sometimes think about this, do you think poetry is truly dead?

Tower of Ivory

Watercolored. I have been given a vision of foliage and trees.
Painted forest surrounding, sun teasing the branches, rocking in sky-spangled seas.
Beyond the cloudmeadows, an apparition of Mary I approach on my knees.
She is beckoning me, and the dragonflies drum over the singing of bees.

Her eyes are made of dirt. I am pushing my fingers into her head.
And her tongue notyetwilderness, with her silvery hands she silently said
a litany, while the centaurs wept for her son, the priest of the mountains, their lord who was dead.
She baptized me with ashes and mud, and from her stigmata soft rainwater bled.

Kaleidoscope twilight. I have commanded the creatures to build me an altar.
The deer write on my face with her blood as I am robed in my daffodil halter.
Gratia plena, Mother of Sorrows, in gargled unlanguage I receive the new psalter.
And the angel descends, sulfur and lilies, his unknowing stone face tells me to begin.

This is my body. The oak and the maple kneel at the burial mound.
This is my blood. The raspberry and strawberry crawl like the sunlight toward me on the ground.
Ecce Homo. Ecce Virgo. There is no more sun. There is no more sound.
And I am over Adam. The land still is dying, the plow still is rusted, but I have consecrated his sin.

>>7900236
Yes it is. Our era is just not meant for poetry. It doesn't mean we can't produce good literary works though.

bump feel free to share your own work

1/2

Palace in smoky light,
Troy but a heap of smouldering boundary stones,
ANAXIFORMINGES! Aurunculeia!
Hear me. Cadmus of Golden Prows!
The silver mirrors catch the bright stones and flare,
Dawn, to our waking, drifts in the green cool light;
Dew-haze blurs, in the grass, pale ankles moving.
Beat, beat, whirr, thud, in the soft turf
under the apple trees,
Choros nympharum, goat-foot, with the pale foot alternate;
Crescent of blue-shot waters, green-gold in the shallows,
A black cock crows in the sea-foam;

And by the curved, carved foot of the couch,
claw-foot and lion head, an old man seated
Speaking in the low drone…:
Ityn!
Et ter flebiliter, Ityn, Ityn!
And she went toward the window and cast her down,
“All the while, the while, swallows crying:
Ityn!
“It is Cabestan’s heart in the dish.”
“It is Cabestan’s heart in the dish?”
“No other taste shall change this.”
And she went toward the window,
the slim white stone bar
Making a double arch;
Firm even fingers held to the firm pale stone;
Swung for a moment,
and the wind out of Rhodez
Caught in the full of her sleeve.
. . . the swallows crying:
‘Tis. ‘Tis. ‘Ytis!
Actæon…
and a valley,
The valley is thick with leaves, with leaves, the trees,
The sunlight glitters, glitters a-top,
Like a fish-scale roof,
Like the church roof in Poictiers
If it were gold.
Beneath it, beneath it
Not a ray, not a slivver, not a spare disc of sunlight
Flaking the black, soft water;
Bathing the body of nymphs, of nymphs, and Diana,
Nymphs, white-gathered about her, and the air, air,
Shaking, air alight with the goddess
fanning their hair in the dark,
Lifting, lifting and waffing:
Ivory dipping in silver,
Shadow’d, o’ershadow’d
Ivory dipping in silver,
Not a splotch, not a lost shatter of sunlight.
Then Actæon: Vidal,
Vidal. It is old Vidal speaking,
stumbling along in the wood,
Not a patch, not a lost shimmer of sunlight,
the pale hair of the goddess.

The dogs leap on Actæon,
“Hither, hither, Actæon,”
Spotted stag of the wood;
Gold, gold, a sheaf of hair,
Thick like a wheat swath,
Blaze, blaze in the sun,
The dogs leap on Actæon.
Stumbling, stumbling along in the wood,
Muttering, muttering Ovid:
“Pergusa… pool… pool… Gargaphia,
“Pool… pool of Salmacis.”
The empty armour shakes as the cygnet moves.

I have just completed, after laborious efforts, my first poem. And even though I have only read a handful, and all of which were complete fucking garbage, I can confidently say this is probably the best poem anyone has ever written. In all of time.

Screaming grinds of the pork factory burn,
The pathetic ears of its worker horde.
Giant gears of solid blood squeal and turn,
Beneath the throne of their terrible lord.
They will create the perfect pig burger,
Juicy and fresh like the illest of rhymes.
Or perhaps, a brutal and cold murder,
Of some scrub who couldn't get with the times,
And insisted on salad with his limes.
Maidens wail as their ugly infants die,
All to sate the great pork factory's greed.
Under a starless sky blood and tears fly,
But the chainsaws to them take no damn heed!
The burger will be served, the lord will eat,
Everyone else will die to fire and rocks,
Beneath the view of his great master's seat.
The clock of fate ticks, but it never tocks!

2/2

Thus the light rains, thus pours, e lo soleills plovil
The liquid and rushing crystal
beneath the knees of the gods.
Ply over ply, thin glitter of water;
Brook film bearing white petals.
The pine at Takasago
grows with the pine of Isé!
The water whirls up the bright pale sand in the spring’s mouth
“Behold the Tree of the Visages!”
Forked branch-tips, flaming as if with lotus.
Ply over ply
The shallow eddying fluid,
beneath the knees of the gods.

Torches melt in the glare
set flame of the corner cook-stall,
Blue agate casing the sky (as at Gourdon that time)
the sputter of resin,
Saffron sandal so petals the narrow foot: Hymenæus Io!
Hymen, Io Hymenæe! Aurunculeia!
One scarlet flower is cast on the blanch-white stone.

And So-Gyoku, saying:
“This wind, sire, is the king’s wind,
This wind is wind of the palace,
Shaking imperial water-jets.”
And Hsiang, opening his collar:
“This wind roars in the earth’s bag,
it lays the water with rushes.”
No wind is the king’s wind.
Let every cow keep her calf.
“This wind is held in gauze curtains…”
No wind is the king’s…

The camel drivers sit in the turn of the stairs,
Look down on Ecbatan of plotted streets,
“Danaë! Danaë!
What wind is the king’s?”
Smoke hangs on the stream,
The peach-trees shed bright leaves in the water,
Sound drifts in the evening haze,
The bark scrapes at the ford,
Gilt rafters above black water,
Three steps in an open field,
Gray stone-posts leading…

Père Henri Jacques would speak with the Sennin, on Rokku,
Mount Rokku between the rock and the cedars,
Polhonac,
As Gyges on Thracian platter set the feast,
Cabestan, Tereus,
It is Cabestan’s heart in the dish,
Vidal, or Ecbatan, upon the gilded tower in Ecbatan
Lay the god’s bride, lay ever, waiting the golden rain.
By Garonne. “Saave!”
The Garonne is thick like paint,
Procession,—“Et sa’ave, sa’ave, sa’ave Regina!”—
Moves like a worm, in the crowd.
Adige, thin film of images,
Across the Adige, by Stefano, Madonna in hortulo,
As Cavalcanti had seen her.
The Centaur’s heel plants in the earth loam.
And we sit here…
there in the arena…

>>7900299
>>7900306

this is Pound, but good try

>>7900238

pls respond

>>7900305
5.5/10, gettting a vibe of communistic imagery

>>7900318
I think you misplaced a dot there, and meant to say a more fitting score. 55 out of 10. Which isn't possible. But I understand your womanish illogic here: you are responding to greatness.

The poem has nothing to do with that laughable heap of platitudes some refer to as communism. But maybe the dictatorships that used its name, to oppress and kill a lot of people, are kind of similar? So maybe you're right. I don't know.

>>7900332
i mean, no, it's a very elementary rhyming scheme. just interwoven couplets. some lines don't fit

>salad with with his limes

seems a little forced. I like the concept of master/servant though

I found this one on my laptop a couple nights ago. I don't remember why I wrote it or in what context. Some spur of the moment trash, I suppose:

Remember the vanquished.
The pain in his eyes.
The tears that slipped down
His beaten cheek.
His crumpled body
Lying destitute in the dirt.
Remember the defeated.
The heart wrenching agony,
Relived each night in searing dreams.
Remember the failure
Old scars with old stories
Tales told in torn skin
For every winner,
There is a loser.
Someone who dreamed
Just as big,
Fought
Just as hard,
But came up short.
Remember the hopeless
Their light extinguished
Their will
Castrated
Remember these
As you stand above them
Triumphant
One day you too, will be
Defeated
Failed
Hopeless
And will long
for the mercy of the victor
Thirst
For the flashing lights
And roaring crowd
Remember the vanquished
For you are one of them

>>7900310
this is a thread about poetry as a whole, it doesn't all have to be OC

>>7900342
Do you know what's also elementary? That you're completely wrong, about what you just said. The lime part is deeply symbolic, and refers to his traitorous and unacceptable nature. It maybe a little too deep for the surface reader to grasp, and I suggest rereading with a dictionary at your side, to catch all the nuances of every word in your comprehension hat.

But yes. The main idea, of the perfect and callous lord, the paragon of virtue, and his pathetic slaves, who are wholly at his disposal, in basically, both senses of the word disposal, is great. It's powerful. It's important. And it's poetry.

Thank you for admitting this to yourself just now.

>>7900353


OP here, OC is preferably since we're rating and suggesting

>>7900359
fair enough, my b
how do i into writing poetry?

>>7900355

haha bro chill its called constructive criticism, I'm not making a personal attack, just trying to help you become a better poet.

the whole god-complex act is really offputting and not entertaining, it will negatively affect your poetry composition as well

>>7900364

just start with some simple images, repetition, concrete and abstract language. don't be afraid to start, post something here

anyone can write poetry, but you really gotta read and write extensively to become any good

>>7900238

pls critique my work help

>>7900238

I like it. I'm not a poetry critic, simply a average consumer, but I enjoyed the rhyme scheme and meter. It had a good flow, and the rhyming didn't get in the way of the poetry (as it often does).

>>7900364
I started with simple meter and rhyming. Then in college took poetry classes that taught all the different forms and functions, toying with different ideas. I never got good, but poetry isn't hard to start out with. Read some first, then try to emulate it.

This is my second poem, written in a flash of inspiration, not unlike the horrifying one of the sun going supernova, and consuming the planet in an instant, which will happen soon, I hope. This one is complicated. It doesn't always use rhymes, or even numbers of syllables per line, because really, in the end, a poem doesn't need such ornamentations. It needs only PASSION, which I have in spades.

The high-brow man trots out from his house-pen,
Upturned nose indicating a new poem.
He coughs and a crowd of dipshits assembles,
It slavers to hear his pontifications and trembles.
He hems and haws and coughs for ten minutes,
And timidly starts song-talking.
"I am a man, but I am also a dolphin,
I am a flower, and I am a bird,
I am the sky, and I am the moon,
And alone I float in the sea,
Which is my tears.
I have never won a fight,
And lose on principle,
Because I'm a fucking baby,
Wah wah wah."
He starts. He did not say those last words. I
Did. A fist made of anger pierces his sternum
And he dies instantly, his flesh melting away
Into a fine pink mist. Everyone claps,
Because they didn't really like him.
They bow before their new poem king, who in a
Moment of absolute beneficence, decides
To finish his enemy's worthless screed.
"I am a man, and I eat dolphins for breakfast.
I set fire to flowers and kill birds in blasts.
I bring down the sky like it's a fucking house.
The moon is made of cheese and I'm a fucking louse.
I drink up the sea like it's Coca-Cola,
Which is the tears of bitches like Emile Zola.
I win every fight because I'm literally invincible,
Mayhem is my message, and murder is my principle!
Bow before me now you stupid bourgeois shitheads,
The farmer is in town and he'll crush you with his tire treads!

>>7900419

3/10 even worse than your last one, which is saying something

>coca-cola
>Emile Zola

>>7900352

6.75/10 really like the repetition internally. the end seems a little bitter though

>>7900434
I think you made another mistake, and thought that the / letter was a 1, which is admittedly quite similar. 31 out of 10. I agree. It's not as good as the first one. But is such hyperbole necessary? I would say it is, perhaps, only 15 out of 10, being modest.

How would you improve it? Not that you or anyone else could, if the history of western literature says anything about other people's ability to write. But I will humour you, briefly.

>>7900447

dude please drop the act its retarded.

poem wise: it's everywhere. No real cohesion. Mixing freeverse and rhyme without revision is never going to work. It literally sounds like a mentally unstable person on open mic night.

pick a theme and use a disciplined rhyme scheme

>>7900243
>>7900230
>>7900236

poetry is only dead when people stop creating. it's only
>truly original
thing left

>>7900453
I don't know what act you are talking about. Was it putting myself as the main character in the poem? Lots of worse writers d it. Like James Joyce for example, with his execrable Steven Deadalus.

The poem is quite cohese. The major theme is that other writers are bad, and I am the only one who can make it better.

But yes. From now on, I think I will use just normal rhyming, to make my works as accessible to the masses as I can. It is wrong to steal all the ladders and then sit on an ivory tower, and then act all surprised when no one ever visits you. Well not really. But it's pretty foolish.

Thank you for your attempt.

>>7900479

Joyce is not Daedalus btw, he tried to remove himself from his work. Joyce is none of his characters.

It's just blind ranting and anger and that's being nice

>>7900488
Agreed. His work did come across like that. Just the ravings of a drunken lunatic. Quite pathetic. But I think he is Deadalus, or at least Deadalus is most like him, even though he didn't want to. He couldn't even do what he wanted to write.

>>7900498

no your work is the blind ranting and anger.

Joyce is a genius

>>7900503
Maybe this poem will change your mind. It is an Haiku, an established form of poetry from Japan. The first and last lines have 5 syllables. The middle line has 7 syllables, and mentions a season word. Feast your fucking eyes on this.

My dick eclipses
The entire red city
Lego bricks fly off!

All the bickering is killing this thread. Here's another of my shite poetry to keep things rolling:

Two Dolls

One day
At a time unknown
Two broken dolls
Their stitching torn
Dirty faces smudged and worn
Found themselves seated
Across the room
In an old, abandoned house

The dwelling overwhelmed
Swarming English ivy and peeling paint
Faded and sad
Cracks reaching like long
Slender fingers
From the rotten floorboards to the
Water stained ceiling

The sun and moon traded places often
Leaves sprung forth
Waving and bowing
A cavalcade of springtime
Turning into burnt golden memories
Falling toward the dirt

Raindrops dove from the clouds
Forming pools of liquid glass
Clouds then parting ways for Day
Those small soaked soldiers
Catching rides
On rays of sunshine
Traveling back to
Their dwellings in the sky

Snows came fresh and pure
Rewriting the earth’s
Wrinkles in white
Frost caressed the fractured
Panes of glass
In that old, abandoned house

Despite gales that shook
The tired shutters, and
Searing scars left by summer’s love
Those two damaged toys
Inched closer to one another

Those two shattered lives
Woven in cloth and string
Found themselves
Side by side
Staring out the window
The world spinning on
Unaware

God sighed
A gentle breeze He whispered
Through an old, abandoned house and
In that moment
Those two severed souls
Joined hands

One’s weary head fell
Slowly
Resting on the others’ shoulder
Their bodies
Warding off the chill brought
By years of solitude

As time went by
That old, abandoned house
Sprouted life
Tired wallpaper given fresh breath
Rusted hinges swinging with
Sweet silence
Their squealing a distant echo

That derelict prison of
Weather worn panels and
Failing foundation
Transformed
From an old, abandoned house

Into a Home
Warm with life
Swirling with vigor
And those two broken dolls began
Patching each other up
One day at a time

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Do you feel like taking a nap on a bed of sand under the sea? Ease into the darkened depths that will become your watered dreams.
Sink down passed the Fisher's hook that the blackfish for a meal mistook.
Angelfish illuminate your face and then you wake up with a scream but you can't breathe and so you drink and fill your lungs until you're sleeping with the fishes, see?

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>>7900779
/2
Needle in your arm, anesthesia in your veins
Paralyzed your body and your brains
Stick you in a straight jacket
Attached to giant stone
Confess now to your sins
For now you must atone

Don't expect a last supper
Deep hunger you will suffer
You will never have another
Delicious home cooked meal

No longer will you steal
Another precious life
In the name of Satan
Who showed you to the light

If I should roam, rather than seek
Tread not the pathways, but the grass
Nor fill each moment for it's sake-
But let the idle minutes pass.

If whisperings rather than shouts
Are all my pallid voice can will
And embers stir rather than flames
Would I then be mothered still?

Or gold be counted by my name
And Woland's knee heal at my touch
And I be crowned among the saints
And seem a muchness of the much

If shadows, too, will walk with me,
And human sin for me's atoned
If I could set the world alight
Would I then be carried home?


This is unfinished from 2 years ago which was the last time I wrote anything before I developed psychosis and got hospitalised. Trying to slowly get back into /lit/ now

Big Afternoon in the Backyard

I'm big dumb Earnie, and I stomp the grass
says Earnie, I stomp the idiot grass!
he says, and stamps the blades broken
under the trod of his awful, husky, hock,
loose hasp of his overall bib a-jangle
on its button, sweat beads breaking
over the swollen red flesh of his sun
peeled skin.
A thin river of his waste water collects
along his lip's cleft, so he purses them
and trumpets them, and the driplits
scatter in a fine mist.

/lit/ poetry is pathetic

>>7901385
Which ones specifically and why?

>>7900353
If its not oc then put the author and title. What are you afraid of?

>>7901567
ok let's take one of the best on this thread >>7901323


"If I should roam, rather than seek
Tread not the pathways, but the grass
Nor fill each moment for it's sake-
But let the idle minutes pass."

This is decent because it has 8 syllables per line consistently.However the rhyme scheme is all over the place which leads to the problem of how stanzas are structured. Primo, stanzas are improperly used and many pf the lines are senseless, like the last two of this stanza (anon establishes an image in the first two, the last two contribute nothing to the image, in fact quite the contrary they confuse the single whole idea the stanza is trying to convey), Secondo, the rhyme scheme does not support the idea being conveyed in the stanza. The rhyme scheme drives the poem, the imagery needs to fit into the rhyme scheme, which not the case here.

On the poem as a whole, I couldn't identify the anon's point, what he was trying to say and plus the structure of the poem seems purely random. anon, why did you chose 4 stanzas of 4 lines. How are you using the structure to say what you intend?

I don't mean to rip on you anon, I know it's unfinished but you had one of the best. Hope the critique helps.

> I developed psychosis and got hospitalised. Trying to slowly get back into /lit/ now

best of luck on your recovery. Keep writing.

What /lit/ists don't seem to understand when it comes to poetry is that there are objective standards. Much like in painting, the technique matters quite a bit. Also, threads like these are filled with cliche images and are generally 2deep4u poems in the modernist style.

To My Other
Our heathen temples are separated from the ghost apparitions within.
Tensions release and pull us back to each other as guardians.
Far away from each others company and looking into different skies -
we never really have to question why the daunting sight of impending doom affects our every step.
It was a perfect chance that our selves would prevent the other from stepping into a darkened crevice.
Today, the worry of your safety was a cacophony in my mind and at the current time of writing, even.
I cannot justify myself as being overtly cautious when you matter the most to my heart, dear;
and hearing (or not, for that matter) of your demise, would crush my thoughts into a hell so real,
afterwards - I could not imagine my life would have much appeal.

>>7900355
kill yourself frogposter

>>7900238
use more evocative verbs

>>7900236
>>7900230
this concise shit we splatter all over the internet is poetry in a way

These poets scorn to write in jingly verse;
And yet, I think the want of meter worse.
They speak in stops and starts—a choppy prose
That knows not how it runs, or whither it goes.
Why write a poem? I doubt the poet knows.

The Second Cumming

turning and turning in the widening cunt
my DICK...

the center cannot hold...
SHAZAM

Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The "blood-dimmed tide" is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.

Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Cumming is at hand.

>>7902396
the joke, by the way, is that the immature young poet misses the clear sexual connotations of the original poem in order to rewrite it in cruder form, keeping the sexual imagery and losing all the "meaning". it's therefore post-postmodern in my opinion

I hardly hear them now.
Just auditory clues,
cues to signal– keys to
slot in neuropaths and
drafts to notes to sheets to
this music. Peace in the
pieces– where I sit but
don't listen. These songs that
tend to sidle step in,
change some stone to flesh and
numb law to love. I want
rest but instead this sly
test sets in for the night.
I hardly hear them now.

More dishes pile
More lists undone
Shout away shadows
Dig out the muck
Never forget home
& having fun
Before the mirrors
And all the years bad luck

any chance at fire I'll take
just get out, God damn whores
sweat out hesitation
shoot off the locks, never shut the doors

He used trace masterpieces
into your body-
assure you of its perfection

and still left you
wondering:
If it was smaller

Would he still have left?

My dear.

no love should
hold physical attraction
on any kind of pedestal.

He left because you
deserved more.

Go get more

>>7900238
yo this is really fucking good
Great narrative and images and I loved the rhyme keepin me going throughout

"I'm lonely here
and so are you.
Let's talk, please,
do you want to?"

That's what I'd say
but I'm alone.
You're far away
and I'm so cold.

>>7902587
this is beautiful anon

Bobop

Announce your sake, felicity dropped from demur
Sail alee mighty mitt, clad with vespers
Mush whimper;
There fare better days.

>>7902516
Change some stone to flesh and numb law to love. I love that.

>>7900352
I can personally relate to this poem, but here's my two big issues:

1) the line length, why have a poem filled with 1-3 word lines? it looks elementary and degrades the power of shorter lines for this poem as well as future poems you write. Its the context that gives short lines strength, if they are just one of the bunch it makes the poem just seem descriptive.
2) Suppose someone going into the poem does not remember the vanquished. Suppose they have no idea what you're talking about. Do you feel you leave enough to clues to help them towards the meaning you're trying to convey? If they get to the end and read
>For you are one of them
Do they think, whoah I guess I am, or do they just disagree with you and think your whole poem is garbage?

Try and apply an outsiders perspective and add some real descriptions of our world.

>>7900419
This poem needs to be expanded on. A majority of the poem consists of the two poems recited by the speakers. Both of those poems are horrible, which I think is the point, but in the whole of your poem we aren't left with much else. I am unable to discern any sort of meaning from this poem and don't feel a relation to it upon reading besides the supposed new world order of worthlessness, but even that I feel to be my own projection placed upon the vagueness.

>>7902380
not a bad little ars poetica. post more work.

>>7902526
but we live in a physical world, is what we see not part of the whole of our senses?

>>7902587
I like it. I think word choice is of the essence when you have so few words:

>do you want to
>and I'm so cold.

my two least favorite lines. "to" rhymes with "you" which makes that set a little sing-songy, and the whole cold & lonely combination is a little overdone. I think if you rework those two lines you'll have something really solid.

here's a little poem I wrote after being inspired by the Wikipedia page on Titanoboa's:

Swamp mud slathered in between scales -
That resemble the watery earth
More than the mud itself -
Crusted sludge falls off in the beating sun,
As the tall bent grass brushes new layers
Of humid decay onto its skin.
An empty stomach slides faster,
A hungry mind thinks clearer.
Rotting moss falls in the tropical air,
Like a hand is carefully placing it.
The sound of a school bus
Sliding into a lake without a sound.
All 45 feet.
All 2700 pounds.
Head first, tongue tasting the warm water.
Hold your head up and look for the sound.
Ripples in a lake.
Grass bent out of shape.
There are ways to this world,
Rules and laws.
A twenty foot alligator stampedes away.
Hold steady now, this is your moment.
Taste the water when they’ve all run away.
Drop your tongue in, splash it around.
Good things come to those who wait.
Only you are not the one who waits.
Ripples in a lake, grass bent out of shape.
Everything you realize, you realize too late.
Two red eyes can’t be seen.
When a six foot mouth has daggers for teeth.
A full stomach slithers slower,
A sated mind wants more.

>>7900225
i wrote this for my ex lol
here goes

For George
--

i fall into your arms
not because of the aching feeling
the silent unraveling
of my heartstrings;
but only to

(i take a breath)

feel the touch of your skin once more.
though your skin has dulled
with the grey of a hundred aimless nights
your veins lie writhing
blue worms in your hands
jagged lines
though not as prominent
as those made on my heart
i trace the blueness with a finger
and reach into its origin
then i hear the years of unrequited waiting in a quiet voice
rushing like a river beneath your skin
your soft skin
but then i feel

(i shudder with the realisation)

your lies.
like skin
each one embodies every sin within its pale inner walls
hiding them from my probing fingers

(i lurch with a newfound, different kind of ache as i begin my selfdestruction)

i make contact.
with the cause of my many tears
shed at the sun’s mournful sleep
after she narrowly misses the moon each night
she rests her head beneath the curve of the earth
for the futile wait;
just maybe
there will be an eclipse

(i open my eyes, only for a second, and i finally understand)

the absence of light lingers on.
my skin presses against yours for the last time
i am blindly deafened to your whisper
burrowed like a splinter in your skin
that you never did crave the touch
of my cold hands

>>7904098
forgot to put a dash between "self" and "destruction"
whoops

>>7900238
this is awesome. here's my recommendations:

>in general:
it's too short. you have so much content and you're trying to say so much, there's just not enough description. I see the logical breaks between the stanzas, I think each one could be about double its current length at least.

>dragonflies drum over the singing of bees
what does it sound like? perhaps the dragonflies drum at a random pace, always at the same volume, while the bees buzz furiously, ecstatically and dreadfully over the sound?

>second stanza:
I like the ancient Greek imagery mixed in with the Virgin. The progression of false gods reverrred to be the Son by man went Tammuz->Dionysus->then Jesus & Caesar duked it out for the title, with Jesus obviously winning. I say this because a blend of Sumerian, Greek, Hebrew/Aramaic & Roman mythological imagery could be used in this stanza to really expand on it and make it great. (Tammuz in particular had a river in Syria run red with his blood annually so the legend goes, relates to "her stigmata soft rainwater bled")

>third stanza
You get German here. I love it. You have all this flower imagery. I think you should try working in the most sacred flower to the Germans: the poppy. German shamans would use its nectar to divinate, speaking in slurred "garbled unlanguages" as their tribe listened. Incorporating poppy would allow you to add some imagery of its warm and forgetful embrace, perhaps it relates to the Virgin.

>last stanza
d e v i l i s h

I don't really have any recommendations here. Do as you see fit after revising the other stanzas.


Please post your revisions so we can read them.

Here we once lay beneath the epitaphs
Of a dozen dead romances tree-carved.
No longer do you lie glad by my side.
A choice cockeyed opened a great divide.
I might write upon this oaken tombstone,
"Here lies us: once great, now gone with regret."
And yet, beneath this grave lies not a bone,
But a blind man with great regret now sown
Who seeks for naught but a chance to atone,
But there is not an opportunity.
There can't be, for too much damage is done.
So here he will lie trapped in his bright past,
Haunted by the ghosts of mistakes akin,
Wanting nothing except that which has been.

Go easy, I'm pretty new at this

>>7900243
Poetry marketing is dead, but poetry will never truly die. There will always be those who feel compelled to write it, read or otherwise.

>>7900243
I disagree. Our generation is arguably more poetically inclined than any generation I'm history. Rap is poetry over music. Sure, a ton of it is shit, but there's some real poetry in there too. Aesop Rock for example.

>>7904295
To add to this, the rhyme schemes in some of Eminem's songs (eg Lose Yourself) are fucking insane if you actually take a closer look at the lyrics and see them as poetry instead of just rap lyrics

>>7904091
I like this for its tone and concept, but I didn't feel any real reaction to the piece emotionally.
>>7904098

Very sophomoric, but the need to express was there. Use that same feeling and condense it, make it flow smoother and without verbiage. >>7904282
I really like this, it could use some sanding but overall you kept to the theme throughout.

Time to offer my own to the slaughter.

The world waits
Until I'm awake,
But must hold time
In between the space,
Of what is known
And what is perceived.
How much longer
Until there is no
Middle ground.

Poetry isn't dead. It's just mired in so many bad fashions that nobody wants to read it.

I sort of like the elastic verse structures of Pound et al, but I liked them better when they were on the experimental edge in a society where poetry was expected to have a meter.

Every serious poet is still consciously metrical. But many consumers of poetry can no longer do basic scansion. And the poets, whether they know what they're doing or not, often stretch the meter to the point that most readers don't care to find out what the meter is.

And then there's the needless elitism. 18th century poets were seldom obscure, and they included notes when they were (they often included extra notes when they weren't, too). They wanted their poems to be comprehensible for all their readers. Since Browning, poets have cared less and less. I won't go so far as to say that they don't want anybody to discover how weak their ideas are. But, for one reason or another, many of them don't think clarity matters. I think it's a fucking stupid fashion, and I don't blame the average fellow for not caring about our poets.

God comanded that the waters roll forth,
That smooth river become white upon rock
And man likewise flow through the vast earth
Here slow, and there violently rushing
Before at last reaching the open deep-
Let salt and water mingle beneath sky
The unending ocean, the rivers' bound

So our spring is many a mountain creek
At high rock, deep within the continent
Born of melted snows, to cut open land
To carve gorges in the rock, long coursing
In seasons too, should flood the gentle plains-
Satisfy the thirst of teaming grasses,
And drop silvery dust as forests' food

We, the wandering creatures' earthy bread
Make thus with wind the tall sway of hardwoods
Urge on the sprawling branches' skyward lust
Cry sylvan things to the unending air
Sing into trees the music of past rains
Swell and sprawl as we make for open sea
Then maddeningly burst through rocky falls:

Two continents clash like armies charging
The canyon's slow carnage is thus revealed
With each crag a splintered spear left standing
Each boulder the hulking dead of armies
The thin furrows, the trenches soldier made
We, still the waters, echo battle cries
Spill upon the frenzied rocks, furious

Then pine to gaze upon a gentler sea
In our turn, mother of the quiet plains
Then soldiering on, through the gorges sharp
Makers of things and destroyers of things
Verdant and crimson, but God-urged seaward
We course from small springs, then lastly to bay
Become the ocean, end our coursing way

Dinner Scene

Four bodies sit around
a polished, oak surface.
Twenty-eight legs are rooted
to the polyester-fibered floor.

A dark mustache and wide-brimmed glasses
looks at red lipstick and pearl necklace.
Mustache recounts the day, complaining
how tiresome suits and ties are becoming.

A freckled bowl cut scrapes a green mound
to the side of his plate.
Freckled bangs stare blankly
at a luminescent glass screen between her thighs.

Bowl-Cut asks to be excused - the mustache
furrows and bobs.
Bangs is quick to ask -
and receive - the same.

Lipstick smiles and collects
the blue ceramic dishware.
Mustache hands her his as she leaves
to wash them.

Mustache rises and retrieves
a glass bottle half-full of brown liquid.
He searches for flint and butane -
tobacco and paper.

Nobody sits around
the polished, oak surface.
Twenty legs are rooted
to the polyester-fibered floor.

Anyone else find it interesting how budding poets have exactly the same imagery occur to them, and tend to favor the same set of words?

>>7904098
I haven't read enough poetry to totally know what you're doing here or what your main inspiration is of structure or form. I don't like the lines in parenthesis and don't think they are necessary. Let the break tell us you're taking a breath, let a change of tone tell us you're shuddering, show us you're self-destructing not through the word, but through fiery passion.

some particularly good lines:
>blue worms in your hands
vivid, original, real
>i trace the blueness with a finger
love the word trace here, maybe theres an alternative to "blueness"

>burrowed like a splinter in your skin
you bring us back to skin here and tie us back into the beginning after your realization and proceeding burning rage, good work.

less-good lines:
>years of unrequited waiting in a quiet voice...
clunky. it was not your waiting that was unrequited. the voice is quiet, yet the river rushes. not sure this all says what you want it to.

>each one embodies every sin within its pale inner walls
this is a good line. but it needs to be reworked to make your comparison between the lies and skin clearer. removing the pronouns makes it clear that the line is confusing
>each lie embodies every sin within sins pale inner walls
its the skin that is the pale inner wall right? and lies are skin, so where is the sin embodied?

>i make contact... (this whole stanza)
again, I need to feel the fiery self-destrcuting passion of the sun here

>of my cold hands
read some of the other poems in this thread. everyone is cold, sad, alone and in eternal darkness. try to avoid those words.

You've got a really good start here. Keep working on it. With some careful revisions I think it can be top-notch.

Also forget George, find God, and move on. You'll be OK, I promise.

>>7904321
>I didn't feel any real reaction to the piece emotionally
I think that's fair criticism. I don't think there's a ton of emotion there, do you feel every poem necessary of strong emotional implications?

>now for the slaughter

>until I'm awake
right off the bat this is screaming self-indulgence at me. who do you believe yourself to be? the rest of the poem does not make that clear to me.

>middle ground
this line hits with a thud. read it out loud, you have to either read it awkwardly or just end the thing out of nowhere.
Is this line a question? what of the prior lines suggests that "middle ground" is vanishing? Its obviously a short poem, I don't think it has enough space for what you're trying to accomplish. It ends up too vague.

So what's the best type of poetry?

I mean, I think it would be anything easy to read, rolls off the tongue, and the syllables rhyme at the end of each line in a paragraph.

>>7904547
the best type is your own. the second best type is that which changes you.

a gull's cry
in the distance.
a sandy breeze
against my cheeks.

my head
is a shell.
my body
is an egg.

>>7904449
isn't it funny that humans thousands of miles apart developed similar myths, tools, cultures and civilizations?

what do you know, anon, and how do you know it?

File: d9e0e29f23aac2fd80779a515f4888c8[1].jpg (12 KB, 236x236) Image search: [Google]

12 KB, 236x236

Anyone have any poet recommendations?

I've taken a mystic turn and quite enjoy something like Rumi or William Blake or Zen Koans

>>7904302
Lol Eminems shit listen to good rap niggas

Flames encasing ships of gold
the captain, the monarch
far from drowning
burned by choice

Judgement passed with a gavel of glass
the responsible, the weak
refusing power
fearful by choice

>>7904632
Young eminem was great. I think his new shit sucks, but if millions love his shit, who am I to say it's bad? Its pretty pretentious/arrogant to assume your taste is better than everyone else's.

However, I always like new music. Who do you listen to that you'd say is "good"? Rn I think my favorites are probably MF Doom (+Madvillan and Danger Doom) and A Tribe Called Quest

Fuck it, I haven't written a poem since last summer. This is my first time writing one and actually trying in a long time. It's simple and shitty, so feel free to rip into it as much as you want anons. I hope all of you do. After all, I wrote it for all of you.

Reflections on Summer

Outside
I see the sun
manning its crooked grill
and fathers
wearing orange slices
smothering licorice jams
on roasted asphalt.

Clinking
drinking
tundras in our glasses
while we kiss
and sing
and miss

And conversations go from this
to this
and that
then this

Yet we still laugh
and kiss
and sing
and miss

Then we slip
into suits of marrow
and dive
plunging into a
gripping
choking
death.

Daddy's away
Daddy's untrue
Ma lost her spouse
Ma got her house
God crushed Babble, made each man speak his own way
So the best of your two fathers could raise you
Man is just dirt
Walk like a man
Man is just dirt
Walk like a man

>>7904628
Read Yeats' later stuff

>>7904327

The greatest problem with poetry is the existence of self-styled poets who are not readers of poetry.

>>7904628

Walt Whitmann. Start with "Out of the rolling ocean the crowd" and then move onto Song of Myself and "When Lilacs Last in the dooryard bloomd"

>>7904158

Hey man thanks for the thought out reply, it means alot. Here's a quick revision, just came home from work.


Ode to the Tower of Ivory

Watercolored. I have been given a vision of foliage and trees.
Painted forest surrounding, sun teasing the branches, rocking in sky-spangled seas.
Beyond the cloudmeadows, an apparition of Mary I approach on my knees.
She is beckoning me, and the dragonflies drum over singing of bees.

Her eyes are made of dirt. I am pushing my fingers into her head.
And her tongue is the wilderness, with her silvery hands she silently said
A litany, while the centaurs wept for her son, the priest of the mountains, their king who was dead.
She baptized me with ashes and mud, and from her stigmata soft rainwater bled.

Kaleidoscope twilight. I have commanded the creatures to build me an altar.
The satyrs write on my face with her blood; I am robed in my daffodil halter.
Gratia Plena, Mother of Sorrows, in garbled unlanguage I receive the new psalter.
And the angel descends, brimstone and lilies, his unknowing stone face tells me to begin.

This is my body. The oak and the maple kneel at the burial mound.
This is my blood. The numberless animals prostrate themselves on the black earthen ground.
Ecce Homo. Ecce Virgo. There is total light. There is total sound.
I am over Adam. The land still is dying, the plow still is rusted, but I have consecrated his sin.

>>7904405

very majestic

use some more concrete imagery, lot of abstract nouns

>>7905325

(Not your original reviewer)

There is some very nice language in here, and some pleasant and unusual juxtapositions/metaphors.

However, the lines feel as if each comes from a separate poem, a group of steadfast individuals who are gathered without common purpose.

Or perhaps you have tried to cram too many ideas into too small a space. Comparing the universe of Christian symbolism with the world of natural forms seems to be the main idea, trying to cram the Hellenic makes it too crowded- I would nix the centaurs and satyrs and replace them with some deer or birds or something. I'm curious if this is "nature experience compared to prayer" or "prayer compared with nature experience."

There are collisions of metaphor that threaten to undermine the coherence of a larger and more important idea, especially

>"her tongue is the wilderness"
>"The oak and maple kneel at the burial mound"
>"I am robed in my daffodil halter"

Her tongue cannot be the whole wilderness if her eyes are dirt. The oak and maple personify nature here, but nowhere else. A daffodil halter is an awkwardly comical picture, a bad choice of symbolism for representing absorption into nature. I think if you look at these three lines you will see that they each have a different symbolic use of nature and that these compete with each other. It should be: Mary as nature, vision as absorption into nature, nature as worshiping, but all three is too crowded.

The phrase "I have consecrated his sin" juts out, an awkwardly theological bit of jargon that threatens the much more sweet-sounding "the land is still dying, the plow still is rusted."

I very much dislike the line "Kaleidoscope twilight. I have commanded the creatures to build me an altar" The first person is a passive receiver of vision throughout the poem and suddenly becomes an active agent here. There is a similar problem with the "I am over Adam" declaration. The "I" should most certainly be the object in this last line, not the subject (something like "I am made over Adam" or "Adam is made below me"). For the same reason I would make "I am pushing my fingers into her head" (which is a striking notion so keep it) into a more passive "My fingers are pushed into her head."

>>7905350

cheers. it's part of a larger poem i'm working on about a waterfall and river near where i live. i see what you mean about it lacking a concrete dimension.

>>7900305
6/10

>>7900305
although the wording is a bit too blunt for my tastes, i absolutely love the way you portrayed totalitarianism in the poem and the constant imagery!
>The clock of fate ticks, but it never tocks!
a very solid ending for the poem. the meaning of it could be construed as different for every reader and it ends the entirety of the poem on an ambiguous note, leaving readers to decide for themselves on the underlying message of the final line. great job anon

>>7904321
>The world waits
>Until I'm awake,
>But must hold time
>In between the space,
>Of what is known
>And what is perceived.

Why not,

The world waits ("wor-uld", though that's the unpoetical pronunciation)
'Til I'm awake,
But must hold time
Between the space
Of what is known
And what perceived.

?

Anyway, I'm not really sure what you mean. Sounds very solipsistic to me

>>7900225
eighty five percent battery
yellow battery symbol
just jacked off
bought
con-
d-
o-
m-
s
at cvs pharmacy
listening to Top Charts on Spotify
I just wanna feel liberated
how deep is your love?
I said to
myself
sullen and half naked
just now.

my earbuds cut into my ears sonically and
like,
ergonomically

before I go to dinner id like to tell you a story
me and Andrew were walkin together and I smoked a bit of one of his cigarettes and as the little rush came on drake said, thru my depression headphones, "you could do better" I was listening to marvins room

anyways
here I go to dinner

>>7905876

what in the fuck is this?

The Faceless rose, spoke, and so came forth this:
"There lies a land, near, past reach nonetheless,
where mournful peaks glance to ley below,
and roads no feet have tread nor builders kept
in memory of page or scribe. Yet said,
’tis no empty land, though stirs naught within.
Scribes, it has, and builders and fathers and sons.
A King, it had, and courtiers and pipers and drums.
Tables, there are, set beneath still faces,
and no food, though untouched by creature or beast,
but mouldered and rotted to stain.
Those scribes, they hunch, over parchment gone to dust,
their hands stayed, unwilling, in monument,
of those deepest crimes for greatest cause
wrought in vain, and none left to lament."

>>7905936
post-modern poetry
its actually quite meaningful if looked at it from that perspective

>>7905999

It's complete shit. In a certain, very contemporary perspective, the appeal of poetry lies in its ability to offer an alternative mode of being to the one described in this poem.

I do not need or want to read someone else's unedited stream of words when they do nothing but reflect precisely the mode of being I wish to escape.

It's a completely neophytic reaction to poetry to think "Hey wait a second there's a large gap between the imagery, ideas and experiences described in canonical poetry and the sorts of images, ideas and experiences that I have. I should write a poem that reflects them to fill this gap."

In what pallid view of mine,
Can be a garden, sweet as thee?
And can your faithful hue or vine,
Plant a seed to spring in me?

Some roses where my eyes once where,
Body of wooden towers.
Some ivy on my head for fur,
Heart a bouquet of flowers.

My blossoms in day or night show,
The view, that I've grown to be.
One day a child I might know,
May love the flowers in me.

Would really love some critiques!

>>7906040

The poem deploys an extremely cliche vocabulary in an extremely cliche manner. And it's a minor pet peeve of mine but you shouldn't mix the archaic "thou/thee/thine" with the more common "you."

>>7905942

You're not terrible or anything and you should keep writing/reading and improving. There's some promise indicated here.

You seem to have stumbled upon an interesting image/idea of an other-world which does not have time, but you haven't bothered to determine what its meaning is, what its relationship to this world is. You also vacillate between "a place where time stands still" and "a place where things are in slow decay." These are not the same thing. But the vocabulary is good (ley!). The syllable counts are correct but the rhythm remains clumsy.

For example, "Those scribes, they hunch, over parchment gone to dust" (with its perfect march of iams) would sound better if followed by "their hands stayed, in monument unwilling."

Monument is - _ - while unwilling is more - - -

>>7906075

Thank you greatly for the feedback! I'm definitely changing the monument line, especially now that I notice the unintentional awkward rhyme with "lament"

The "world" referenced in the poem is a valley-situated city-state, the living inhabitants of which were all simultaneously suspended in a state similar to death, unmoving, and slowly calcifying over the ages. Nothing lives there, and the only changes are brought about by the pure and subtle attrition of time. The poem is actually meant to preface a story detailing "those deepest crimes for greatest cause," which lead to the described situation.

The phrase "near, past reach nonetheless" is meant to serve a dual purpose- first introducing this as a story and work of fiction (as fiction is by its nature easily accessible but intangible), and second highlighting the sort of temporal disconnect between this frozen place and the dynamic world around it.

He sees into the mist an open,
gang silent and bodyless
followed his not nearing.
The steam in his fog's face is heard, tired sigh wakes fear in the next room who arrives to the door but leaving makes face. Standing at the door and saying goodbyes with words told by a man who isn't leaving. Words many have given many more,
promise which weighs as whisper far but near from one mouth keeps awake. So each night woken up, locked doors, forgetting words and his name, sighing dies.

I was inspired by the war and horror-threads this week and if I'll use this one there would be a context to that. English is also not my first language please help and send moni

and when you pass and i have already been buried rest assured my tombstone will weep for you

and wrinkles from smiling and wrinkles from laughing and wrinkles from thinking and wrinkles from worrying and in every crease there is you

>>7904443
Kind of nice and the ending felt sort of comfy like being told you're arriving to the station and then you do, so it's positive.

here is today the same as yesterday

"But how shall we spend it?"
"Alone, but together. Together alone."

I can show you the lights from the edge of the city, but I cannot take you there.

>>7906329
You're getting the hang of wordplay but maybe a bit more of a rhetorical lift off is needed?

Here's me crap:

I broke my hollow world
And petulant tears dripped down its curved surface;
Tidal waves that didn’t distinguish between
Fake true blue waters
And verdant lands (and the vermillion deserts where plastic vegetation cannot grow).
It had fallen out of its orbit-stand in my bedroom
Solar system shattered, and it fell out of
23-degree-tilt-spinning-round-with-my-magnetic-shove skies
Of countless unstars not glittering like gravel.
And into my small hands. I extended it to my brother’s (he’d already got the whole world in his bigger, calloused hands).

He took the globe and spun it like a Globetrotter
Balanced it on his nose, barking like a seal
He threw it to me and I did the same; my sad hiccoughs turned to gleeful guffaws as we tossed Earth back and forth.

Hurricanes billowing across Beirut; Berlin; the Red Sea and the Dead Sea; Antarctica.
Pissed off pedestrians were smothered underthumb and flocks and herds and shoals of endangered animals got scuffed into extinction when I dropped it.
The Sun sets on our side of our Earth and it goes black but we go on.
Both sides of my own Earth go black
But it gets no rest until we tire of this game and open it up.
A tectonic bisection:
cutting Africa in two with sharp colonial boundaries
rendering a Mexican border wall obsolete
leaving tourists stranded on the wrong hemisphere (with impotent souvenirs).
We found we could hide sweets inside.

You came into my life like a leaf floating down a river,
gentle and beautiful with an air of mystery about you,
I watched and wondered where you had been and where you were going.
I ached to drift away with you.

you left like a ship on an angry sea,
my heart tucked away on board,
leaving me empty and weary to watch as my port lie smoking and pillaged,
no hope for repair.

best to just move on and start again,
forget who i was,
and try to be something stronger this time.
Something impenetrable,
a castle with walls of iron that your cannons cannot dent.

I wait for the day you appear on the horizon,
your black sails flying and that glimmer in your eye,
to take my heart again,
just one last time.

I don't


Know what


I
Forget it.

So long.
All my fears are realized
as you walk
away.

>>7907524
I never knew poetry could be so beautiful and wickedly twisted at the same time, thank you

>>7905876
P L E B
L
E
B

>>7904321
>>7904487
thank you both for the fair critique
and yeah i wasnt too sure about the parentheses and word choice either haha so i revised it. i still feel like its far from finished but its gotten to a start. english isnt my first language so lets just hope i didnt mess it up more

i fall into your arms
not because of the aching feeling
the silent unraveling
of my heartstrings;
but only to
feel the touch of your skin once more.
though your skin has dulled
with the grey of a hundred aimless nights
your veins lie writhing
blue worms in your hands
jagged lines
though not as prominent
as those made on my heart
i trace the blueness with a finger
and reach into its origin
then i hear the years of unrequited waiting in a screaming voice
rushing like a river beneath your skin
your soft skin
but then i feel

your lies.
like skin
they embody what is within
hiding what's underneath from my probing fingers

i make contact.
with the cause of my many tears
shed at the sun’s mournful sleep
after she narrowly misses the moon each night
she rests her head beneath the curve of the earth
for the futile wait;
just maybe
there will be an eclipse

the absence of light lingers on.
my skin presses against yours for the last time
i am blindly deafened to your whisper
burrowed like a splinter in your skin
that you never did crave the touch
of my cold hands

Far from the maddened crowds and crimson-crusted crows they sat
Waiting for some reason to show
in lives spent wasted,
waiting for reason to show.
They wandered aimlessly through beautiful streams and sat under clouds
of doubt.
Waiting for purpose, they wander
away from the call of war and duty that trouble their hours spent
waiting for reason to show.
And with each changing season they return to the same spots which linger
untouched by triviality, boredom, purpose
or the aching throes of
reason.
There they search for calm in the calamity and gaze up trees that have seen more than meager
years spent wandering - aimlessly.
Rooted they throw down
their branches on those
who disturb their slumber.
And they leave and come again with the seasons
which return and go
like the ebb and flo of water
and of woe
and each time they leave the wind blows its relief
as it sends on the ships cursed
with their search for reason
So they leave the hills and the woods to their dormant slumber
heralded in by the fears that leave them locked
in their search for reason
and they sail away; watching the titanic timbers sway slightly in the zodiacal zephyr
which finalises its course aloft the sleeping lake
the ripples it creates stretch to far banks and finally cease
all the while they ignore such grace
in their search for reason
They search in deep, silk-embroidered pockets
and the bottom of glasses and back-alleys;
moth-mangled sheets that lie for months unattended by the outside world
And so they force their reason,
knowing it cannot be found,
from folds of understanding that fell
like Hermes feathers
falling from fluffy bed sheets
wrapped in clouds
and clods
of reason.
And they wander on and on
but get nowhere; til stuck on an island
of disinformation they crumble
waiting, enamoured
by lies and wine
and line after line
of reason.

Seven years pass without a word from home
and all the years of intoxication
in the arms of pleasant Phaeacians , would not weaken the call of beaches
painted in nostalgia
and lilac prose uttered in the hammocks of creaking hulls
for what is a lost man to do
but wander and wander
in his search for reason
Til the god's take pity and release
the poor beasts
back into the breeze that catches sails
and lands them back
on their pitiful voyage
and finally they pull up on those Ithacan beaches
yet the woods are different
and the trees and the flowers and the composting leaves
all are different
the same yet, at the same time, so very different
For reason is a vile lie
and it warps and distorts til all must bend and break
til they become benefactors to its broken charm
And the captain is usurped and kicks up a fuss;
scared he's lost
his birthright

>>7900238
i like it but third line seems very forced

could you give us any context/meaning behind it as it is very vague

>>7900352
nice but if I were to recommend anything ditch the 'for every winner/there is a loser...just as hard' seems a bit...not really sure just doesn't fit.

Her lips achill like winter's breath
Heal, she can’t, my love bereft
If you were life, then she is death
No, she can't fill the gap you left

can this be improved?

at the times i miss her
i swear i can hear the devil whisper
"you went the way i least expected,
now only the pain of regret shall be accepted"

In the tartan lilt of childhood I liked to spin between glass cases:
Make death masks blink and bones dance.

I remember paintings of dead boys that followed you with
Their toes, and contemplated the middle distance as if to

Test if they could see the butterfly display on the other
Side of the hall without squinting.

Muskets; crystals; collection boxes; rib-glued Dodo flesh
And the diamond rings of Spanish ladies; there

Was small wonder in the way the faux leaves
Hid the firework-eyes of model lemurs.

Lollies from the gift shop candied my cheeks with the same
Migraine rush I get now only from running in

At five: worrying about bullet-points that went unrecorded
While I was dreaming about the animal-manubrium-placard-poetry;

Being reminded about the lemur eyes by an exploding zeppelin
(And its historical connotations);

Running into the woods to try and write something dead
And pretend I still imagine;

Burning with indiscretion, biting knuckles,
Peeling skin, and watching diagrams sit perfectly still,

Wishing my eyes would make them
Dance again.

>>7900238
FINALLY.

FINA-FUCKING-LLY.

SOMEONE WHO KNOWS HOW TO GOD-FUCKING-DAMN RHYME.

"OH, LOOK AT ME. MY POEMS DON'T RHYME AND SHIT, AREN'T I SO DEEEEEEEP AND ORYGYNAL?"

NO, FUCK YOU. POEMS ARE SUPPOSED TO RHYME AND REEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE.

>>7900238
what is your meter? I scan some lines as nine feet, some as eight, some as seven...

>>7900305
B-

If you turned this in to me in AP English, I would post it up on the board for "extreme display of creativity and passion", and I might even give you a boiled egg.

The other kids would fuck with you so hard though, it wouldn't even be funny.

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>>7900779
>>7900982

'As a'right.

>>7900225
And in midnight,to venture out to the road of sun
to conceal myself in a haze of danger,
And feel the brushing of dark leaves
against my cold mass
concealing into the lonely corners
To sit and contemplate its hidden folds and staunch holds
and the thrill of hooded warriors missing my eye
The dark sky

Let’s all just smoke some more weed . . .
Forget all our problems, forget all our needs.
Loosen up the bars of society. Let’s all be freed.
Stand up. Fight the system. Never retreat. Never recede.
Let’s all smoke up and forget what it’s like to bleed.
And to those that have dealt that pain, just you heed.
That we will take the hits, the pain, the misery
You may knock us down. But we’ll get back up. We’ll proceed
To where we will grow, where we flourish. We’ve already planted the seed
To the future of our generation, the future that will succeed
In allowing our plant to flourish, to grow, to exceed
All the expectations of which we constantly plead.
Freed from the envy, the lustful, the damned, the greed
. . . Let us all just smoke a little more weed.

Something I wrote at work for this thread.

Looking from the tower outwards,
The city's towers presented their starkness.
In the midnight sun they projected,
ancient mountains and a new type of darkness.

>>7900225
nah

All my teeth fall out rolling on the floor
bouncing dice into the corners of the room
I look at her, gums bleeding, and croak
The sound from my mouth is like doom
forty two canines grow in and I choke
Split ear to ear
My smile is wide and without fear
Everything is as it should be

>>7912797

not poetry

>>7912839
I thought since poetry was in quotation marks in the OP we were intentionally not posting poetry

Grauhesch leers from his chamber, unbidden,
as we slink the shade of his view, unseen.
Grey king abed in his prison, unchained—
as our fear far stricter bids us silent.
That courtly mock: a wrinkled brow in thought,
repeated in bulbous and reaching flesh,
scornful wet facsimile of our own.
What hubris took hold and drove us here—
to cower before the insensate?
Long severed and silenced and bound but still,
the echo remains and shackles in turn.
Foul prophet those mouthless lines to lay,
not in mist and shadow but statute and stone.
What fault is this but ours, and ours alone?

>>7908460
I dug it
https://clyp.it/gu01qx0c

>>7913275

Best I've seen in thread so far: redolent of Pound, lines are rich, though not entirely sure what you're writing about.

>>7914564

A hypothetical scenario in which a team of neuroscientists have used human brain tissue to grow an enormous, sentient organic computer. Possessing human intuition in addition to the unfathomable processing power of fifty-something pounds of human brain matter, the thing assesses the state of the world and makes a series of dire predictions accompanied by exhaustive contextual support.

Fearing the consequences of allowing it to continue talking and receiving data, but unwilling to destroy it, they disconnect its sensory and communication hardware.

what is the best introductory book to form and meter?

"Come Back, My Dear"

A somber simmering stream
Of sweet summer wind
Brushes across our faces; Keen
In wonder, Her and I.

A blistering bombing of burgundy
Barrages the sky above
And we hope (us both, I hope)
That again, we'll fall in love.

Deep in our defense
We departed down different drives.
One day she'll drag herself back to me
And deal indifference until we die.

Men try managing rage
Or women in the midst of mad,
We make memories during the mistake
But memories make what we have.

I own all this lonesome
And this mistrust and my aches
But still, at night, I beg
Just to see you one more day.

Come back, My Dear...


>deviant: AlphaBeast124

>>7911851
A lot of times rhyming takes away from the message of a poem. Might create a tone that suggests less serious attitudes from the author.

I'm going to start a poem and you guys help finish it:

Vegetarian bones stretch to open the webbed fibers

>>7915096

fucking excellent

loving the clash of archaism and zany sci fi

Anger is holy
It is a sacred act
To create words dripping with wrath

Express your disgust with modern states
Vent your invective at notions of gender and race.
Annihilate your future with corrosive hate

Ignite with emotions
Conflagrate with faith
Know that through your actions
Absolutely nothing will change.

I'm not going to quote all the hundred poems that suffer from this problem because it would take too long. But here's a tip many of you could benefit from.

Too many of these poems start by diving straight into the point. They begin on the bit of philosophy, or the 'interesting thought', that the poem is trying to give. There are two problems with this. The first is that poetry is not, properly used, just a flowery vehicle for philosophy; but that's a minor point. The more important point is that at the start of your poem you haven't grabbed your reader yet; you're in danger of losing him.

One trick which you ought to learn (and you don't always need to use it, but you should know how and when to employ it) is to let the core of your poem grow subtly out of a more concrete and comprehensible start. You can start with a bit of narrative or a bit of descriptive poetry that flowers into moral or intellectual speculation. The more naturally the poem moves from a surface level to a deeper or higher level, the more convincing the thought will be.

When you've got this figured out you can try modifying it. The reader may tolerate a very obscure couplet if the poem then moves into a straightforward narrative mode, eventually explaining and fulfilling the opening which was a promise of its direction.

The other thing I should recommend is avoiding free verse until you know what you're doing. I think it is important that a young poet learns to write in meter before he tries writing without it. I also think it's best to avoid substituting anapests whenever you can, because they encourage laziness.

I know this is bad, just ignore it.

Our expedition into the unknown;
into flora unseen by man
Finds among green: red and bone,
and a Structure with many halls.
Carved into inhuman terrain
Full of tunnels and sharp falls
and passages I can't explain.
They strain the borders of thought
defying all that we were taught.

Defaced idols missing heads;
Odd limbs with curious features
and terrible stone creatures
repel and attract the eyes.
One man breaks down and cries;
the others demand that we leave.
As we notice the Goliath spiders,
the unnatural patterns they weave,
The statues speak in guttural tones,
But only to me, when I'm alone,
harsh dead voices tell me I'm home.

>>7915824
> Pull your pants down and let your eventual reader fuck you plenty, maybe even swallow the load just to be sure its happy.

>>7902516
Poor metre. A few nice images though.

>>7916185

just don't post it?

>>7916287
Gotta post it. It keeps bugging me if I don't. Ignore it.

>>7904282
But there is not an opportunity.
There can't be, for too much damage is done.

Those lines are ugly, boring exposition and paticularly unacceptable in a short poem. You should try to do something each line. One of the better poems on the thread still.

>>7916185
Thought it was pretty good. I love caverns, labyrinths and monsters, so it might not necessarily be due to it's craftsmanshit. It was enjoyable nonetheless.

>>7916271
If you don't want anyone to read your poems, you're never going to make it

>>7916185
One criticism I'd make, however, is that the verse
"the statues speak in guttural tones,"
should probably not rhyme with 'alone' and 'home'.
They indicate a break from the unusualness of the things you found there (in the structure) that would be very well complemented with having a unique rhyme that's disconnected from the rest of the poem.

>>7916347
Yeah, that makes sense to me. I also have issues with how sentences flow into each other that I'm working on.

Thanks.

>>7916347
>They indicate a break from the unusualness of the things you found there (in the structure) that would be very well complemented with having a unique rhyme that's disconnected from the rest of the poem.

I think this is a slightly stale technique myself

>>7916185
Maybe try changing
>But only to me, when I'm alone
to something like
>Only to me, I wail and grieve
or something like that

>>7916341
Here's the thing, I don't want to make it. I write because I enjoy it, not so some highbrow armchair philosopher can feast on my work all year's round.

>>7900225
>posted in another thread, for your pleasure:


Enchanted is my simple heart,
with pastimes that seek to devalue art.

So bold and crass,
This website fills my head with noxious gas.

Every day I seek to learn further,
But somehow I get dragged down in the
violent fervor

Every day I task my soul's helm;
Immediately leave this violent realm!

But always the realization creeps it's way in,
Saying it's too late for now or never.

Because remember; you're here forever.

>>7916411
I don't even want to write poetry. This is just where I put ideas that won't become novels.

>rhyming in 21st century
Are you pedestrians serious?

>>7916421
No.

>>7905325
I think "Tower of Ivory" is a much more ominous, sharper title than "Ode to the Tower of Ivory".

>>7916285

Yeah, I'll readily admit that.

The poem was really more of a testing ground for the rhyme scheme and to get a worm out of my head so I could sleep.

>>7916305

You're a shitty person. Don't kill yourself, please bro, whatever you do.

>>7916463
You got it bro.

>I'm just fucking around with some rhyme schemes, but go ahead and critique because why not

My fish drowned when I was eight years old.
I buried it in a field with my father and warned it not to run away.

By ten a tree had grown, blossoming ever golden and subtle.
I brought my axe and brought it back to my home to stay.

It cried and beckoned, it was dying, it told.
Nonsense! I lied, for now death was alive and its flowers were meant to be sold.

>>7900225
Felicity
The leaves tombent
and the tremble of Earth
resonates in the dirty sun.

A mixed breakfast of oats
and berries line my stomach
walls as I walk im Wald.

I am a soft destrier on course
to collide. A little brush
with silver stringed ties
crumbles around as leaves
remember to die.

The glade opens before me
and I nuzzle duff; soft in
my camp site je rêve. I wake
to stars that blot out the night,

-these remind us of scars
from gone suns far from sight-

The clean moon above shows me
the strings, to see the maniacal
machine of Forest. Boding fall
leaves remind us to stop and think
that our silver bodies are nothing
but strings.

A poem I wrote at work earlier today:

Looking from the tower outwards,
The city's islands presented their starkness.
In the midnight sun they mirrored,
ancient mountains and evenings darkness.

>>7916559
If you look at the word "mirrored" critically and to what it actually means it confuses the poem. I believe the poem speaks of the darkness the the islands give off in the midnight sun. The layers of contradiction seem to collude to confusion rather than simplify.

Personal opinion.

Wild boys never lose it
Wild boys never chose this way
Wild boys never close your eyes
Wild boys always shine

like it?

>>7916580
Pretty meaningless and more of a rorschach than anything with authorial intent.

Neon moss grows on my arm hair
and in my navel
which resembles the Panama Canal.
My cat's saucer suffers from lactose intolerance
and bipolar disorder (on Tuesdays).
I hear TV static by the pond
where I've been once to feed the old people
ducks.
60 Minutes is on—time for an hour of
subliminal acquiescence;
time for the architect to leave his blueprints
and the house;
time for a delicious banquet bound in silence
and a toast (butter side up).
Is this thing on? I hear God say
sometime around this time yesterday
when tomorrow still looked like peach cobbler
and I didn't know the man who dealt
in spent wishes and tawdry sundry bruises
caused by uttering the word 'svelte'—
uttered by causing the world help.
Redundancy over syncope.
Redundancy over syncope.
Reddened seas over sympathy.

Off bling//on white.

>>7916564
Here's another version of the same idea I had when writing it.

Looking from the tower into the rain outside,
The city's streets presented their starkness.
In the midnight sun they stood petrified,
like ancient mountains in the evenings darkness.

>>7916604
I guess I'm struggling with the connection between mountains and streets -if that's the point.

>>7916597
I really like this.

I have no critique for this.

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BRILLIANCE

Ill never speak a word
Just keep living in my brain
All my love, how I love it more with pain
The pain of knowing ill never hold your hand or kiss you on the face
But thats alright cause I love it more
Youre not knowing of my existence
Ill keep pretending youll be here to listen with me
Youre sore from living
and your head is exploding into all of your giftedness
Youre beauty breaks the frame
and your face isnt all the same
its extroadinary how in your own mind your just a ordinary
I keeping thinking out the miles
youre always there but always so far away
and smile holds a rich gesture just in every other day
oh how I long for to be remain
so snow white
so deligate
so rich and remain
All my love, how I love it more with pain
ill long for that day
when I get the courage to say
something brilliant and sweep you off from feet

This is one of my first serious attempts at writing so please give me any constructive criticism that you have


Their voices fill the room but it sounds so faint

I try to follow along but my voice is filled with such restraint

Even in silence it feels so deafening

No matter how hard I try it's still enveloping

For even when I do escape the darkness the light is so blinding

The true silence is so binding

>>7916714
Hah yeah see what you're getting at. I live in Reykjavik and work as a security guard. One of the buildings on my route is a skyscraper. It has a wonderful view over the city and the mountains which inspired my to write a poem.

>>7916807
Huh cool, you work in finance?

>>7916835
>>7916807
nvm i'm an idiot

>>7916769
Hey thanks compadre

My mind, away from ideas, away from a source;

Steel ribs from the past, guard the door,
And unseeable it is, and locked are the chirps,
of golden birds that sing of silence ceased,

Grey thoughts now only stray along, unrefuted, unproven,
And steps are absorbed by a stale homeless ground,
And hopes mocked, but only joyless laughter is heard,
Images flat, thin, sightless eyes fondle only ghosts,

My mind, away from ideas, away from a source.

The Quiet World
BY JEFFREY MCDANIEL
In an effort to get people to look
into each other’s eyes more,
and also to appease the mutes,
the government has decided
to allot each person exactly one hundred
and sixty-seven words, per day.

When the phone rings, I put it to my ear
without saying hello. In the restaurant
I point at chicken noodle soup.
I am adjusting well to the new way.

Late at night, I call my long distance lover,
proudly say I only used fifty-nine today.
I saved the rest for you.

When she doesn’t respond,
I know she’s used up all her words,
so I slowly whisper I love you
thirty-two and a third times.
After that, we just sit on the line
and listen to each other breathe.

Each number has an uncertain quality
quantified by ink droplets and nods
bequeathed from you to me.
Quick—! Divide by zero to the first
so you can grasp an inkling of how I feel
(for real).
'N' they, those throwing up hands in the square,
say'nt correlation does not equal causation
does not equal explanation or insight
because there's a captain for that.
And all captains wear hats,
so take off your airs
(the hungry hungry heirs.)

The voice in my head stutters unlike my mouth muscle...
Pusillanimous: the mahogany roots of pussy
deigned to re-appropriate the loss of innocence
lost
to youthful dementia and dead roommates
snacking on fried tales and rainbow tissues
(and I thought that———s had issues).
But i is irrational, a placeholder for madmen.
It's place among the taciturn or garrulous
spent of content: blank toothaches.
(Cornered carnies will sink teeth smiling.)
And so you've been warned:
fine-print virgin, a hackneyed politburo called Congress
striated with the rings of a hydra's neck:
and so you've been scorned.

(Tsk, tsk.)

The drought perspires,
but the drought perspires.
Clouds of clouted liars,
spake the soothsayers,
impaled by the spires,
the cockamamie quagmires
caked in effervescent agreeances
and coral choirs
sold to the highest buyer—

I'll have the Big Mac.

I care what you think
because I can't do that
and think that you can
better than I or me—
say sing to me
right in my working ear,
here. Listen to me
telling you to listen
because important it is
and wise like Yoda
or Murdock from the A-Team.
So my grandma's chicken pot pie
beats all the rest like she did me
but not sexually if that's what you thought—
speaking of: give me the skinny on Winnie.
I heard she was seen with Gary
despite being quite contrary
to that asshole's asshole's owner.
In the morning I ask myself,
what do you do? I feel
like you're the type of person to deny.
Anyway tango requires two participants.
So sing to me and give me a holler
because quite literally I'm a baller.
(Give me a holler.)

the moon has grown fearsome teeth
and desperate eyes
it's leer haunts us from darkened skies
threatening the apocalypse of our home
our old forgotten gods are back
with a vengeance
Terminus destroyed leaving no remnants
this has been a long time coming
our waters, poisoned; our lands, deserts
the mask has used all it's cunning
to bring us to ruin and despair
Now the dead walk and taunt loved ones
While on farms things chase, the girl runs
At the heart of winter is killing wind
Tribes torn apart by missing and dead kin
It's killing us, to run or to stay and wait
it will kill us, this ancient celestial weight
and now gods do battle at rocky peak
so high that up is down is up
But there we find the mask we seek
The face in the sky is closer than ever
Futile flight during torrential weather
A old song plays forlorn and pitiful
A curious melody that evokes a chime
clocks, ticking, the turning of time
and everything disappears to white

the moon has grown fearsome teeth

>>7917062
This is not bad m8. you need to clean it up, cut out some of it, and rewrite certain bits to me more aligned with the meaning that is driving you, but it definitely evokes.

>>7917069
Working on it still. Thank you.

Reified the deified:
scribbled scripture.
And the eons sag under their own wait,
so say those tied to the signifying—
can a name have a name?
or an exception a rule?
Can you measure a ruler with itself?
or weigh a scale likewise?
(Sorry, oh ponderous pond
blacker than Marianna's trench—
that wench.)

I try no to take my HIV meds too seriously,
as in I never take them, seriously.

Sue me, shoot me, do me (in).
I can't believe I don't know how to spell shoe-in.

Approximately sane,
Drano in the drain,
so famished for fame,
now I giggle at the pain
and double glass windows
arms draped Akimbo.
Hell, heaven can wait—
I'm in limbo,
not terrible, not great—
heaven can fucking wait
while the siren songs abate,
ironing the wrinkles out of fate,
abnormal as a Norman Bates—
I'm liable to go psycho
(something, something, Michael)
my blood sprints tribal
and screams sheen primal—
mispronounced 'subliminal'
cause I know
how to [x, y, and z].
It's me you should believe.
Too dead to grieve.
No, It's me up your sleeve,
your adorable pet peeve
whom you can't leave bereaved.
I'm taped to your seams.
A worm made of tape it seems,
for if you can't stomach me,
I'll exhume you and punish thee
for coldly killing and desserting me,
me, whom you should believe
from 'No' to Armageddon's Eve.

>>7900238
hey anon, if you are still here, do you mind if i have someone recite this for the intro to my new ambient noise track? if so, how would you like to be credited?

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I miss the cat's wet footprints through the kitchen
Now I piss wet vomit off the toilet walls
PORCELAIN THRONE
I whispered to the Fat Controller
I whispered to the fat Controller
is this what Ginsberg wanted?

Ginsberg stands in his kitchen naked
Missing the cat's wet footprints

Today I ate an ice cream topped with cocoa pops
Today I woke up at seven and was proud
And I thought about before school care
And tubs
And in Year 6 I saw Harry's pubes
When we changed before swimming lessons
I whispered to the Fat Controller
Stuffed below my bed

I miss the cat's wet foorprints

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>>7900225


MONTERROSA

Her death this year approaches
her soul still lit but fading
the mind a forgetful husk
she tiptoed around their lives
shaping their future bright
avoiding her walker’s rust
impossible it seemed in hindsight
she sits the days in memory
what little is there is frothy and flies
mother still lives
sisters still laugh
horse hooves pound the earth
first loves blossom and ripen
the crops green in her hand
rocking chair creaks and wakes present pain
children in denial cling to stories
strangers speak freely
they know all about her life
it trickles from familiar faucets
forming a soggy puzzled past
the missing mouths
the blurry blackouts
the dying son
milky eyes cascade and cloud
atrophy drowns the long hours
an air of expiration dances
it abounds
only on humid nights she laughs
when back home in the fields
the dust with her life resounds
every morning a confusion
each it’s own struggle
trivial spaces fall out of time
baby faces now grown and bearded
her rosary the only constant
her purple veins a sourceless river of time
turning rapids into delta
she’s done her duty
she’s lived
she’s loved
she’s raised
she’s hated and scorned
any day now peace will come
the mourners will come undone

>>7917304

author here, that would be amazing
what exactly do you have in mind? what kind of ambient?

>>7911866
would you laugh if I said I just made a meter by ear...I usually don't follow any hard and fast meter, just what sounds aesthetically correct

>>7905325
Personally, I liked your original only because you condensed this updated version to fit a jilting rhyme. Do without rhyme, man. Do without it. Let the poem speak for itself, don't consecrate it for aesthetics, after all, this is a poem of a visage.

Backpack empty, library closed,
He walked right by me undisclosed
'Til brief side-profile and flirty glance
Surely put me in a trance.

He walks ahead in casual wear,
Plain white tee, tight jeans, no socks
And flowing long cascading hair
Sitting there below his shoulder,
Inviting idle hand to take a trek
And wander through to the innocent bliss of his soft white neck.

>>7919758

gay or gril

>>7919852
Gay. Women don't have such erotic thoughts.

>>7919866

very true, keep up the gay work

>>7919758
that's pretty gay(happy) and gay.

>>7920422
Are you a 21st century liberated lesbian schizophrenic? You know if we were in China you'd be in a dumpster right now.

>>7919866
>>7919866
maybe he ain't even gay and the "he" is a trap or an androgynous semen demon. Who will ever know.

>>7920538
how dare you call me liberated

Just saw there's a poetry thread; mind giving some I'm put on this? I don't usually write poetry and am not all familiar with fundamentals.

http://pastebin.com/raw/4DbMJdcz

>>7920541
He was, I say, a little twink
Whose thin bare arms would make you think
Of lifting shirts and fooling around
Until paradise on Earth through love is found.

Anon, Anon I have tried but find my self Forlorn
That in my side you've become but a thorn
A faggot they call you, as you crow about memes
You afflict me with your retardation, your handicapped screams

You are, as they say, a faggot If Only I had seen
A bachelor of the ass, for you the only title I can glean
So get out, get out, hear my ree
Your faggotry no longer casts a pall over me

u fags can't handle literary greatness

>>7920984
>updated

I went in, changed some stuff and brought the idea to an end. This way there is at least an entire idea to read and just segments. Looking forward to any useful tips since I'm a newbie to this and pretty much always editing. Thanks.

http://pastebin.com/raw/mZCzYaKg

Do you remember, friend, the friends we had?
Do you know where they are?
What they have done to you and you to them?
How you have each shaped the other by diverging,
by not shaping them with your own hands and lips
but with the absence of them?

Do you, friend, remember the friends you had?
Could you tell me much of them in confidence without
regretting?
Would you use those hands and lips to describe them without
wondering
what your feet have done to them in walking away?

Do any of you, my friends, remember the friends we had?
I do, and I miss them
We are alone now, friends,
We are alone now with each other
We are here, now, friends,
So let us remember the friends we had and
Do it together
Say we will never diverge, we will not forsake
So that we may practice the script
for the next time we claim these things with
hands high and lips loud and feet planted
with other friends

SILENT elixir never miss her
loud the portent never hellbent
build the walls when elixir calls
the portent probes the precious halls

SILENT elixir never miss her
always miss her never say
now comes portent making hellbent
elixir says keep brain at bay

SILENT portent always hellbent
elixir says there's hell to pay
elixir floods the walls don't break
portent comes the walls now sway

SILENT portent never more
hell's elixir makes you say
come now portent let this happen
elixir downs another day

>>7900238
I'm a tad envious, mate.

>>7922087

stop sucking that poem's dick, it's shit

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>>7922212

Self pitty bump.

>>7910275
it's awkward and unpoetical to pronounce "heal" as two syllables.

the images are stale. there is no excuse for something as dead as "can't fill the gap you left". The life/death antithesis is boring.

If the new girl is meant to sound like a corpse compared to the lively old love—I assume this is the point—that's not an awful idea, but it hurts the image to say her lips are chill "like winter's breath". Breath, even cold breath, tends to imply life.

ABAB rhymes are usually awkward when A is a half-rhyme with B.

>>7919450
please learn to use meter before you start going by ear

Your words are empty hollow bleatings
Of a mental crutch
They're open-festered indigestion
With a velvet touch
An ether-eating Eskimo
Would gag upon your sight
Convulsed into oblivion
>From laughter or from fright
A coma with a swee t aroma
Is your only dream
Malignant with the misconception
That a grunt can gleam
Your lichen-covered corpuscles
Are filthy to my fist
Infection is your finest flower
Mildewed in the mist.

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I wonder if anyone can help.

A while ago, probably one or two years now, someone posted a google docs link with a collection of poems entitled something like 'Poetry written at 3am'. Does anyone know what I'm referring to? I loved them but haven't been able to track it down.

Would very much appreciate the help because they were actually really decent poems. Some of the best that have been posted on /lit/.

>>7921928
Any words for this?

Aquila

Now we have to build
If you want beauty to go to
Who? I
I really do beauty

We have had a good build,
but a big building am I
just trust me
Days across the border
I saw people watching TV
just trust me
They run on TV's
The army and the people
walking in front of weapons
just trust me
It was awful
This is unfair
just trust me

I...we have to be better
We are guilty, guilty, guilty

You can be sure the terrorists
You can see a variety
We have nothing, not yet
just trust me

And when I work
I'm sure this is
a very powerful image
Again, I speak of politics
and they do nothing about it

Oh, Benghazi, Benghazi, Benghazi
All in Benghazi
What's going to happen?
I will, I act

>>7923296

it is like every other unmemorable poem

try rhyming, I find working within constraints sharpens my mind, not binds it

>>7923925
>try rhyming
Is this a joke? Did you read it at all? Rhyme and rhythm was like, the major word style focus here, along with syllabic synergy. Not to mention how it roots into the imagery with what's happening.
Not trying to say your critique isn't right, or dismiss any validity. I'm just genuinely curious why you said what you said when it seems redundant.

Broad sun-stoned beaches.

White heat.
A green river.

A bridge,
scorched yellow palms

from the summer-sleeping house
drowsing through August.

Days I have held,
days I have lost,

days that outgrow, like daughters,
my harbouring arms.

>>7918384
do this one

>>7924163
really like the imagery, but would change held/lost for something else, they're almost too simple for the poem.

Days I lived in
the ones I have lost...

>>7924163
I really like this anon but I think it needs more. It seems to end too soon imo. Talk more about those feelings, you have a hidden gem there, just dig it out now.

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>>7905876

>>7924263
>>7924274
It's a poem by Derek Walcott. I suggest looking him up, really interesting biography, concepts and poems.

Poimandres

What then O Mind of me?
For I am myself
and I myself am amorous of a time when the material body is to be dissolved,
void of its energy.
To give up the body unto its proper death, turn from its sensations, and withdraw
unto that nature which is void of reason.
When even all sun's beams began to set, I cried.

I cried
and I am transcending all pre-eminence;
and I am departed upon their lips;
and I am the closing of eyes, pregnant with all-nature.

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>>7902587
I really like this as is

Unpretentious and heartfelt

>>7904295
I agree with you anon, Aesop is really incredible at what he does well. Clearly he doesn't meet the standards of the best poets but his imagery rhyme and rhythm are all exemplary.

The soma of one is for others manna, or fiery dragons whose inferno breath showers a sea of dead heroes' golden armor parsed by sapphires. It were as though a star had illumed the reptile's lair, but went out like a candle caught in the vice grip of frostbitten ice giants.

Job had suffered,
his life a storm,
a pawn to those
whose way was war

But Job was not a lesser man
For He spoke through him,
guided his hand

Trials and suffering
filled his days,
meek in acceptance
he bows and prays

Job's ears had heard
and now he sees
his trepidations had set him free.

The stars didn't align like you said.
The sun didn't shine like you said.
The snow wasn't white like you said.
And I won't be alright like you said.

This is nothing
Absolom, Absolom from the rooftops
We rose from nothing
Absolom, Absolom from the basement

Great Decider up above,
What happens when you're in love?
Must you shout it from the basement,
No one hears you want replacement

I'm in love, from the rooftops
I'm in love, from the basement
I'm in love, from the second story window
Only way to get caught

>>7924662
And gay.

Reach for the walls and feel them
grind off my fingerprints
as I fall through the floor

Grip my own hair, there’s nothing
else to grip here

Losing at this

Ask god to put me back
“I was fine there,
thanks,
leave me alone.”

>>7900352
I'd find it more effective if instead of a contrived "x is y, and _you_ are x" you broadened it to a more species-wide empathy for struggle

>>7900550
each stanza, especially the first, seems to say only what could be said in one good line. which isn't in itself bad, but there needs clearer meaning to justify each tedious image; or at least better images to justify themselves.

>>7906034
are you trolling or are you really lacking an understanding of poetry enough to call this unedited

>>7906165
what's your first language?

Hate the clouds falling at me
until I’m tense and they’re tense
while I swim in their invading force
While I run their perverse course
While I trace each line with my tongue
and taste them, one by one
Until they admit I’m better than them.

Hug the sand behind me
Until all I feel is the weight beneath me
your weight & mine & theirs,
propelling me, While I stare
at invisible oncoming forces
While I fantasize
letting go and falling forward
and feeling enveloped & smothered, fertilized
Until they hate me for the sake of it.

Here I am facing a blank canvas
I've dealt with all my problems
Had a shower and my tea
Fed my dog and her puppies
Yet nothing comes at me
Nothing that strikes me
Only fragments of memories
Wrapped around a central morality
How can one make this as seamless as a simple rug?
How does one weave a complicated tapestry of colourful yarns?
Went to sleep to look for insipiration
Found that dreams are similar in quality to waking reality,
I wake up, yet, everything is still as dry a blank sheet of paper

>>7925359
really diggin some of the rhymes but the content leaves something to be desired. for example, the "I've dealt with all my problems [etc]... Yet nothing comes at me", maybe make it clearer the interplay between those two things? I'd really like to see a more expanded version of this, I think I'd like it

>>7925378
Thank you for your critique fuckboi.

The dealt with problems part was supposed to mean that there's nothing left to be done but to work on the canvas (yet nothing comes..).

>>7925385
ye, it seems like that relationship between free time and art and the frustration when that correlation just isn't there could be developed more. as it is the images don't seem to help that point? maybe im just a simple fuckboi for wanting 1 point per poem but if this were mine I'd simplify & expand

but yknow what do i know nothing

This may sound a bit naive, but what make a poem good or just plain cheesy? I am new to all this.

>>7925595
immature over done themes, modern ennui, first world problems, love, clear non obscurantist language.

No more paws underfoot
Just the floor
No more tails in the jamb
Just the door
Once had to be aware
Now I don't need
To care
Just me, the floor and the door

(to be spoken with a little gusto)

Gorgeous brick-splattered refinery, lackadaisical
Window dressing harshly routinized along the pier
Eleven lemons leavened Lenin's lessons
And the ghostly parson riled up the deer

Forty geezers standing in the ocean
Rusty potions sitting on the shelf
Potent lampers coating on their lotion
Hempy elfins happy by themselves

So if you see a laryngitis marker
A leak in every geriatric face
A potter and his friend the jealous barker
A Best of show dog slowing down his pace

The Library of Recycle BIn
Tomes yearning and stagnant
Missteeps and error and underscore and.
The basement crypot holds scraps endless and blank
The void of meaning or maybe just mispoken like a lady ghost appearing suddenly and false.
She said/says 'I was a beauty queen in Montana, the Buig Sky sState' and the support group nods and sips coffee or more like ly energy drinks and gas station fountain, drunks.
They all want to believe her but that's not the pioint. A little whisp chirps "I was a confession of middle school love, my cursor blink for a whole thiry30 secionds before i was sent here, " and you could see the fire passion in and of his conviction " I think its better i was send se here." More nods and a n old
Slip wips the side of his nose or nose ish thing. Solemn gesutyre. So some make up new reasons and some live with old but still they're their. There. A ewhole wing devote just to those three reuniting with kin so common an dull that they no lonnger blame themnself.
A distant delivery room shuddders with the clacking endles, folly and failed birthing labors pressed one obklong key after oblong key " i guess i could ruin this now mby just saying BackSpace" wonders a ghost passing by. THey felt his presence but it was only intentioin. Strange that he came so close but returned to a place fabled.
Crumple Pap arus says soon enough he'll be back along with all others, so is the way of of. Solumn nods adn sips and reutrning

Computer executives executing executables
A live show that's a lie in your own backyard
A Roman circus patronizing a coyote's backside
A man on death row cries into a bowl of spaghetti
Bottles of water drunk for the sheer fucking pleasure of it
A eleven hundred billion stars and molecules smashing into each other
It's a sex universe

Have a short line here what do you guys think

When you take your clothes off
An atom bomb blossoms through my mind
-and I'm sorry I can't stop thinking about every perfect war

your words send me

to another world

where i am not here

and you are not there

nothingness

white, white space

my hands,

not here

my face, my feet, my lips

not here

only souls

faulty ones, too

faulty faulty souls

whispering through a

whirring vacuum

( i want to put my

mouth on it

let it consume me )

Don't bite the dick that fucks you honey
You gotta learn to suck it funny
How those dicks taste all like rubber
Covered with goo
Some cums clear and some cums milky
Some cums thick and some cums silky
Don't bite the dick that fucks you honey
And it'll be good to you.

Momma be proud of your daughter
Think of all the things you taught her
Not to go into the water till she could swim
How to cook and how to sew
What other things you know

You should have taught her about sex
That it was not a sin
You should have said
Don't bite the dick that fucks you honey
You gotta learn to suck it funny
How those dicks all taste like rubber
Covered with goo
Some cums clear and some cums milky
Some cums thick and some cums silky
Don't bite the dick that fucks you honey
And it'll be good to you

You should have taught her how to suck one
If you'da taught her how to fuck one
Maybe she'd a never snuck one when you wasn't home
You could have taught her not to fight it
You could have taught her not to bite it
You could have taught her wrong from right
But you left her on her own

You should have said
Don't bite the dick that fucks you honey
You gotta learn to suck it funny
How those dicks all taste like rubber
Covered with goo
Some cums clear and some cums milky
Some cums thick and some cums silky
Don't bite the dick that fucks you honey
And it'll be good to you

>>7926706

good enough to offer some real criticism besides start over.

i really don't like the repetition of faulty, it seems like a weak word to me. i'd suggest you only use it once or pick a better word. i also think the poem would benefit a lot from punctuation. also the phrase "whirring vacuum" makes me think of an actual vacuum cleaner, which i don't think is the image you were going for. "consume me" is a bit cliche, it's not awful but I think if you tried you could find a better word.

The Anxiety of Being Uninfluenced:

The learned professor Bloom
Most wisely says the dead forever loom
Over every would-be poet
Till they just have to have a go o’ it.

But did he take into account one such as I
Who knew not till old age the ancient symmetrye?
(By now the Muse is but a hag;
Far better to have been a fag.)

He says that poetry will be self-slain,
But in that that there’s much to gain:
Far better ‘tis to play the Roman fool
Than to succumb to final mob-rule.

O, the poetic flame of which they speak
Has grown ay feebler and weak.
Far better to have been a rav’ning artist mad
Than to wander in ironic Dunciad.

But something’s to be said for the attitude Yeat,
Whereby malaise of magic mind and daily toll
Intersect as unreal vapors and equate;
Alas, it can no longer be assumed.
Far better to be ruled by ancient scroll
Or by a liberal idealism plumed,
Than to lapse into pedantic state,
Blot out the generalities of Soul,
And, by side of deep romantic Chasm, debate.

Cause it get cold like Minnesota, ridin' 'round on boulders
Money sittin' up, it sits way above your shoulders
I was eatin' pork and rinds with a bitch from New York Times
I don't eat no pork and rinds but that bitch was mighty fine
I got gold all on my necklace, tatted up my arms
Now my mama think I'm reckless, got guns under my mattress
I was juggin since a youngin', free my older cousin Reesey
He from Hamilton not D.C, I rock N.Bs like I'm Gleeshy
Flip phone banging off the walls, Gucci on my drawers
Why the fuck you in these streets if your scared of them four walls?
I was strokin' on your sister, she was callin' me her mister
She suck dick for a picture, it's Lil Yachty nice to meet you
I was juggin' off them stacks, countin' up them racks
Almost had a lifetime sentence, but I beat it, shout out to Pat!
Pat, that's my lawyer, he got me off them chargers
8 stacks for that boy, he took care of the boy

>>7928404

Another poem of mine on the same topic is one called "On Being Born Late," which consists of these two lines:

What more is there to say?
The day is not its own.

spaced halfway down a blank page. I plan to polish these two rough masterpieces up and include them in a collection I am tentatively calling The Grand Meditations.