Poetry
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You are currently reading a thread in /lit/ - Literature
You are currently reading a thread in /lit/ - Literature
Surprisingly enough, I didn't see one around so here it is. A thread for discussing and rating poetry you've written. Just post your poem down below and feel free to give a slight explanation of it.
You shant obtrude the fragile,
you, a deleterious pariah
with impact menial and agile,
skilled lasciviously in maya,
birthed to grapple with babel,
sprouting to internal vandal.
You, a grotesque psyche -
distorter of subconsciousness,
embracing yet spiky,
an excruciating phlebotomus,
awry begotten.
I wrote this to a friend of mine, a very manipulative and destructive friend if I may add. I guess I was angry at him, but I feel as if the entire text itself describes the features of a manipulator raw, as if it was an emotional dialogue. What do you think, /lit/?
oh my god
omg lol
i cant decide what would be funnier - someone actually wrote this to a friend, or someone went through the trouble to come up with this to make a b8 thread
a hearty kek/10 in either case
I can see you're really impressed with multisyllabic words.
I wanted to see if I could write a poem like Jack Kerouac
The crying babies that are your fingers
Needing the substance of written words
Barfing their equivocations into ink
The formless form formed from fingers
splashing across the pages hurried
Watering like dew drops melding into one
The holy one impermanent being celestial
The all in one the everything the flowing
Rivers driving forth through the mixed up land
Connecting together like webs forming into each other
a soft stillness in the running liquid
an all pervasive emptiness fills the world and being
leaving and left a meaning within a void
fool me
maybe a few times
its hard to tell
mouthing out
the words in the back of your head
its nice
but i tend to leave bits and pieces
of me
everywhere i go
chewed fingernail
wirecut
a little bloody
stay flagrant
dont burn the house down
teabags
half-stewed
desert a 50 from your mould
to keep that light on at night
cos you can and cant sleep without it
that kind of blue which sits
at the back of your eyes
its reassuring to know its there
but when it is you dont want to leave
holding your attention
a little longer than necessary
lingering
how many library books
beneath the bed
- tsuundoku - at least theyre
automatic renewals now
freudian sniff?
i have a cold, not paranoia
business worries me
faceless big machines
fat cats
but it feels so good when i let them in
and then ill leave ever so quietly
a lady of the 24hour night
in these stairwells
vunerable
it tasted bitter but everyone said its tasteless
truth is you can tell the difference
barried between outside and fine dining
the patterns on the wall shimmer
falling in an orbit, mind you
you shoudve looped back by now
but the party in yellow glare
and dim moon face
flicker with tinged green
worms beneath the skin
time disjoint
suture your eye the lint
of the soothsayer who makes names
for himself
on the gamble of elderflower seeds
forget the die!
red never stains well on green.
Autumn without its leaves
As naked as
The tree is strips
>>8075388
10/10 /lit/
Fuck, reminds me of the time I wrote a play about pouring acid into a poorly veiled version of a teachers eyes. And then turned the play into that teacher, fully knowing she would understand what I was getting at.
I was 14 though, this seems like someone older.
Sunbeams streaming,
through the blinds
to blind the knife
that sails, to a
screaming heart.
I'm a complete and utter beginner please be harsh
some tanka poems I wrote today
White fields, seen so far
I recall naught but sadness
For you left us then
snow was ever so calming
But now, I miss your smiling
To be a real man
I have to get stronger fast
I have to stand here
Bearing the weight of others
For I do not stand for me.
If I died right here
Would it really matter now
I ere lost myself
Searching for my soul, for me
I found nothing but darkness
The sound the rain makes
That melancholy tapping
Many wish you gone
But I welcome you, old friend
You who hid my tears before
Anger and fear, depression too
Symptoms of a bitter withdrawal
I don’t know why I choose to lose
I don’t know why I smoke marijuana
Is it because my mind is poison
Or is it because my life is boring
Without it I just reek annoyance
And with it I am quickly snoring
I waste my life just smoking grass
Listening to sounds of sorrow
Waiting for the time to pass
It takes but never borrows
God, I wish I never felt its touch
I must admit --- I smoke way too much
This is a sonnet I wrote about being addicted to kush
>>8075808
I really liked it until the "I smoke way too much" part, I feel like it takes away the power
>>8075820
I'll work on fixing that thank you for the critique anon
>>8075808
It is a bit dull, I think it has a bit too much desperation in it, as if you're complaining poetically.
Drugs are for those who think life is too little for them, alcohol is for those who think life is too much for them.
>>8075861
Can you go into a little bit more detail about 'complaining poetically' and the desperation you felt while reading it?
>>8075869
You're clearly frustrated about your addiction with cannabis and looking to release some pent up thoughts through poetry, thus you create this. It has a lot of desperation in it because you're not aiming at any point, you're just complaining.
>>8075877
What could I do to make it less complainy?
>>8075388
You're dealing with a narcissist.
The emotional hold he has over you goes in only one direction. The narcissistic supply you provide in kind is essentially a fungible good and you are as replaceable as a machine component.
All genuine dependence on or value he sees in you is fabricated. Any magnanimity he expresses is caricatured.
The only thing for it is to get away before he leads you into serious, irreversible damage and blames it on you, citing exaggerated or imaginary character flaws that he's trying to save you from - if only you would defer to him more radically, more uncritically. And convinces all your mutual friends of this narrative.
If you know his personality would keep pulling you back in, the only thing for it is to brush up against his insecurities and make him consciously reject you. Save yourself from a shitty situation his own lack of foresight drags him and those who follow him into. Lie directly to him and deny his compelling aspects exist, that he hasn't this sort of hold on you. It may take some alcohol or other drugs.
I shared an abuser of this sort with a valuable friend I couldn't save because the conditioning was too strong. Haven't seen this friend in a while and I'm sure he still hates me. You have to just put down all mutual acquaintances as toxic assets and move on.
Don't share your fucking poetry with him goddamn
>>8075664
i like
to write poems
that are
actually just
dumb
sentences randomly
broken up in
to
little pieces
of shit
because
it makes me
sound deep
i poet
>>8075808
Not a sonnet. Your meter is all over the place.
>>8075909
I didn't share my poetry with him.
You bring out a magnificent point, thank you. I am aware of this all, I was aware of this the day I met him. I know that he is pretending to cradle me when in reality his 'caressing' hand is looking for holes - insecurities - in me to poke his finger in from. His analyzing nature is destructive not only to himself, but to others as well. Yet he is not completely aware of this. I am.
He ignored me for a week, knowing that I am very sensitive to rejection, it being one of my deepest fears. He succeeded in breaking my mentality somewhat (I ended up bruising my knuckles) but when he came to me, "apologizing" and searching for a reaction, I didn't give it to him, because I knew what and why he was looking for it. I defied him and in progress also explained to him what he was doing.
I know this might sound absolutely bollocks and crazy but I am going to let him poke my "holes" and insecurities til my defensive wall is so hard and smooth that it shines and when he looks at it, he will see his own reflection.
This battle is purely psychological (with certain emotions involved of course) but in worst case he'll break down my walls and mentality and eventually just move on because he'll get bored of manipulating me.
Here's a poem I made today.
I walk alone between the rocks,
once molten lava, now sharp stone.
Overgrown with thick green moss,
boulder and man stand alone.
>>8076005
>>8075909
>>8075981
In the progress of me contributing to his introspection and helping him see his true nature, he has become alert of me, aiming even harder at my insecurities. He is afraid of me, because he still lacks the confidence and grasp over me, plus I can truly understand and see him like he is, no matter how much he tries to distort my vision. He is not used to this, I am ripping him out of his comfort zone and he does not like it. There is a possibility that he will grow so much fear and wrath towards me that he'll completely reject me, escaping from threat.
But I don't wish to harm him, even though I know that "sorting this out" requires the complete destruction of him - the death of him, through himself. So it will either end up with him doing drugs and eventually suicide or me being mentally crippled for a while.
I am trying to contribute to his introspection in the most neutral, understanding and compassionate way possible because I know how his true nature would be treated in the 'real' world. I know that you might see this as overly and unnecessarily sympathetic, but I am aware of a higher sympathy which has led me to him.
I will caress him, but not with an ulterior motive. I will cradle him, but won't manipulate him. I will show him the truth and the truth only, I will not force it upon him, but I will not obfuscate it either. He can only twist the truth but not destroy it.
>>8075741
>>8075807
>>8075982
>>8075664
I like these. I would give more critique but I don't think I know enough to do so well.
Our house is starting to fall apart
The floorboards broken, the walls losing weight
I do my best to remember properly those things I most loved about you
A restoration project
If only to keep myself honest
(That had been your job)
The Apartment in Mountain View
Waking up next to you
because I had rendered the mattress unusable with my drunkenness
A mug of water next to me
You, still sleeping
The Boston Museum of Fine Art
My internal monologue, a dilletante's rambling
Composition, chiaroscuro, contour
Jargon, when you pull me closer and you tell me you like that one
Your College Room
All four of them
The smaller details, your clothing in a pile
The tea containers, the makeup and the palettes
And the slippers you would wear
To not grace the ground with your presence
This is not honesty
Honesty was you saying you needed a day to yourself
(and then taking it)
Or that you loved me a little bit less
while I was away
Honestly
No one will ever love me the way that you did
and maybe that's okay
Blasé lepers
And peach emojis—
Life has no continuity
Like a marble statue of cherubim pissing into coin littered waters.
I once sent a dick pic to a 30 year old I met on Tinder
from a Half-Price Books bathroom,
and nutcrackers crack nutcases.
Stitch the disparate parts together
your dead grandmother whispers angrily
from beneath the tangled roots of yesteryear.
Bitch I'm post-pretentious:
off the cuff and licentious.
Here's the witness.
Now sketch this:
Middle aged white bespectacled
(Or maybe he was wearing contacts)
average height and weight
wearing a Canadian tuxedo
and an air of not being there—
Murder in the second degree,
contract killed for free.
By me? By me.
Get the fuck over conventional rhyme structure.
Or out.
I don't carry receipts.
>>8075861
>Drugs are for those who think life is too little for them, alcohol is for those who think life is too much for them.
I do coke, speed, acid and mdma from time to time but mostly drink alcohol. Is life both too much and too little for me?
>>8075469
Love it!
>>8076072
Anon here has a point
>>8075973
Well that's helpful. Nob.
>>8076044
>I know how his true nature would be treated in the 'real' world
His kind dominate society. They're the heroes of epics. I don't know what sort of mistreatment you see yourself protecting him from, but be skeptical of and thoroughly examine these notions of "duty" and "loyalty" when they come up around him and those like him.
>I am aware of a higher sympathy which has led me to him
This just sounds schizophrenic
>>8076072
>pic related, drugpoem from previous thread
>>8076115
It should be. Maybe it will help you see how retarded your chopped up prose is.
>>8076044
Now thats some school shooter shit if I ever read some.
>>8076120
This guy got torn a new one
>>8076120
You are not wrong.
Listen, may I add you? You bring reassurance and even further understanding to me, I haven't found such in a very long time.
Though I understand if you don't wish to associate yourself with a mentality like this.
>>8076067
good. keep writing. wordplay is best
>>8076125
Wasn't mine. Nob.
>>8076212
Well literally every single 'poem' in this thread is absurdly terrible so it might as well have been yours.
>>8076223
Oh, I don't know, I quite liked the one that was trying to be Jack Kerouac. Post your poetry then please.
>>8076067
Un-ironically entertaining.
>>8076185
phenylacetonefgt on kik
Writing is a new thing to me. I went out on a limb and wrote this and didn't know where to go with it, so there isn't much to tear apart or critique I guess. If anyone could give me feedback to improve i'd appreciate it.
High lumen preoccupation
Further bury subterranean sorrow
Sensory blaze, pneuma to ash
Vagrant drift to vapid tomorrow
>>8076067
Embarrassing
>>8076067
hey wow i actually enjoyed that
good work you
>>8077177
it has no image
youre trying too hard in the wrong direction
>>8075808
"too" and "lose" do not rhyme
"poison" and "annoyance" also do not rhyme
I tend to dislike writing poetry, mostly because i secretly believe im real good and cannot forget this while writing. It makes me really dislike my own poetry. Anyways here we go
Summer Self Improvement Goals
when it rains the pond sounds soft cool snow
like static from a TV channeled dead.
In the warm sun the crackedgas whacker tears
staining the strong arms cutting the grass.
he writes trite; poems about his problems
calming down and writing problems.
the inside tea stains on a page he writes
a day away against oblivion.
>>8077177
This is nice imagery, but you don't really say much. I actually like it a lot. give it a title. make it longer if you want.
>>8076051
This is really touching, mostly cause i feel like i can relate. really, really great. work on the ending a bit, although i see what you were doing it doesnt live up to the rest of it. Damn. This poem makes me want to cry and mastrubate while listening to American Football for hours
How do I write better lyrics?
>>8077409
those are awesome. Are you Pynchon?
>the dishes ain't even clean though
>>8077414
I've never read Pynchon, I can't even name one of his books.
>>8077440
He's the bees knees
You're the bees knees, anon.
>>8077414
Don't listen to this moron. You're dogshit. At least you're aware. Read poetry. Stop writing "lyrics".
you guys still fucking suck god damn fucking read stop writing read read read read
>>8077617
Just let me express myself in peace anon.
Fall and get up and fall again and fractue your femur and spend 3 weeks in the hospital and 4 months in physical therapy and get up again goddamit. Practice and perseverance and the ability to recognize your limits make perfect.
>>8077400
I'm glad you liked it! I had ideas of lying to yourself/honesty being a bad thing for a while, and didn't know how to bring it back, so I totally get where your critique is coming from. I also love American Football.
I really like the way the first two lines flow - it almost seems to tumble forward until the final syllable, a full stop. The "calming down and writing problems" seems a little out of sync with how few syllables it has comparatively, but overall I really like this (also, feel free to disregard, I don't know anything).
>>8077656
>Practice and perseverance and the ability to recognize your limits make perfect.
if you practice sucking dick youre only going to get better at sucking dick.
>>8077320
they're near rhymes
>>8075664
why don't you just turn this into a prose poem?
It's a sort of dialogue between a pretty, down-to-earth gal and a narcissist who (as the speaker) envisions everything in fantasies of early modern chivalry, hence the overblown style.
Successful swords, who find their mark,
Pierce not like needles fed from cherub’s heart.
For mine doth lay, so hidden away
Within a quiet nook of dust,
Whose glinted blade sat sullied in unrust.
Fair, foul, feminine creature, O’, divine for me
My future's intimacy– of soul, body, blood and mind;
Leave not yourselves to brutish apes
Who fight with vicious swinging fists,
Yet lack the hands for tender trust
Earned, by rights, by thy virtue’s sweet courtier,
And in most modest airs of chivalry.
I live and die in great service of beauty’s charity,
If my breath doth sweeten thee completely.
“Depth of a mudded puddle, thou
Knows not of the sins of man;
Sweet in most excess is sickly,
Seeming a hive in most
Golden attire
One hand upon a cup of nectar
Fulleth over
As sticky fingers blanch its shine.
I think, I think, I dare not dream of dad nor mum,
nor therein the birthed Christ the son,
If by chance thine marriage bed
Whence underneath the cogs divine its industry,
in the heart’s truth of enginery,
Sits a wound of inscribed red.
Oh, I wish, I wish upon those
Constellated orbs,
To swing their glared apricities
Away from my dark territories,
The spires and clock towers casting shadow
Unceasing over this enclosed meadow.
A quiet space, divined by you
In airs of shelter from the greying hue
Of raindrops, thick and fast, might
Hold long against the storm; o’,
though my endurance bloodies by the dimming light,
I hope my fountain fain will yet quench your fears tonight.
“I hear, I hear the patter of snares
Gone marching softly the rooftop bare,
Punctus contra punctum
With the pounding in your chest,
In tones so low it slips through your throat
Or seized by the quake in your bones.
Thy wounded knight, stoic in the
Shackled tongue of his servitude,
Lies half-dead on the piste of faraway lands,
Whilst the king sits here,
Ravening the feast and spraying commands.
And though the blade still lingers in that bloody cut,
I hear his voice carried across the breeze
From o’er the red rocks and mountainous sand,
To whispering softly now,
Ever softly amongst the leaves:
“I fought with faith in my kingdom,
But my fortunes hath forsaken all that I have become.
Father, lover, brother, son;
Torn from ancient chains and flung
to the mercy of ghostly giants,
wandering homeward over this arid plain.
See now, watch as their caliginous hands
sweep softly the dust from beds of black marble stone,
Rivverrin dry from spurted thoughts to trickled desire,
To lie down, and lie still,
Shapely forms dislimned in their sleep
And become as death effigies buried by the deep."'
You have no name, no tongue
Your world is of broken symbols
Aphasia in a smoke that hangs and clutches on history
There is no half-brother that smiles in the fog
There is no home and no mother land
Yours is a people without songs
This is the thin wood you call forest:
Overgrown with stilt grass and mile-a-minute
Of shallow roots that clay is stripping
No brook smell-of-sea but methane
What the morning clouds of gas
Between third growth,
the earth's hoary wisp of scalp
The old man frightens the children
The children terrorize the old man
The sand is made of dissolved cements
There is no path that leads
for there is no place your feet long to go
You are not human anymore
>>8078203
The prose is excellent, best I've seen yet in these threads. It has almost no content.
>>8075388
>pariah
dropped
>>8077681
Which some people actually find work in doing i.e. Porn actors?
That a pretty shit analogy, anon. You're probably just jaded after realizing you'll never be truly great—please don't take it out on the others who still have a chance.
>>8077177
Here, I tried expanding on what I had written before by adding a few stanzas and adding some imagery as per the suggestion of >>8077400 and >>8077213 . There should be more to tear apart I guess.
Shocking synapse barrage
Lures a wary gaze out the soul's windows
Apple of the beholder's eye
Heart palpitations, away it goes
Scalding black drink
Innervate the weary soma
Stimulate neither heart nor mind
Blind to dream and desire, mental glaucoma
Sweet synesthesia needle
Holey skin, mind wholly in trance
Gnaw on God's Flesh
Halt life's dance
High lumen preoccupation
Further bury subterranean sorrow
Sensory blaze, pneuma to ash
Vagrant drift to vapid tomorrow
>>8079221
awful, sounds like something terrance mckenna wrote
all of you 'poets' in this thread are what is wrong with modern poetry. your free verse bull shit has ruined poetry. learn to write in meter or don't write at all.
>>8079232
whoah so cool when did you have that opinion, the first time you read poetry ever? chill high school tier critical perspective bro
>>8079243
I can tell from your retard-tier response that you wrote one of those godawful 'poems' above
one time I wrote a Pushkin sonnet about R. Kelly
>>8078203
very nice
>>8079270
This is great
>>8075388
I order’d death on Lear and Cordelia,
with pragmatic intent, sent to dispatch.
What doth betrayth sight in most men an’ kings
brought forth is perfect, piercing clarity
now I saw what laid thusly before me.
See Caesar, Brutus; see Jesus, Judas.
See a capacity for betrayal
amongst the men who form mine battle ranks,
excitable by so titled King, whose
incorporeally endowed sweetness
unjustly endear such abilities
to raise and fall armies with a glib charm.
My reasoning in bringing true their end
is brought into falseness through the same thought.
Thought not in justness, nor heavenly right.
Verily, me for me because of me.
In this I saw fit as I laid bloodied
to grasp from the verge my so damned charges.
In the same sweep I may catch repentance,
in whose eyes, God? Ha! Mine father? No more!
My repentance is charged unto myself.
As the reaper breath’d harshly on us all,
thrust again perfect, piercing clarity.
A single soul satisfy’d his hunger,
Why then let him feast on three?
It is a Continuation of King Lear spoken by Edmund
Incomplete, but only just.
http://pastebin.com/xjmAD5Gj
>>8079804
It might sound better if you write it in blank verse, like shakespeare did. Not bad though.
>>8079804
bad bad bad bad bad
>>8079827
>oozing to the farthest reaches
>mounds of plebeian dust
>In the primal bush in golden sunshine robed
> oozing mud (oozing everywhere?)
>until the primal simian
>cupped in his foregathered dactyls
>phallus resting in its matted nest
holy shit this is bad
>>8079913
Thanks for the critique. Why are those lines bad?
>>8079903
Why??
My laptop broke, writing this on my phone.
Great despair fills my heart,
a blue screen seals my fate.
No use to try and restart,
failiure to configure windows update.
STILL THEY MOVE
Fuck it play the Foucault-Chomsky debate at my deathday, or,
My birthday
Because my English is so bad
I'm the king of the world
I said so
In whatever language
Remains fertile forever
Certainly not this one
I'd like to never apologize again
To all the ppl bothered by my existing
Sorry—to myself for not assfucking the handful Ginsburgs I've yet found
I'd like to abandon myself, to the north
Past all apologies, broken brown rivers and hitler youth haircuts
I'm in you now
—partially, like the rest of the chemicals
>>8079987
I like how the title and poem work together
Another Trip to Ravensfield
We met beneath the chimneys -
tall and dusty demonstrations
of an industry since gone
Going on about the car,
(should we risk it very far?)
Then comparing small distractions
From our anoraks and passions -
The cataracts I wore
Like pearls in my eyes -
and you with drooping custard pies
Sweet constants in your hands;
A necklace strung with old cat's eyes
of someone's broken boyhood.
We came here, God knows why,
For the pleasure of the driveways
and a pastel shaded silence
Broken by the birds and violent outbursts
at the crossword:
Damn my life in blanks and boxes,
and you reserved to hollyhocks
On cemeteries of thoughts.
O, would calendars conceal
Another trip to Ravensfield!
>>8080072
Ty, here's a second one it's called "Glass Monsters."
Monsters rise from the ground,
wrought from iron, glass and concrete.
An old world under their shadows drowned,
their conquest nearly complete.
Grotesque forms reach for the skies,
Heaven's territory is ceded.
The old from consumption dies,
its ancient breath depleted.
Soulless blocks of glass now stand,
where once stood old forma proud.
Gone are days of beauty grande,
replaced by a more modern brand.
Gimme gimme chicken tendies,
Be they crispy or from Wendys.
Spend my hard-earned good-boy points,
on Kid's Meal ball pit burger joints.
Mummy lifts me to the car,
To find me tendies near and far.
Enjoy my tasty tendie treats,
in comfy big boy booster seats.
McDonald's, Hardee's, Popeye's, Cane's,
But of my tendies none remains.
She tries to make me take a nappy,
But sleeping doesn't make me happy.
Tendies are the only food,
That puts me in the napping mood.
I'll scream and shout and make a fuss,
I'll scratch, I'll bite, I'll even cuss!
Tendies are my heart's desire,
Fueled by raging, hungry fire.
Mummy sobs and wails and cries,
But tears aren't tendies, nugs or fries.
My good-boy points were fairly earned,
To buy the tendies that I've yearned.
But there's no tendies on my plate!
Did mummy think that I'd just ate?
"TENDIES TENDIES GET THEM NOW,
YOU FAT, UNGRATEFUL, SLUGGISH SOW!"
I screech while hurling into her eyes,
My foul-smell bowel-dwelling diaper surprise.
For she who is un-pooped on is she who remembers:
Never forget my chicken tenders.
>>8080156
i really really like the meter and the desire it creates in the reader for more meter of the like, which itself is a metaphor for the desire for delectable foodstuffs like those such mentioned within the text.
10/10
>>8080135
i was joking
>>8080156
technically it's pretty nice :3
>>8080217
OK I'm sorry.
what are your opinions on poems about the opposite sex /lit/? don't you just love the
>wahh i like a girl but she doesnt like me back the same way ohhhh
Corporeal morae keeps me sore
and in my viens
Im sober, in pain.
But when im asleep,
between snoring,
my roommates swear they hear her name.
>>8080293
it can go straight to the garbage, same with ones about a persons sex life
I wrote this poem about a girl who wont like me back, how could i extend on it?
O' thou vanessa medusa stared into thy eyes turned heart set to stone
O' thou fire at my finger tips cure thy curse
Melt it like boiling blood for whom i worship
O' thou vanessa do not play me like a puppet
Pulling on the strings of my heart
Do not let go and throw my heart away like the last drag of your dart
For my goddess will drink the blood of you as art thou
>>8080246
About what?
The Note Taped to My Back Says “Please Euthanize Me.”
I feel illiterate, worse for wit – obliterate my time.
Pet me like a dog you plan to put down,
Tell me you’ll miss me when I’m not around,
And fill my tale with sighs.
When it comes dawn, the end of old songs – nudge me awake again,
And I’ll fill your wet hands with opium licks.
You won’t have to see me today with the fits,
‘Cause I’ll be gone with them.
Take me to a forest, the warmest – a place for dreams to bed.
So no one has to hear you lie,
When you offer me a treat and cry,
And shoot me in the fucking head, instead.
I understand completely.
I’m very tired of my desires.
They’re sick liqueurs that won’t expire.
Their labels are illegible,
And taste like mothers’ vegetables (but worse).
My beat-up ride is filled with highs,
And lows that bump and cut your thighs,
Because the cushions are worn so thin.
I’m sorry that I brought you in.
You’re forgiving, I’m underliving - we’ll leave this one behind.
And each other while we’re at it, I’m sure.
Then eventually on our own accord,
We’ll find our separate midnight skies to dye,
The color of opium licks.
So I’ll take my daydreams with a tray,
Of salt and wood and coke and stems.
Your party was OK, OK?
But I wouldn’t come again.
>>8080364
You can extend upon it by getting over her and write about something that ISN'T so petty
>>8080364
6.5/10 made me chuckle
>>8079112
none of these people are trying to be porn actors theyre trying to write poetry, sucking dick won't help them
>still have a chance
lol
Who are good contemporary poets?
>>8080376
you sound like a pretty happy dude
And tacks another useless feeling, splashed across the white white page,
And no one cares or notices or sees the Crazy’s not on stage.
And someone laughs at things they think are funny though they’re never said
For no one cares or cares to care the thoughts that haunt the Crazy’s head.
And nothing no one says is true, and all you think is deemed a false
And life and being, holding space is measured with the throbbing pulse,
That no one ever cares to feel, or notices until it bursts
And no one knows it’s what’s before, and what you felt before that hurts.
And every line is just another ‘and’ upon a white white sheet
And someone sane will tack it up and smile, mocking your defeat.
And lists are long and days are pointless, face the facts you’re in your cage
And all that’s needed now’s you’re Crazy
splashed upon a white white page
This is actually about a psych ward. My sister was involuntarily committed and the only thing I noticed was all the paintings lining the hospitals walls that the inmates did as therapy.
>>8080293
oh, the plot of the poem isn't that important
>>8080364
oh my god
please send that to her
>>8080624
i really like it, but i think the meter/rythme/flow needs a little bit of editing... some of its slightly awkward.
misused 'you're' on the 2nd to last line
>>8080876
Meter is not the same as rhyme/flow/cadence. Just because it 'sounds' right doesn't mean it is metrical. The poem has random parts that are metrical but I'm guessing it was unintentional.
>>8080376
Is this abt heroin? I know those feels bro
>Poetry is what in a poem makes you laugh, cry, prickle, be silent, makes your toe nails twinkle, makes you want to do this or that or nothing, makes you know that you are alone in the unknown world, that your bliss and suffering is forever shared and forever all your own. - Dylan Thomas
why is poetry important for you anon?
I had a poem in mind
but I forgot what it was
so now I feel like dying
from fucking frustration.
I'm watching Eversest
next to a 30 year old
while I'm only 22.
Fuck your curiosity.
My scowl condemns
even your fucking grandma.
Where's my ramen
you little bitch.
>>8081730
This is terrible.
Sincerely,
The stupid fucker who wrote it.
>>8079827
Could someone please critique this?
I want to wipe the earth clean
from every living being.
Uncontainable like infinity,
only autocorrect fuck with me.
My jaw clenches and clenches
and my ears simply mention
the Avalanche approaching
from under the grey streets.
FUCK YOU BUT MOST OF ALL
FUCK ME—
That's how I feel.
Fuck words.
Not a poem:
I'll never be great
because I'm from Dallas
like the guy from Everest
who didn't reach the top.
And that's about it.
Thanks.
Idjdbe
Theism be
R rud
Ridiculous
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Disk drives
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Chiding
Disk
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Nudity d
Lethe
Tanks oft
Shaving
Rabid of knack iDisk indivisible
Deciding Sicily. Deficit curiosa
Ducks duyAteokfnhfjsjgdtggjkdj cud hen
Bulk
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Exile
M
Fuck autocorrect.
“Witches at the Midnight Sabbath”
Behind this moment of longing
The spirits rejoice
Around me, burning souls
Flashing their bright mysteries.
I cannot believe
The circle encases me enchantingly
Forever in one goetic lullaby
Turning over in the night
The sky fills with light
Again I am dancing
With the cohorts
I am consorting with the witches and spirits
Their wicked bodies turn so seductively
The devil is inside of her,
Dancing and laughing
The black night recedes
Leaving the sabbath
Untouched
By the forces of God
We are our own gods.
And I cannot sing
Like the spirits do.
Lost souls from the slick twisting
Bodies of night
So passionately they spin
Their turning hips
The witches dance nude in the dark
The spirits laugh and breathe
Every breath a color
Of sleep.
She keeps a cleaver,
Right next to the bedside table,
Underneath her pillow.
She has scrawled
My name,
On every inch of the blade.
She does her best.
She does her best to trim the fat,
To keep me clean,
To make sure I’m in good shape
And succulent, ready for eating.
We both know I’m no choice cut,
My flesh is gamy, hard to chew.
So strike with the tenderizer,
String me up on a butchers hook,
I’m just some hunk of meat.
Without you my corpuscles are rotten
And my sinews are obsolete.
Stotan Falls
Christen my blood in your name as
I try to lick it clean, it tastes
Mildly of copper pennies tossed
Into the river and it will
Sediment into the rocks, and
One day you will find copper-brown
Stones at the base of the creek when
You leave me here to go swimming.
Chasing the feeling of it all,
I have to leave, return to that
Creek on a summer night. Pause where
The water illuminates the
White light of something within you.
Maybe we’ll find it after all.
My heart is with you.
You who sing sweet, distant odes
to the ends of the earth
and cry mysteries of the pale pink horizon beyond.
You there! You who dance in the undying breeze
before clouds, alive with embers
from the dim, setting sun. Gliding
patiently, gently, softly
over the shore.
You who sores downwards
fast,
faster.
In a flurry of white feathers,
prying, with ease, from the hands of a resting fisherman
and now tainted with batter,
your rightful meal.
pic unrelated
Multisyllable locution
Thesaurus junkie
Doggerel cadence protrusion
Fustian and clunky
Inarticulate nevertheless calm
I carry rhymezone dot com
Everytime I see these topics I like to write one on the spot, so here's me continuing that tradition.
They could not slow my glabrous form.
In every book and map the world
Laid bare would never end the
What and Why and How and Where and
“Shut the fuck up”. They don't know
My genius. When I grow up
I'll cure cancer and brush moon dust
Off my space boots. They say there is
No place we know left to explore.
Let me tell you otherwise.
In the primal bush in golden sunshine robed,
perspiring blackened topsoil underneath
to cool the crib, the little feet of lizards
now long returned to loam and dirt would drag
their little bellies through the cooling crust
and scrawl across the ground in scurried streaks
a city in relief embossed in dirt,
winding its ways through the swaying tallgrass,
until the primal simian learned that if
he tucked his throbbing thumb against the rock
cupped in his foregathered dactyls, it would
repel the haul of gravity and taste
the glassy higher air unsullied still
by smoke and breath, and fly to where it pleased
him that it fly to hammer muck from meat
and speckle red his ragged face through art of
slaughter. Of simple curiosity
I chased the eyes of my progenitor,
and deep within my chest a drum began
to beat at sight of savagery to match
that which is permanently etched upon
my cardiac wall. What in me is human,
whatever masculine, testosterone
trails afire, descended the lines from him.
But what in me is human had been boiled
and cooked together in bubbling womb-water:
the primal male had swum towards the female
and had cocooned himself within her, sharing
blood and spirit to build a progeny, like
the baby hominid that stood just slightly
taller than his hulking parents and shuffled
around the shelter that his mother built him.
His mother reined the fingers fixing slats
in grooves of some austere machinery,
and father let him hold the gutted bow
while seated on the saddled arching hump.
But both father and mother directed
the drawing of the catgut, taught the love
of creaking wood as the curved spine is drawn
taut, and arrow loosed at a mammoth’s heart.
It was only fitting hence that he be
anointed, forehead, fist, and foot, with blood,
bespattered as the ruptured soil with blood
of elephants and wolves and monkeys born
to foreign broods with snarls affixed upon
their mouths, at the moment of abandon,
of overstepping boundaries, as he clapped
a bloody wedding done against a skull
with bloody cudgel blows and dragged a prize
away, and no ceremony except
the crimson consecrate upon his brow
and taste of red communion on his fangs,
but he fucked her and another brood was born,
spattered with red as the ruptured soil.
When he died his ravaged widow served him
to a pack of loping jackals in the night.
>>8080876
As a whole, it's not supposed to be delicate. The "and"s left it to be very jumbled, like a thought, and cumbersome so that was more or less intentional. Which parts were particularly clunky? Also, the "you're" wasn't actually a typo, the idea just didn't come across well enough. It was meant to be like "You're crazy" as a diagnosis pretty much.
>>8080890
I definitely wasn't trying for any sort of metre, it was all flow. Like I said to anon above, it was really meant to be very flow of consciousness.
Three men lay woke aside the parking lot;
Speaking of plans to pull the world so taut
That fi’re couldn’t cure them of their sins.
----------------------------------------------------------------
Nights whimpered in silent fear of what might become of them.
War slithered in with sinister intent, speaking in eager whispers
In the ears of looming shadows that wept dry tears for sunlight.
Murmurs of discontent sprinted throughout: your home; your clique; your self.
Inching further for anger, blindness swept beneath your skull and latched into you,
Your sins are not your own.
Luring you further with malicious speak shrouded by veiled innocence:
Hysteria lit the path, with shadowed light, from an envious lantern.
It's the aching behind your eyes on a Tuesday night
when nothing straightens and the girl won't call
phantom hands aching to lobotomize
and the rain on the tin wants your blood
the bastards are hounding and sleep won't come
these teeth gnashing snapshots of alone
God help us now in the thick of it all
but when I whisper to him silence is on the line
was this always here?
every moment a foreshadow of annihilation
every child's eyes doomed to see the slow end?
people hide behind big words
and vague concepts as a herd
predators prey with with frankness
never afraid to confess
what others are too ashamed to admit
they fly in pattern like birds
as the hawks swoop in unheard
out of order make a mess
out of many there are less
through fear and chaos the masses submit
slave driver as wave rider
cage figher and self prider
a feast for the beast alive
the dead ocean feed his hive
broken wills and shattered souls satisfy
>>8083068
>mountains
>molehills
'teeth gnashing snapshots' is pretty neat but most of this just lacks vivid emotional depth
>>8082353
the style is ostentatious and is a little too much sometimes but you have a keen eye for phrasing. the ending should be crass, but the immediacy really works in its favour
>>8082124
the second sentence is too long, especially without any punctuation. its a quaint image but I'd rather you described him telling us 'otherwise'
>>8082078
simple but I like it, even if seagulls are dodgy gits
>>8081996
its got a pretty cool faustian undertone but there isn't much else going for it t b h
>>8081967
this feels like some self-flagellating cis white male shit
>>8075388
Magnesia platitude
Panoramic magnitude
Broken spinoffs of meaning in a distant gaze will break the portrait of events.
Planets spin lightly in a haze and eyes shook looking toward the future at stake.
Elegant ingot
Aesthete trinket
Ne'er-do-well laid out on the number thirteen smirking sprinkling waxing.
Leaks in the machine future obscene made the pocket politician in the fire die.
>>8083253
Satan synapse
Shattering lapse
Floral fluoride reform artificial trappings of a bygone tubular system.
Maker's suicidal diatribe tribute blasts onwards as we hide our maskings.
Coronary lottery
Crystal carbon-fiber
Light from the tight vent shows a life of bent dreams in the blackness.
Might in the dark will park the florescent stigma in a waking musk.
>>8082932
critique?
That was not meant to blare aloud
It is profane, but truer still:
In every sky with racing cloud
The storm has raised the evenings chill
Then night engross'd the Body's shroud
The Mind, the Soul, and then the Will!
>>8075388
OP, great words_ don't let words die is an awesome policy for writing in general. Read any Hart Crane?
here's one for ya'll - just got published in Ireland.
2005/Bus Driver - #3 Torrance
We've a sense for blues, finding just amusement in peaking result, it'll gleam
We'll wake hungry, nothing of passing weathers, queens, or dogs chasing tires_ making a count for that ache not knowing, forfeit mention
Self-Reflexivity bet enterprise origin; diamonds have dead appeal_ we've enough contrivance to do away with old stylings
And about ourselves, to this vast point, our romance - courting, just to yearn
Of no surprise, we are creatures bound by subtext, to what use is meaning in your forgetfulness? An earth will quake, loosing sands put away in secret_ and this what we feel now is supposed precursory heterotelic, sands knowing intent, convinced to to not bind
Or had there be - you, and the guessings, almost slanderous notion brought forth to sacrifice living, in peace (for chance)
There are many, just of you, by only you to acquaint the longer rugged onus, to which you are still
Through direct warmth, we are designed - without limit, nor pariah to fading instant
We can always fall North
Through your wealth to read from, can One have honesty to lodge for individualist?
Automatous in dirge, split and already drying - placed on display, pervert surface
Bile rising under our pursuit - to know where it is, our place to last
Whereas consider that it is, in fact, inside ourselves_ nay acceptable soul, inherent on physical chambers, bleeding as it happens to our most, by reasons: Clotho, Lachesis, Atropos
Maybe ataxia, keen on habit
This moment to ranger, tell and remember lyric to elegy
So may be, the stars are dead, for all their waiting - it's goodness versed, necessity to be knee deep in such a fenny locus
Peoples don't speak of this
Our affinity to complaint, best lacking offer_ a nose full with made-belief, wean on hearsay
Ok - we will pass its meaning, it being whatever,
Okay, having at somewhere to be, because by far there reasons to your own decision - being there
Make it of time, as promptly should in our musing
Circumstance - without held in bizarre concert of penguins and alligators; followed overture - baskets built from cherry stem.
>>8083239
>I'd rather you described him telling us 'otherwise'
You have to use your lost childlike imaginaton :^)
I already posted this, but let's see if I can't get more than one reply this time. This is an obscure little thing I wrote upon learning of Joe Gould and his neglect at the hands of the great literary men of his time--Ezra Pound, E.E. Cummings, etc. I don't have a name for it, and I know it's bad, but I feel I need to expand it. I'm just too lazy.
Who can say they’ve known the depth of Winter?
The men and bits of paper, whirled around
To graves or archives, away from center,
Are only influenced: their knowledge only sound.
But who’s too late to know the late Autumnal light?—
Too deep, even, for the streetbred mental might.
Men and bits of paper. Joe Gould, the hawklike man,
Was never one for Nature’s nor the city’s plan:
Not for him the visionary company,
For the writer, like the victim of transfusion,
Is always even ‘gainst himself in mutiny.
The rhythmed line is broken by confusion.
Don’t tell me about the frigid, burning rose,
The Soul and Self in Combat in the Dark,
Or stars and lines (like porcelain) in perfect rows:
Without compassionate formality, it’d seem a lark
To sketch the buildings bright, the masses daft.
There is boundless space to fill in Circe’s craft.
As a bonus, here are some lines from a poem I tried to write a few months ago about Phlebas the Phoenician from The Waste Land. They're quite bad, but they at least serve as a parody of T.S. Eliot, so I may have some use for them. The idea of the Life of Phlebas is still compelling to me; I just don't think I have the resources to tackle it.
The sailors grasped at oars and cut
The Waters. The Waters, which Abi said
Were not the same as Mehwet’s waters,
Those stillèd waters without creatures light
Or dark; these Waters were not those, and they
Not these. On these were borne sailor and
His cargo, which gleamed with precious tin, and
Those profound creatures, knowing the way
In light or vespers, and life was all about.
On those of Mehwet,
None was borne.
Here, the gulls were screeching,
And, in the wind singing,
Young man, old man, new-born, new-grav’d, bumping carts, bumping thumping water girls,
Were singing a song, a Song of Sur,
(For that was his city, and Abi’s city, and Abi’s Abi’s city),
And joy was in the heart.
There, the men in the south were different men,
Not men of Knan. But they would have
The dye and gleaming, lovely bronze of Knan.
These men, with different face and different tongue,
Lived by the Sea, which was no Sea of Sur
(For Abi told him later, it was dead
And with more salt than all the curèd sheep of Sur),
And would have the goods, and give the goods.
A silent shore
Two shadows meet
The tongues of lands
The sun was setting
A camel broke a leg and was killed.
Abi says
A day is like a life in God’s eyes
A silent shore
Unknown men in unknown tongues
The sun was setting
A day becomes a life
Far from shore
A silent sea
The ship was broken
To swim is like to float, here
The sun was setting
He who was living
(cont.)
>>8084714
The mind is like a beach: It grows and shrinks
According with the journeys of the Moon.
The Moon and Mind: Two drunken Wanderers
The heart is also like the shore: It grows,
And shrinks from the touch of girlish Morn.
The Heart and Dawn: In time to sing
‘I did not know there would or could be song
That was not planted in the breast by El.
How rich and strange a music this!’
Why then, what factor prohibits this from
The Poetic Aspect? What factor this sound from
Music? The City has a music, if you will but
Hear it.
Will a hand touch?
Or a mouth bless?
The longbearded priest held his head, and kissed him,
Poi s’ascose nel foco Lips that would kiss
>>8083295
Blood curmudgeonly
Ramshackle arthritis
Longitudinal fluoride pumping remarkable explanations of procrustean tubing.
Maple's strange dioxide tablet billows over while they flow their showers
Intrepid slots
Jeweled array
Depth of a closed fort hints a dread of forced memes to the portal.
Morbid out to cold for lab a scientific study in a velvet dress.
>>8082078
Good sentiment; no need to write a poem about it. We have no more need for bird poetry after the 19th century. Also, you misspelled 'soars.' But the image of sores certainly makes for an interesting overlap of images.
The daffodil man with his soft coat and tie
With his glorious hands and his eyes to the sky
As we watched in redemption and left him to die
And we cleansed ourselves silly and suckled the lie
But we were just sheep
At the end of the day
We were just people and god was to blame
>>8084774
I don't want to like this but somehow I do. Perhaps you use something else for 'glorious,' though--something more fitting to the cloudlike picture you paint in the first line. Perhaps you can say they're soft in some way. If he must be glorious, maybe add a whole other line in praise of his eyes, but perhaps you feel that too much. The rest I really quite like. Do you have anything else?
Fuck it, I'll bite. First draft.
The shrine upstairs teems with aluminum cans
and used dip; Xanax left as an exhibition on the desk.
Holes in the wall, covered by cat litter mortar and
Copenhagen cans, black tendrils clinging like entrails
from their cracked visage.
Everyone gathers around the floor altar and prays
watching the disembowelment of a friend,
castrated for security while preaching the
vehemence and propensity of his virtue.
When it's time to leave, we blow out the incense
with cigar smoke and formaldehyde smiles.
I can't recall the face you made from across the altar,
I was too busy listening to the voice coming from the monitor.
I caught an apology in mid air and
let it float on the gray cloud out into the night.
Now we dismantle that shrine, leaving the
stubs of incense sticks on the granite slabs,
the entertainment centers of sacrificed time.
Every time the wind blows in, I can see that apology
wrestle through the screen and beg for a chance
to be back in my grasp.
The worst decision is where to hide the body,
not who to say sorry to.
>>8084786
but perhaps you feel that WOULD BE too much*
Now>>8084786
Fuck that's more of a response than I bargained for. I'm decently tipsy and I just wrote that right new. I have other stuff but this one was pretty out of my style. I'll post some others though
>>8084801
it's fucking terrible, don't get ahead of yourself
april is okay I guess
it's just a fucking month
how is a month cruel
that's like retarded
tits and butts
tits and butts
fuck
>>8084812
It's a mastapiece
THE FOURTH CIRCLE, THE TALE OF GIACOMO PONTO DELL'ORIO TOLD
CANTO I
my big black ass
u can't have dis big black ass
nuh uh
fuck u nigga
where my fucking child support
no im not going to check you out for that pepsi
big black ass
nuh uh
welcome to burger king
did you order a number 2 combo?
number 3 now cracka
bet you aint even gonna check the bag
u still gonna eat that shit
fuck yo ketchup
big black ass
(Obviously not from the Odyssey, but inspired by it)
And then went down to the ship,
Set keel to breakers, forth on the godly seas, and
We set up mast and sail on that swart ship,
Bore sheep aboard her, and our bodies also
Heavy with weeping, and winds from sternward
Bore us out onward with bellying canvas,
Circe’s this craft, the trim-coifed goddess.
Then sat we amidships, wind jamming the tiller,
Thus with stretched sail, we went over sea till day’s end.
Sun to his slumber, shadows o’er all the ocean,
Came we then to the bounds of deepest water,
To the Kimmerian lands, and peopled cities
Covered with close-webbed mist, unpierced ever
With glitter of sun-rays
Nor with stars stretched, nor looking back from heaven
Swartest night stretched over wretched men there.
The ocean flowing backward, came we then to the place
Aforesaid by Circe.
>>8080156
post it on /r9k/
the best verse in the thread easily
>>8084835
>We set up mast and sail on that swart ship,
>Bore sheep aboard her, and our bodies also
is it a joke
>>8084806
Coo man coo
>>8084786
I usually wrote more prose but here's some recentish thoughts.
Marilyn oh Marilyn your falling through my window. You couldn't make the perfect wife you left your man a widow.
All around the perfect world the urban Mary's cluck , the mother hens live to pretend that they're not just as stuck.
But I love you, you are dead. I watched the splattered pretty thoughts fall out from your head. I can love you now you've died, and you live the most loved perfect life while we're stuck inside my mind
There's flowers on the brinks of war all trampled from the boots before the fighting on the bloody mountain's even yet begun.
The boys in all their submarines and leaving in their flying things the girls that say I love you always pick the ones that die. But I will never die. I love you and I will never die.
Somewhere someone heard about the greatest words that god had shout and no one even blinked when they were told it was a lie.
And even though they knew it wasn't true. And even though you knew that the world could never be that way, they taught you that you'd always go to heaven.
But you will never die. You will never get to go heaven. And all the loved boys never get to heaven in the sky. And i will never die. I am here. I will never die.
The world is burning. Never ever die.
>>8084840
No, why do you think that?
>>8084841
I guess I can only advise you that you write drunk more often, and in smaller chunks. I found that totally uncompelling. Tidbit: Do not start a poem (or whatever that was) with a woman's name unless you're really quite confident in your talents. It leads to too much cliche and struggle against cliche, and not enough genuine poetry. It seems I like you much better as a drunk Christian than a sober Tom Waits.
Present echos the future's reply.
Dreams reflecting allusion's cry.
City night sky, off the gloss I spy.
Borrowing the time of time's maker
Tinker my mind when I waver.
Help me savor the moment when it comes.
Different means towards a meaning
We all gleam adrift in the weaning
Weaned to an end with our feathers burning
Falling without a sense of yearning
Turning, the world; we die learning.
Realizing by the apex we were perplexed.
Was it just allusion, or was it too complex?
We fall and the earth embraces our impact.
Back into it, without a trace. We become whole.
Damn it feels good to be a gangster.
I'm a loc'd out gangster set tripping banger.
Mitch caught a body about week ago.
Im from the land of tall buildings with hella gold teeth.
>>8084947
Yeah that's fair advice and I'm aware I'm better drunk or decentlyp depressed. Like i said I usually write prose so my poetry is usually clunky because i have no patience and it's me trying to fit a specific idea in to a poem which I find more constricting. Sober me would have picked different poems to show off so there's that but thanks either way
waking in the grave
collect my remains
of putrid rot and stains
bleeding from my eyes
struggle to survive
grin in demise
thoughts of cutting open
alive on the table
still.feel.the blade
im screaming slow
echoing hallow
covered in dirt
>>8084831
Post catno 2
>>8085627
Oh god this is terrible, you have no taste.
Your subject matter is childish and shallow, ditto your rhyme scheme, and your language is plain and boring.
>>8083239
Here, I managed to finish it. I don't think you'll like it as much, but it's how I intended it to go.
Upon the prehistoric blackflesh crust
in golden sunshine robed, perspiring turf
to cool the crib, the little feet of
lizards long returned to loam and dust
would drag their little bellies, scurrying
and scrawling over creamy terra firma
a city in relief embossed in dirt,
winding its ways through the swaying tallgrass,
until the grassland monkey learned that if
he tucked his throbbing thumb against the rock
cupped in his foregathered dactyls, it would
repel the haul of gravity and taste
the glassy higher air unsullied still
by smoke and breath, and fly to where it pleased
him that it fly to hammer muck from meat
and speckle red his ragged face through art of
slaughter. When of simple curiosity
I chased the eyes of my progenitor,
a drum within the bowels of my chest
began to beat at savagery to match
that which is permanently etched upon
my atria. What in me is human,
whatever masculine, testosterone
trails afire, descended the lines from him.
But what in me is human had been boiled
and cooked together in a stock of womb-
water: the male had swum towards the female
and cocooned himself within her, stirring
blood and spirit to the sap of flesh of
the baby hominid that stood just slightly
taller than his hulking parents and shuffled
around the shelter that his mother built him.
His mother reined the fingers fixing slats
in grooves of some austere machinery,
and father let him hold the gutted bow
while straddling his accoutred shoulder-blades.
But both father and mother directed
the drawing of the catgut, taught the love
of creaking wood as the curved spine is drawn
taut, and arrow loosed at a mammoth’s heart.
It was only fitting hence that he be
anointed, forehead, fist, and foot, with blood,
bespattered as the ruptured soil with blood
of elephants and wolves and monkeys born
to foreign broods with snarls affixed upon
their mouths, at the moment of abandon,
of backstepping the scratch line, as he clapped
a bloody wedding done against a skull
with cudgel blows and dragged a prize away,
and no ceremony at all except
the crimson consecrate upon his brow
and taste of red communion on his fangs
but he fucked her and another brood was born,
bespattered as the ruptured soil with blood.
When he died his ravaged widow served him
to a pack of loping jackals in the night.
Her son or daughter, they became a shard
within a cavity; the human wheel
of slats united with their niches rolled
quaking and groaning out of Africa
one morning, crossed the Sinai, broke apart,
and floated off along the wind; if they say
that distance breeds disaster, its worn cogs
are crusted with the cradle’s bloody sod.
>>8085678
You can't force ART you blundering philistine.
Is this poetry guide useful? I bought a book, "Essential Ginsberg" and really enjoyed it. Trying to get more into poetry. I'm thinking of trying the Bukowski book in pic related. His poetry seems simple and straightforward.
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, in monument unwilling,
of those deepest crimes for greatest cause
wrought in vain, and none left to lament."
I see a certain end
That waits around the bend
Of choice and desire
That speaks to no higher
Mortal form to lend
Mere existence to fend
Away a truth nearer
To nothing close to hear.
And lost again I see
An existence to be
No more awake, dire
Need amongst the mire
That pulls away to be
Something never to see,
And again I tire
Without a desire.
>>8075388
this is literally my first time on this board, this is my first sorry ass excuse for a poem. I've only been into poetry for like a day.
pls no bully
Welcome,to you who seeks my heart's riches, while it's contents may be gold, beware, it is also black, and the smallest spark will cause it to explode into a bombardment of emotion, a bastion of passion, a flame of love that will leave you lame.
It'd be nice If some Au found this oil appealing, our powers combined we could rule the world
any constructive criticism, or should i off myself?
The truly dead are still alive
The reaper said he's lost his pride.
The tide of time means nothing more
Than a piece of trash brought to shore.
The pillars of will are collapsed
The plastic strife was their tax.
Shattered remnants do remain
To repair them would be vain.
Easy on the lazy eye
No need to look up to the sky.
Men's mouths stay light and quiet.
The suit has sought out to buy it.
Of all that's been said and done
Our fears still blot out the sun.
>>8088679
Broken tiles strewn across the vast expanse of a starkly painted white wall.
Sun through the glass ceiling projects sharp shadows inward the dark mall.
Once a buzzing florescent light hung not so neatly in this dirty stall.
The tacky red carpet in the movie theater tainted with disgusting mold.
“Sold in a store near you” the sign that still lays upon the muddy knoll.
Off patrol, charred to coal, a cruiser rests in the roots of nature's toll.
Lost dreams of men gone from reality.
Plants grow over the aesthetes mentality.
Contractually the seal has been signed.
Man sown it's seeds to father time.
>>8088680
Strictly pedantic.
Thriftily romantic.
Wistfully permissive.
Blissfully submissive.
Magnetically abrasive.
Poetically persuasive.
Emphatically anticlimactic.
Erratically pragmatic.
Truthfully satanic.
Senciente
Pé frio
Cabeça quente
Quem há de domar a peçonha daquela gente
what the hell are you people even writing about
I have never written a poem before in my life and I do not mean that as a brag. I have no knowledge of structure or anything but I thought I might as well try to write something. It's simple.
White shirts, blue
Bottoms and a pair of
Santa hats on top.
Light blinds and our
Shapes are marked on
The white curtain behind us.
Arms around me and
Our legs crossed, we
Still smile center frame.
Your smile travels far
Beyond the lens and
Still goes on today.
i hope you can
breathe
with all the guilt
weighing down on
your chest;
the chest
in which
my treasure
once
lay
i am of clear mind and pure of heart, and i seek to repudiate wickedness.
here alone i choose my path, and he alone decides how worlds will part.
i, so soothsayer and seer and prophet, wept for the unblessed.
given discipline and honor to adhere, no blood can stain, no act as wrath.
i watch as the once haughty become fallen, my calm gaze holds only detest.
i only wander forward, leaving behind man woman and child, the race meek and mere.
i neither judge nor condemn, all fate was decided,
before i slaughtered innocent to sate my malevolence.
The firy ashes flew out in a gust
That was not what we all agreed upon
A simple tree might be enough
But not enough for all of us
at once
That is the secret, said they and vanished, leaving
An empty hearth full of ashes.
>>8090949
>A simple tree might be enough
>But not enough for all of us
>at once
..to hang?
(:
>>8079946
I'm not the guy who wrote that post, but I'm assuming its because those lines show that you're trying too hard to be poetic.
There's nothing wrong with flowery language, provided it has a profound effect. Those lines left me indifferent. It didn't give me a chance to actually connect with the message, because its needlessly verbose.
>>8092596
I have since revised and finished the poem, and I find I have excised all but one of the lines he quoted in the final version.
Upon the prehistoric blackflesh crust
in golden sunshine robed, perspiring turf
to cool the crib, the little feet of
lizards long returned to loam and dust
would drag their little bellies, scurrying
and scrawling over creamy terra firma
a city in relief embossed in dirt,
winding its ways through the swaying tallgrass,
until the grassland monkey learned that if
he tucked his throbbing thumb against the rock
cupped in his foregathered dactyls, it would
repel the haul of gravity and taste
the glassy higher air unsullied still
by smoke and breath, and fly to where it pleased
him that it fly to hammer muck from meat
and speckle red his ragged face through art of
slaughter. When of simple curiosity
I chased the eyes of my progenitor,
a drum within the bowels of my chest
began to beat at savagery to match
that which is permanently etched upon
my atrium. What in me is human,
whatever masculine, testosterone
trails afire, descended the lines from him.
But what in me is human had been boiled
and cooked together in a stock of womb-
water: the male had swum towards the female
and cocooned himself within her, stirring
blood and spirit to the sap of flesh of
the baby hominid that stood just slightly
taller than his hulking parents and shuffled
around the shelter that his mother built him.
His mother reined the fingers fixing slats
in grooves of some austere machinery,
and father let him hold the gutted bow
while straddling his accoutred shoulder-blades.
But both father and mother directed
the drawing of the catgut, taught the love
of creaking wood as the curved spine is drawn
taut, and arrow loosed at a mammoth’s heart.
It was only fitting hence that he be
anointed, forehead, fist, and foot, with blood,
bespattered as the ruptured soil with blood
of elephants and wolves and monkeys born
to foreign broods with snarls affixed upon
their mouths, at the moment of abandon,
of backstepping the scratch line, as he clapped
a bloody wedding done against a skull
with cudgel blows and dragged a prize away,
and no ceremony at all except
the crimson consecrate upon his brow
and taste of red communion on his fangs
but he fucked her and another brood was born,
bespattered as the ruptured soil with blood.
When he died his ravaged widow served him
to a pack of loping jackals in the night.
Her son or daughter, they became a shard
within a cavity; the human wheel
of slats united with their niches rolled
quaking and groaning out of Africa
one morning, crossed the Sinai, broke apart,
and floated off along the wind; if they say
that distance breeds disaster, its worn cogs
are crusted with the cradle’s bloody sod.
>>8075469
>The formless form formed from fingers
nice line
A statement of intent.
You hold the key. Elegant, and carved
upon some symbolic design, you said,
found without as much sweat originally
lost during its conception.
>>8075664
solid poem. you had me through the beginning, then lost me around "that kind of blue which sits" and found me again around "barried between outside and fine dining".
"the lint/of the soothsayer who makes names/for himself" & the bit about chewed fingernails i connect with.
The fire melts my coat in the cold
The king of winds breaths his airy soul
Oh singing not are the birds
But hear the trees bring out their words
Lyrics for the frosty night.
Blackest sky snow white as light.
Invisible fears lurk in the dark
Creative mind does it's part
Not much to do or to see
But dream about life's mysteries.
>>8076067
nutcrackerscracknutcases good job
can't tell if this is one poem or several. if it's one i feel like it doesn't work as one. if it's several i felt something with the first and second ones. the rest didn't seem to carry their own.
>>8079221
stop using words people have to stop in the flow of your sentence and think "hm what does that mean", you do yourself no favors
the road to ecstasy is not pocked with speedbumps
>>8080093
fuck year
)Should we risk it very far
is a nice one, and the bit about cataracts and contacts
second verse kind of blew over me though, and who gives a shit for that ending?
>>8092646
You honestly believe that ecstacy is at the end of an easy road? Fuck off.
>>8092635
Snow lies still in the daybreak
Stake out the tow of my restless heartache
Snap cupids bow to prevent more mistakes
Stupid was I now I wander by day
Shelf the ease of mind to prime me on my way
If the snow melts tomorrow it would not matter
My heart now froze destined to fall and then shatter
The pines sneer at my side as I go
The deer laugh as I hunt them so
I know in the scheme my matters are small
But to hell with it all I am taking the fall
>>8080569
>Who are good contemporary poets?
there aren't many. that's a strong sign that the world is in fucked up shape. Diane Wakoski is strong, so is Bob Dylan. but they're both very old and soon they'll do and who will stand up?
>>8080376
dude this almost has it. it has nice rhythm, almost feels like a blues song. but it's too catty, vague, like you're taking limp-fingered swipes at someone.
Plath said "the blood jet is poetry" and i'd rather read you pushing yourself a little harder emotionally and writing the anger and pain in more furious color. right now it's almost gray and like one of those whogivesashit british landscape paintings in a museum. go harder and trust how you feel more.
>>8092657
fair point, didn't mean it that way i guess. i meant to say that writing that takes me to ecstasy is itself ecstatic and drunken and doesn't try to impress and even seems thoughtless and automatic. not a - sweetlittledash of pepper here and big ol glob of rose mary here with self-absorbed fat words.
Why do we
move forward?
Because of --
Because of...
he taps his phone,
I tap his
phone.
Last mile: 7:37,
it says.
He gives it
to me & says
start running
and I run, his phone
in hand
through the street
duck
behind a car
watch him finding me
then
he's gone, then
he's walking
back and
I walk up
hand him his phone.
You did one on
me, man
he says
blood pouring from his
nose, white
sliver of bone
at the bridge.
Oh shit
I say. His
voice is familiar
smoke &
resignation.
Let's get you
cleaned up &
in the pizza shop
we do.
His feet
weave in the
street, calls
unanswered to his
friends, he says,
the people that
care never
want you around.
He finds his
friends they're
open-armed incredulous.
We move
forward because
it's the only
place to
go & we can't
stay here
without paying.
Lmao, all of the shit that is posted in these threads are plagiarised off other poets or just terrible teenage angst. Does anyone here actually write GOOD poetry? You're all fucking CIS white men and I'm not using that term in the way you think I am. But how MANY fucking cis white men do you think have written ENDLESS amounts of poetry. You're all get shitting out the SAME depressing shit that's so easily hollow. Grow up losers. Get a fucking job and please, stop writing. Thanks.
Fuck off you sexist, lesbianic hatemonger.
I'd probably enjoy these threads more if it was more shorter stuff than painful sonnets eating up the space.
we wait in the rough til the magic erupts
Cards folded and halted,
hands holding tight.
See the fire falling, its light
on the buildings, off the windows bright.
This is a poem about the most important event of my day: Masturbation.
To live alone's to breed no foes,
For neither hate nor love can grow
On ground that's never once been sowed.
No, neither love nor life, although
Weeds sprout among the vacant rows.
Try as you like, one thing still grows.
Immune to wet or rot or hoe,
Immune to life or hate, they grow.
Sole colour in the grey, they glow.
A sweeter thing to dream than know
The waking dream's for others, so
I'll dream, and as I dream, I'll grow
Vaster than Empires, and more slow.
>>8086939
Anyone?
>>8093102
I wouldn't recommend buying the complete works of any poet. Most of what they write isn't as good as their best -- try and get an anthology containing poets you're interested in if you can. You save money and extend your comfort zone a bit.
On the other hand, reading through Thomas Hardy's complete works did alert me to that he was schizophrenic and spent a great deal of time talking with the moon. So you can get some benifit from them if you're after ancedotes.
>>8086939
>Lawrence in Adept
Fuck off.
