Lets get a poetry-only critique thread going
>I'll go first
Nature Calls
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 a veiled innocence:
Hysteria lit the path with shadowed light from an envious lantern.
Cheered on by coats of tainted wool, and assailed by coats of tainted challis
You become conflicted.
What now?
Leering from platted comfortability, shadows hiss at you to march;
Indeed, you do, in fact, with many hesitations, and many trepidations,
But indeed, you do.
March
Splintered bones sizzle under a foreign star,
Trickles of sweat blister, embroider, infartar your brow.
Misguiding you moreso than pockets pretensely avowed
Like schoolgirls hand-in-hand, capped-‘n-gowned.
Smothered words nested in fear choked on bravado…
Bravo, Bravo!
The term is done!
Wormwood parties in your pit,
Your feather withers at the sun,
Enthralled in fear and shadow’s shit,
Your blindness turns to deaf’d the young.
>infartar means to strip bare
At the beginning I thought it was shit, honestly, but the more I read the better it seemed as a totality.
Overall, very good, but a bit obscure at parts.
Mine:
If you see kay
Tell him he may
See you in tea
Tell him from me
In China
Poems are scratched on the walls of a cave
Not seeking fame or fortune
Below them sits no name
Who is the author?
They grow between cracks and moss
A cold mountain wrote them
Did it not?
Impressing dead fibers with
laissez faire bright streaks
drawn to electric
and mindless, pointless, soundless
foundation lacking seismographs
without opponents to inspire
a metaphor of war, skirmish
vendetta to men dressed like
pink birds, waltzing with
their wallets
Contemptuous scribbling
in bad tasting, unclean
homosexuals mouths
Spewing vile velvet bile
under secure detriments placed
by blue black bangs
under a new sun.
4 Removal of deep
satanic bad devil
worshipping WORDS.
By Marx, Engel, Mussolini,
And George W. Bush
until happy lobotomies
fellate idols with
grotesque masks.
Laughing hysterical
suits, blue black
swine murder production line babies.
>>8142441
shiiet mane. what is your philosophy/politics?
>>8142431
The Cold Mountain namedrop is cheesy
Also, Chan/Zen poetry (which you seem to be aping) is generally much sparser in style than what you've written. Peeling off some words would make it more natural.
>>8142459
Nietzsche and Jung, as for politics I'm in turmoil between the naivete of libertarian politics and just rejecting it all in turn for a cynic view. Pretty idiotic!
>>8142485
>>8142485
is this one sparser?
What is the Buddha?
Three pounds of hemp.
What is the Buddha?
Vapor smoke in empty air.
Where is the Buddha?
Blue sky and clouds.
There is the Buddha.
Running water
Clouds.
As for the namedrop, I don't know how else I would convey the questino was it cold mountain or Cold Mountain who wrote the poems
Artificer’s Death (Bright and Gleaming)
Shining spikes of Giza stripped of quarry edge,
Glory flayed as skin, skin a hoary casing.
As the quarry was left a gash, you a skeleton—
Mountainous bones housing bones housing nothing.
Timelessness brought to an abrupt
End. The four humors became misaligned
As blood wore down the mountains,
And as men of blood trod down the banks.
The Nile became of blood, both vein and artery.
That cardinal humor spread blackward.
Wroth wine spilled from the hand of Mars,
Fermented mythologies ache, aching to speak.
Artifex working in Corinthian brass, your cannon
A trumpet, sound off as I strain my ears,
Yet still I fear that I may not hear
The writhing of Philomela.
be mean guys (but specific)
>>8142338
consider playing with 3rd person objective as opposed to 2nd person (not sure how, but it could open up some new lines at least that you might retain going back)
Ditch the 'like' in front of schoolgirls for a slightly more disjointed feel that may emphasize your wording.
The lone "March" is a little much for me, but with some stronger build up it could be justified
"Bravo, Bravo [...] term is done!" is a great little piece and your dampening with the lethargic last stanza shows good craftsmanship
>>8142441
I read "Spewing vile velvet bile" as
>Spewing bile, velvet bile
at first and think I prefer it that way, but that reflects my own style more than yours maybe
This is angerier than I'm used to reading so I'm a little out of my depth here in the rest of this:
>by blue black bangs
this hammers a little to hard on the alliteration for me
The political name-dropping is something that I feel like is risky, but could pay-off to the right audience.
"happy Lobotomies" is too smug
great use of color and tricolon
Monsters rise from the ground,
wrought from iron, glass, and concrete.
An old world under shadows drowned, their conquest nearly complete.
Grotesque forms rise to the skies,
Heavens territory is ceded.
The old from consumption dies,
its ancient spirit depleted.
Soulless blocks of glass now stand,
where once stood old forms proud.
Gone are the days of beauty grande,
replaced with a more modern brand.
general question, how do you guys treat/approach poetry? do you look at at its aesthetic effect or treat it in essence like a philosophy piece written in verse?
>>8142550
Beautiful, is it alluding to Lot's Wife?
>>8142441
More of my stuff if you are interested:
And nailed to their flesh was their doctrine and creed. Some were blinded as it were over their eyes. Others took ill as it muckracked on the sole of the foot. Though perhaps most dangerous were they who had them nailed to their hands, and it did soil everything they would touch. Men likes these drag about a stone twin they call "God", a perfect image and reflection of themself in every way. They cry "Crucify me!" They beg for death so only their stony self is left, and perhaps with blood coming by it's lips it will seem beautiful.
Long woven dreams of saccharine threads dispersed among a crowd.
Cotton stream candy and flowers from rivers.
Painted view aperture, soft velvet eyesockets and tunnels abyssmal. The verification of views not held by those in question.
August bricks in wintertime follies of scenes with ropes
Tied well out of season
The darkness and stars of previous moons softening the dangerous air
Water ridden shadows
Return to a vixen.
>>8142564
Thank you, it's not a Biblical allusion but rather a critique on the fact that many old buildings in my city are being torn down and new glass office towers are being built instead.
And sitting here a sudden fire
Unfolds in flames and petals red,
As I am flushed with something dire—
A flooding fear, a fearsome dread
Of death—I sit and watch the sun
Phase blue to red inside my head;
The gradual fade to black begun.
Blooming fire and burst of flower—
And suddenly I stand to run.
All around me embers shower
In flaming spears of afternoon
Flung through windows of my tower.
I read the writing carved in rune,
The shadows smeared along the wall,
That death in red approaches soon;
Her footsteps echo from the hall.
Approaching my window, I look,
and try to guess the time it took
for wax-winged Icarus to fall.
INCREASE ENLIGHTENMENT
embrace the falling man
ENJOY THE EASY STUFF WHILE YOU STILL CAN
What do you miss?
If we've never spoken.
Did you masticate?
Did you spit out the taste?
Hhhockcheeewwwyyy.
Do you rinse off your main translation.
Muscle. With essential oil?
Do you stick your finger in your ear and itch the screech?
So the spastic spasms crawl over your senses and ya what? Help a sister over that impulse...? I grab my bedazzled livestock horn and beg you to jjjjuuuusssttt ....
Chew slow so you don't choke?
All you had to do was say good looking out...
Risk me because I corrected a stupid mistake that irked the fuck out of you.
A year ago.
I gasped for air here.
Looking to engage 1 specific elite mind.
Stubborn and weary.
believe in possible.
I don't love being ignored.
Sigh.
Validate me.
Tictackyslow.
I made a few adjustments to this one, particularly the enjambments in the last two lines of stanzas 2 and 3, as per an anon's suggestion some threads back. Feedback always appreciated.
---
Slick rush in the nose, head back, to the mirror—
catch it drop by drip by splash till it slows, look up.
Red stream wetting the desert, iron taste seeping
down into the mud to nourish and be reclaimed.
Fingers of the unsullied hand, dip into cupped,
precious gore now lost but given new purpose—
not to fuel the vehicle of flesh but challenge
the master, with shape and spiral traced on skin
unsunned and hidden but for here, where letters
dredged from nothing spell words said nowhere,
but in the corners of the mind– lorn and fey–
that no thoughts reach.
Sedent in the dark now, decoration done, painted,
in that ink shared common to beast and borne.
Cryptic signs play and whisper as they dry,
set in memory without meaning, so now to rest,
to nest, to lay in the dark, to chase those mad signs,
to dream.
>>8142547
I like this alot.
>>8142553
I go aesthetic first, then meaning.
>>8142381
you claim these words as your own
But I've read well, and I've heard them said
A hundred times, maybe less, maybe more
If you must write prose and poems
The words you use should be your own
Don't plagiarise or take "on loans"
At his desk writing with vigour
Not much talent, of course go figure
aspirations different to most, much bigger
Slim success, time to reconsider
>>8142588
>And nailed to their flesh was their doctrine and creed. Some were blinded as it were over their eyes. Others took ill as it muckracked on the sole of the foot. Though perhaps most dangerous were they who had them nailed to their hands, and it did soil everything they would touch. Men likes these drag about a stone twin they call "God", a perfect image and reflection of themself in every way. They cry "Crucify me!" They beg for death so only their stony self is left, and perhaps with blood coming by it's lips it will seem beautiful.
excellent
>>8143322
I'm torn. A large majority of me wants to treat poems as a form of teaching, as things that are trying tell me something. But I am equally aware that that meaning should not be relegated to linguistic meaning alone, hence the ability of poetry to express more than mere language and so aesthetics is a kind of communication in itself no less valuable. And I don't want to reduce poetry to some utility value of "what was the correct lesson here?" Art of course can communicate in ways that the meaning cannot be expressed like that.
I guess what I'm saying is a poem could be written shittily but express something fantastic or intruiging. It all comes down to communication?
bright green shoots poke through still water
dappled with the warmth of the setting sun
a young woman moves between the rows
clouds of silt stirred by bare feet
her infant child swaddled in clean cloth
swelling and shrinking with sleepy rhythm
its soft pink nose on the nape of her neck
she feels child's breath and carries on
>how do i get better? i really enjoy robert frost
>>8142338
>feeling good about a short story and some poems
>submit to a lit rag
>suddenly feel they're all terrible
>posted some early drafts
>they're in the archive
let's hope they don't google them.
>>8142485
>>8142431
I don't think the namedrop is cheesy but the poems authorship is belaboured so in your poem that it's impossible to read cold mountain in any way other than "cold mountain, legendary Chinese dude".
I'd cut out one of the rhetorical questions. Maybe you did this to mimic Chinese poetry, I'm not sure, but in English it sounds cheap.
>>8142441
>drawn to electric
>and mindless, pointless, soundless
>foundation lacking seismographs
Not too keen on this. "mindless, pointless, soundless" circles on something rather than honing in on what you're talking about. It's also a long and dangling right-hand side of a long conjunct describing something. I'm dizzied before even knowing what we're talking about.
>homosexuals mouths
>Spewing vile velvet bile
Too much alliteration. The weird sing-songey trochaic tetrameter feels out of place too.
>>8142547
>Timelessness brought to an abrupt
>End.
This could be because of my dialect of English, but I stress both "ab" and "rupt" when I say "abrupt" here and it really dampens what you have going here. If I unstress the "rupt" then I really feel the weight of the linebreak and it sounds great.
I like the rest of this stanza but it's weakened in the last two lines starting with "As" and "And". You could maybe try "The four humors misaligned" and see where that takes you.
>ache, aching
Not a fan
Last stanza is a little weak. Consider making the last two lines the same length (you could drop the "as" in the second-to-last and I think it'd sound much more deadly).
I like it a lot though!
>>8142730
Lovely rhythm. A bit purple/cliche in areas (the person and their fear of death; "fade to black").
>And suddenly I stand to run
This is just a boring line all-round.
>The shadows smeared along the wall
Perfect iambic tetrameter, but a little boring and grandiose.
I usually don't write long drawn out poems without rhythm, I usually just write slice of life. Here's my first attempt, I have realized that because I wrote my poem on a mobile device the spacing in the stanzas has errors. I hope you enjoy.
There he was Stranded Alone. Alone in the middle of the high seas.
Terrified he was.
He had spent his whole life in these seas. Terrified of the dark mysterious Sea. The sea was the only thing he had. He never had much attachment to people. So he surrounded himself in these waters. They were harsh to him, toppling him with their might. Terrified he was, not knowing where they'd take him.
He didn't have a reason to be there, the same goes to his life. He wanted the sea to take his pathetic soul from his corpse.
I awoke on an island. Confused as why I wasn't dead, I had wanted death anyways. But They had saved me.
I was no longer terrorized by the Sea. I had looked at the waves hit the shore, returning back into the Sea. The way they carelessly tried and tried. Each wave coming higher onto the island. I stood there for hours, knowing that these waves were all I had now. I had accepted them. These waves weren't a meaningless thing as I used to think. Each wave left it's imprint on the island, leaving behind a memory. The waves kept coming onto the island generating more and more memories. They were beautiful. This is when I realized, I did not only accept the Sea. I admired the Sea.
Sjórinn, they call it in Icelandic. I'm far away from there. But I know, The waves connect to that beautiful place and I connected to the Sea. I knew that I had loved this Sea all along
weather misbehaves
sailors fighting waves
the sea is their graves
>>8144538
shouldn't it be 'the sea is their grave' ?
>>8144538
>weather, misbehave--
>sailor fighting wave,
>ocean is his grave.
Idk, just my take on it. Do what you want.
>>8143631
learn how to write in meter. It will improve your own poetry, and make reading good poets such as Frost much more enjoyable
This was an exercise I did a while back in writing a "folk" ballad, with anapests sprinkled throughout.
The Man went down the well with a rope
into dungeon dark and damp,
and there he found in a rusted chest
an old and golden lamp.
He held it to his ear and heard
a whisper: “Let me free,
release me, Man, from this golden lamp;
for you, then, a wish or three.”
The lamp then poured in pools of fire
a genie with wicked grin;
huge, eld, dark, fell, and evil it looked—
more like the reaper grim.
The old Man was bold and brave and said
“I ask ye answer for life.”
With jagged grin the genie laughed
“Behold, believe—see strife.”
Then flashed a light so harsh in his eyes
it burned his retinas blind;
for mortal Man is frail and weak,
and it crippled meek his mind.
His thoughts lay shattered and overwhelmed
as he sought for scattered words.
This broken speech Man bubbled and chirped
in singing dialect of birds:
“I put forth my palms and asked for life
—the hourglass burst instead—
the genie cupped the sands of death,
and poured them on my head.
Submerged in its weight, the search for life
became battle for breath:
I held out my hands and asked for life,
and I was handed death.
The answers proved too much to bear,
they said: ‘Behold, Belief.’
I beheld, believed, and now I look
to death for sweet relief.”
GREAT BOOKS
Paucibius, Stories
Duzakhi, The Millennium Rule of Draco
Julian di Pontevedra, Monstralo
Alois Beaunis, Fear for Rabenalde
Lawrence Thornal, The Breath, the Ghost
Juan Ricardo Catiline, A Third Name for Gaul
St. Edward, Liber de Wintonia
Gyffes M’Diarmid, Great Survey of England, Striking Delineations of Twenty-Six Manors
Honnor F. Bock, Anatomie des München
Rachel Olan Schulte-MacCrie, Open Window
Jaap Culpeper, The Scores Descend
Letaeus, Accurate Appraisals of the Public Edifices
Barend Heukelom, Lettres concernant tous les fonctionnaires
Thompson Wentworth Paton, The Lightning Reserve
George MacAlpine, Young Folks in High Spirits
Orlando Pearse, Oak Woods
Samuel Caxton, He That Drove the Nails
Jodocus Otto Friitsch, Spierverstand
Wedersrahm, Four and Twenty (Vierundzwanzig)
Arthur Copeland Brown, The Martyr of Beauty and Sentiment
Kennet Wilbrand, Crispin and Crispinian
H. H. Albut, Morakanabad’s Taste
Ulveig Nostrasson, Death Come Ardor (Hiefeldesang)
Horace John, Method of Ioci
Romàn Lombroso, The Genius
Auguste de Goujet, Diagnostics d’un Homme honnête
>>8142983
Honestly this is really good. The nosebleed image stands out the most, possibly as it's something that fascinates me. Jelly that I didn't think to write of it.
>>8144643
I like the story, but I'd knock a syllable off the "wish or three" line. As well, the 4th stanza could use an overhaul imo; it might just be me but when I hear life and strife rhymed I can't help but think of The Jungle Book. Overall I'm a fan.
My effort:
The fruit of the telephone tree hangs heavy.
What once was ripe and vibrant with coarse juices
Is rotten, festers, curling from the trunk.
Its rosy, breathless bloom came and went uncelebrated. Tolerated.
A limp, brown crown pinned to what once meant something, to someone,
Surely. I wonder as I pass, if a too-mortal someone still passes by there too.
I ponder for a spell if the errant decomposing yield that hangs so always
There is given new life then. New, awful life.
If it clambers down from the complication of black branch
To trace and prod at the harsh, raw wound in them. To remind,
Revile, incite hoarse tongues and bring up lunch with grinning, plastic, blameful malice.
I imagine, if it does, it takes great pleasure in doing so. But
These are imaginings. The fruit of the telephone tree will not live again.
This is the cruelty entombed within its vile uncaring seed.
The fruit of the telephone tree hangs heavy, hangs still.
Dialogue 1
[Enter TYCHE, wandering in Elysium]
TYCHE
O Father,
O Son of Kronos
Why do you desert me thus?
You let the fertile country of my heart lie fallow,
You let my youthful eyes turn to ash in their sockets,
You let my spring pass for mild summer.
I was not made to be one of the mortals!
[Enter ZEPHYROS, dancing, adorned with a wreath of hyacinth]
ZEPHYROS
O Tyche
O goddess of the white arms,
Weep not,
For you no longer have eyes with which to weep.
Is this not true?
Take my hand,
And rise with me,
And taste the airy vault of heaven.
TYCHE
O lovely Western child,
You were dear to me in my worldly mornings,
But your words now are mere rain
Against the granite cliffs of my resolve.
Go now,
Yes, go now,
O you who may still be restored!
ZEPHYROS
Words?
Your fear deludes you,
O mistress of all men’s days.
I speak not,
For I have no tongue with which to speak.
Is this not true?
[Exit ZEPHYROS, TYCHE watches as he leaves]
TYCHE
O Zeus,
O my Father,
Why do you tantalize me so?
The fine bracelets you once gave me
Now begin to tarnish.
I must fortify my heart against all things.
It is a good thing to give way to the night-time.
My whole world is glass
Its frightened and its shimmering
A bolden gumdrop tambourine
Its use is its demise
The whole wide world is listening
its waiting for one haunting ring
my whole life is one note to sing
I use it then I die
And you are not the only thing
but almost like my everything
I wish you weren't anything
so you would never cry
I'll let you play my tambourine
The velvet icy glistening
My spine and all its ribboning
My only song forevering
The first last words I'll ever sing
Its all for you my loving thing
Oh my god what's happening
My only shattered sigh.
Perhaps the ones that struggle,
Are not the ones in trouble,
If your torment is like a weight,
When it is lifted your strength is great,
So do know that without the night,
The light isn't nearly as bright
R8 plz
>>8145677
I don't know the way you should structure poems. I also don't know If I used the semicolon properly but it felt right maybe you guys can help me out.
Damn fluidity of mind; of soul!
Left to right and back once more
Till the pendulum swings back down
And off the head goes
For unprepared we come
And so shall we go
>inb4 stunted world view
>>8145724
Gosh don't mind the fuck up
First atempt at writing anything
Creeping through the night,
then sitting by the river.
Taking in the sights
wishing it would come quicker
Now here in the forest,
around lies shattered dreams.
My mind remains malnourished
as its pumped with sertraline.
Named the devil and the creep
I am not of Gods protected
They slaughter me like sheep,
because I am the dejected.
I hold the key to freedom
all it takes is a blow.
As I surrender to this demon
life energy begins to flow.
The night air is still
and I'm both hunted and hunter.
I lay down on this hill
and embrace eternal slumber
I've only recently started writing, so tear me a new one and let me feel.
A gaping hole in the wall creases all corners to create a shadowed doubt
If I was not careful it would engorge itself on me swallowing all living vestiges
Sometimes I wish to lay my head in there for an esteemed escape
Into an unknown world where I am right, powerful, and not uptight
Some days I see my foolishness, unabashed anger howling from a distance
It places itself as sadness but I can see through it, only some days
hi. what do you think?
TWO HEADED GHOST
Grazing the silken slope of
cream against the moon washed
sheets, pearl droplets dance
and spill along the spine
and your bones gracefully echo
in a reverberation of
your hollow body exposed.
Diving in and out of the cavity
of your mouth, reeling
among the white sails of
your teeth, i glance along the
horizon streak and blood roared
from the ocean, a volcanic sob
of menacing love; a ghost flies
away from us.
There was an ugly face in
the clouds that sang and talked
sending rockets in tearing fists
down onto the earth like
holy water and searing our skin into
molten blankets of joy. Skinless,
we were free among the
bones and teeth of the world,
jangling together in a furious wave.
Never stopping.
>>8145770
I don't like it but if you want criticism to keep writing, here's some. It progresses way too fast and clumsily. It's also very very stilted and there are stresses in weird places
>>8146023
It doesn't ever pick up steam. Overall it's like a diminishing thought.
>>8146101
I fucking like this. Completely a personal opinion but I would get rid of
>exposed.
>Never stopping.
>>8145770
This is almost like a ballad (the ABAB, short-long-short-long form) which imparts a waltzing sing-songey kind of feel that clashes with the mood of the poem.
The spooky imagery is a bit weak (God, devil, the night, hunter). Always, always avoid cliches like "eternal slumber" and "shattered dreams". The sertraline reference is heavy-handed and out of place.
Your poem is also kind of about nothing. It's an "idea" poem which is hard to pull off. Try writing structured poems, as you've done, about specific events or scenes. You won't get bogged down in trite imagery and you'll develop your imagery because you'll have to think of new ways to describe and compare things. You could take events from your life, but obviously you don't have to (a good poem is a cultural object; it stands alone).
Try to work on your metre; look up metre if you don't understand what it is. When you have the fundamentals down you can experiment with form.
>>8146023
Not bad for a first poem. Nice and dreamy. That said,
>where I am right, powerful, and not uptight
Masculine rhymes like this are a bit loud. Try a half-rhyme or a feminine rhyme for something less jarring.
>Some days I see my foolishness, unabashed anger howling from a distance
The comma is awkward here because you've started a new idea, only to immediately cut away from it.
>It places itself as sadness but I can see through it, only some days
The ending is a little wake. It's not a bad idea to end with a short and punchy clause but to get away with it it's gotta interact with the flow in an interesting way, and the last line has zero flow after the "but".
>>8146101
>...... I glance along the
>horizon streak and blood roared
>from the ocean
The "and" here is a bit awkward because the two things aren't really connected. Consider separating it with a full stop, em-dash, or using another word.
>of menacing love; a ghost flies
>away from us.
Too weak for a stanza ending. Needs more punch. The linebreak hurts the little ending.
>the clouds that sang and talked
>sending rockets in tearing fists
Why not this:
>the clouds that sang and talked,
>sent rockets in tearing fists
>holy water and searing our skin into
>molten blankets of joy
There's a bit too much happening in this part. Could try "searing our skin into molten joy" or "searing our skin into blankets of joy". I like the word molten.
>jangling together in a furious wave.
>Never stopping.
Nice ending. I like what you're doing here but I think it needs a little work.
"Furious" is a bit weak. I'd try to tell the action with verbs alone to keep up the motion of the stanza.
The fullstop ending this line truncates the motion a bit. Maybe try an em-dash?
Stopping is a weak word but I'm not sure what else you could use.
>>8145233
Thanks, man!
It was a departure from the more uptight styles I've been working with recently, and I've tried to leave it mostly as it was first written, apart from the two enjambment edits. Glad to hear that you liked it.
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?
>>8146249
Thanks for this
LABORER
His brown skin dusted with
Grass cuts and dry dirt, as the
Mower reaps its prize.
The sweet mulch gathers as he works.
Shades guard his eyes from
Light and from my solitude.
He nods to me and
I back; rushing passed hoping to
Not betray weak Spanish.
My grandfather lumbers.
White clean shirt tucked, gold watch
Jostling. He speaks to him instructions
And he is deployed onto the yard again.
In his solitude
He works. In mine I’ve shame.
I’ve lost our tongue and lost his name.
What can I call you? Our Sun Gods were once
One but now I ignore you as I walk by.
Grandfather smiles to me, “It is nice
To not have to do the work yourself.”
I have a question. Should a poem be obvious? Like if you know immediately what it's about does that denote the quality of the poem? I feel like when some poems are too obscure and flowery it
just feels pretentious and empty but when you are too direct the
poem feels shallow. I guess it's just about striking a balance?
What do you think?
obviously i'm feeling insecure about my poem
Thirty two tons of cheese
The variery has brought me to my knees
Gouda, swiss, muenster, cheddar among many more
I think I'd rather have a salad though
As the curling midnight thinkings sparkle through my velvet head
Bouncing through a muddied brain where once was day the darkness bled
Frozen glints of memories dust my room with rotting snow
Shrieking past my dying eyes they crumple to the ground below
Existence breathes in only thought and thoughts are all of death
My withered spine is paralyzed I scream but know there's no scream left
Sweet relief the shackles melt to pools of nonsense on the floor
As sleep whispers to tomorrow I survive the night before
>>8146360
I think a bit of subtlety or mystery can add to the experience, but obviously if it's completely indecipherable it's as good as worthless. I prefer poems that take a relatively simple but powerful subject and combine it with interesting and beautiful language.
For your subject, simplicity works very well. I like it quite a lot, it flows nicely. Reminds me a bit of W.S. Merwin, you should read him if you haven't; he's one of the best at conveying things simply.
What are some good names for a cute old ladythat ends up having a shocking, disgusting past and is an all-around terrible person despite being overwhelmingly kind to people?
Thirty metres past a chasm of
summer air, with winter currents
seeping through and painting cool the
crevices between my toes, there
stands a whitewashed edifice whose
blank façade is stretched from street to
sky, a silver screen from dawn to
dawn’s dissolve where light is split and
splayed by moon and solar eyeball.
Sunbeams streaming,
through the blinds
to blind the knife
that sails to a
screaming heart.
https://theverboseauteur.wordpress.com/2016/05/27/out-of-africa/
>>8146360
I love this. The setting and style reminds me of "Digging" by Seamus Heaney.
Don't worry, your poem well straddles the line between simplicity and depth.
Needless to say the least
Lessons suggest
Freedom’s omnipresent
But my body’s on lease
Threaded dreams
Seamless society
Is this it?
I weave a basket
To carry your sun bleached bones
Thru the valley of plastic
>>8145704
Rhyme scheme is a little plain but I like how simple yet powerful the message is. Pretty gud.
>>8146679
Matilda
>>8147678
That sounds a little too foreboding and somewhat cliched
>>8147688
Mable. Or Augustine.
What is it that will make you sleep, O' woman?
Is it a starry night sky and a cool breeze
That can grant you respite from your conscious
O' woman, tell us please
What is it that will make you sleep, O' woman?
Is it a melodious lullaby?
Because if it is, then I will get myself busy
singing one with notes low and high
If the pillows were too cold for you
And you didn't want to feel them against your face
I'd lend you my arms as your head rest
And offer you solace in my warm embrace
I'd ward off the monsters from under your bed
Make sure they never kept you awake
I'd dedicate myself to my last ounce for your sleep
O' woman, just tell us for Lord's sake!
What is it that will make you sleep, O' woman?
This faint heart begs to know
For it's only afraid that you'll go to sleep, but forever
And leave me wakeful as you go
>>8148620
The one I have is called Migration, it's the closest thing to a full collection that he's published.
>Still working on this, so it's incomplete
Such distance is often travelled,
By many such as me.
Though each time it is unraveled:
Fever’d, near silently.
‘The first was wrong, as first is oft,
The second grew too quick.
The third in time waned itself soft,
Now quarter burns its wick.’
And candles come, as candles go:
Replace’t, the withered light.
Though frozen wax, does burn more slow,
Miss take not lover’s fright.
Frenzies of fervor so corrupt
Me that my breath has flown.
With wings of icar I’ll construct,
To follow flame that’s shone.
O’, such brief passion does appear,
And lay before my eye.
It’s stalken struggles I don’t fear,
Till minutes ‘fore I lie.
bump this thread
Wrapped in a Splint-
ered I find myself with
broken planes, my face
sharp angles. I’m the
aviator dragging their plain
colors across the sky. I
scry daily, fearing for my son,
who will [hopefully] never feel
the sting of colored glass
staining him
Immortal.
this is a fresh piece, is it working?
>>8149192
nice, i normally don't like stuff like this, but you wear it well
>Miss take not lover's fright
I'm not sure if this is working, but I think your poems either needs more or less of this
>>8148434
consider starting with Oh and switiching to O' for a good ole switcharoo
otherwise, this has nice rhythm to it and makes good useof rhyme, which is rare
I would recommend using punctuation more (except for the last line as I think it gives it a strong sense of trailing off)
A scrub is a guy that think he's fine and is
Also known as a buster (buster, buster)
Always talkin' about what he wants
And just sits on his broke ass
So
No, I don't want your number (no)
I don't want to give you mine and (no)
I don't want to meet you nowhere (no)
I don't want none of your time and
No, I don't want no scrub
A scrub is a guy that can't get no love from me
Hanging out the passenger side
Of his best friend's ride
Trying to holler at me
It’s a way to say “no” to your self.
An ice block to clog the pump. Never
Quite up to snuff. A beast burdened by curious glow.
A honey swell in the cheek: The thrill of looking
When looking is forbidden. The fear of betraying glances. The burning
Of guilt and it’s blossoming shame.
A security in the gamble not taken. Despite itself,
The warmth of fuck and radiating tenderness, despite
The rot we sing when we accidently meet:
When the atoms that make up you touch the
Atoms that make up me my gift is
Slipped from the sleeve like a crying calf spilling
Down a hard gulch.
My gift is poison, or so say I, the steadfast flagellant.
This burning part of me, the daring better, so meager
A thing. I slap it around and kid it like family. The rough hands
Meet the insult. Cage it and blame it for swallowing it’s
Own key, scold it like the wetting dog. Who would claim it?
This fucking thing? How humiliating to give so damaged a thing.
My gift is wet and mossed. Torn from stitch and seam, so
Meager indeed, the best parts of me.
left out the last stanza that is still raw and being worked on.
How do ya'll work on structure of your poetry? Trying to find a structure
or an interesting way to use it for my work. Any revision tips in general?
>>8149513
The very first line confuses me. Wrapped in a splintered? I get you're enjambing and making it awkward because the guy's shit is fucked up but it has to actually make sense.
The [hopefully] is wistless and pointful. Leave such parenthetical thoughts out and be brave enough to say what you wanna say.
I'd put "staining him" and "Immortal" on the last line. You could leave it as you like or put in some punctuation between them, such as an em-dash. The mental pause on a linebreak feels a bit too long here.
>Wrapped in a Splint-
>ered I find myself with
>broken planes, my face
>sharp angles. I’m the
>aviator dragging their plain
>colors across the sky. I
>scry daily, fearing for my son,
>who will [hopefully] never feel
>the sting of colored glass
>staining him
>Immortal.
>>8150137
>An ice block to clog the pump. Never
>Quite up to snuff.
Awkward linebreak. End with "the pump," then put "Never quite up to snuff" and it flows a lot better.
>"A beast burdened by curious glow."
>"The warmth of fuck"
These aren't grammatical and sound like overstrung William Gass quotes.
>A beast burdened by curious glow.
>A honey swell in the cheek: The thrill of looking
>When looking is forbidden.
Awkward punctuation. Shoudn't the colon go after "glow"? A semi-colon or em-dash is better after "cheek". "Forbidden" is a little awkward. Maybe "When looking is not allowed"? The internal rhyme between "honey" and "looking is fantastic".
>The fear of betraying glances. The burning
>Of guilt and it’s blossoming shame.
Too much; you're belabouring the same thing over and over again: the guy's staring at a broad across the room.
>The rot we sing when we accidently meet:
>When the atoms that make up you touch the
>Atoms that make up me my gift is
The coupling is weakened by "my gift is". But that on the next line and you have a nice enjamb. "accidentally" is a bit long and flow-breaking; "almost" sounds better but it changes the story in the poem.
>Slipped from the sleeve like a crying calf spilling
>Down a hard gulch.
That's a great image but I'm not convinced this is the right place to put it. "Slipped from the sleeve" is kind of cheesy.
First half of stanza 3 is kind of shit to be honest. It's a lot of noise about nothing really.
>the steadfast flagellant.
Yuck
>I slap it around and kid it like family.
Bit of a mood whiplash for the brooding try-hard in the poem to go all Bukowski and dead-baby jokes. The random domestic abuse insert doesn't add much to the narrative of the poem.
>Cage it and blame it for swallowing it’s
>Own key, scold it like the wetting dog.
This is great though.
>This fucking thing?
Too much, too much!
>How humiliating to give so damaged a thing.
This kind of narcissistic babbling is probably realistic but doesn't make for great reading; you need to weave it into the narrative somehow.
>My gift is wet and mossed. Torn from stitch and seam, so
>Meager indeed, the best parts of me.
Has a nice sting to it. Formatted weirdly. "Best parts in me" is more agreeable than "Best parts of me".
"So meager indeed" is superfluous. It almost sounds like you put it in just to make it rhyme. It rhymes without though. If you leave this out "Torn from stitch and steam the best parts in me" is a bit heavy-handed, so maybe you need it as a bit of a breather.
>>8150620
Cont.
Overall I'd say there's a lot of good ideas here you should keep developing. It's best to end with something concrete though; you've ended on a solipsism that never really makes it off the page. You could try a strong image, a massive gut punch, a glimmer of hope, or something else.
Most I'd say is write about more. Have more stuff _happen_ in the poem. There's a lot of words for what seems to be a person failing at talking to someone they like, whipping out a flask, then rambling about domestic abuse. Too rambling and grandiose.
>Trying to find a structure or an interesting way to use it for my work.
You've got some hidden iambic tetrameters in there, they just don't start and end at the start and end of lines. You could and reshape this to have straightforward 8 syllable blank verse. It would probably even strengthen the drunken narcissistic ramblings by making them a bit more weighty and regular.
I don't think this particular poem is worth much but it has a lot of great ideas, imagery, and snippets that would be worth revisiting or using elsewhere. Keep it up though.
>>8148434
>O' woman, tell us please
Sounds shoehorned in to fit the rhyme scheme.
>melodious lullaby
Long and lush Romance words. A bit overspent together. Consider melodic--the -ic suffix is a bit less French--or another adjective.
>Because if it is, then I will get myself busy
You don't have a regular metre but this line is awkward and kills the flow.
>singing one with notes low and high
Another shoe-horned rhyme. You can see this one by mechanically inspecting sentence structure: it ends on the clause "with notes low and high" that sort of weakly modifies what you just talked about. Try to end the stanza with a clause/thought or some enjambment or something.
>And you didn't want to feel them against your face
Long and awkward. And again, while your stanzas aren't regular, this seems to invert the long-short-long-short precedence in the first two stanzas.
>And offer you solace in my warm embrace
Leave out "warm" and it's much better. You can get a nice rhythm out of "And give you solace in my embrace" which really speeds things up and build up tension for you to take into the next stanza about fighting off monsters.
>I'd ward off the monsters from under your bed
Too many words that aren't doing anything. "the" and "from under". "I'd ward off monsters under your bed" is more compact and has less air in it. Consider using another word than "your", since that's used a lot in the poem and you don't want to deaden its meaning when you can use another word.
>O' woman, just tell us for Lord's sake!
Another tacked on, "make-it-rhyme" thing.
>What is it that will make you sleep, O' woman?
You can leave off the "O' woman?"
Nice ending. I think it could be made shorter and stronger:
>What is it that will make you sleep?
>My faint heart begs to know.
>It worries that you'll go to sleep
>Leaving me wakeful as you go.
Or something like that. If you can trim two syllables from the last sentence and keep it iambic you'll also end with a perfect ballad stanza which imparts a nice dreamy sing-song quality.
Stylistically it's a bit wonky. Nice narrative though: you don't get stuck on one image too long and pace yourself well. I see potential. Making it a bit more regular (in terms of syllable length and metre) would make it stronger (but you don't have to keep it perfectly regular).
>>8146749
It's nice for what it is.
>Needless to say the least
An empty set-up for "least lessons". I like the enjambing but the set-up has to be meaningful on its own.
>Freedom’s omnipresent
Not sure about the contraction. Makes me think the thought continues on the next line but it doesn't so I had to read it twice.
>But my body's on lease
I'd say this line actively worsens the poem. I'd reword or remove, particularly so there's no "my". I like that the speaker suddenly materialises out of nowhere in a sparse, desert-feeling poem that doesn't immediately seem to have a speaker.
>Threaded dreams
>Seamless society
Could be my dialect but when I read, "lease", "dreams", and "society" all share at least a half rhyme. I'd stick to half-rhyming "lease" and "society" to keep things sparse.
>To carry your sun bleached bones
>Thru the valley of plastic
I'd prefer "sun-bleached". But on second thought, keeping the space makes the poem feel sparser. So maybe not. Putting "thru" at the end of the previous line sounds better to me, and adds a cute meta-reading of why "thru" is spelled like that (to fit it onto a long line).
I dig it though. Nicely done.
She awoke, with fever induced excitement -
but unwilling to leave, her land of fantastical dreams
Dimmed orbs of dark, squinting at the winking light of a newborn sun -
Drowsy fingertips grasping at sheets, flinging them off her naked form
The soft whispers of robes, sliding, covering clammy, goosebumped skin -
A one dimensional protection against the unquenchable thirst of the wind
Seeping, twisting and slipping through cracks of a frozen house, as the world changed around it -
An electrifying shock as bare feet pressed against the icy chill of marble tiles
Soft padding of footsteps down an empty corridor -
Guarded by painted eyes, unblinking as time passed by
That looked away, from the door that led -
Out, out into the outside world.
The whispers of ghosts following her trail -
As she flings the heavily ornamented doors open, yet weak as they crack and bend
Down into her fragrant gardens she goes -
Toes digging into the soft vibrant soil, bursting with life
The tender touch of petals -
warms her blood
As the prick of thorns -
bleed rubies down her once unmarked hand
A blissful smile turns into grimace and sadness -
a head turned in question
Her life secluded -
to the eternal building, she called home
A dainty form, vanishing in and out -
discovering a new thing here, and here and there
The delighted laughs -
and muted whimpers
Always quick to run back to the heavily ornamented doors -
their hinges creaking, quivering as their form weakened
Until one day, she left -
She left, left too far that allowed for no hurried escape
Ending in a shy face, hidden behind a vine covered pillar, among rubble of ancient civilizations -
As a stranger, beckoned
With answers, and questions -
That he freely gave, and whom she freely went with
Years went by -
When she finally visited the house, with corridors of painted eyes
She slipped back into robes from her youth -
Snuggled under the sheets that had warmed her in the coldest of nights
She closed her eyes -
And as she did, fire was birthed into the house that had stood frozen, as the world changed around it
The chorus and singing of flames with their suits of red, blue and orange, reverberated in the home -
their contralto and soprano tones creating a symphony of scorch and ruin
Leaving a skeleton wall and blackened faces -
And the form of a sleeping maiden
As vines and trees creeped in and all other forms of green took root -
Growing and twisting, bathing in the warmth of the sun
A shelter alight with the beating heart of life -
A mass of roots and shyly peeking tendrils
Allowing for gentle breezes from the tenderest of winds -
Yet shielding from the mightiest of tempests, as their leaves shook, bending and turning but never breaking
Stirring in her slumber -
She woke, to find herself laying in a bed of grass
And never went back to sleep
it's got a reference somewhere in the middle to indian mythology, just ignore that.
my new expensive bicycle
completely unbecoming of me
is not meant for the craggy roads of this city
though it claims to be a "mountain bike"
hardtail, 21 gears (shorthand for 7x3,
though i would hardly know what that means
dipped in the filthy vapours suffusing this urban lung),
a titanium skeleton as sleek as an ocean liner.
when i pedal el poderoso through the undulating
wavy asphalt streets that line this rancid metropoliced hub,
my heart hops on every slippery slide, each jerk and skid,
each strangling strain on the wheels as i make a hairpin bend
fit to snap right down the middle.
yesternoon it rained and i found a microscopic honeycomb
growing off the plastic of my smoothly-hewn mudguards:
a present from mumbadevi for being born in her boggy
womb. my feet seemed dipped in ice, frozen nerves,
the skin perspiring dilute acid as i pedaled faster
than i should have over the slick cobbled lanes,
the rocks and stones and bits of road chipped off,
gnawed off by cats and hounds pissing over
the tiny clumps of grass that timidly sprout from spores
buried underfoot, then
the sonorous almighty nasal rumble
of rubber rolling over a metal drum embedded
in the ground. then the swerving, the shifting of weight
as we weave between cars many kilometres travelled to meet
here amidst a trumpet band from pandaemonium,
between men and women letting down their stringy hair,
the mask of water on their faces deepening the reds,
the sensuous browns of their pupils, and they stand back
and watch my bicycle chain pull us down the river and home.
Sporeheart
That cold lung drip will pierce
The veil oncoming--------Distrust
Us, wide weald conch loam
Drunk on wormwood tea,
Our haven safe at Anglesey.
Do not be swept by gallants
Dressed like wooden squires
In the Low Castle; splinter in
His quillhand; Alcuin's ghost
Grew hoarser still now that
The toil and trouble ended.
Fix the clock please. We need
To go to work today in
Grass rooks; wighted by
The callow wainscot paste.
Hideous slumlords, let us
Sleep. End the housing crisis.
We have no carhold tomb
To make us grapefruit pink.
Must slacken the Indiana
Fragment, bristling in an
Eastern wash, this continent's
Black-blasted steppe
Inside white seeds.
This poem has no name
I feel empty
This poem has no name
Here's one I wrote,
Heaven help us
walking lonely, sterile shores:
the cosmic gap immures
so we silently withdrawl;
But yet the fall
Is soil enough for sleep
for we ourselves do reap,
and dream of our perdition.
Kamasutra before sex
Synopsis before text
Live in advance and
Never return debts.
Stable job's horseshit
Gift box of Hershey's
Hearsay of her slit
Hissing of his shame
Perverse designs run
In their tracks dead
Through the well-licked
Family tended heads
Thomas the tank engine
Little and strong
He bent me right over
And knew it was wrong
Thomas the tank engine
Fucked me with his dong
For as many long minutes
As his dong is long
Thomas the tank engine
Went full Donkey Kong
Then put me away
Like a well used bong
>>8153397
New Shakespeare over here
>>8145670
I like this, but a few lines the meter feels off.
>I wish you weren't anything
jars for me, maybe make it 'were not'?
The tambourine metaphor is a bit too el quirky for me, but if i put that aside its a lovely poem and i especially love the last stanza.
>>8150919
I can't really put my finger on what, but this just strikes me as uninspiring. A lot of cliches in use, like 'bursting with life' even things like 'naked form' - just sound like oblique attempts at sounding poetic. Just a lot of it sounds unesscary, especially because it is so long - try condensing each line, retaining only exactly what you need.
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."
Smoldering campfire glances
Deep grooves in gnarled limbs
The icy embrace of rolling fog
Pulls us into a deeper sleep
>>8153849
Thanks! I wrote it in my head when I was walking home in the winter and the bushes were like winter tambourines that's where the imagery comes if it helps. I'm terrible at meter I just go by flow so "weren't" felt like it picked up more speed. Which other verses were off? Also if you care, I also wrote this onethe other night >>8146478
>>8153863
I really like this one a lot. The end is the tiniest but chunky. Also I read it as the Faceless Rose (like the flower) and it gave an awesome lore to it
>>8153397
it's wonderful
>>8153243
barf
>>8150927
could someone please critique this?
>>8153902
>so "weren't" felt like it picked up more speed
yeah you're right it does, so if that was your intention then it works - but i assumed it was a mistake
>>8150927
This is clearly very well written and has fantastic imagery.
Unfortunately it reads almost completely like prose. I'm kind of anal about rhyming / meter n poetry, I guess. Otherwise it's very well written.
Seen:
Sometimes I see you after I've already fallen asleep
And I wonder if that means
I haven't moved on.
Or;
If it means nothing.
Like dreams are dreams
And you can't control them.
I haven't had a good night's sleep in weeks.
I used to scoff at those old people
Who say Facebook ruins lives
And I still do
But I'm sick of seeing your face
Show up on the side of my screen
Because I'm not vindictive enough to block you entirely.
Sometimes I think
Weed has shot my memory
Or, at least
Reduced my attention span.
I think you look really pretty with make up on
But without it you're just plain.
I'm going to stop using my phone as much,
I'm going to turn it off unless I need to make a call.
And I'm going to stop using it right before bed.
The time's I smoke weed
Are the only times I sleep uninterrupted.
Last night I had a fever dream that I was flying above a flooded city
And there was nothing I could do to return me to the ground.
>>8148434
Amateur writer here, don't know if my remark holds equal traction as the others, but in line four of stanzas 1 and 4, you write 'us', the only place you mention a plural first person, where you write 'I' throughout the rest of the poem. Personally it gives me conflicting opinions about the narrator and whether he is representing himself or a larger group that are equally intent on discovering what makes her sleep.
That also brings me to the part I like most: the severe desperation that your poem portrays, and the extent that the narrator is willing to go to discover.
------
A poem of mine till then.
-----
I walk away, into the darkness
My feet splash on the pool of your blood
Your body lies cold on the floor
Where you crash, hitting your face
Hitting your knees
Losing the life in your body
The air doesn’t find its way through
The passage has sealed completely
My hands squeeze tighter
I feel your neck within my palms.
The knife has lodged itself into bone,
It has passed through all layers of flesh
It sinks inside, below your breast
My hand reappears from beneath my jacket
My hands grip the hilt, securely,
I reach for the hilt.
I stare into your eyes, soon to be lifeless,
Face, facing yours, hands, holding yours
Shoulders level, equal footing;
Mind: raging.
I walk to you,
I let my thoughts guide me to you
I think, I think again.
I reach you.
I feel the weight, the weight of your death in my jacket
I place my hand over my jacket pocket,
I place my hand over my heart,
It spoke of your end.
Tear me apart /lit/
When he grew old
He thought he would make Dionysus
Wait in the drawing room --
While he entertained the most
Noble guests round his feast.
And taking from his table were such high
Creatures as love and death and pain:
But whimsy was not there.
Where is his childly mind? Where is his smile?
Why, in the drawing room sat his joy,
But ne'er oft he chose to dine with him.
He chose sour wine and unseason'd fruits
To adorn a slaughtered feasant.
And his guests brought tears to his eyes,
And he filled his goblet with the tears,
Complaining of their taste.
But more he drank and loved to drink:
Where is his childly mind?
He was a poor knight, wand'ring
Without his abandoned guest.
And to remedy his pain,
He told tales and sang ballads
Of love, of pain, of hardship, trial
To tell for his guests around
Inviting his joy behind locked door
And joy not hearing a sound.
He remained there --
In the dark room, a
Lone visitor made to entertain himself
In the drawing room
And the feast was ended and the lights
Shut off.
Our young hero turned to his bed,
And in the drawing room joy hung his head.
>>8154268
Mira Gonzalez tier
>>8155216
>My hands grip the hilt, securely,
>I reach for the hilt.
This doesn't make sense
>>8155234
Damn. I personally found it deep in the end, I'm pretty sure many others will too. The beginning about Dionysus confused me a bit, feels disjointed. Apart from that I like it a lot.
>>8155251
It goes backwards. The chain of events begins at the last line and ends at the first.
>>8155260
Oh I didn't realize that. Why though?
>>8155256
I was thinking along the lines of Nietzsche's ideas in The Birth of Tragedy
>>8155268
Don't remember what led me to do it but I remember being asked to write a poem depicting murder. But it's the only poem of mine where I have done such a thing. Does it have a positive impact?
>>8155273
Not aware of anything by Nietzsche. Could you elaborate or suggest a concise version that I could go through?
-----
Wrote another one just now.
-----
I saw the old man in the heat of the autumn sun,
He stood on the sandy ground with an arched back
Holding a pickaxe in his calloused hands
Craning himself back and forth
Bringing the sharp metal back into the ground
But to its demise.
From his lips uttered incomprehensible words
Of which none reached mine ears but
"The damn burnt Fortune that doled it
That damned burnt Fortune, let it burn again."
And I stood there, heat condensing into beads
Of perspiration on my forehead
Inches away from where I was hard at work
Using my foolish mind to decipher another
That subconsciously but knowingly was
Creating sense out of gibberish till
It's final realization that gibberish is all that remains.
>>8155315
In brief N thinks that we can view tragedy (and now often included is poetry) in terms of the dionysian and appolonian. Where the dionysian might be what Christians call the worldly or carnal pleasures and the appolonian is charcterized by what we think of as classical virtues. I am ftaming the poem around that (artificial as it is) dichotomy.
>>8155315
If the backward order had a reason, like leading back to an unexpected motive or revelation, it could be good. But in this case it seems a little bit gimmicky imo.
![No Country for Old Men.mp4_snapshot_01.13.47_[2016.04.06_18.41.07].png](https://i.imgur.com/vcyGIJk.jpg "No Country for Old Men.mp4_snapshot_01.13.47_[2016.04.06_18.41.07].png")
>>8155243
I didn't know who she was so I looked her up and discovered this quote:
>I will spend hours on one sentence sometimes, and if I feel that sentence isn’t expressing exactly what I want it to express, I will delete the sentence entirely. I think it takes a lot of precision and tedious work.
>>8155355
Sure she says that, but read one of her poems.
>>8155368
TODAY MY ALARM WENT OFF AT 12:30PM
Mira Gonzalez
I stayed in bed for over an hour
looked at things on my phone
I felt slightly anxious about nothing particular
I walked downstairs and poured coffee into a jar
I asked a person on the internet if I should take drugs
I took drugs before the person had time to respond
I feel alienated by people who express concern about me without
defining their concern in terms of a specific solution or goal
I dont feel comforted by the idea of an afterlife
I dont want to continue experiencing things after I die
I want someone to pull my hair because I like the idea of someone
controlling my head without touching my head
what is the difference between being an independent person
and being a person who is accepting of loneliness
>this is something that got published
>>8143325
Your heart is soft and stinking of foam
packed up, lied down and boxed in a poem
Bad try to get your rhymes to /fit/
Be kind to your soul and browse in /lit/
Your body will thank you, and your mind will too
I'm tired as shit and the sun's in it's tomb
Ill smash and fill my womens womb
>and go to bed and dream of bearded necks kung fu.
First time here. Lel. Is it a must to write in meter if you're a /lit/?
>The Irony.
That we are afraid of the Woods and Forests.
And of the Night
When we have the axes and the fervours
To run while we have the heart
and to lose everything in life when we have death.
We are stronger than the Day, but weaker than the Night,
and we are stronger than the Flight but weaker than the Fight.
I want to feel the blood rush to my head,
looking for an answer,
and with one Pump fill my whole body with fears cleansing clarity.
Feel the day break me down, and the night strenghten me
Slowly but surely stagnate under the suns.
For
Death, she is my friend
Because it is my destiny
My journey
And my goal.
>wrote it a couple of days ago while calling the bank
>turns out i wasn't owning money to the state.
Poem is written in swedish, tried to translate it while being true to its spirit. Im just glad if anyone reads this lel.
Love it. Thought-provoking.
Cold mountain wasn't cheesy, but i would honestly cut out the two last rows. Every writer has his or her taste and stamp of identity.
>>8142526
Purple haze all in my brain etc. Brah, it's done to death.
>>8142547
Talent brah. I'm actually moving to peloponnesos, got my thoughts to the wars and history of that area.
Good flow of words and play. Got any more that you can post?
I read it as prose.
>>8155513
>dream of bearded necks kung fu
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qsEZ2lpM0Yw ?
>>8155396
Art is expression
Expression is spontaneous.
It can be planned, explained and framed, but its colour is that of capturing a moment or a time-setting.
To construct, and then deconstruct, you'll get an abombination. Frankenstein. Sure, if you're after that, go for it. But who has ever said Frankenstein was beautiful?
Good night, /lit/. I hope this bread is alive when i wake up.
>>8149192
>>8149513
Finished >>8149192 here's the final product
XVII
Such distance is often travelled,
By many such as me.
Though each time it is unraveled:
Fever’d, near silently.
‘The first was wrong, as first is oft,
The second grew too quick.
The third in time waned itself soft,
Now quarter burns its wick.’
And candles come, as candles go:
Replace’t, the withered light.
Though frozen wax, does burn more slow,
Miss take not lover’s fright.
Frenzies of fervor so corrupt
Me that my breath has flown.
With wings of icar I’ll construct,
To follow flame that’s shone.
O’, such brief passion does appear,
And lay before my eye.
It’s stalken struggles I don’t fear,
Till minutes ‘fore I lie.
But fretful blood runs cold in veins,
My heat: yours, unbounded.
Presence lacking, I’m mad, like Danes,
Present: cherubs sounded.
The days grow cold, as I grow old, and crow for everlasting.
The night grows hot, with you ‘tis naught: to live, to die, t’age laughing.
>>8155243
and yet still better than 90% of the stuff in most poetry threads
The wrinkle
I attempt to iron the wrinkle out of my favourite white shirt
Button down collar with slight yellow stains under the arms
From sweating in the kitchen, near the burners
Or dealing with customers whom I hope don't notice
The yellowing stains
Today I sat longer than usual, my shirt pulled out of my waist
Bunched up behind my back pressing against the seat
This is no ordinary wrinkle
Every strand of low-grade fiber has been pinched
In such a precise way
In such an exact location
That not even the steaming iron can relieve the stress
Over and over again
Pressing harder and harder
I try to relieve and flatten out this anger-inducing fold
Snap
The ironing board collapses scraping my shins on its way down
And taking my shirt with it, getting caught on the leg
And tearing the arm from the socket
Here's a little pseudo-vilanelle. It's inspired by the recent shootings in my hometown (Orlando), so perhaps you think it's edgy, but who can honestly say they're not a little morbidly intrigued by lone gunmen? Also, I realize Bion doesn't really work as a rhyme for done, but at the moment I can't think of a better way of doing it. Still, I think this may be my best attempt at a poem (which is saying something).
The Gunman
At close of day I grab my gun
Because the leaves have slipped away:
Away, when all is said and done.
The wires have slipped from the hostile Sun,
And with their music hold me sway:
Therefore, this day I grab my gun.
Malicious muse, list to your son,
With verses made from useless clay—
All clay, when all is said and done—
But worse (far worse!) that music which I shun,
Spelled out by automated fay—
For them, for them I grab my gun!
Time was when praisèd would be Bion,
Whose lovely piping ceased in May;
Then, no more could be said or done;
But Elegy has had its run,
And now the Devil’s Tone has had its say:
For this, this day I grab my gun,
And all will soon be said and done.
>>8155544
I like some parts of this a lot but the rest is worthless to me. Just my take but I would just do
>That we are afraid of the Woods and Forests.
>And of the Night
>When we have the axes and the fervours
>To run while we have the heart
and to lose everything in life when we have death.
>We are stronger than the Day, but weaker than the Night,
>I want to feel the blood rush to my head,
>Feel the day break me down, and the night strenghten me
>Slowly but surely stagnate under the suns.
>Death, she is my friend
>>8156086
not even close
My penis is so very big
My fangirls number manies
They want me to my digg to stigg
Right up into their fannies
But weep these women every day
For I have chosen man ass
And no matter how much they pay
I'll never Fpreg she-lass
AN APETTITE A HUNGER
it was the crack of dawn
eyes adjust, crackling to the sun
this burning inside
this feeling in my gut cant be undone
pain everlasting
a fire that never rests to firm
my uncontrollable hunger
for a blood as sweet and asunder
for a skin as pale my lover
how my heart beats, i wonder
forgive me for what I done
forgive for whatever I havent begun
im not me, im a shell of another
i longed for a day please please bring the rain on the weather
drag the dark on this day
i sank my teeth, ill beg you to stay
please dont be scared of the thunder
please dont be scared of a drum beat on my chest and for whats under
how my heart beats
how my heart beats for you, i wonder
and if my dying day comes
take this wreath for you to remember
even in pain of the world, you were my nurser
how my heart beats, i wonder
>>8155617
>>8142547
here
i posted this (very short) segment of my upcoming piece
>>8149513
I'm no historian, but I've been fascinated by Egyptian culturw (pre-greeks) since I was a child, and one day I got upset and wrote that. Glad you liked it. A lot of people say I write prose-y.
Pic-related is another piece I'm working on, but it's on the back burner until I can figure out how to say the thing.
>>8156607
>never rests to firm
>forgive me for what i done
>even in pain of the world (lack of the behind pain makes it sound weird)
>how my heart beats, i wonder (????)
tyrone z3: revengeance?
good meter and rhyme over all, but edgy as shit
i can understand though, when i rhyme i usually either get depressing or edgy like that. which is why nowadays i only write poetry about thomas the tank engine raping me i guess
>>8156632
>lined prose
>doesn't even have meter
>awkwardly breaks sentences in the middle for no reason
jesus christ "hey look i can do poetry too, guys!" bullshit like this is my trigger word
Like, okay, this is very good prose. But if I just put it all into a paragraph there would be no reason to think that it's poetry. At all.
This is something I might type to the start of a very well written book. But that does not make it good poetry.
>>8156673
what are you referring to?
>>8156659
which one? The image?
>>8155355
If she really took that advice her poems would be blank.
>>8156704
Yeah that's the only poem in the post from what I can tell?
>>8155355
>hours on one sentence
jesus christ when i write poetry i can write... 80 lines in an hour
though granted that was a ballad kind of thing so i guess there's less thought in each line, but still
how are you bad enough at poetry to have to spend hours on one sentence
if you can't fit in a description of the elephant's earlobe, why not just have it be of it's dick or whatever? as long as it's part of the same theme
>>8156727
That guy was asking my to see some of my other work so I posted that image and linked to another on itt. Do you mind telling me if my enjambments fared better on them, since you didn't seem to like them in that one?
>>8142547
This one is a lot better. Even with rhyming it's much more poetic.
Timelessness brought to an abrupt
End
Sounds a bit weird since it either forces you to ignore the lines or read the end of one sentence as the beginning of another.
That last verse sounds like it's trying a bit too hard to use exotic sounding words. Also
>A trumpet, sound off
Very minor nitpick but should be sounds unless sound off is referring to something other than the trumpet?
Don't know what Philomela is, but then I'm not particularly learned. But regardless it sounds a lot better as poetry since it sounds far more rhythmic and line-based and far less like prose, despite that one sentence getting chopped off.
So pretty good, though it could benefit from rhyming (though I understand rhyme every line or two is extremely limiting.)
it might not matter that there are holes in life, I look back at the road as the rain wrinkles the parking lot curbs, leaving the suburb below Boston with overcast.
Raindrops distinguish themselves for you along the windshield.
There, the notes are easy to read
It says on this date this car folds itself into a larger than life commodity, returning its value and relieving my mother's stress
What a relief, I thought
Because there are holes in our lives, we splinter the guilt along an unknown axis, distracting it into fractions
>>8156935
oh my god jesus christ
>>8156659
except you didn't even bother splitting the prose up into that many lines
and it's not even that good as prose, it's pseudointellectual
"it says on this date this car folds itself into a larger than life commodity, returning its value and relieving my mother's stress"
what is this
why would anybody type this out?
Raindrops flow through my fingers as the all-knowing Father reality watches down upon this thoughtful existance of His
Gaze upon me, thought-Father
I am but a flower wilting, staring into the face of one above, the eternal scribbling of a thousand mad prophets coming together to bring together a paradox in reality.
i, too, am masterful in the art of one minute abstract wisdom. beyond masterful, even.
gaze upon this masterwork
it is so unknowable. layers upon layers of meaning, each meaning subdividing into smaller, even more subtle meanings. it is like an onion.
>>8156659
It's prose damnit, it aint supposed to have meter.
My triggerword is actually
>meter in english
It sounds horrible compared to other languages. Iambic meters and sonnettes? Fuck off.
But thats just my opinion. Everyone has them, get used to it.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1C68vc8plVI
>get to arabic level brah.
>pic related to Orlando shootings.
this is probably my best piece
maybe a bit cheery, but ehhh
it's pretty long, like full ballad long
think it took an hour or an hour and a half to write
http://pastebin.com/PYy4BADB
>>8157257
Wether loss or pride, or bitter wine
The goal in writing poetry
Sit and think just for a while
Iambic rhymes; idoltary
Art is expression, just like life
And life is surely short
But live your art or indulge in the rife
Of the cheesy poetrys court
I'm not complaining as it may seem
But if you go with meters
Be sure to hold the meter tight
or else it would ruin the theme
Other than that, it is quite good
it made me think of Lotr
And now im stuck in stupid meter
I'm gonna stroke my morning wood.
>>8157305
that was really good, anon
though you seem to have screwed up meter a bit on "But live your art or indulge in the rife / Of the cheesy poetrys court" and "Or else it would ruin the theme"
Other than that it's really good and I like the way you rhyme
>>8157310
Haha the OCD got the better of me. Listened to Court of the crimson king yday night and still have it in mind.
But yeah. I read the link, it is good. Just write write write, and don't be afraid to revisit it once in a while. But save the old one ofcourse, it's easy for old poems to morph into new ones.
>gfs face when morning wood. Too bad she's out of town
I Hold With Fire
The fire rained down
On October the first
People waded and drowned
in a sea of themselves
while scrambling toward the church
The priest was distraught
slick with sticky sweat
trying his best to do what he thought
was best for his people
telling them all was fine and don't fret
The streets were alive
Wide-eyed people in hordes
fled like mice for their lives
They ran to their homes
slammed and bolted their doors
The fire rained down
and splintered their homes
Unaware of the despair of the people found
unprepared for this day
The day of falling stones
The end had come
The hands on the clock stopped
staring out at a world hung
by a thread dancing delicately
as the thread was chopped.
>>8157053
Aha pseudo intellectual
aha thanks sorry you love rhythm
Aha
>>8157257
>On the blade and the pen
Oh the night when lightning struck,
terrible blaze
clouds dissolved out in the roar,
of clinging glaives
When the sea of death was dashed,
wave onto wave
I unsheet my pride and heir
my beautiful blade
Alas, some lass will moan and tear
stuck in my stay
And when the sun rebirths again
so will her play
the scream of dying men outside
blocked by my brain
it is cursed and left me with
a heart of clay
kings are born and mountains fall
so will men too
Life and death, melancholy
It's all the same
A word of wisdom of the sword
and of the pen
Both are strong now, but combined
the guide of men
For it is the penis proud
he will unsheet
key to ever living life
It's in the D
In its dashing glory tall
for lucky maids
But the less-fortunate ones
with no real men
pride will die off soon enough
of smaller men
More is more and taller men
no mystery
The Thick dick and
white ink writes the history
What the hell. I found this in a .txt ive had in the recycle bin for over a year. Anyway. It's me experimenting with hexameter i guess.. I think i was drunk.
Anyway. Enjoy.
>>8157480
I like it. It's really ambient, it somehow makes me think of diablo 2..
>>8157177
your poem is literally the worst thing in this thread, no surprise considering your plebtier opinion on meter
You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting -
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.
>>8158251
Good thing taste is subjective. I'm sure you got tons of grills on your dick from reading in shakespearean trochee-sonnets and dactylian hexameter :^)
>implying meter isn't a circlejerk nowadays
>implying ANYONE writes good meters nowadays.
>>8158264
I like the general sentiment (even if it is somewhat of a platitude), and the repetitions of 'meanwhile' feel very precisely placed in evoking the constant flows, breaks and cycles of the natural world. The language is simple, but that's in no way a bad thing here.
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,
machinating states of disturb’d revelry –
lies stained a wound of inscrib’d 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, 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
at the distant feet of drifting spectres,
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.’"
>>8158269
i write good meter
Y'all are good. Though I don't know how to critique for shit. At least I know I'll never share anything and will just keep it to myself.
>>8158158
""it says on this date this car folds itself into a larger than life commodity, returning its value and relieving my mother's stress""
what the jesus mother of shit
>>8155669
someone critique this?
>>8157064
nice bait
>>8158576
I think it's pretty cool. I like the effect of vague describing and making the vagueness dissolve into something as mundane as his mothers stress
