post your shit and please try to critique others
>>8229636
Here's mine:
Some refer to life
As being snuffed out,
Like a candle in your chest.
But frequently,
It’s like beating flames
With a heavy wool blanket.
Tenacious fire
Can force waves
Of buffeting suffocation.
Some even leave
Embers that spring
Alive with each breeze.
Meteoric extinction
Is somehow much nicer
With it’s constant thudding,
Than bursts of light
Piercing through ether,
Like a rushing, mighty wind.
will critique back
I dreamt I was a bean
rolling along
down the hill
filled with feels
not even a human bean
just a mess
I hope I taste good
when someone eats me for dinner
I am the space between my eyes and wall,
To which I look and think of naught, at all;
As empty as the atoms in the air,
Existing as the space from here to there;
I am the light projection of myself,
Upon the open pages of my shelf.
I live in flux of transitory whims,
And hold the fleeting folds of phantom limbs
Of memory, the wake in which persists
A presence, that my sense of self exists:
I am the empty space between the leaves,
The pattern on the ground that shadow weaves;
And when I gaze into my mirrored face,
I see the emptiness inside a vase.
I sit and stare at shadows on the wall,
And wonder why I’m even here at all.
>>8229679
i don't know english poetry enough to tell you that it IS in fact good but i can tell you that i liked it.
although
>And hold the fleeting folds of phantom limbs
what did he mean by this.
>>8229648
Sepia laughter
With sweet velvet kisses
On moonlit verandas; the spark of her eyes.
Moving as thieves, we narrowly rise
To branching out
Balconies,
Churches say,
'Come to me!'
Then we lie under willows,
Bees fall out of sky -
Tears stolen by wind.
Our hearts soft like pillows.
Our minds start to billow.
We dream in our silver-thorned crowns...
I wrote a story yesterday about a boy who is told to eat his beans, but sees them as humans bleeding out. He finally eats them (while crying.) His dessert is far more horrific.
>>8229648
really like this except
>filled with feels
doesn't really add anything to it
>>8229679
pretty cool, but the use of naught seems weirdly stilted and makes it apparent you chose the word to fit the meter
everything else is top-notch though
>I see the emptiness inside a vase
fucking love that line (but i have a weird thing for convex/concave things)
>>8229946
change sky to skies and that line will seem more natural (to me)
>Sepia laughter
this is a cool line, but part of me want more on it
>Our minds start to billow
this comes off as trying to force a rhyme scheme which i'm not a fan of
A hollow, reach your arm
in, palm around. Find it?
Must be
where else
but here it's not. Stomachs
gurgling ask for a fast
break from hunger. Even they
plange, This is too much!, or,
We've been patient for
quite some time, where are
the tender ones, warm and immediate
ebullience: none; introductory words.
Won't grasp much if it's not
elbow deep.
>>8229973
I'm the Sepia dude. (New to poetry and getting critiques. There was two other verses but I've lost them.) Sepia laughter remains unchanged for the reason you wanted it to be. I've changed the other things you mentioned as well as rewriting hearts to heads. You got any poetry?
1.
If, for, a bird mistook
you for a system of power
you, me, he, nor she should
be included.
Its over there non-withstanding.
Ambulant smile walkers
mauled by their
reverie they let
all at once take them.
Should not then ever must be
no, no
for we are it,
over there, them, no.
What did your teacher
need you to remember
about the Greeks?
4.
Derrida speaks of derision only when
meaning to go see that new movie,
wanna come?
Flit, flit, flee thistling for
crepuscular slow breathing
at the crosswalk to change.
Let’s go unless the bells are ringing
UP! They are. Look at that.
Reschedule for marg’s on the
porch much later, okay?
Be there until we can’t bear it any
longer, we drink in
behinds, three, thick, filibustering
by their own might.
14.
Gulping down onion-ring sized
coffee stains on the page. Please,
allow me to take you in. All of you.
Hungry but unappetizing and displeased
with the results, isn’t it always?
Not this time. Dismiss it as
not the right fit but gas-powered
and earnest, it’ll show itself the right door.
Being your happy. When will I put
down the last of these lumps,
breastsized and nibbling gnawing
needing. Doughy is the boy who
identifies his delirium. Last supper
for two: want in? What poem
was written tight-fisted and tissueless
after a 5’-o-clock-gravy-train-dinner?
15.
Whitman, an American as good as any
of us, left poems in his wake
by the fistful. He sold them out
on country roads (39¢) to show
he could disregard and fly from
any love currently his. His tip hat
is overturned by bills and bullion and
tender so green you could bite its
worth, not, into a single tumbling crumb.
17.
Slickened and slathered I need you
not too warm but just right I’d like to
thrust: UP. U-hP. Up. Heavy, forceful, one
more time let me guide your hands to
where I am. To flip you and find you
right where you were. Buttered
and battered you collect yourself
when I’m through with you yet. Mewling
once more, I’ll meet any gaping cashmere
your hems dribble out for parting
with brigades, seizing last left
legs of your feast to vulture.
>>8230026
I have a bit. I started this thread, so the first one is mine.
>>8230054
i like these, are you doing a series?
>>8230059
While buffeting suffocation is good imagery it gives poor flow, appears shoe-horned and doesn't follow the theme of the elements that the others inspire "embers that spring alive with each breeze." I'd use it in something else definitely (if I were you.)
Meteoric should be changed to meteor.
I'm thinking that a one syllable adjective before "waves" would improve the overall feel, like blue or great or new, but I'm a bit iffy on that.
- Sepia Dude
>>8230119
thanks, i'm trying to practice my word economy so the stuff about flow is really helpful, but the simple adjective bit shows an underlying problem with the ideas i'm attempting to communicate so while I probably won't take the advice the point-out is extremely helpful.
>>8230151
Fare do's.
Just read stuff out loud and remove anything that deviates from what you out
Happiness is
a warm set of gums
spookily utterly colorfully
connected to yours.
Or a gun.
walk home (b).
imagine then a test of will;
imagination all too real
where spirits mingle in my gut,
and in that sea my body swims.
this name i have is my defense,
my teeth are sharp my muscles tense,
i spit voyeurs into the dirt
and hide my fear of getting hurt.
my clothes become a prison cell
feel the bars pressed in my skin
in a cold bed heavy head spins
and in that sea my body swims.
poem 5.
The morning chorus fucking bores us!
And cut flowers die all but too quick.
Give me a new love to devour
and let me eat 'til I am sick.
Two Fifths, or, A Song For Laura.
But she is the most beautiful.
I have watched her - there - there - there
(And I know that you have too)
there is music in her hands and hips
that no cupid may capture.
She says that I am her Two Fifths.
Not the whole picture
but enough.
It is enough. I am enough.
>>8230406
Try again
they asked me to break it down a little
why is it a diamond in everything you see, the tree and the traffic light
so we know it's not a stolen phrase
though I did steal it all,
the garbage bags and the scooter and the sounds of passing buses, the yellow and white stripes, the tongue I don't understand
>>8230406
Montie?
STEP BACK I'M A MASTER CRITIC
>>8229643
this isn't poetry it's just poetic wording
>>8229648
stop dreaming start writing poetry
>>8229679
these are notes for the idea of a poem, not a poem
>>8229946
romance isn't stringing a bunch of cliche words together
>>8230000
your poem is so obscure it forgot to be a poem
>>8230054
your literary tricks are not poetry
>>8230406
Some of you are alright. Don't go to school tomorrow.
>>8230431
you don't have any ideas, and you definitely don't have a poem.
>>8230585
Fragment (consider revising)
its shit i know:
Orange lit room,
above the bookcase.
Only one lightbulb alive.
The voyeur of the parking lot.
Shows for all the little people,
approachers and passerbys alike.
Arms through each hoop,
snapping the back clasp.
Here.
Cold billowy night,
wintery spring breeze.
The light's on in the staircase.
Feet at the top of the watery glass.
Step by step,
then unlatch the pesky lock.
Greeting the corner of your neck,
warm again.
And can you get the lock.
>>8230653
>Fragment (consider revising)
do I have any potential though before I start with revising
>>8230653
I agree with everything you said.
>>8230685
Yeah you have potential. Poetry isn't magic, you can learn.
If I were you I would learn how to sing and tell a story (literally recite little fables or read short stories)
learning stories will help you to learn to have something to say
learning to sing will help you to say it well
if you want to write good poems, think of yourself more as a medieval bard/troubadour than as a modern intellectual; intellectuals/academics are not good poets
>>8230707
http://knowyourmeme.com/memes/some-of-you-guys-are-alright
>>8230719
I'm obscure and literary trix guy. If I'm not writing lyrically as your love for troubadours and songs shows, and I am still able to elicit an emotional response from my poems or at least allow for a particular way of reading, I have been successful.
>>8230719
Thanks for the tips hombre
Never really investigated in how to learn singing, nor story telling for that matter. Anything good on that?
I'm aware on the other hand that poetry is all about the heart
>>8230740
yeah, but you'll only be getting a response from people perverted enough to have studied literature
>>8230747
>Anything good on that?
Not really. I haven't do it myself. I don't think you have to necessarily learn professionally; just get a feel for it.
>I'm aware on the other hand that poetry is all about the heart
Kind of. It should still make sense.
read this letter of Dante and see how much thought he put into the structure of his poem: http://faculty.georgetown.edu/jod/cangrande.english.html
poetry isn't all about the heart, it's being able to use a literary form to express it
Label me an academic but I've never taken a literature class beyond high school. I'm not writing the fucking Waste Land over here with half the verses dependent upon references.
>>8230768
> I'm not writing the fucking Waste Land
prove it
>>8230782
What?
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.
>>8230801
Really? That's very interesting I've actually never read Eliot because I hate reading poetry dependent upon references and that's what I've heard The Waste Land is. I mention Whitman but I figure he's pretty mainstream, Derrida I do as well but he figures less prominently in that poem.
I'm not sure if you mean in another way however.
>>8229648
Why is it just poetic wording? I need some details here otherwise that's useless. If the structure is suffering tell me why.
>>8230754
By heart I mean something like divine inspiration, or act of the Holy Spirit etc, without that core poems are of course a dime a dozen. By heart I definitely don't mean senseous impressions alone, snot certainly not muh feelings
Thanks again for all the tipz
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 and 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 me into tomorrow I survive the night before.
>>8230653
>some of you are alright don't go to school tomarrow.
kek
>>8230672
I get a feel of surrealism with all the weird shapes and transitions. I like it but mainly for the fact that I love surrealism.
>>8229648
gave me chuckles, you're going places desu
THEY WROTE DESPAIR
They wrote on the walls despair
Despair wrote in red
Red for all to read
Read for all their brains
Brains for all their heads
Heads for their function
Function, we all wait for a direction
Direction, we choose and path and thats where we go
Go in hope
Hope they wrote in red
Red from the blood they gave after despair
Despair is what was not given
Given was hope
>>8230332
That one has good numbers but doesn't sound as good. The other ones are pretty solid and have nice flow.
>>8231052
Usually don't comment on these threads because I never see anything that tickles my fancy but this one is good m8. My only input would be considering picking a different word do shrieking
>>8229643
Overall pretty cliche. I liked two lines and they were more for the overall imagery, not how they're written.
> waves of buffeting suffocation
>Meteoric extinction Is somehow much nicer With it’s constant thudding,
>>8231052
I want you to try actually imagining this and what the various descriptions do to each other
>how are the curling midnight thinkings sparkling through velvet?
>does mud feel like velvet?
>do things bounce easier in mud or velvet?
>is mud or velvet more transparent for the curling midnight thinkings to sparkle through?
that's before you get to the rest of the trite imagery.
>>8231059
Forgot to post under my trip name
>>8231072
Thanks. Shrieking probably doesn't fit with drifting snow but it's meant to go from the paralyzing softness of thoughts to how loud they get at night. I'm not sure what word to fit in there
>>8231082
You're very good at being snarky but it greatly hinders your imagination. Midnight thinkings are curling because they twist around from one place to the other. Velvet feels like it sparkles under your fingers when you brush it backwards and yes it is like mud, soft but it dredges beneath you. Although a muddied head wasn't meant to mean literal mud it was used in the context of jumbled or muddled. The bouncing is the jolts of going from one thought to the next and suddenly realizing you're at the next thought... Because you went there with such curling thoughts. I really don't see how that wasn't clear
>>8231106
Your imagery is incoherent and you act like a bitchboi when given critique. You want the reader to give you the benefit of the doubt on clearly idiosyncratic definitions and disjointed imagery *and* on trite cliche phrasing? kek
>>8231052
>velvet
nahhhhhhhh
>>8231137
>>8231137
Night is incoherent. That's the point. You didn't give critique you touted questions intended to be rhetorical because you read the words and couldn't imagine anything. Whether you like it or not it deliberately verges on nonsensical it's not asking for the benefit of the doubt. What other parts particularly offended you
>>8231165
No, I imagined exactly what you wrote: incoherent tryhard crap made all the more bathetic by it being the hardest you could try. I provided an exercise you could have used to improve your imagery, if you hadn't been a blinkered donkey. You're so precious about this that there's little chance of you ever improving.
Mowing the grass
Growing real fast
An inch one day
A mile the next
Scooby doo took a poo
Had to clean it up, what else could I do?
*snaps fingers*
>>8230054
This feels like something somebody would make me read in class. It's probably good, it's just not for me.
This poem is the interlude between parts one and two of the horror novel I wrote and am currently editing.
Falling Cold
Yung jonny seen the locksmith
Creepin thru the yard
Song upon his tongue too
Bawdy for the bard
Yung mari seen the locksmith
Twitching in the loch
Bubbles from his waistcoat
Blood upon the rock
Yung clara seen the locksmith
Watchin in the glass
Felt them fingers graspin
Never made a gasp
sterile white rooms
edges blurred, dulled
and sanity slipping by without end
there is sanctity in every car crash moment
every tiny bit of worth ripped away
profundity in wet eager chunks from the psyche
and sanity screaming to itself in tones best ignored
oh god you've done it now
went and started a burning wretched ember
amongst the coals left to me
craving horrendously disguised distraction
masturbatory urges acted out in realtime
and sanity is screaming to itself in tones best worshiped
the good fight is a dogma
myth written by gluttons for punishment
all of the legends broken by burden they refused to release
practicing mantras into death
I crave the time when people were good and fucked and ugly
depression aches for itself unceasingly
and sanity has gone and won't be missed
I've learned to love my chains
Chaining me to myself.
And I've learned to hate my captor
My Stockholm syndromed self.
But the caged bird sings at night
When animals scream 'come fuck me'
And the eyed walls and eared hills
Recede, blinded by the light.
The distribution of the letter I
Imaginarily spread by bones
Throughout generations of meat
Is called us but thus incomplete—
Shitty shitty bang bang
I like to repeat the same thang
Shitty shitty bang bang
Now here comes a boomerang
Shitty shitty bang bang
I like to repeat the same thang
Shitty shitty bang bang
Call us thus but incomplete
Through generations out of meat
Spread by bones imaginarily
To distribute letters of me
Blinded by the receding light
With walled eyes and hilled ears
Animals scream coming and fucking
And of the caged night the bird sings.
My sin stocked home and selfish drone
Has learned to love his captor
Chained to himself
Loving his chains on the tip top shelf.
Dissonant—
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.
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."
À MON INSPIRATEUR
Mary,
A name made to ryhme with Clary
Your brilliance strikes a faint to the pulse
Your words command the oppose
And your body, all to make the man controlled
When the world was done, you pulled the weight up
When my thoughts were clouds ripped the sky apart
If I could paint a perfect picture, I would've given up
Because I cant draw
Who is this Mary I speak of
What's her voice like, I've never heard her
But to her I'm another victim
Crushed to the stone of her judging eardrum
To her I'm just another lone
Always lonesome
But to the Mary I think of
Your charm sparks an inspiration
And your smile, makes me smile
And your voice, choir angels to joy
And your face, lets the birds sing
And your approval, makes it always right
Pins and needles
Preview to nothing
Snapshot of void
Forsaken feels like
But sometimes not
Blocked by circumstance
Tapping to sane
Thinking Toussaint
Pillows dull
Walls white but filthy
Trapped in ill
Shaking anger to you
Tight grip neverlasting
Refuge
Relief in function
Consistency ignored
Ignorance amplified
Pain constant
But ever reaching to stay
Mourning of a Virgin Deceased
-
Death took thee ‘fore thou life did know:
Thou gentlest of all human race.
O how thy joys were simple sweet,
Unsoiled by this polluted place.
O finest cup of liquid pure,
That never passed man’s lips unchaste;
By cherubs took past clouds and stars,
Whom only angels now may taste.
As Hand of God doth raise you up,
Thy virgin fragrance heaven fills.
Now thou art feasting with the saints,
We hungry sit ‘pon earthly hills.
So do we famished souls now cry;
Thy soul our tears do bid goodbye.
A Contemplation of Beauty
-
Yet thy beauty is no earthly beauty,
From which celestial height did you descend?
Thy shining face makes the sun seem dark,
How high thou doth make my soul to ascend.
Thy eyes framed with lum’nous intelligence,
Thy breast o’er-swelling with bountiful love;
How godlike thy knowing, loving spirit,
The picture of divinity above.
Modestly movèd is thy living body,
By thy undying soul of precious cost;
Thy lips the prophecy of pleasures mild,
Thy hair’s the mem’ry of paradise lost.
O blessed Eve, my blessed broken rib,
My body repair, as thou once did in Eden’s crib.
when the sun dies
and the moon is born;
the memories
refuse to sink below the horizon
never
drowning
i wish i could
turn the thoughts off with the lights
Untitled
(considered one of the greatest and most disturbing poems written in the country)
the man either takes a walk or looks out his window and
chances upon an image that is so blatantly poetic
and this image thrusts him into the realm of
memory, and he thinks of his countless
constructed or objectified lovers. spasms are implied.
at some point there is a reference
to a mythological creature, another poem,
and god.
and of course the landscape
is mentioned and the
line cuts are inventive, sparse
and the language is just the right amount of florid
then focus returns to the man,
a phrase in Latin,
a political digression and another metaphor.
and he comes to a
startling realization that becomes a poem
and wins a number of awards
and is published and anthologized and
included in syllabi forever and ever amen.
>>8233238
Although I'll qualify this with saying that those two poems were pretty good and moved me. Yet the archaism must serve a purpose, it can't be there for no reason. Great job with imagery, tone, meter, and rhyme scheme otherwise.
>>8229648
I dreampt I was a bean
rolling along
down the hil
filled with feels
the hill of Sisyphus
not even a human bean
Heinz
I hope I taste good
when someone eats me for dinner
(though honestly they're probably quite unhygienic
so I don't care
what they
think of
me)
>>8233841
lel, I put a p in dreamt..
>>8230808
No.
>>8231059
Eurgh. Not sure where to start. It's very repetetive and predictable with it.
>>8232697
This one is nice.
Here's mine.
You turn with time to face the void. Gusts of anxiety flee from its depths, chasing maternal warmth. Spleen chill becomes unbearable - look away. Turn back. No choice but to flip a coin and follow it; black coats vision. The scent of almonds on your fifth birthday floats from the tunnel entrance. Each pool you pass evaporates under your gaze; narcissism is futile, ever-tempting. There is no time. Ahead, again, your prospects beckon. Immaterial, volatile, built from marble – that is all you know. They crumble upon arrival, whispering that there are two ways. Echoes of the avalanche set time rumbling. Quick, catch up!
>>8233926
>No.
Why didn't you like it anon ;-;
>>8233960
too much Freudian "muh neurosis" for my taste, but good execution
isn't it a "diptych"?
>>8234011I'm attempt to imply that my portraiture can be found in the poem as well, but if that isn't working, let me know so i can push it a little further
>>8233955
Ok first off I should have asked: what are you trying to achieve with it?
>>8234023
>I'm attempt to imply that my portraiture can be found in the poem as well
Yeah, I thought that. Perhaps it's a bit too obscure though. I'd add 1 line at the end of each side that sums up your own heart/mind, which makes it clearer that your also the subject.
>>8234023
No, that's pretty neat and I think everything less subtle would be too much.
Not that anon btw.
>>8234027
Nothing really, it was just a result of reading the Iliad and Pound, and watching The Wind Rises. I write to satisfy my own aesthetic sensibilities, so if you care about the purpose you probably wouldn't like it.
>>8234075
Read Hölderlin and Shelley's Prometheus Unbound
>>8234080
and Hymn to the Night by Novalis, Hyperion by Keats, and Kubla Khan by Coleridge
>>8234092
Mallarmé, Rimbaud, Verlaine
>>8234097
see, Rimbaud's "Novel":
I
We aren't serious when we're seventeen.
—One fine evening, to hell with beer and lemonade,
Noisy cafés with their shining lamps!
We walk under the green linden trees of the park
The lindens smell good in the good June evenings!
At times the air is so scented that we close our eyes.
The wind laden with sounds—the town isn't far—
Has the smell of grapevines and beer . . .
II
—There you can see a very small patch
Of dark blue, framed by a little branch,
Pinned up by a naughty star, that melts
In gentle quivers, small and very white . . .
Night in June! Seventeen years old! —We are overcome by it all
The sap is champagne and goes to our head . . .
We talked a lot and feel a kiss on our lips
Trembling there like a small insect . . .
III
Our wild heart moves through novels like Robinson Crusoe,
—When, in the light of a pale street lamp,
A girl goes by attractive and charming
Under the shadow of her father's terrible collar . . .
And as she finds you incredibly naïve,
While clicking her little boots,
She turns abruptly and in a lively way . . .
—Then cavatinas die on your lips . . .
IV
You are in love. Occupied until the month of August.
You are in love. —Your sonnets make Her laugh.
All your friends go off, you are ridiculous.
—Then one evening the girl you worship deigned to write to you . . . !
—That evening, . . . —you return to the bright cafés,
You ask for beer or lemonade . . .
—We're not serious when we are seventeen
And when we have green linden trees in the park.
>>8234097
Also, check this: http://www.almaclassics.com/excerpts/Paris_Spleen.pdf
>>8234092
The style was definitely meant to be naive (as in, not caring about originality), but I'm not sure I would say the same about the subject.
>>8234097 is definitely right about Rimbaud, I'd be surprised if you hadn't read him though. You might also like some of Ashbery's work.
>>8234080
>>8234086
Thanks for the recs, never heard of Novalis but he looks interesting.
Terrifyingly comfortable and unsettlingly at home
I realize that despite my best attempts I’ve
Found myself in a frightening cliché that I
Both crave and fear as I halfheartedly
Drag my toes through the sand and let
Myself be lulled by the tide that’s pulling me
Deeper into its enchanting and merciless embrace
My racing thoughts slow as the sun permeates
Into my core and quiets the trepidation I feel
Filling me with a fervent joy I can’t help but
Relish and dread because though I
Deluded myself into thinking I could control the waves
I look around and realize I’ve floated
Miles out to sea
(This poem is not mine, but I absolutely love saying the incipit over and over to myself.)
>>8234197
That is a well written... annoying ass poem
>>8234097
>>8234121
Thanks. I do appreciate Baudelaire already; I have a Penguin Poets collection of his stuff. Dunno if that's the best but it seems good enough.
>>8234123
>Ashbery
Looks great, thanks.
I've not read Rimbaud, but I've been meaning to get into him. Seems right up my alley from what anon posted.
>>8234197
I like this. I don't have any criticism apart from the fact that it should be
>Eight times blessed is he who listen to him
>Who is the everlasting Word made flesh.
Here's mine:
Damned be tradition, the corner-foundations
of the pagoda and mosque, the jurassic,
polished, well-varnished, in slow ambulations
round the bejewelled cathedral enclosure
understood; burn the commandments in classic
letters that cassocks in motley dipped foreign
fingers in ink to inscribe; let exposure
flake the decaying old virginal parchment
sheath and the papery helms of their horsemen
confident faces emblazoned upon whose
masks are the picture of vacuous assent;
let the remaining air bathe your lewd tattoos.
You’re weighed against a spurious ballast; knife
the ropes, free yourself—what can you lose but life?
>>8238038
I'd bet good money that you've read The Bridge recently (I'm a little more than halfway through it, it's great).
Greetings from . . . we will take what we can get.hundreds of thousands of clipped wings
watching the sunset with
Squidward. These are marvelous new clues of
prehistoric America. To young to read the world
nothing to be donethe hummed girls going by silence
in a difficult living roomwe will be deaf for the rest of our lives.
She says
she’s in love that classical music makes sense againI’m in love! the complete history
of wood paneling the old engines, and the new engines.
Lovers laughing together about the funny things pushed down
Pulaski street in Kroger carts at the cry of some
good music a flat four beat, pummeling, shuffling,
touching pink open lips wet with prayers planted in
our loins by a suede giggling Jesus who got told
a dick joke. We are the luckless generation, thewaves of heaven the very homeless old.favorite friends my favorite friend I’m in love
>>8238402
dont read this. my spacing got fucked
>>8238402
i love the subtle postmodern feel this has to it
>>8238077
Yeah I did read The Bridge recently, good eye. It's a very difficult work if you try to break into its symbolism but the language is so appealing that it works readily on first reading.
>>8238959
Doesn't take much of an eye, it's quite apparent from the subject matter and style (not a bad thing, I do the same in my own work).
And yes it's a lot like the waste land in that regard - no matter how much Bloom tries to pit Crane and Eliot against each other - they're both quite dense, but the purpose can be felt without needing to decode anything.
Another parallel with Eliot: the similarities between "Like a patient etherized upon a table;" and "--Till elevators drop us from our day..." are uncanny. In terms of meaning, tone, function in the poem, and cadence, the two lines (and the two poets) are a perfect yin and yang.
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.
>>8233229
tfw this isn't rated at all
>>8236660
Anyone? Please?
