Come on, let them loose.
My scarf rojo is wrapped around my neck
like the noose that ties me to the gibbet-lintel
of propriety. I rip it off
and it flutters in the wind with the sound of the wings of a bird negro
that is batting with all his strength
and is letting the wind underwing
that he would fly, fly, fly away.
I hold the scarf high above my head
with one hand as the other grips the bicycle handle
and it catches the wind roaring into its battlefield
that is encircled by clouds
and it does a war dance that it hails its passing.
I loosen my grip, or maybe the wind is too strong for me,
but my scarf rojo, fluttering violently in jubilation,
it slips my grasp and is lost forever
in the tumbling wildness of the Tierra del Fuego.
GLOIRE
L'averse couleur de lézard,
Subtilement,
Fille enfin nue t'a mêlée
A l'été; pur.
Tu es le soleil gonflant l'étoile
De ses rayons,
Beauté flottante dans ses voiles
D'illusion.
Voici comme une épée qui saigne
L'astre de chair,
Quand d'aube luisante et de braise
Brille la mer...
Not mine
>>8012637
FLUENT
L
U
E
N
T
DIPPING
I
P
P
I
N
G
KNIVES
N
I
V
E
S
I kissed you once
Shy as if I'd never loved
Bold as if we always would
A thoughtful blossom
So fluid in her stillness
Her silence, a song
hey
,,hey
im gay
heeey
When I came back home after Christmas, there was
a wooden clown mask in my wardrobe. Pasted inside.
I didn’t pay it any heed: every time I took out one of
my Primark t-shirts, discoloured and frayed, it spied me.
I took it as a joke at my expense, the ominous grin
mocking me for something I didn’t have. Foolish pride.
You spent the whole day with me: we were the only two
who came back early, and you helped unpack my library.
I knew it was you who put it there, not saying anything
in case I ruined the purpose of your joke. Innocent crime.
You were an incorrigible prankster: sneaking into my
room unbidden, forever provoking my impotent anger.
That was during the culmination, the halcyon week you
spent traipsing about in my pyjama bottoms. Pleasant times.
On April I received a text: you were coming back to
collect it, breaking into my room once more, looking vexed.
The clown mask was a symbol, a sinister portent
of the unfulfillable fantasy of student life. Never mind.
It found me again: over a chasm of non-communication
you handed it to me, bashful, fading into a pseudo-friend.
It was an unwelcome companion, smuggled into the
compartment at the top of my new closet. To not remind.
I thought of throwing it away: when I packed my things
I held it, pensive, as old scenes in my head began to replay.
You mentioned it casually, after years of radio silence
making me promise I would always keep it. Forever mine.
It’s still a symbol: only now it represents the tacky emotions
and tactless melee of a fleeting dream doomed to dwindle.
Fix me up with a moving body
and let no one know I wanted a thing
I send me forwards shoddy
I get it you get it I don't get a thing
I hate every verse I see,
from "Shall I compare" to
"Whose woods are these"
No, you'll never make a poet out of me.
Oh, my God, I was wrong,
this was prosody all along,
you've finally made a poet,
~yes we've finally made a poet~
Oh, you've finally made a poet out of me.
>>8012673
I think this is the only serious attempt in this thread (other than that French thing), so this is the only one I'll respond to.
I can't help but feel you would benefit from some kind of a meter: I don't find the line breaks very compelling as it stands. Also, while I think you're probably trying to imitate Spanish verse, I don't like the fact that the line heads aren't capitalized; in English, verse needs that special dignity.
As for more substantial issues, I think it's not bad as a minor poem, but it certainly needs sharpening up. Some of the imagery and phrasing is quite good: 'gibbet-lintel,' while misspelled, is richly suggestive and yet unpretentious in a way neologisms have a hard time being nowadays - did you get it from somewhere? As for the 'scarf rojo' and 'bird negro' stuff, I say drop it. It might be worthwhile if you merged Spanish with English in a more interesting way, but placing adjectives after nouns does not a poetic voice make. Though you may not have meant to imply it, I do like the image of the Negro bird beating his wings against the current, so you can keep that 'negro' so long as you refer to the African-American ethnic group (though this would then require developing that imagery). That the bird is 'letting the wind underwing' is good in its portrayal of Romantic journey as both a struggle and a letting-go, although I don't see why the scarf merely makes the sound of a bird: why can't it simply BE the bird? You need to justify that, just like how you need to justify the painful injection of Spanish color adjectives. Also, 'fly, fly, fly' needs to go: it's just empty space on the line, the poetic equivalent of a fluffer-nutter. I also object to the idea of the wind roaring into its battlefield and doing a war dance. War dances are such a 20th-century metaphor: good enough for Ezra Pound, but not for us today. You'll have to find a more original metaphor there. The fourth line from the bottom is good, and recapitulates your ideas about Romantic struggle. Find a word other than 'jubilation;' again, it's outdated.
It has potential, but I feel you're using formal devices here that you haven't earned. The soul of it is good, though I can't help but feel it is a touch reminiscent of indie pop lyrics. Something about it seems in danger of being commercialized (and of course indie pop and the idea of the hipster constitute the final death of Romanticism, though we may try in vain to revive it.)
>>8015215
Now here are two little ditties which totally disregard all the advice I just gave. One gives qualified praise to Harold Bloom; the other condemns William Carlos Williams. I think I may soon try to say something that is not about a dead white man, but first I will have to write a little something in praise of Franz Liszt, and hopefully something better than what follows, since he deserves the best one can give, though in my case that is not much.
'The Anxiety of Being Uninfluenced'
The learned professor Bloom
Most wisely says the dead forever loom
Over every would-be poet
Till they just have to have a go o’ it.
But did he take into account one such as I
Who knew not till old age the ancient symmetrye?
(By now the Muse is but a hag;
Far better to have been a fag.)
He says that poetry will be self-slain,
But in that that there’s much to gain:
Far better ‘tis to play the Roman fool
Than to succumb to final mob-rule.
O, the poetic flame of which they speak
Has grown ay feebler and weak.
Far better to have been a rav’ning artist mad
Than to wander in ironic Dunciad.
But something’s to be said for the attitude Yeat,
Whereby malaise of magic mind and daily toll
Intersect as unreal vapors and equate;
Alas, it can no longer be assumed.
Far better to be ruled by ancient scroll
Or by a liberal idealism plumed,
Than to lapse into pedantic state,
Blot out the generalities of Soul,
And, by side of deep romantic Chasm, debate.
'Contra Guilielmum'
Thy protozoic eye
Gives off a fouler light
Than death-glazed carcasses
On which the sugar-fly
Spreads his ‘visionary’ blight.
Fools fools surmounting:
That’s how poetry is.
I have nor use nor rhyme
To get fro’ thy ‘murals’ or
Enjambments! Forcing verses,
At least, makes pleasant struggle o’ time—
But from thy ears thou makst sows’ purses!
And know not ‘cellar door.’
And what is more—!
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."
>>8014639
These would make good lyrics in a song out of a musical stage play, about a young man who begrudgingly becomes a literary superstar in some alt-Romance Era.
I'd go see it.
I will wring from the silvery sequence the billowy truth
of your imperturbability, that I hath dressed too uncouth
when the sly, unabashed parley of my petty speech is grinding the mind’s eye image
of you and me and the
cerulean epiphany that flames in your sight when I say
in manner deceitless, and without wile, that I am as you,
which is captured by an awful cavalcade of belief in anachronism
from free trade to the permanence of the nation-state, this is
a scar on my conscience, and consciousness, and consistently
pricks, like the deep undertone of a serotonin-starved brain on
Tuesday evening.
Please banish the unenclosed sentiment and
believe me when I say I believe all of God’s creatures to be
sentient, and that it only is the misused provincialism of
my narrowed upbringing
that elicits such froth after I’ve unbuckled
my grimy, and seedy, and unintelligent views,
a red flag that I fear will uncover
a history of all the inexcusable crap
I’ve ever said
.
Lo! you once quivered so earnestly
into my Carling-stained shoulder, that I was morally superior,
and wondered aloud how one so high could deem himself betrothed
to a straggler of virtue’s rays
such as yourself,
only to learn, and in unbecoming fashion,
that many parts of my brain are contaminated with fascism,
a malady I have sought cure for all over this green and pleasant Earth
but have found lacking even in art of the loftiest worth,
and so repressed to an inanity, where after a beer or two I spout garbage without vanity,
it becomes a ceaseless shame to the liberal agenda
I espouse when not under
the boot-strap
of trying to impress you
with a false likeness
derived from a foolish theory about the ways in which we were raised,
improperly used to justify my belief that two souls so pusillanimous
should be forever enamored thus.
i i am it is who deals devilishly raw,,,bigoted, brazen, so trumped up,
ur arrogant, she says
ur ego is too big, she says
ur an elitest prick, she says
i i formed out of hyper-provincialism saunter with insouciance in greenness
bathed brilliantly my rotten sociology
in an apparel befitting to a megalomaniac
birth-right it is mine to dominate all discourse
i i am the brass wind timber that school playgrounds bitch about
defeatist is no word in my mouth
for half a quid ill seize upon ur fickleness
ready and willing to cast all enchantments off
i i major in specialized pharmacology intended to annul marriages of idealism
too sea-sick from all this heavy-going literature longing
spelled out all the various offences it is possible to commit
did each and every one of them in an utterly illiberal fashion
i i i i i i i i reamed the round-a-bout of consensus making in SU bars
fragmented consciousnesses are frailty to me
before even gender was a thing i travelled in eternity
the freest cerebral psycho since Twain, or was it -
the essentialism of understanding the morose platoon trump trump trumping after
theyve all been proved marginally wrong
by me
>>8015215
I took some of your advice, but honestly, this seems a bit too bloated to me. What do you think?
My scarf roja, lanar y cálida
that is wrapped around my throat
is a noose that ties me to the gibbet-lintel
of propriety. I rip it off;
it flutters in the wind like a blackbird
that bats with all his strength, and lets the wind
underwing for that he can fly away:
un ave negra que cuelga en azul.
With one hand I hold the scarf high above my head
as the other grips the handle of the bicycle plateada
que es hecha de titanio que deslumbra en el sol
and it catches the wind roaring into its battlefield
that is encircled by clouds
and it does a war dance that it hails its passing.
I loosen my grip, or the wind is too strong,
but mi bufanda roja, it flutters violently,
and it slips my grasp and is lost forever
in the tumbling wildness of the Tierra del Fuego.
>>8015215
I worked on it a bit more.
My scarf roja, lanar y cálida
that is wrapped around my throat
is a noose that ties me to the gibbet-lintel
of propriety. I rip it off;
it flutters in the wind like the wing of a blackbird
that bats with all his strength, and lets the wind
underwing for that he can fly away:
un punto negro en vista azul.
With one hand I hold the scarf high above my head
as the other grips the handle of the bicycle
and it catches the wind roaring in its playground
that is encircled by clouds
and it does a dance for that it hails its passing.
I loosen my grip, or the wind is too strong,
but my scarf, the wing, the noose,
un revuelo rojo en la vista azul de libertad
it slips my grasp and is lost forever
in the tumbling wildness of the Tierra del Fuego.
>>8012637
And upon the proclamation of moses
A man did arise to say
Delet this
>>8012637
http://pastebin.com/6vBZUjq3
your girl giving me a striptease but i dont know nothing like im socrates
what do you think lads
>>8014144
wow yes very musical, best one in the thread
In this ever fleeting feeling felt many times before
Hollow claims of absolutes, the feeling is a void
This propounding growth within me, feelings past alloyed?
Or a continuous kindling, conscious of its joy?
A tale was once told me, by a conscientious soul
Of many loves abound deemed reckless by the old.
Does this not just amount to regenerated love, absurd yet profound, a feeling left untold?
As many words attached to energy elude my grasp,
Just as did my love, i couldn't take it back
For it was never truly mine, but a hope yet avast
I may commence again, an action that won't last
First posted poem
Niggas be all up in my grill
They be so jealous cuz I'm making skrill
Why the fuck these niggas be all up in my grill
>>8017699
So quick to prescribe, you fail to see inside
And outside, and above, and below
You fail to see through, so I cant see through you
How I'd love to love all your imperfections, but still I reach for your fullest
Conceding to a lackluster will is a recipe for life at its dullest
Shifting your gaze at something imagined, I wish I could catch it
Just a glimpse of you, but the window is stained
I cant remember the last time it rained
Now your marvelous eyes dropping like flies as I pass
Mine dry, searching for what i felt when I last
Saw you near seeing, but you've further withdrew
I spin you a web of widowhood, but still you recluse
There once was a day you thought I was someone you knew
But you'll never know me, if you don't know you
Second posted poem
>>8017699
It destroys the future and preserves the past in what It deems just vengeance - The Severed Remembrance
Defaming the walls It built by keeping it up, cowering behind Its legacy, preaching Its hollow peace
Through a tear, are piercing prayers, It's libeled as terror
They're so scared of what It Can't see,
Through Its tinted screen, clouded with Its dreams, nor Its forsaken black sea
It can't see past the wall of Its past, steadfast, Its gaze is cast back leaving its own sky black
It forgets the sun, and craves the moon. If the garden was ever in bloom? it wouldn't know
On the peak of its own mount of olives, all it sees is snow.
If Its attention is ever set on the present its hazy
its not that Its lazy.
But if Its sight is behind the present in time, can It still give birth to life?
It seeks a virgin to lift the burden
With a gift from a bird that's so miserably high
It cant lift Its own eyes,
To the duty compiled as smoke from a burnt out torch Passed long after It died
Infecting Its air, now a cloud of despair, sits looming.
But how It finds this smog so seducing.
Complacent It sits, in Its negligent narcissism, swooning.
It cant bear the reflection of Its severed remembrance, so It repels retrospection
Approving reprobation, consuming.
A serpent hangs from Its mouth but parasite fangs are not made to pluck
So It twists and It writhes, still grabbing at straws in which there's no life left to suck.
Its mind, Its peace, Its life in pieces to a long forgotten puzzle, don't forgive these words that may be muddled.
Forgive me for allowing to be muzzled..
If "It" is a wall, then let My words be a bridge
If "It" condemns a Creator with diluted truths and polluted lies, then allow me to be the one to bring Him back to life
The Creator endowed with power renowned
Let me awake Man, to make life in Her own image
May I be as the first wrung of the ladder that You let It take away?
My only hope is to rouse the conscious with a wake.
It is now high time I use My mouth to bite the head off the serpent, to use My mind to break this cyclical nature of Time
As an eagle I Will fly beyond "It." And what lighter load than "I"?
First poem I've ever written. Too heavily bitten off Nietzche.
Plastered saran wrap all over my chest,
hoping it’d feel like a bulletproof vest.
All it did was restrict my breathing,
numbing the feeling,
of being.
So I guess,
this transluscent mess,
with which I so aimlessly covered my chest,
protected far better than a bulletproof vest.
>>8017718
you should write a rap
>>8017797
Different anon here but how do you come to that conclusion? His style is way to verbose for rap no?
>>8015215
capitalizing line heads is an editorial decision that mostly went out of style in the 80s, just sayin. personally i dont like it because it is not the case that all first words are important
>>8015225
>writing in antiquated english in the current year
>writing in antiquated english ever
nothanks.jpg
>>8017812
He seems good with multi-syllabic rhymes, verbose can be good because it paints a picture.
>>8017797
Thanks man. I do write raps sometimes but the culture is limiting in regards to what I'd like to get across.
A ljodaháttr I wrote just now.
Härligare has det,
Med ölen hårt,
I grova grepp,
Ty utan smärta spilles,
Söderlandens sura vin,
Men tappad öl för alla tårar.
>>8018041
Can I see? I love poems with lyric styled writing.
>>8018060
So symmetrical, I guess I'm a perfectionist
Or I just have the vision to realize what perfection is
Maybe I have the wires to feel a connection with
A perfect individual, an enigmatic existence
Aligned with mine, placed in time, so conveniently
I know that life doesn't really have a meaning
But you feel like mine, I cant take it as a sign, but considering the time, i sure did catch a dime.
All i have at hand. I've written a lot of ignorant stuff off xanax, but they're all written in a notebook somewhere.
>>8017699
If I could write a line for every one on your face, curving my letters in correspondence with yours
If only I could have my words interlace, they'd come together as a bow, but still I'd need more
For words can't elucidate the way an image of you radiates in my brain
No rhyme can illuminate a glimpse of beauty your being contains
Your elusiveallure should remain a mystery I cannot provoke, paint, or intellectualize
No matter how much time i spend crossing my t's, a million words can't amount to a dot in your eyes
And this kinda
>>8016366
Well, it's certainly more interesting now, but I'm not sure I like it any better (this isn't to say it hasn't improved; of course one should take the advice of a man who can't write good poetry with a grain of salt). I still feel that the Spanish in the poem is not really justified; adding more Spanish adjectives to describe the scarf only makes it more obscure without adding a whole lot of information: why is it roja, lanar y cálida and not red, woolen and warm? Also, while I think you're imitating Spanish grammar with the 'for that's as opposed to the English 'so that,' I find it more jarring and offputting than syntactically intriguing. I think it might be interesting to replace the phrase with 'para que,' but that may also be needlessly obscure.
I don't find the 'un punto negro en vista azul' totally objectionable, although I'd remove the 'un': it slows down the line when it should be nice and quick. I still don't like what you're saying about the wind; the playful wind is just as much a cliche as the fierce wind. Furthermore, is the sky really its most compelling playground? What about a village? or the 'tumbling wildness' referenced later? Besides the 'for that,' I do like the idea that it is hailing is own passing. As for the 'de libertad,' I really think that's too much: it begins to sound like a nationalist hymn to Argentina (unless that's what you were going for). One last minor gripe: why is it 'IT slips my grasp and is lost forever'? There's no need to restate the subject here: this is a quick poem. Still, the last two lines are good.
As I said, take all that with a grain of salt; I may just be telling you to write the way I would write it.
>>8017840
I know that, but I think it's a bad decision, and besides which poetry (and literature) should not be subject to going in and out of 'style.' I think it's simply a bad ARTISTIC choice (the artist must have complete control over these things; if it's an editorial decision, so much the worse) most of the time, particularly in an age that is so inclined towards prose and disdainful of verse. Of course, it's not always a bad decision - Hart Crane, for example, uses it quite often to wonderful effect - but most of the time I think it amounts to false modesty and thoughtless minimalism. Besides, I just think it looks more balanced on the page.
>>8017870
So of everything wrong with those poems, you choose THAT?
nothanks.jpg
The Weatherman
A narcoleptic walks down Broderick
Dressed in immaculate surrender,
a novelty carnation sewn through his lapel.
He slings around his pocket watch ,
Convinces traffic he is not in fact God:
He's just a weatherman in waiting
prepared to sleep away the sleet
and silver pockets of snow
For the rainbows
that often ricochet in his direction.
They knew him at the funeral,
by his change of address, mostly.
Charlie learned his blackness from his suit
And office days of beetroot bartering the companies,
the motorcades, manila folded tirades in the tray.
Death arrives that way.
Diagnosis, lifestyle: Prescription -
Well, he dozed off in the languid retreat of the church hall
Dreaming of excuses to reinvent his style
Dreaming of past dealings
and his misremembered meanwhiles.
And time, he says -
it's like pocketing short change,
measured in the non-sequential gains
and parametric losses
(Listening to this, a myopic clerk
Dammed to decorate his lobby
With the languages of thirteen countries)
People die in such long pauses
Such as those a stranger brings,
when they talk of what the changes ring
and then of what they don't.
>>8014639
But can i play the piano anymore?
>>8016703
Any words on this?
>Saged, and will do some critiques after this.
>>8012637
I walked to the hospital through the city’s outskirts,
Where playgrounds are devoid of grass and the field is of texture of concrete,
But the kids are still playing, scraping their knees through pre-torn jeans,
Missing the shots, mister, kick it back, please.
You see they changed the law awhile back,
The music it goes to public domain once the artist dies,
CEOs shouted and fired interns and scratched their heads,
Until they strapped all the old folks to old-support, the one-hit mayflies,
Regretful coke-snorting geezers, rehab regulars, bright ideas branding
Marketable concept album conveyoring indie robots,
All them plugged into final retreats.
Suppose now some are repentant, within the system,
Like those anarchists vandalizing dedicated vandal places,
With them you need convincing, that the expiration dates
Etched on their backs are not God-given, but man-made,
We are all inmates and cannot just stroll out of the prison,
Bullshit like that.
MY JOB DESCRIPTION
get high like the moon
out of tune
on fire the sky is higher
no one ever wants to do poetry
but the notes keep flowing in me
get higher than ginsberg as I smoke this fine herb
and he smoked meth
what's this obsession in anime about prepubescents
>>8017718
You know your way around words and how to put them to meaning. Nothing with this style of verse at all. But I would enjoy seeing you work with more concrete descriptions of a vivid scene using your lexical skills. I love poems that can be read several times and still be enjoyed in different aspects.
8/10
>>8017746
Depressing--which is never my first love with poetry. But it's written well as verse and I enjoyed the flow.
6.5/10
>>8018231
This guy critiqued well, so I'll leave those be.
>>8018270
Eh. The meter and rhythm tend to bounce around a little too much. And there's a lot of abstractions used, so I'm not getting a vivid image, though I am getting something. I do like some of the lines like:
>Charlie learned his blackness from his suit.
But I'd honestly rather read that in some prose, and would enjoy it even more.
6/10
>>8018528
>Nothing WRONG with this style of verse...
>>8018528
Thanks a lot! I just started writing so i have quite a bit to learn. It's such a great feeling though, and knowing someone else enjoyed it that much is cool.
>>8012637
We get it, poets.
Things are like other things.
But things I care not about,
and people are all the same
so why not
write some poetry about them ?
Bards are dead, talent is thin
and poets are locked away
until the great second sin
is burnt down in my ashtray.
I should have given everyone a face.
>>8018231
I have worked on the poem since, and removed all of the gratuitous Spanish, replacing it with English words of almost-strictly Latinate origin.
By the way, it's not the wind that's hailing it's own passing, or the wind that's doing a dance: it's the scarf fluttering in the wind that's doing both those things.
My scarf, carmine, woolen, calid,
that is wrapped around my throat
is a noose that ties me to the gibbet-lintel
of propriety. I tear it off;
it flutters in the wind like a blackbird
that bats with all his strength, and lets the wind
underwing so that he can fly:
a dark punctum on the azure vista.
With one hand I hold the scarf high above my head
as the other grips the handle of the bicycle
and it catches the wind roaring in its empty sprawl
encircled by clouds
and does a dance to hail its passing.
I loose my grip, or the wind is too strong,
but my scarf, the wing, the noose,
the carmine fluttering on the azure vista,
slips my grasp and is lost forever
in the tumbling wildness of the Tierra del Fuego.
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.
>>8018270
>Charlie learned his blackness from his suit
these are the types of lines I want to write
I'm not sure the "Dreaming of" repetition has the effect you'd want. Maybe just use dashes?
This one is incomplete.
I turn my head around and see behind
a barrage of uncounted centuries
congesting in their endless file the course
of history, pages of the almanac,
extending to the furthest reaches of
recorded time, where paper frays and frames
the forms of kings, and mounds of plebeian dust
ride the backwards-floating wind of time.
In the primal bush in golden sunshine robed,
perspiring blackened topsoil underneath
to cool the crib, the little feet of lizards
now long returned to loam and dirt would drag
their little bellies through the oozing mud
and scrawl across the land in scurried streaks
a city in relief embossed in dirt,
winding its ways through the swaying tallgrass,
until the primal simian learned that if
he tucked his throbbing thumb against the rock
cupped in his foregathered dactyls, it would
repel the haul of gravity and taste
the glassy higher air unsullied still
by smoke and breath, and fly to where it pleased
him that it fly to hammer muck from meat
and speckle red his ragged face through art of
slaughter. The blood of grassland peasantry
made flush the lining of the arteries
that plotted lines awry about his face,
and on his temple set a bony crown,
and fed the marrows of his kingly bones;
the bulbous mouth, the downy cheeks, the squat
phallus resting in its matted nest, like
the monkey-king upon his fleshly throne.
Of morbid curiosity I chase
with eyes the lives of my progenitor,
and deep within my chest the drum begins
to beat at sight of savagery to match
the savagery forever etched upon
my cardiac wall. What in me is human,
whatever masculine, testosterone
trails afire, descended the lines from him.
But what in me is human had been boiled
and fused together in bubbling womb-water:
the primal male had swum towards the female
and had cocooned himself within her, sharing
blood and spirit to build a progeny, like
the baby hominid that stood just slightly
taller than his hulking parents and shuffled
around the shelter that his mother built him.
>>8019442
i'm not that anon but i just dropped in to say "carmine fluttering" and "azure vista" sound to me like completely contrived phrases. i don't see their value.
>>8019620
On their own or in the context of the poem?
I'm throwing dried cereal at your bedroom window
pal around with me I'll take you to the movies or the aquarium
watching you watching the king krabs or cowboys crawl from one side to the other
watching you track the movement might be the perfect end to my miserable life
I'll just as well fall down a flight of stairs and crawl into the next life with my neck at a right angle
doomed to become a waiter, balancing plates on my left ear
I'll find you in the parking lot of olive garden one day
and blushing very slightly, say hey, lets catch a movie
Snow in Summer (Getting There)
It was an out-of-season snowfall:
A flurry of seeds, whisked by the air,
Sink and bob, as sunfish eggs
Rafting down a spring-thaw rill.
Sub-lime sunlight streams about the seeds,
And channels their sinuous meanderings.
Like the humble land’s supple bough^
To the sky’s sighs and the sea’s pleas.
The easterly ebb of slowly zephyrs
Tickles stems and trickle pad rapids.
As a prowling kingfisher ever years
For (up)drafts to rest his rowing wings.
Cumulonimbus plumes drift on the-
Breeze atop the westerly horizon;
Frothing on eddying cirrus wisps,
And stead’ly dousing the rising sun.
To avoid the lightening and thundering rain^
I hurriedly march to my nearby car.
I drive straight home and straight inside
Where I pace along my everyday.
Two days passed ‘til I return to wander.
Walking the water-felled woods, I wonder
Why I wore nice shoes,
And fear their sheen a thing to lose.
Quick to spring the waterlogged trees
Brainstorming of my weathered boots,
I fail to see, sailing aeronautically,
skimming over hundreds of emerging dandelions.
^lightening/lightning
^bough/bow
blackthorn pierce slowly
a familiar scent of rot
night air haunt me
despair in thought
creep into my life
only reveal lie
and no longer face
death breathless sigh
I'm gonna push you down
Into the river you left me to drown in
I'm not gonna stick around
To watch you burn your way to another man
I can't help but find
That you have lost to yourself this time
But I don't really mind,
You'll always be mine
i love you baby
dont say maybe
Boggling Froggle=dogs,
My whelp peeps for you.
Willard whines the castle doors.
My grind is at an end.
Poopy.
Shimmering dragonfly carapaces
Floating amongst the two whitish seas,
Sapphire, to complement the red veins,
Which so abysmally fractured that
White mass, symmetrically framed by the
Purple veined dunes underneath the two
Ovals with angular corners, the
Portals through which one might gaze upon
This tired, overworked countenance,
Just as they looked at themselves in the
Ghastly, misty morning mirror.
How sad you look
How melancholy your aqualescent sphere
You float downstream to an inevitable whirlpool
It’s maw silently agape, waiting.
You wish to be as I am
Not a curse I would wish upon anyone.
You believe I have all the answers
But in truth I have only infinite questions.
My stardust children, frolicking in your burning playpen
I have engineered thee, every curve concise.
And yet what else is one to do with such time?
Not ponder, as I had done for eons before
To not create, but instead to question.
If all things are created,
Then what hands once held me?
What infinitely nimble fingers molded me?
Tossed my very skin around as dough?
And set each single hair upon my head?
So confide. You are not alone in your questioning.
But alas, alone in all else.
You were my masterpiece
Perfect in all ways
Yet still I find myself unsatisfied.
I have given you all
But still you want more.
You make a mockery of my work
Bathe in the filth which you have wrought upon yourselves.
And love it.
In the beginning,
I sprinkled stars as carelessly as one might spill their drink
And flung oily, spurting galaxies
To the furthest reaches of that dreadful dark
Just to make it go away.
I know not what I feared
But indeed that is the route of ALL fear.
So alone you sail, your canvas windless,
Adrift.
Even now I doubt my very existence.
You are the light.
Do not journey to the stars,
You will find only darkness
Find solace that you are here,
And let those glittering orbs in the night sky
Be nothing but a backdrop
To those many glorious nights in the arms of one another.
And still you envy me?
My mind is a closet,
won't you cum inside?
I have all kinds of toys for us
made from plastics and woods..
What a beautiful time to be alive:
There's electronics in my buttplugs and they
vibrate my prostate.
I am the envy of all past human civilization
>>8022907
best poem here tbqhwy
>>8014182
8/10
>>8015225
6/10
You could do more if you're going to use this type of language, more complex rhyme schemes(in line rhymes?), maybe some sudden rythm stops. You're on the right track, experiment, have fun.
>>8015416
4/10
Untighten your asshole.
>>8016244
Not bad, 7/10
That said, read some of this aloud, some of the lines are awkward and don't transition too well, especially the higher ones. They honestly seem out of place with what you're trying to convey here.
>>8016246
2/10
Honestly bad imo
Seems like you really went along with the first thing that popped into your head and tried to pass it off as something meaningful.
>>8018916
You have to write poetry before you can write poetry about poetry.
>>8019447
The line breaks don't seem to have any poetic importance here, like you began a new one whenever the last one had enough words to make it look neat.
Don't be afraid to write long and short lines, especially with this type of poetry.
5/10
>>8019741
Mumfred man/10
>>8021269
The actions are very mundane. You're leaving the reader out if the thoughts. I feel like your conveying less than you think you are. Be more introspective with your poetry,
5/10
>>8022880
I don't quite understand why you're taking on a godlike presence at the beginning, and some of your language is rather bland, but overall it's good.
8/10
>>8022907
Fuck u
10/10
>>8023058
>The actions are very mundane. You're leaving the reader out of the thoughts. I feel like your conveying less than you think you are. Be more introspective with your poetry.
Tbh I really just wanted to paint a pretty picture of nature.
The water theme is there to show how nature 'flows' to as it should be, and the contrast is the rigidity and of the characters actions and his bland/dry thoughts. That's about the all of it.
Did that not work? Any other tips?
>>8023058
How, exactly, is my asshole tight?
'Ballad of a Socio'
Some say I am deluded
I'd say I'm insane
Wishing for what some call a miracle
Guess that means we're all the same.
Never thought I'd live to see
The world that we would make
All in all it's just the same,
Vanity in place of hate
And I know
This life could use a change
And I know
That we'd all much rather runaway
In this world of mine
Delivered by another lie
Some say I am offensive
I'd say I'm aggressive
Waiting for what they call opportunity
Guess that means I'm not successful,
Never thought I'd live to see
Passerbyes living through memories
All in all it's just the same,
Index finger shifting blame
And I'm gonna push you down
Into the river you left me to drown in
I'm not gonna stick around
To watch you burn your way through another chance
I cannot help but find
That you have lost to yourself this time
But I don't really mind,
You'll always be mine
I'm kissing your feet
While you're kicking up dust,
No I don't think there's much left of you
That I can trust.
I was told that I was boring.
Unwavering and static
Bark resting on an old and weathered tree,
So, in a strike of genius
I made myself as wide as an ocean,
And as deep as the sea.
I surrounded those who I had loved
Or those I had wanted to,
But felt no comfort,
Other than their warmth of their breath
As they drowned themselves in me.
>tfw your poetry is so bad it kills the thread
>>8026047
if i keep waiting i know someone will critique me ^w^
Hey guys, I'm a beginning writer, and I write in the style of Plath with the lyricism of Neutral Milk Hotel, and with an admiration for the grand themes of Tennyson, mainly about mental illness, UFOs, childhood trauma, and alchemy. I'm currently working on a series of poems that would document my experiences with electroshock treatment. Here is the first one:
https://docs.google.com/document/d/1LAUHFejL-dHRCUAPjp7CnBtxQ9zTFotIEmjsyjv-urg/edit
It is about me waiting for the treatment. Although it is my most ambitiously reaching project, it is my weakest one from a literary standpoint. These other two smaller poems are better:
https://docs.google.com/document/d/1UoJ3jHMvFRrjWkyKTOvsrTGzWEfDixoN1kU6QFSSsus/edit
I wrote this while I was in the mental hospital after I found out I was going to be transferred to a long-term residential facility and going to receive ECT.
https://docs.google.com/document/d/1ZySYYINi27qnkwBsmKmfwRhZLRtQ427UzhOcmNs-fWA/edit
I wrote this last year when I thought a lot about the occult, mythology, and alchemy.
https://drive.google.com/drive/folders/0Bz7T9Cdaj9rGOS1zTHZ2TzNKZ1E
And here are the rest of my poems, but I don't recommend reading these because they're trash.
Anyway, I used to write all the time, but I would destroy my writing, so this is the first time I'm actually keeping, editing, and growing with my writing, which is why I have such a small body of work.
I really put my soul into these poems, so I would greatly appreciate and return all critique if it's wanted (I doubt I'm qualified to give the critique though).
>>8012637
Mountain Rain
Yawning blue clouds shade
in grey the heights as green
rolling hills remember their form
and the hearts they feed.
The rain reaches down and up
like ash burnt souls
gaping for spring.
The angels of wind
pit an unmoving Titan
against the Deus of new.
I hardly hear them now.
Just auditory clues,
cues to signal– keys to
slot in neuropaths and
drafts to notes to sheets to
this music. Peace in the
pieces– where I sit but
don't listen. These songs that
tend to sidle step in,
change some stone to flesh and
numb law to love. I want
rest but instead this sly
test sets in for the night.
I hardly hear them now.
>>8027248
So your poem has converging lines on the point that you no longer her these soft notes of calming beauty, but it has too many diverging lines, see:
>test
>neuropath
I think the poem has a good concept and good artistry but you are lacking enough convergence to actually hammer home a point. The poem could, with those points, mean that you lost music you love, mental illness (this test, what test?). You also dangerously give the songs the power to seat you, when the poems have a soffenting and relaxing property.
>>8028434
songs and not poems*
>>8024891
For whatever reason, this transformatiom doesn't work for me. There is no flow. Old bark-> sea
Honestly bark defends the innards of a tree, these are not contradicting items but emotionally inferior compliments so to say.
The poem has good writing in the beginning but then delineates into weaker prose. I would refocus on symbols that properly display meaning
>>8026625
Read your first poem
You are not a series of quiveling definitions with poetic defintion
as Wolfe would say you are exactly you, and that's your greatest sin.
Don't fall into that timely trap of writing "I am I am I am"
It's for feminists and cheap poets.
Look at the descriptions of the different aspect of the poem, do they actually amplify the poem or sound good?
Pound was genius because he realized that words can be wasteful. I would wager your poems would be extremely well received by the poetic crowd and the artist crowd. I think overall if you want to appeal to people that are poets and very much invested in the art form as their expression of life, you're doing a better job than all those shmucks. Your poems though -at a higher level- are inward focused and not literature. If you want the reader to be impacted teach me something.
Basically if I was a literary only focused 9/10 could do most MFA programs
As me judging purely on the my opinion 4/10
The third one is much weaker than the first but the feely "look deep at shit and weak brained" would love it
>>8028452
Thank you for your input anon.
>>8028550
No problem. Though most people think I'm an idiot, take it lightly.
>>8028576
No, now that you point it out the flow really does not work. I actually started with the last three lines and work my way up, I just can't think of something that is dull and unchanging in relation to the ocean, sea side cliffs maybe?
Rate me /lit/. I'm a newbie. Thanks
Our fingers touched
as you handed me the food
shouldn't that count as
a kiss?
You're already in my life
guiding my choices
will you remember our
anniversary, dear?
You have such
smooth skin, it'll be a
shame, if I never see you
again.
>>8021426
anyone?
its very short
>>8023058
horrible advice
your eyes are transfixed on a screenshot, a mirror, projecting false notions devoid of emotion. Just self preservation, met expectations speaking words without diction
atonal dictation
anhedonic believed strengthened by depression, terrified of death the unknowns not questioned just self immolation, sublimation, reincarnation or eternal damnation.
it's tentative lyrics for a song I'm writing any critiques would be greatly appreciated.
>>8028496
Really great criticism/feedback, thanks
>>8028496
Again, you're advice is great. Here's one of my first poems I wrote when I was a freshman in high school. It was published in a magazine. What do you think of this one?
https://docs.google.com/document/d/1lHE3Jl9jrwboDFAR4RjnvEkVRWTaTDUqd1E_kLDNfVo/edit
It's about nostalgia, bittersweet memories, and childhood.
For all the times that you rain on my parade
And all the clubs you get in using my name
You think you broke my heart, oh, girl for goodness' sake
You think I'm crying on my own. Well, I ain't
And I didn't wanna write a song
'Cause I didn't want anyone thinking I still care. I don't,
But you still hit my phone up
And, baby, I be movin' on
And I think you should be somethin' I don't wanna hold back,
Maybe you should know that
My mama don't like you and she likes everyone
And I never like to admit that I was wrong
And I've been so caught up in my job,
Didn't see what's going on
But now I know,
I'm better sleeping on my own
'Cause if you like the way you look that much
Oh, baby, you should go and love yourself
And if you think that I'm still holdin' on to somethin'
You should go and love yourself
And when you told me that you hated my friends
The only problem was with you and not them
And every time you told me my opinion was wrong
And tried to make me forget where I came from
And I didn't wanna write a song
'Cause I didn't want anyone thinking I still care. I don't,
But you still hit my phone up
And, baby, I be movin' on
And I think you should be somethin' I don't wanna hold back,
Maybe you should know that
My mama don't like you and she likes everyone
And I never like to admit that I was wrong
And I've been so caught up in my job,
Didn't see what's going on
But now I know,
I'm better sleeping on my own
'Cause if you like the way you look that much
Oh, baby, you should go and love yourself
And if you think that I'm still holdin' on to somethin'
You should go and love yourself
For all the times that you made me feel small
I fell in love. Now I feel nothin' at all
And never felt so low when I was vulnerable
Was I a fool to let you break down my walls?
'Cause if you like the way you look that much
Oh, baby, you should go and love yourself
And if you think that I'm still holdin' on to somethin'
You should go and love yourself
'Cause if you like the way you look that much
Oh, baby, you should go and love yourself
And if you think (you think) that I'm (that I'm) still holdin' on (holdin' on) to somethin'
You should go and love yourself
>>8022789
someone pls critique
>>8028434
I can see how it'd be a little confusing- the poem is about the songs I listen to every night before going to sleep (same three songs for three years now), and how the time I spend listening to them slides away from me, and I barely remember the songs themselves, only experiencing their effect on me.
>>8029954
Most of your writing hinges on these similes that are very clever. I note that most of the similes though could be argued against to meaningless, but the art community argue for meaning to give themselves a job to do.
I like the poem overall and style wise it's fine, but you're using your words as sets of words
every
single
word
has
chickens
they
hatch.
Focus on the power of individual words and you'll write more meaningfully
>>8030555
>someone pls critique
doesn't critique anyone
>>8018049
write in English plz
>>8014065
brevity does not increase quality of content
>>8012707
not yours? don't post it.
>>8014070
it was cute it gave me feels
>>8014541
I don't think you think this is good
>>8017174
wrong thread
>>8017705
-5/10
>>8018524
>>>>>>>>>>>>tumblr
>>8022907
are you?
>>8028659
I think you need to reevaluate some things famalam this read creepy af
Light and dark. I guess that's what I feel
the light and bright, whenever we talk, the dark and hollow, whenever we stop
it's a nice feeling, getting to know each other, knowing that you smile
even if it's just for a while
>>8032148
bad pop song
>>8032155
yeah i know it sucks, it was the first time i started writing, but ah well, never throw away from where you have come.
>>8028659
Watch dramatically improve this.
Our fingers.
shouldn't that count as a kiss?
Rest is creepy and ugly.
>>8032159
honestly though, keep writing and be harsh on yourself to but not so harsh that you don't create eventually you'll be able to state what you want to state in a way that's satisfying to you
>>8032163
how is this fair,
we live under the city lights
not knowing how many we still have to fight
only knowing one thing is always there
it's our despair
oh malicious live,
why do we even strive
I just let it flow threw me.
>>8032168
it reads like it was off the top of your head, heres some advice I learned the hard way show don't tell
don't emphasize your despair without stating any cause for it. why is the despair always there? to be honest it still sounds mellow dramatic. What is this fighting you have to do? living? It just strikes me as whining about nothing and there is soo much gaudy stuff about that out there that's more cringe funny than this, it's like a shitty bedroom pop song
>>8032175
Yeah I know, as I said, it's just when i started writing a little that i came up with these. I'm not native English, so I don't write much in English, mostly German. Therefore i don't have a lot of content which I can share.
And thanks, I had the same feelings about it when i reread it today, but getting it critiqued by knowledgeable people is always better.
Il faut de la force pour admettre la défaite et regarder au loin
Mais elle est ma faiblesse et la raison est l’ami que je n’écoute point
Fomentant mille plans l’âme prise d’un éclat soudain
Qui ne fît pas long feu et se dissipa dans la fraicheur du matin
Added another stanza:
I turn my head around and see behind
a barrage of uncounted centuries
congesting in their endless file the course
of history, pages of the almanac,
extending to the furthest reaches of
recorded time, where paper frays and frames
the forms of kings, and mounds of plebeian dust
ride the backwards-floating wind of time.
In the primal bush in golden sunshine robed,
perspiring blackened topsoil underneath
to cool the crib, the little feet of lizards
now long returned to loam and dirt would drag
their little bellies through the oozing mud
and scrawl across the land in scurried streaks
a city in relief embossed in dirt,
winding its ways through the swaying tallgrass,
until the primal simian learned that if
he tucked his throbbing thumb against the rock
cupped in his foregathered dactyls, it would
repel the haul of gravity and taste
the glassy higher air unsullied still
by smoke and breath, and fly to where it pleased
him that it fly to hammer muck from meat
and speckle red his ragged face through art of
slaughter. The blood of grassland peasantry
made flush the lining of the arteries
that plotted lines awry about his face,
and on his temple set a bony crown,
and fed the marrows of his kingly bones;
the bulbous mouth, the downy cheeks, the squat
phallus resting in its matted nest, like
the monkey-king upon his fleshly throne.
Of morbid curiosity I chase
with eyes the lives of my progenitor,
and deep within my chest the drum begins
to beat at sight of savagery to match
the savagery forever etched upon
my cardiac wall. What in me is human,
whatever masculine, testosterone
trails afire, descended the lines from him.
But what in me is human had been boiled
and fused together in bubbling womb-water:
the primal male had swum towards the female
and had cocooned himself within her, sharing
blood and spirit to build a progeny, like
the baby hominid that stood just slightly
taller than his hulking parents and shuffled
around the shelter that his mother built him.
His mother reined the fingers fixing slats
in grooves of some austere machinery,
and father let him hold the gutted bow
while seated on the saddled arching hump.
But both father and mother directed
the drawing of the catgut, taught the love
of creaking wood as the curved spine is drawn
taut, and arrow loosed at a mammoth’s heart.
The summer scent of honeysuckle sets in humid air
The sun sinks to the chorus of a thousand mowers' blare
And clinging waves of ivy tumble over lichen brick
While seas of grass will sway and pulse to cool wind’s whisper lick
>>8034542
>AABB
c'mon mate.
When the night comes around
mind doesn't rest easy
Wish you could turn the thoughts off with the lights
They feel hot, can't sleep with the heat
But in the dark, they just burn brighter
>>8034563
It actually started as abab but it sounded off. Aside from the rhyme scheme, how was it
I remember being a child and there was a brand of frozen crab cakes that I would see for sale at the supermarket whenever I would go there with my mum or dad.
The crab cakes had a picture of two CGI crabs printed on the front of the box.
The crabs were so adorable, with glinting eyes and anthropomorphic smiles, that I couldn't help but love them.
Every time I walked past this box of crab cakes at the supermarket, I knew that someone somewhere would buy the box at the front, eat the crab cakes inside, and then throw away the container they came in with no regard for the CGI crabs.
This was like a nightmare for me.
Eventually my mum bought me a box of the crab cakes.
I cut out the CGI crabs and stuck them up on my bedroom wall.
This was one of the proudest moments of my life at the time because I truly felt like I had saved theirs.
I am not sure what happened to them after that but they are no longer in my possession.
>>8034576
This reads like it should be a greentext, not in a bad way though
>>8034576
apparently your prose flows nicely because I just read the whole thing without realizing it
>>8034572
Phenomenally boring, rife with worn metaphor. At least you're picking some of the good overused ones though, so that's a start.
>>8034576
something something similar
happened to me as well.
although it was giraffes.
>>8034055
how bout instead of bumping without adding anything you review some of the posted comments?
The perfume in the cap lingered but faded away over time, it seemed sweetest while it was feint, all the while she took long baths in the sad secret hope she could wash away herself.
>>8034648
Thanks for the criticism. Which metaphors are most overused? Now that I think about it, "seas of grass" is pretty cliche
>>8034691
>feint
>>8034763
It's eh intentional, impressionistic effect
She walked a smirk back home
middle-sore
something familiar of relief
Mind drift to the dambreak on linen
"I wonder if I should reimburse him",
her footsteps giggled
>>8034776
And it did not succeed
>>8034825
That was also intentional
>>8034663
because im bitter from mine not getting critiques
When that Axle, with its greased grooves
The wheel of Time hath wrought such swift hooves
As carry men through bold and prideful plot
And too their heirs, before their fathers rot;
When pistons flash to fuel the fire of squire
And serf, passions unlike in but attire,
Fiery blood to course and run golden
Till lusty firestorms the land beholden,
And gears with teeth of hard and greyed steel
Drive the minds of prophets to murderous zeal
(So roars their God, the metal mind, “Eclipse”);
Then longen folk to goon on roadtrips
And mechanics across the land thank Him
Whose breath is blessed with rattling gearbox hymn
And men does strand on strands unknown to them
With flat tires and oil pans caked with scum
The holy blissful footpath them to find
And upwards, car-less, from then on to wind.
My complete inability to consider or relate to the feelings of others has consistently left me at odds with the world around me.
If my actions don't come across as defensive, dismissive, or inconsiderate, they are often misconstrued as being deliberately spiteful or malicious.
I do not resent people for perceiving me this way since their error is only in assessing my intentions, which they could not possibly know or discern, and not the course or consequences of my actions.
Regardless of my forgiveness for them, the fact that I have been labeled this way has caused people to feel justified in harassing me.
Everyday I watch and listen as supposedly good, honest, and caring people who love their mothers will tell me that I am worthless.
They shamelessly spit on my name and laugh in my direction.
I have often been afraid to leave my house in case the persecution becomes violent, or because I simply cannot deal with the ridicule I face constantly.
This has led to me forming an unhealthy distrust of others and caused me to sink further into disconnection.
I feel for certain now that I don't have any hope for the future, or place to belong, in this world.
I do not attempt to form relationships with, or engage sincerely, the people around me, and have withdrawn from or severed contact with the people I used to know.
My emotional range has been limited to irrational or negative responses to my environment, and relief when I am able to escape through drug use, fiction and isolation.
The only thing keeping me lucid now is the fear that if I allow myself to go on this way I may become vindictive or bitter, and might do something great and terrible.
I don't think I can bear that thought for much longer.
>>8035044
mew
I went to the zoo to skip skip to do lalala oui oui oui cool yeah
How do people read Keats in 2016?
>implying
Nigga, are you telling me
There’s such a thing as romance
In the current year?
Fuckoutahereboi
While waiting for a God as patient as a tree,
I was covered by reproaching flies,
Noting the rust and dust of waiting, breaking me.
I was rousing when my garden entreated me,
So I watered my groves and plucked their prize.
While waiting for a God as patient as a tree,
I wander collecting ripe figs for a royal We.
Tearing them I see, in meat, these evening skies
Noting the rust and dust of waiting, breaking me.
I must, I must shake this dust from me!
My urgency was met with resounding sighs.
While waiting for a God as patient as a tree,
I began to walk, pushing towards the sea;
Until clouds looked down with prying eyes,
Noting the rust and dust of waiting, breaking me.
I crumble on the shore, mixing sand with my debris.
Grinding me with the world The Weatherer watched as I,
While waiting for a God as patient as a tree,
Noted the rust and dust of waiting, breaking me.
>>8037200
I can hear the Joyce in this.
>>8034576
this is neat, looking at it one a small page it would probably wrap around creating interest natural breaks. I would consider working on
>This was like a nightmare for me
I would also repeat the word crab in every line except the final one.
>>8038352
>tree/me
>me/tree
dogholdinghisearsaskingforittostop.jpg
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?
- Outside Poem
Tell me 'bout the zeitgeist
If you've got a little time
I know you're on the run
Because we all commit small crimes
But run when no-one's watching
So they don't see past your stealth
When you're crouching in the corner
And regenerating health
An alien in human flesh
Should never seem alone
So when you're out in public
Best to fiddle with your phone.
And learn the ways that people do
The things that you cannot
To vainly hope that one day you
Might get what they have got.
Ad hoc, no slush-pile pilfering, composition time five minutes.
>>8038368
I'm not happy with that part either, thanks for confirming.
Just like that
the clouds roll in
the crash thunders
and music becomes
disjointed noise.
I can't keep water below my chin
it's freezing and i shiver
shiver
but I don't feel
the warmth of life anymore.
It pains me to stay still
It pains me to be
alone.
It pains me to
know
where this feeling
is leading
I'm gasping, grasping
clawing..but I'm already
defeated.
plz rate thanks
Just like that
the crash thunders.
music becomes
disjointed noise.
I can't keep water below my chin
I don't feel
the warmth of life anymore.
there ya go. I turned it from a 2/10 to a 4/10.
>>8039734
thanks anon, much appreciated
>>8015225
holy christ of fuck is this bad
A place of deathbed sighs in song,
Where time stands still, with thoughts in throng,
My eyes are closed, there's naught to see,
This leaden place, eternity.
In all directions; cold, grey plane,
Unending breeze, my comfort's bane,
But no mere wasteland, empty space,
Betrayer's lair, I now must face.
I look above, and see a sky,
But no mere void doth grace mine eye,
These countless stars, they too deceive,
They are ideas, the heavens' weave.
My gaze averts, and wanders hence,
Nothing has changed, yet air is tense,
I hear his voice, the quiet breaks,
I want to leave, my body quakes.
I try to wake, I cannot move,
My courage now, I cannot prove,
He coalesces, standing there,
The one I sought, is now laid bare.
At last I twitch, no longer bound,
This place is fading, home is found,
I now return, without relief,
Where once reigned comfort, disbelief.
The way I went, upon my wake,
It now lies open, his to take,
This world of mine, can it withstand?
His world's his will, his own idea.
>>8040174
I get the impression you're wasted on this place. Not bad at all.
>>8012637
Fucking hell, and people wonder why Europa is falling. You cuckolds and faggots indulge in the woman's vice of poetry. It's shit btw.
>everything
>>8040174
That was pretty fuckin' beautiful. Not sure what it was about, though.
You should try polishing it.
The as bs and cs at the end of each line are to keep track of rhyme scheme.
The Silent Symphony, the Mortal God
Section I: The Shifting Pool, the Mirrored Tree
Smooth. Quiet. Undisturbed. a
Constant. Unchanging. Unperturbed. a
A step, a foot, a toe b
To break the surface c
And create the flow. b
Ripples rising and falling a
And ricocheting off the single being. a
Ankles, calves, thighs, a waist b
And a torso with arms. c
A trunk erupting with haste! b
Two of each wherever he goes, a
But the Mortal God knows. a
Knows that he has unstilled the pool, b
And the great trunk before of wood bark and green leaf c
Is a monument to his self-appointed rule. b
He sees his ankles, his feet below, soles pressing a
Against those possessed by the opposite of his everything. A
One that is, and one that is not b
Locking eyes and snarling teeth, c
Clenching fists as their voices clot b
Now the air, not only the water. A
Branches shift and the bodies shiver a
As the blanket chill sets down upon b
The Shifting Pool, the Mirrored Tree c
And the Mortal God, his attention gone b
To compose the ripples, the tides, a
The bouncing and bending with each of his strides. A
His Silent Symphony. C
>>8041047
t. Sophist
>>8041054
t. tired, facile rhymester who read Donne once
>>8041063
>Using rhymester as an insult
Go and read the Cantos/etc if you want line after line of no rhyme, metre and generally anything that makes poetry poetry.
>>8041042
I think we can identify the rhyme scheme without your assistance, thank you very much.
>>8041098
It was for me.
Only got one pair o’ shoes
I’s sold the rest for jars o’ booze
To kids my age who’re out to cruise
And dance the night away
Clank cup, girl,
If momma knew
She’d beat this ass
All shades o’ blue
What does it taste like?
The fruit of a nothing seed
Like the light of the blue glowing screens
Her plea faint, in her dreams she screams
For the drug that feeds the friendless feigns
Finish your food please
Lick the plate white and clean
Tell me what you think
Tell me what I need
Please, dear baby please
Tell me what it all means
What it means to be seen
Through the light of the blue glowing screens
Does the moon dream
of the sun's light
When the closed eyes
follow up to the pin prick holes
No vision in the pale night
when the trees flash
their colourless extensions
when the rocks meditate
on the infinite Brahman
chanting the silent mantra
Flickering movement, all present wind
the bush, the green, the brown
life watches the white planet
formed from debris and waste
219 wc, excerpt
Ensuing luminance burst forth
blinding the young man
his stumbling feet delivering
his rear to the floor.
A pearly, nude vessel came forth
floating gracefully before him.
Golden streaked locks
framing her visage of confusion.
Palms wandering her abdomen,
locating the mark of the boy's rapier.
Crimson liquid flowed,
long abyss threatening to overtake her.
Silver tears streaming 'cross her cheeks,
eyes upon her stained hand.
Flaxen irises met those of the boy,
confounding him.
An essence of melancholy,
almost gratitude
received by him.
Without warning,
the wound took its gulp,
tears growing black as oil
flooding from her eyes, ears,
nose, mouth, lower abdomen.
Rapidly increasing in flux,
the liquid rained to the floor,
momentarily joined
by the collapse of its host.
Her figure convulsed horrifically,
guttural shrieks unnerving the child.
Eyes unable to peel away,
watching his benefactress suffer.
She now leaned forth,
concealing her face,
staving off the pain.
Lang grew sick, but knew the truth:
this was the fate he had chosen.
The angelic monster before him
destined to fall to his bane.
An amalgamation of fear, selfishness
eventually numbness, imbued him.
As if by design,
summoning its strength,
the beast peered forth.
Once bright eyes now black as night
warped and contorted the boy's nature.
A final shudder,
holy creature bowing forth,
eternally silent.I have a question: In the seventh paragraph, I used the phrase "lower abdomen" for the woman's crotch. I didn't know how to do this tactfully. Ideas?
>>8043722
her center
my poetry is similar to a dead form of comedy as i prefer single lines.
the mountains, a monolith. the clouds, a zealous crowd.
to be lonely is to be lost.edgy i know
moons are forgiving mirrors, reflecting the beauty of a blinding light.
our pencil shortens as life's drawing grows.
there is beauty even in black clouds.
sitting atop the sky, pink, blushing for the sunset.
Six dead hours gave birth.
Projected in the flatness
of language, starless explored,
a map of memory's terrain :
The yip of paper dogs
curled burning in your palm.
Curses adorn her lips as do
scalpels on a panther's jaw,
still arms belong to a lifeless clock
(her flowing dress a layer of rain)
buried at twelve.
We talked like two ants do.
>>8019248
you suck
in the shifting dawn you'll find yourself alone.
again.
and goddamn it all if you can't feel the pull of the world around you
civilian life aching the back of your teeth
why the hell can't you go with them, moving together?
to be as one of the complacent, growing to hate those things fashionably loved
aging regret as though it were wine
yet it is not yours or mine to judge
nor our place to struggle
one day we will be they
as if taxidermists created us
but for this brief instance that damnable sun will rise yet again
and we will as well
and wonder when the future turned to ash around us
>>8015427
you mean a bard
I've seem to have forgotten
My wallet, wedged in between
The couch, forgotten somewhere
As I reached to pay for my
Morning coffee and bagel.
As my hand pressed against the
Empty pocket I trembled,
What use was I, in that line,
The cashier waiting, practiced
In patience waning more so,
My want exposed without need.
I turn the blinds to hide
Myself away against the day,
And toss upon my bed
Wishing I could sleep more
And never again set foot
Across the threshold near
What is considered real.
>>8044199
i like it, but the beginning kinda sucks
Tree timmerd
yet hammerd,
hollowby ear--Nock Nock
tuned up til here the ghost.
Holed ye post
notnailed a-gether,
afloat pier a dock
na lorrd alow.
Sheare tether
asoul to moorn
ground it no alredy
by erty sog.
But dear byd pit,
swayn terse
rowd up amound
neat Doglass-firs
waytn well til well an sere,
hewyn close my boglann bier.
A couple of Cavafy translations:
>Philhellene
Make sure the engraving is done skilfully.
The expression serious and majestic.
The diadem preferably a bit narrow:
I don't like the broad ones from Parthia.
The epigraph, as usual, Greek:
not bombastic, not pompous —
the proconsul might misunderstand,
he's always nosing around and reporting back to Rome —
but of course commendatory.
Something very fine on the other side:
some discus-thrower, young, good-looking.
Above all I urge you to see to it
(Sithaspis, for God's sake, do not forget)
that after the King and the Savior,
they engrave with stylish letters, Philhellene.
Now don't start with your wisecracks,
with your "Where are the Hellenes?" and "Where the Greek
out here behind the Zagros, beyond Phraata".
So many others more barbarian than us
inscribe it, and so shall we.
After all don't forget that sometimes
we are visited by sophists from Syria,
and versifiers, and other tricksters.
So we are not, I think, un-Greek.
>The Ides of March
Be fearful of greatness, O soul.
And if you can't subdue your aspirations,
follow them with your guard up, cautiously.
And the higher you rise,
the more examining, more careful be.
And when you reach your acme, Caesar at last;
when you settle in a role of such fame,
especially then be wary as you go out into the street,
a conspicuous ruler with your retinue;
And if by chance out of the crowd approaches
an Artemidorus, bringing a letter,
and saying hastily "Read this immediately,
these great matters concern you",
be sure to stop; be sure to postpone
every speech and all your business; be sure to push aside
the followers who bow and salute
(you can see them later); even the Senate
can wait — and recognize at once
the grave writings of Artemidorus.
>As Much As You Can
And if you can't make your life as you want it,
try this at least
as much as you can: do not demean it
with too much commerce in the crowd,
with too many gestures and chatter.
Do not demean it by dragging it along,
making the rounds and exposing it
to the daily nonsense
of encounters and relations,
till it becomes a burdensome stranger.
The mirror cannot speak my form
So now I must go brave the storm
Through frozen air and gray abyss
Find answers in the nothingness
Answers for my drowning mind
Pelted by torrents of time
Limping towards whatever lies
In bright divides of stormy skies
For light is filmed by foggy screen
Of icy gas and windy screams
But cold cannot dissolve resolve
That question which my mind revolves
It must be solved - and now, at last!
The zenith of the mountain pass!
Yet right before we past the cast
The turgid sails and aching mast
The splintered spine and pain amassed
Of sails commanding last avast
Threw me out with conquest's casque
Lest I be crushed in mast's collapse
Some brave the storm by binding hands
Some silence it in marching bands
Some stand by nations to stand tall
American all play Football
When the light appeared to me most near
Fate dragged me down to black nadir
But descending into deadly sea
Allowed my eyes to truly see
For the glass of mirror does neglect
What ocean's surface does reflect
I saw myself - the answer, after all!
To type 3 quest: "am I a ball?"
>>8046071
My inspiration.
>>8045860
Έλληνας?
This is my first ever attempt, its about my city and how its changed in the past few years.
Give me back your empty streets,
Show me the dread of your sad days past.
The end came so fast, I did not see your defeats.
Now new conquerors in your squares amass.
This city died and its spirit died with it.
It's promised exaltation came too late.
>>8014144
LMFAO
My dick is hard
my dick is wrought
my dick can lift a thousand pots
on my dick i do declare
my dicks the best everywhere
>>8014144
My penis is a weiner
My weiner has balls
But what is a peener
Without any balls?
>>8040174
Simple but effective. Keep rocking that consistent metre and ABAB rhyme scheme.
>>8012637
Quiet little families in quaint mini houses,
With large backyards and white picket fences
Side by side other mini houses with equal amenities
Houses on streets, that crisscross, like Sunday crosswords
Neighborhoods protected by tight-knit communities
From undesirables
But those don’t exist in our town
No not ours
Men who drink their coffee and
Read their paper and
Kiss their wife and
Leave their home to go to their work
women who raise the kids and
cook the food and
clean the home; and
love the Husband.
Tiny blue-eyed children who go to that school and
Play at that park and
Laugh at that joke and
Study that math and
Love that family
Every little person,
In little old Crittleton,
Played Their Part, as they should
and,
Every Boy and every girl
Married each other and
Life was good
But that was not in our town
No not ours
Loud, broken-down families in shabby shacks
With shattered glass windows and tattered tarred rooftops,
Timidly hidden from all men and Women fearful from anger and nothing at all.
Littered with refuse the sidewalks they crack,
The drunkards are sheltered by nightfall:
men who crouch on knees and
snicker on wrinkled aluminum and
crawl on fractured bones and
sleep on beds of bullets.
Women who work all weekends and
Feed all mouths and
Fight all ghouls and
Toss and Turn all night,
loathe their beds of bullets.
AND WHEN ALL THE SANGUINARY TRACTS ROT
children are children no longer than cattle
children are animals that growl and that battle
children are scholars forsaken by knowledge
children are boogeymen, shrouded under beds of bullets.
And this was in our town
You pray not yours
. . . . . . . . . . . .
day-up, and day-drop,
you ponder our death,
agog for the answer how:
the middle of your city, the middle of mine
is equally evil, and also, benign.
So travel to Crittleton for all of it’s green.
And stay out of Crittleton for all of it’s mean.
Though alleys shake and light posts tumble and fracture,
We don’t all see the end.
>>8040174
This is great.
All over the world their faces are found
With tenderness they come out of the ground
In the dark they arise and invest in silent force
That cradles a child that cradles a corpse...
Old woman, my mother, my child, my friend
So many beginnings so close to the end
They close their eyes and return to their home
In fields of flesh and castles of bone...
Would you suggest learning to compose poetry as a tool for bettering your prose? What's the best way to learn poetry composition, and a deeper understanding of poetry in general? What's the best way to find new vocabulary, other than hoping to pick it up from reading?
>>8047107
I think it would be worthwhile. Even just reading prose can help your basic communication so I imagine that could be expanded upon. Similarly I can only read music in treble clef but prefer bass so I'm thinking of picking up a guitar to take the lessons back to an instrument scaled to the same octaves. Give it a shot, anon.
I called up on the radio
With numbers of persuasion on my mind
but the absence of relation
Left the audience behind.
Supermarkets in the greyhound dust
Offer off-white furniture
And parasols through stripped sand lawns
On the line of her ring finger
At the point of her surrender
"I owe nothing to the poor,"
I said, "I turned the money lenders
From the temple of the lord."
So they founded California
In the Garden of the Canyon
In the shade of the Arbutus
With Gongs of Lu Fing's restaurant
Calling rapture for His flock.
I assure her we were wealthy -
and the host of my enterprise -
While multiplying signals
Trailed white against the sky.
I asked him would it be long,
"You're taking up the hotline
You're burning up the changing times"
He insisted, stringing us along
While that telethon went on (and on and on).
>>8018524
dude let me hit that lmao
im a pot head I dont need quit that herb,
vaping on that herb,
i dont give a fuck if you got fucking snow,
white aint right homie,
i stay green with mother earth
No.
he said.
“no,” he said.
“no,” i said.
“i know,” she said.
“thank you,” she said.
“come with me,” she said.
“talk to me,” she said.
“don’t worry about it,” she said.
it made me want to cry.
no one had seen him since.
it made me feel uneasy.
no one had seen him.
the thought made me smile.
the pain was unbearable.
the crowd was silent.
the man called out.
the old man said.
the man asked.
he was silent for a long moment.
he was silent for a moment.
it was quiet for a moment.
it was dark and cold.
there was a pause.
it was my turn.
there is no one else in the world.
there is no one else in sight.
they were the only ones who mattered.
they were the only ones left.
he had to be with me.
she had to be with him.
i had to do this.
i wanted to kill him.
i started to cry.
i turned to him.
what we wanted was to sleep
laying in a kettle-bog
in a wet bed of green end
two thousand years after it all
peeling back the fen above
they will only have reason
to wonder what profane rite
left us sunken in this peat
>>8018457
Well i couldnt before
Wrote this in the last ten minutes
She's a wanderer
Fighting against the tide
Running, running,
Too fast for her time
A fleeting heartbeat
A brief scent in the spring air
Fading suddenly
Never there nor here
>>8048280
would better spend those minutes masturbating
its a piece of shit
>>8048286
What do i do with the remaining 9 minutes?
>>8048363
regret your taste in porn
There was never a point
Now roll another joint
Life is without purpose
Dude weed can't hurt us
So smoke the kush
I hate my life
Just burn a bush
seriously kill me
Something I'm currently working on
>>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 veiled innocence:
Hysteria lit the path with shadowed light from an envious lantern.
>>8048280
I think this would have been nice with a third stanza
How do you get over writing anxiety? It's crippling. I go in expecting nothing and still get unreasonably upset. It feels like all of my practice and attempts aren't adding up to anything. I'm a terrible thinker and I can never put my thoughts into words. I don't understand how some poets can write so movingly with the simplest of words.
I've tried copying and imitation, daily writing, but nothing seems to help me. I know that I'll probably get better if I keep doing it everyday for years, but I get so upset that it's hard for me to keep any sort of consistent practice schedule.
I've been reading this huge-ass anthology of poetry, as well as working my way through all of Shakespeare's works, and their inventiveness of language and control of rhetorical devices blows me away. I don't understand how they learned to write like that.
>>8050238
Example of your writing?
Also, as much as you may not want to think it, you might just not be a writer, not everyone is.
>>8050096
critique it? bump
Something I'm currently working on
>>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 veiled innocence:
Hysteria lit the path with shadowed light from an envious lantern.
We walk amongst them in the halls
forever unseen too afraid that we could fall.
Who are we?
When the lights dim into the twilights of the night
we still remain in the unforgotten dark.
Who are we?
The rotten foods spoils within there sunken hears
yet we lay unnoticed, unloved, and unseen
Who are we?
Our cries are only heard by deafening herds
uncompassionate dreams drown out our screams
Who are we?
We are the walls of the north
serving as a reminder of their unwashed sin
soundless noise that ravishes the skin of their kin
Voiceless angels angels in the sea of unamused devils
there laughter makes us flee
WHO ARE WE?!
...Rest my child
for you are unspoiled beauty that they cannot see
lay your head on my knee
let the wind set you free
You are the children of the crop
unable to fall in the pool that makes them all rot
You are the lost children in the north.
His head a thousand goats
Tail that of man
He speaks with a chorus of rabbit screams
And the claws of the lamb
He is all that is not
And this way he comes!
>>8050096
>>>Nature Calls
nature call is a common euphemism that you need to visit bathroom
>>8018270
my favorite ITT
keep it up anon
We should have been past this bridge by now
As the sky threatens us with dry heaves,
With scarce drops. The desert is not a
Place for man -or men- or we. Brown, black,
Brown, black, grey, in our eyes, ears, noses.
Ours is a pallet not sated with
Such a limited menu.
Perpetually dry.
We could have been off this bridge at any point,
Even with our pockets perpetually empty, or
soon to be empty. Life of a vagabond in any
Place would be a life euphoric. No Rockefeller,
Monarch, Sheikh, Philanthropist status is worth
This slow moving river below us
Always taunting us.
Perpetually almost-not-dry.
The bridge will never let us go forwards or back-
The promise of either side not broken, but
Not even a goal. It's foundation stretches to
The underside of heaven. We're caught in a queue,
The nucleus of a square, the bottom of a totem
of boxes. Ours is a mode of vehicular progression
That can/shall -will- be stagnant.
Perpetually stuck at almost-not-dry.
>>8053103
Not bad
>>8048685
iktf
>>8053321
wanking now and going to bed if even
odd staying up writing poetry might even sub/lit/ it
0 coffee, cigarettes, then suicide
roll
>>8053103
I feel like the second stanza could have used a bit of touching up, but I like it overall.
idolatry fades over years
measured in smoke and ground enamel as
the stolen October effigy belies its facade
leaving one wanting in place of the first
and its bastard hands
caress the scabs lining her thighs
those future scars, the lenticels of birch legs:
old excuses
to threaten abandon of this bondage
once worshipped, it now adores its disciple
more than she it, or it itself
still, these two seek to align the bent other
without realizing they are both equally
unwell
then, at night, she is all shivering sleep
but it won't hold her shaking form close anymore
or press lips to temple
like in the soft beginning
so when it is finally cast away,
half buried in fallen leaves and
her journey towards the Autumn glory sun begins
how can it be forgotten
the way she always smelled like
baby powder?
Quack, said the duck.
Bread lost to the ruck.
Don't fear he, by the quay,
Dear me, besides the sea.
No mind mired to muck,
No body suffer the crook.
Just the tides that flee,
Many a fowl are we,
Quacking besides the sea.
‘peace’
Like an old whispered syllable,
or the youngest of mankind whose faces are their own.
Not even the greatest light could surpass the most silent song
(to which the dance is to sleep with a smile),
so why is it that one small dischord can eclipse it all?
i don’t remember peace, as i was unborn.
before i had worries about a lack of worry.
before i knew the lack of difference
between right and wrong.
if you want peace then don’t look here.
look inside at yourself, looking outward
hear the echo of the reticent world’s thought
see the light of total darkness
if you want war,
step forth:
every baby in arms,
every flower of field,
every breath of finality,
everyone’s smile to another,
holds war
holds death
holds war
you wanted roses
so let the blood see fit
cold moon rise solemn
yearning bone splintered
pitch night folds unto column
wretch amoungst strewn flowers
rotted sight foul and sour
pale eyes hold for hours
crescent brakes into rays
once more bringer of twilight
slowly counted last of days
When one day you find that am not there by your side,
Despite all those nights of promises and pinky-swears under our blanket,
Do not look for me in the shadows or when you are seeking light,
Beyond life and its end, I mean what I swear,
that I will be in your heart, no matter how hopeless it may seem
Hey Challahbinguus
Happy little pingas
Bubblegum pingas
Eating rice
Ricecake Smeagol
Fluffernut Smeagol
Battyman lamb shank
You're quite nice
A doe went black beside 445
shrunk by the median in the night,
coming from the forest there to the highway
here and she got me thinking how
I would have liked to have consoled
my brother who ran from one kind of death
in the city to another in another part of some
other city.
The rain had washed her and I only had time
for a glimpse, running down that way.
I'm turning that same color as you, I should
have said. And when they find me opened
like a can by the worms they won't wonder
half as much about me as I'm wondering
about you.
Introduction to Bone's Last Stand
>>28672178
>>28672211
I'm killing myself tonight. This is my suicide poem. Berate me.
>>8057995
>>>/r9k/28672211
Woops. Thought it would link.
>>8056480
What is this?1
There are no keys to failure
Her locks are cut gently
The creaking, straining, bulging nothing
Peers through her trapdoor
Broken drifting shatteredness
Rocks at the bottom but it's not rock bottom there's so much farther to fall, so much longer to drift
No, just another ledge to slip on
Just another pane of glass to slide down
Another clearing to crumple into
Place to fail again
I
I
Saw felt withered hands withered mind
Choked on sloth like Kabul razorwire
Strangled the idiot who resisted
Fell again and fell hard
Fell toward nothing while everything was in reach
Woke with vigor before I landed
Crashed von Hindenburg with abandon
Gasped alive with mended skin
Stretched the rack
Was stretched and screamed with a grin
Relished it
I try and fail to break myself
I am too weak to die
I burn the wick to holy urned ash every night
I burn the ash to solar will every day
I can never quit
I quit absolutely
I can never escape
I rend the night in shallow christened baritones
I can seize the pleasure dome
I have all the time in the world to have not a minute left
I can do it this time, it'll be different it'll be different I can I can
>>8036122
are you literally from 1500
there's a reason people don't write in heroic couplets anymore
To a Piece of Clay
1 Consider the clay;
2 Have you heard it ask Why, Whence, or Wherefore?
3 Then why does man interrogate his maker?
4 For you know what man is:
5 A germ of flesh, a clod of clay, given shape by Providence;
6 Again I ask, what right have you to question?
7 Aye, but we know that man is not a vessel,
8 For a vessel has not eyes to see, nor brain to wonder, nor mouth to question -
9 Far more pitiful a thing is man!
10 A creation that knows itself, but not its purpose:
11 A newly-made puppet, tossed onto the rubbish heap -
12 With the breath of life as a parting gift!
13 Yes, pitiful indeed - but perhaps not unsalvageable;
14 For man handles the lines of his own life,
15 And that’s worth more than a thousand ceramic vases.
>>8053103
I like this one, here's mine.
I walk alone between the rocks,
once molten lava, now sharp stone.
Overgrown with thick green moss,
boulder and man stand alone.
>>8043907
I like this one, but I hate the word "taxidermists." It fucks up the flow
...RIVERWARDS he drifted, sad and lonely,
In heavy heart. Trees swayed with the wind.
There wane in the passage behind him a patch
Of summerset, near ebbing its tides to rescind
Beneath the spot, where we tore from silence
The Persephone, by scent of pomegranate
Into the foliage, so writ, to account from fate
All abundance, and quarters to serve hold nature
Its dwellers’ appointments, nest and hole, from terror,
And how feather-weight branches, combing twigs.
Post-industrial waste frolics with the spring
Bai-u’s retreat, and welcome the charcoal gloom
In suffocating bliss, holding back some deadened time.
Why, this begot he, Lord upon sevenfold skies,
A garden amidst a thick clouding of fumes,
As dissimilar to the tundras in discerning eyes…
...RIVERWARDS he drifted, wilting within
A day of waterfall, a spirit to sing.
>>8060298
>In heavy heart. Trees swayed with the wind.
Sorry, I can't read any more.
Kill kill murder murder death murder kill kill murder death. Murder murder kill kill death kill murder murder kill. Death death death death.
>>8060309
What's wrong with it?
>>8060315
i like.this, but thats personal.
>>8053574
cute :)
Skinned (or is the world just red)
Doggie paddle in the depths
Gasp gasp gasp
Position compromised! Fetal lights jaundice
Alright sir, boneless or bone IN?
Have a sad day, let none in
And save those bones for a nutritious grave
...OK
>>8053574
I'm sure I've read this in a kids book
>>8060919
Please critique. Did you like it?
>>8060276
how about "as if made statues"
The shadows, they were dark
The sun, it blinded me
But how you ask? how if I have no eyes, can I blinded... that, that is the mystery
>>8060985
Somehow devoid of any instict
Well then, I wrote this little incoherent mess with the intention of its being pentameter, but it ended up fluctuating between tetrameter and alexandrian. In any case, I wrote it in reaction to the fable of Joe Gould, and particularly the fact that all his great literary buddies didn't show up to his funeral. I'm thinking I may try writing more parts to it, even though I think what I've written so far is really awful. I at least feel strongly about the topic. Haven't come up with a name for it yet.
Who can say they’ve known the depth of Winter?
The men and bits of paper, whirled around
To graves or archives, away from center,
Are only influenced: their knowledge only sound.
But who’s too late to know the late Autumnal light?—
Too deep, even, for the streetbred mental might.
Men and bits of paper. Joe Gould, the hawklike man,
Was never one for Nature’s nor the city’s plan:
Not for him the visionary company,
For the writer, like the victim of transfusion,
Is always even ‘gainst himself in mutiny.
The rhythmed line is broken by confusion.
Don’t tell me about the frigid, burning rose,
The Soul and Self in Combat in the Dark,
Or stars and lines (like porcelain) in perfect rows:
Without compassionate formality, it’d seem a lark
To sketch the buildings bright, the masses daft.
There is boundless space to fill in Circe’s craft.
On the train saw a lady
With two toddlers that looked shady
Next stop
She got off, but never left my brain
Get home walk the dog and I start to feel insane
We patrol this sunny cell block with nothing but disdain
Everyone who I inspect
Asks me why my dog is so afraid
Dumb bitch he's just a puppy and you creep like nosferatu
Matter fact you scare me too and im sorry that I saw you
Uhh...and this is the smart 4chan board???
>>8017699
I think these are great. I feel like you've accurately conveyed how you felt with these and that's all poetry was made for. Your writing's not bad. Wouldn't say it's great. But you really shouldn't rewrite any of these. They're wonderful how they are
>>8061310
>On the train saw a lady
>With two toddlers that looked shady
>Next stop
>She got off, but never left my brain
>Now again they are smashing the china – that is the convention. An old, unsteady woman carrying a bag trots home under the fire-red windows. She is half afraid that they will fall on her and tumble her into the gutter. Yet she pauses as if to warm her knobbed, her rheumaticky hands at the bonfire which flares away with streams of sparks and bits of blown paper. The old woman pauses against the lit window. A contrast. That I see and Neville does not see; that I feel and Neville does not feel. Hence he will reach perfection, and I shall fail and shall leave nothing behind me but imperfect phrases littered with sand.
>>8061918
i didnt bothered to read it since im drunk but from glancing and blinking twice do you really think that it's good to rhyme avast and last
O’ Insufferable Universe; who transcends our doctrines of right and wrong, of being or not being. You who are all yet none. You who mediate the balance of being. I ask of you, Lady Universe, where in the enigma lies good solace? What trail must we traverse? What toils must we endure? In what far corner lies our holy o’ holy custodian? The soul truly is a lonely hunter.’
>>8045663
Thanks for the feedback man. What turned you off from the intro? I wanna get better.
It lies outside,
So fortunate, eager,
But I'm alone
Behind the window
Watching the world
Turn and twist
And I wish
I could play along
But the fear
Has become too strong.
>>8060919
This moved no emotion my way. Try to express something real transcribed to words, not words symbolizing something real.
>>8060985
Is this you're true attempt? I'm thinking not.
>>8061021
Well written, but incoherent as I read it. You touch on loneliness, and/or the relapse of man. But it's jumbled, I feel like you should divide this poem into its categories; hope and revelation.
>>8061310
I genuinely hope English is not your native language.
>>8062178
Trying way too hard. You're obviously smart but you want to push your intellect in vanity, not truth. When you stop trying to impress people is when you'll become impressive.
>>8062219
I like it, but it's haphazard. It sticks to a theme but lacks structure.
Hovering above
Guided combustion under my feet
Arm, motion drying, apply lotion
Drag your being through my teeth
Statue, carved with someone's ironic meaning
Sunken whisper going up
Face behind face, locked joint
Roots rising in a middle plane
your too plain
The abundance of beetles
drove him to needle park—
crawling skin grafts tickling fears
and diet wine coolers for diabetics:
rent is due. Yesterday
I saw school kids scaling walls
in an iron sealed gymnasium
trading beetles for Cheetos.
Rent is due.
Spent is you
for rent is due.
Pillow pedestal,
driverless chauffeurs named Jeeves,
pet peeves like rolled up sleeves,
a visible asymptote titled tomorrow
painted jet black: the Chi-town bean,
The Big Bean, sublimated steam,
Fictitious black guys conjured by a nonracist: nahmean?
No, I mean, I'm mean.
Blowing off steam,
Showing off dreams,
Bursting at the seams,
Just like jeans
worn and shorn by Hilda beasts,
dat yeast: rising up the bladder,
climbing up the ladder,
termites in paint, ants on display,
aunts on the sway, 2 times 2 equals today.
Meanings here to stay—on the fray,
sitting on the dock at the bay,
at the bay, today.
>>8065038
flows really well,
actually laughed at the "nahmean?" part
this is more of my own bias, but I really didn't see much of a higher meaning in the poem, it just seems fanciful and funny to me right now
>>8065019
I honestly do not understand it
The spent is you
for rent is due line is quite cliche
>>8065218
>but I really didn't see much of a higher meaning in the poem
oh no!
>>8065232
not saying that's a bad thing, I'm just stating my feelings, I still overall like it!
>>8065235
I didn't at all. I don't think it "flows well" in the slightest.
>>8065253
Well you're just a big fat jaundiced nay-saying meanie-bo-beanie, aren't you. Didn't your mother ever tell you if you don't have anything constructive to say then don't say anything at all?
My eyes are open to your thoughts, Herr Anon. Tell me why what I've posted is doo-doo so I can tell you why you're doo-doo. That's how this board works, right?
Choking on my childishness
Hands about my neck
Legs under the table
Dancing to a slow death
Every year I died a boy
Every year I die a man
Every year I hope for life
and every year I dance
I always die alone
Though some might suspect
The straight-faced son
Who always shows respect
Might not enjoy reunions
As one might expect
--
Sorry
>>8066527
Don't use choking or suffocating. Pick another word and we will continue.
>>8066550
What's wrong with choking
Is it not in 'vogue'?
>>8012637
Oil Spill
Chimera fire rages by
the water side, as oil slicks in
char-grilled night awash in tide.
Sumptuous ivory with burnt bark
rallies along the creek, nostrils
turned away from the reek. The
lively aqueous glade squeaks of
ruinous peace and sultry tides.
The forest front is arms
with a pith of oil in
fatal embrace with wistful fire.
>>8027068
bump for review on this
>>8066568
don't know, it's just embarrassing.
>>8066585
Impressive, for an elementary school submission.
