Poetry critique thread

[Anonymous No.10466895]

Looks like i just missed the last thread so here is a new one .

In my day job as a pianist I sometimes write down small poems.
it’s odd but you can think of poems while playing. Music lives in a different part of the mind.


Symphony No. 9


As In hall of deafness still had heaped
a confusion of memories.
The pile awaiting craftsman’s wit;
but he wished he could hear these sobs
when pain forced and hacked in-to tears.
Or, like the huge laugh like a giant’s
that knew that after all it was
hard work to force the chain gang in order

[Anonymous No.10466942]

>>10466895
Really don't get it, but the structure makes it difficult since it is incorrect grammatically. Also used "like" twice in the same line. I get it now though, its about Beethoven being deaf; its not very good. You are writing about something familiar, and the idea is interesting, but work on your form.

[Anonymous No.10466994]

Repost because no one said anything :(

I am a candle. I burned at the feast.
Gather my wax and melt me into water:
see the droplets as they form,
watch the shapes they make.
Pour me onto the page and
cover the words so you too
may remember how to weep, how to
shiver in the morning dew,
gather the last third of yourself and
send it off on a raft of twin and
childhood weeds,
amidst the mint and purple loosestrife,
you crumpled there in the rain heavy lilacs,
eyes and mouth filled with dirt.
See the frozen peat reflect
that mirror world, where the barn
burns in the rain and it rains in the house and,
like a book,
you burn posthumously;
where words like ‘you’ and ‘I’ see
much reform.
And decompose into the moss;
learn to die and let the snow melt
from those ancient boughs about you.

[Anonymous No.10467004]

I don't really lurk these, but I did enjoy one occasion years ago when one post reeled me in. I was wondering if anyone knows what poem I'm talking about here. It ended with something along the lines of:
"like letters
in the s
a n
d"

[Anonymous No.10467016]

>>10466994
Not sure who or what you are addressing. Maybe I'm a pleb, but I don't understand the last half, does it catch fire and burn down the barn?
>you burn posthumously;
>where words like 'you' and 'I' see
>much reform
I liked this, although I don't know what its supposed to mean

[Anonymous No.10467058]

>>10466994
The initial "I am a candle" feels bad.

[Anonymous No.10467103]

A small voice is threading my house in the night
But a small heart is there … Listen
I who have dwelt by the root of a scream,
I who have read my heart like an amputee,
reading a book whose pages turn by the wind
I say listen, listen, hear me
in our dreamless dark, my dear

[Anonymous No.10467168]

Are they here? Are they here?
As they knock on the door.
Do you hear The door?
Fool. Open there do to here!
Fool do you knock on the door?
Fool open the door to the night.
Open to the dark, the knock.
The fool knocks. They are here.

[Anonymous No.10467185]

>>10466994
"twin" should be "twine" :(

[Anonymous No.10467223]

>>10466895
>>10467103

I don't understand them but I like the sound

[Anonymous No.10467304]

a bit of prose i wrote in french. Would love to have some feedback from french speakers

"Encore un après-midi désert. Encore la pluie, qui voudrait bien dire quelque chose mais qui se contente de murmurer sur les vitres. Où que j’ailles dans la maison, c’est toujours le même chant lointain qui m’accompagne. Une incantation, qui roule contre le toit et qui se glisse dans toutes les pièces. Quand c’est comme ça et que je me retrouve toute seul, je reste longtemps sur mon lit. Je ferme les yeux et je laisse ma conscience se réveiller. Elle sort, timide, de sa torpeur – il lui faut du temps pour s’habituer au noir. Dans l’obscurité, je commence à distinguer des formes. C’est la pluie – qui est là et qui n’est pas là, comme sur une vielle photo. Des taches fuyantes, des traits - La noirceur immobile entre en mouvement. Bientôt, il n’y a plus que du noir et du blanc – les couleurs du silence. Mes pensées dansent avec la pluie. Elles épousent la trajectoire des gouttes, elles tombent avec elles, elles meurent sur les vitres. Mon esprit inonde tout le jardin et bientôt toute la ville – il arrose les passants et la terre sèche des bords de route. C’est le murmure de mes pensées que j’entends taper contre les vitres. Je suis cette pluie – qui glisse sur les choses et les gens sans jamais les saisir. Une seconde, je tombe, puis celle d’après je forme une flaque. Je suis cette pluie – se mouvant partout, toujours changeante, toujours fluide. Un instant se fige, je suis suspendue entre terre et ciel.
Je rouvre les yeux. Juste pour vérifier. Je les referme."

[Anonymous No.10468060]

~~Verdunt~~

The meadows where our bodies lay
were torn apart by blackberries
we hid & danced, then ran away
when clouds had read our histories

and when the rain restores the Life we burnt
I’ll show you love in a handful of dirt.
I tampered with a line from Eliot. This is allowed, right?

[Anonymous No.10468073]

—Verdunt—

The meadows where our bodies lay
were torn apart by blackberries
we hid & danced, then ran away
when clouds had read our histories

and when the rain restores the Life we burnt
I’ll show you love in a handful of dirt.

[Anonymous No.10468156]

>>10467168
>Open there do to here

Not even going to critique if you can't even use proper syntax to make sentences. This is the only place it occurs. Proofread your work before submitting.

[Anonymous No.10468163]

>>10467103
Clever turns of phrases. Good word choice. Good flow. Great example of what free verse can do.

[Anonymous No.10468499]

>>10467103
this is great

[Anonymous No.10468593]

>>10468073
Not bad but histories is a difficult to rhyme with

[Anonymous No.10468602]

>>10468593
Thanks. I know. I've been trying to write a few poems that use heavy allusions and metaphors to make a time/place feel like it's seperated; as if there are precisely two ways the poem could be read.

This is another I'm working on;. It's literally about an abused lover, while the metaphorical reading is that France was drunk with dictators and Kings and inebriated by hopes of revelation, only to be subjugated once again.

[Anonymous No.10468624]

>>10468602
Revolution*

[Anonymous No.10468639]

>>10468593
"Is a difficult word to"

[Anonymous No.10468664]

>>10467304
>toute seul
trap?

[Anonymous No.10469726]

Doing a series of portraitures dressing scenes faintly in the images of women in omage to the Earth. My most recent one, how is it?

[Anonymous No.10469750]

>>10469726
Read Dermont Healy for inspiration if you haven't done so already.

[Anonymous No.10469752]

Come Spit ball poetry
For all eyes to see
Watch your aim it may sting
Words are bling
When you step into this ring
As Monkeys shit fling
The birds may learn to sing

Co developed, revolutionary
Birds and the bees, give us our money
Monkeys and beast, learn to feast
As pairs, we are the first and last
Come and have a line, and make it fast

[Anonymous No.10470120]

Something I'm working on tonight, I just write stream of consciousness when I'm high without going back to revise until I'm finished.

You led me out of the city
Foundations, streets, and stone
You, all pale and pink and pretty
Back to your flower home

On the banks of those glassy creeks
I tasted in stupor
Lemon eyes, pomegranate cheeks
And cotton-candied lips

Birds, insects, bugs and trees
Joined our dreamy picnic
And felt you melting on your knees
Now you're wonderfully sick.

[Anonymous No.10470189]

I know this isn't the purpose of this thread however, has anyone read Clarel by Meville and how did they go with the countless biblical and geographical references it makes?

[Anonymous No.10471315]

Bump this post back to the top
So shitty crits again shall drop

[Anonymous No.10471319]

>>10468593
revised it:

—Verdunt—

The green hills where our bodies lay
were torn apart by blackberries
we hid & danced, then ran away
when clouds revealed our histories

and when the rain restores the life we burnt
I will show you God in a handful of dirt.

[Anonymous No.10471327]

>>10466895
I used to be ravaged by acrid
jealousy for the
Blessed ones--
princes of vast domains of
carelessness. I wanted to
dirty the smooth glass of their
minds, shape them into something
gnarled. I watched them all for years, spent the
dregs of my mind on them.

Now I am prematurely old, wracked with
fever and
weakness. My body is a wraith, a stumbling, crawling
thing. Mind going, too, in
fits and bursts--words lost, time and
times.
I feel as though I shall be crowned a newborn king, of
suffering. I wear the rose-needles upon my temple, I
cry in ecstasy, my vision
sprayed upon my wall of
mind.

I am dissolute and mad, I will be
famous for this
dumb, deaf dance, this
whirling into
stasis and decrepitude

Who knows my name? Let it ring out--I am the
King. I died so I could
live in hearts and minds

I went invisible, I went insane

Who knows me now? Please, lend an ear, a mouth, a
brain. Please learn my
name.

[Anonymous No.10471333]

It hurts so much

Just say that you missed me, at the least

I won't ever know if you're telling yourself not to hear me, and telling you this won't ever make you stop

How else do I end this misery besides closure

[Zepdas No.10471443]

What is this weight upon my soul?

It only returns when the hope of being with you is given oxygen.

I feel as if we are a wardrobe of childish toys, spiders and promises unspoken that are forever discarded.

I wish I understood the armor you wear to protect your self from me.

I lash out in frustration and malice. a mace of emotion to try displace what you built. unbroken.

I hoped I might have had a room within your heart where a light bulb glowed. stowed away, unnoticed

Unfortuanlty it appears I was wrong. I found this room but it was empty. dark, damp left abandoned.

No hope, just a cold stare is it yours? is this opinion you have formed completely of your own design?

How can it have changed so rapidly to being bent like a rusty nail that you have hit too many times with your grief

Am I shifting the blame away from my own despicable actions?

Rumours and cousins the dagger you forged to stab yourself in the back. ripping holes large holes of already decomposing temptation.

Time has not been kind to my mind as I sit here the everlasting oxygen keeping the heat of my ambition afloat.

I contemplate should I give in to what is obvious. reality will one day set in. opening my blind old eyes to the realization.

You have moved on.

[Anonymous No.10471463]

>>10468073
I liked it but:
-there are lovely images put together, but it seems kind of forced.
-your references don't really add that much. e.g., the last line: what you gain is much weaker than what you lost by breaking the metical pattern

[Anonymous No.10471474]

>>10471443
Have you ever seen the film misery?

[Anonymous No.10471479]

i scratched my ass today

tiny fibres of shit stained my fingers which
i put to my pink lips
and tasted
with my tongue's spittle,
my tongue stained from whiskey
and beer

the shit on my fingers tasted bad and i
am tired, it is 4 A.M
and i have work in the morning at
8:30 A.M.

i scratched my ass today and
i drank whiskey and beer.

i thought of calling a whore, but didn't,
because i have to pay my electric bill and also
need the gas money if i can get my car back.
public transit makes me want to jerk off
on my mother's big titties

i look at the clock and it is 5:30 A.M
bed now

see ya

[Anonymous No.10471487]

gonna give these threads a go

[Anonymous No.10471508]

Bold bricks sway
Foundations cater
The gummy flick of a wrist
Gives way to my metre
There are walls made of eyes
There are eyes cemented in walls

Distance crawls
Bleats yawn off
Into the single breath of eternity

You stand
I fall
Making way for the new
Piling onto the used

[Anonymous No.10471521]

>>10466895
Simian’s #3

You were born
with (statistically)
no chance

You were born
into soft noise
and sickness

What good is
what little
quiet that
remains?

against the
onslaught of
glowing screens
and hyper-present
noise, outlined
in neon

These days
you nurture
all you have
left of your
animal hurt

Fueling an
acid flux,
a nausea
at the seat
of yr soul,
an anti-
Kundalini,
Sit with it
and hold it
like a secret,
like a poison
that loves u
too closely, that
licks behind ur
ears like a
wayward flame-
child,
a friend that
nobody else
has

[Anonymous No.10471532]

>>10471521
Too much abstract, where is the concrete?

A poem is not philosophy, it is a painting in word form. Don't tell me what the ponder, explain what to ponder.

Read more Plath

[Anonymous No.10471588]

>>10466895
I read a fair amount of poetry OP, and, I must say, this is actually good.

There are a few minor things which can be worked out, but you have talent which can be refined to produce art.

In your poem there is powerful imagery using few words, a strong yet elusive rhythm, and, perhaps most importantly, a component of the feeling things are being left unsaid - which gives the poem re-readability.

I encourage you to keep writing and to familiarize yourself intimately with poetry.

[Anonymous No.10471594]

>>10471463
Fair trade for an allusion to The Waste Lands imo

[Anonymous No.10471665]

a sundown miracle

your coat pockets are full
of froot loops
and energy.

a math professor
coughs up a peninsula.

dream again
dream again
dream again

united child
laugh up a spire
and spit proudly
into silver gene pools.

seventy nunchuck
frown girl surprise
aimless barefoot mannequin
leech tomorrow!

[Anonymous No.10471675]

>>10468073
this is lovely, thank you for sharing.

[Anonymous No.10471703]

>>10468073
The ending is in horribly bad taste. Don't be so uninspired as to end your poem as a parody of well-known lines.

Do you know what this makes of you? It makes you an afterthought - a feeble, comic shadow of your better.

FIND YOUR OWN VOICE!

[Anonymous No.10471791]

>>10471703
bait

[Anonymous No.10471805]

Now hes 25 and hes never felt love
hes scared and alone and hes drunk in the dark
holes in his shoes mirror holes in his heart he laughs when he talks but Im falling apart
Stop the car let me out
dont care if we're still states away
Ill walk and Ill walk till the memories fade
no more liquor for boredom
no more liquor for pain
the salt and the roof and the memories fade

[Anonymous No.10471855]

>>10471791
It really isn't.

[Anonymous No.10471993]

>>10471588
thank you.
not quitting my day job but definitely committing more time to it.

[Anonymous No.10472720]

>>10471855
A Confession, by C.S. Lewis

I am so coarse, the things the poets see
Are obstinately invisible to me.
For twenty years I’ve stared my level best
To see if evening–any evening–would suggest
A patient etherized upon a table;
In vain. I simply wasn’t able.
To me each evening looked far more
Like the departure from a silent, yet a crowded, shore
Of a ship whose freight was everything, leaving behind
Gracefully, finally, without farewells, marooned mankind.

[Anonymous No.10472723]

>>10471855
I was refuting Eliot. There is no fear in dirt. The dead aren't fearful . They are dead, and turning into grass.

[Anonymous No.10473825]

Incomplete

Lush green leaves and bark of brown
grow up on hills beside a river
murky with the waste of town.

Cold air streams by old, red cinder
blocks, which crumble from old age,
and barren brush that's much like tinder.

Grey fog creeps in over sage-
green eyes and light-blue skies
which turn the golden sun a hollow grey.

Roads which lead to greater heights
are seeped with murk and cast in fog
and crumble as forgotten lives.

[Anonymous No.10475196]

Oh will thou judge my words with secret bore
If they don't sound as sweetest melody
Or will thy eyes in loathe for me implore
Thy urgent need to lack my company
Of roses nearly I forget to Speak
Thine beauty steals my voice, gentle thief
And only murmurs I can sharply shriek
As courage fades and lends but weak relief
Two fallen angels, lost in simple stare
Forget that love in tyrrany proclaim
'No sound nor light in my presence shall dare
To shine against my glowing rich domain'
In truth, believe me, I do love you mute
For love is silent whilst he plays his flute

Yes I'm pretentious as fuck but so is all /lit/
First sonnet I made trying to copy Shakespeare's sonnets
Also English is not my first language

[Anonymous No.10475648]

>>10475196
Your rhyme is steady, your syllable count is consistent, but you don't have a very fluent meter. The nuances of poetry come from metrical patterns within the form, ie if you have a two syllable word iamb, try inserting another four syllables after, two syllables after, or in the same place in the following line. Establishing a consistent metrical pattern within a steady meter and rhyme is what makes the difference between a poem and poetry. This can also be used with internal rhymes which meet on specific syllabic counts within the meter; ie within sixteen syllables, have every fourth syllable meet on a specific sound or foot. (Use that specific technique to create a momentary tension in the verse.) Just remembered your words are musical in poetry and you are in essence creating a song. A song which relys solely on time in rhyme and count is great but the ability to divide the music into overlying rhythms and signatures is what define true music from the average poet.

[Anonymous No.10475684]

I'll critique in the next post

My girlfriend has pretty hair, so here's one about it


The golden hair of yours
Oh, how it drapes cliche
In time, despite a temperance fair
I deplore how a shimmer will come to fade

Your mothers plight
and Dave, he knows the same
To come so far, A Saddened Sight
But these poems shall never fade

[Anonymous No.10475707]

I'm the op in in here, can you critique any of mine?
Do I have a knack for it? I do it intuitively and do not study.

[Anonymous No.10475712]

>>10471805
This a good shit poem

Like if you're after the very contemporary poems, that I personally don't like, Yeah, it's pretty good. Better than average

>>10473825
You're going alright, got imagery going a nice amount. Can't give a big critique on incomplete work though, I'll just say I like the imagery and I'll leave it at that

>>10475196
You're going pretty good, only criqtue is pretty much what the other guy said. But that's only the case because it's a sonnet,, needs to be pretty strict rhythmically, Maybe a touch more imagery combined with the rhythm could turn it into a great sonnet

[Anonymous No.10475717]

>>10475707
Try to be more meticulous and work on rhythm, that's would be my first piece of advice

[Anonymous No.10475718]

>>10475684
Steady meter held in rhyme, no notable foots or devices used and the subject is very bland and uninteresting. It speaks no volumes but only personal injections. Speak of the truest form of your subjects and see the wholeness within, not the skin of the ideas you wish to contain.

[Anonymous No.10475720]

>>10475648
Thanks anon, happy new year, best wishes from a stranger in a foreign country.
I can only give you my gratitude

[Anonymous No.10475728]

>>10475707
>>10474812

I mean this thread. and here is a fresh og i just spit out.
they call me the prose ego, the call my the rose eagle
I soar like a growing rose, bud in the lovers garden.
I know what, I was to say
I see it in my mind, the nature of all beauty,
Open, before me and I gaze like an eagle on prey.
I hunger for the final act of this flower play.
I mourn like a changing face, lost in the lines of lace.

I know why I came today
I move like pros move, I dance
with music and sound, then as my forever lore.
As before me, a musician on pay, strikes thunder for the final act of our stay.

[Anonymous No.10475730]

>>10475718
Fair, very fair critique. Think I've missed the mark, alot of my poems I write particularly for my girlfriend, which in terms of correlated to decent poetry more often than not misses the mark

I'll post some more, ill go for an objectively better one

[Anonymous No.10475736]

>>10475720
No problem, it's advance advice, and may only truly be achieved in your native tongue, hut it's something to absolutely strive for. Never forget the music, never forget the image. Combining both is difficult. Mastering the two will take a lifetime. Stay at it. Best of luck my friend. And happy New year's.

[Anonymous No.10475743]

>>10475718
I think I might fall into similar problems with this. I'm writing from a bit of a niche with my girlfriend being the sole consumer usually. Might post some more solid stuff later on

Bereft I lay against
The washing tide upon
A crashing shore of silted mess.
The harbour sun shining bright
In fickle folly bearing dense.
Afar i gaze and many same.

Idle swilling sharply starts
Among the hordes, a stale
Stench and belly laugh.
Downing ales, laxing
Brooding, stirring farce

I pay patronage
To neither church or public house.
In shadows of grit and steam
We grew, we fought and dreamed
Another striking cause espoused

Stupendous views do not await
Our water front of slick and smog
But in the harbours sun we bask
A hand by hand endearing march
Golden sun among the port
Rife of sweat and grease
My golden girl,
The melancholy dream is thwart.

[Anonymous No.10475748]

>>10475730
Nothing wrong with personal poetry. But there's a certain lack of mysticism and bewilderment in poems which don't emody the largest aspects of their subjects. Take breaks in between poems, read poems in between, and when you come back you'll see where you were small and how you can enlarge your ideas and images. It's a matter of willingness to improve, and you can certainly reach it.

[Anonymous No.10475758]

>>10471665
I don't get it

>>10471521
Like I'm guessing the other person who is still critiquing said. Abstractions, they aren't that great in poetry. I could write an essay about this, but your own research would be fruitful

I feel like you tried to emulate and pulled it off poorly

[Anonymous No.10475760]

>>10475730
Like, all I'm saying is wrote this poem >>10469726 with a girl in mind. But the only notes of personality are held in the nuances of the wording and the atmosphere of the image. I'm not saying my poem is better nor that it's great, but just that the particular point I'm trying to suggest is being used there. Find aspects in the grander scheme of the subject and you will find a more poetic way to envoke them than quite specific and personal details which lack imagery and scope.

[Anonymous No.10475781]

>>10475760
That's where I'm getting at that I've missed the mark, it's was meant to be just a very simple sentiment, and I think it's just come off poorly

[Anonymous No.10475796]

Lies lies fed to my brain
You so lie so much even if the truth were told I'd think the truth was insane

Words words mean nothing at all to you
Words just count in your head 1 2 3 and 2

Believe believe me I'm telling it real
Why would words, morality I care about given to a liar you steal

[Anonymous No.10475813]

>>10475781
It's alright, I'm giving professional level advice, not for the average sentiment. If she loves them, write em my man.

[Anonymous No.10475850]

Pour

It's like this: a girl comes
and sits next to you,
flashes her teeth like a lioness.

You give her a glass from your heart

The first drink & we're all smiles,
you're unsure. This all seems
familiar
she asks for another. You pour another.

She's a little drunk and
you're a little drained
running out of tricks,
anemic in your plays

The third drink does it,
she's giving you the eyes
that say 'come back to me,
pour yourself in mine'

by the hand we go
facing sunrises with trepidation
into cheap hotels
without reservations

clothes slip off
well-oiled by your tongue,
your heart becomes
a little more undone

in morning facing dawnlight
she begins to see
received all you could give her
she begins to leave

Before you even start
to talk of love (and the part
that she'd drank so heavily)
She's gone, you're naked—now


Empty

[Anonymous No.10475879]

>>10475813
I appreciate it. Decent advice in a poetry thread is hard to come by

>>10475850
I feel this is more of a narrative, not really much imagery, poetic techniques or much rhythm. Rhetoric and rhmye are there, but that is probably the least important part of the poem

[Anonymous No.10475923]

>>10475879
That was the point. The initial part and the final part were meant to be unstructured and free verse. Its a narrative poem. The rhyme is there to make it flow, a representitive of how the night flows when one is enamoured. The final two stanzas don't rhyme as easily (or at all) to reflect the dissonance of that uneasy moment.

Purposefully kept it unmetered, though I did use an iambic dimeter/trimeter for the climax (pun unintended) starting with the "clothes slip off" ancephalous line. This was sortof intentional.

[Anonymous No.10475943]

>>10475923
Does it come off as maybe a touch cliche? I find something off putting about the whole thing, can put my finger on it

[Anonymous No.10475949]

>>10475943
Definitely felt a little cliché while writing it—but life is cliché. I wanted to write something a little bit relatable tonight when I was feeling depressed and despondent. There's certain enjambments that I can't use in 4chan that I feel are pretty important. Last line has more white space that puts Empty all the way on the right. 'Familiar' lines up directly under 'Unsure' so that they are close in proximity; to reflect that they are rhyming words but also to emphasize that the speaker has been through this before.

I am not a great poet, but I do these little things for myself and share them on 4chan when I am able to.

[Anonymous No.10475956]

>>10475949
I understand.
I will give you props for lack of abstraction and getting a rhythm with no meter

[Anonymous No.10475964]

>>10475956
I appreciate you, anon, for reading my poetry

[Anonymous No.10476035]

Oh boy, time for some drunken crits. Happy New Years. These are my shitty poems in case people were wondering

>>10471319
>>10475850
>>10468602


(yeah, I know I'm an asshole for posting before critting. w/e, go fuck yourselves)

>>10466895
kill instances of "that" or "the" to free up feet for more descriptive words. I suffer from this problem too; too many particles. Yeah, I know it helps with rhythm but you can be more creative about it.

>the pile
>these sobs
>the huge laugh
> that knew that
>the chain gang

cmon anon. I like your use of hyphen at 'in-to'. i see what you were trying to do and I appreciate the fuck out of it.

>>10466994
>the the the the the the the
see above. Unless its singular and means something special, aka unique, criticize every instance of "the" within your poem. If it doesn't need to be there, excise it.

phrases that I didn't like:
>so you too

yeah thats about it. liked everything else. especially:

>you crumpled there in the rain heavy lilacs
>eyes and mouth filled with dirt

why do you gotta do this to me anon—I am not ready for these feels.

>>10467304
Je ne sais assez de francias, mais j'ai aimé tout que je comprenais.

>>10469752
this is the kind of shit that children think up when they are asked to make poetry. Like the anon before me critted, rhymes are the least important part. Also, memes.

>>10470120
actually fucking good. sober editing will help you. pay attention to these lines in particular:

>You, all pale and pink and pretty

remove and

>I tasted in stupor

revise entire line

>Now you're wonderfully sick.

good idea, needs revision. keep it very similar though.

>>10471327

Had to look to see if this was a plagiarized poem. Its good, but on the level of some of the shittier poems that famous people put out. Too much emphasis on enjambment and no regard for rhythm or meter. In fact, its pissing me off because you have this ability to enjamb wherever you want, and you choose to do so on fucking particle words or pronouns. Pay attention to first AND last word when you pick when to mash that fucking enter key. Fucking Rupi here.

Good word choice, tho

>>10471333

save it for the blog posts. read more poetry. try again

(hope you find love that doesn't shit on you)

>>10471508

i despise the word gummy if it doesn't include residue right afterwards.

>metre

fuck off back to england

>There are walls made of eyes
>There are eyes cemented in walls

:eyeroll:


>Making way for the new
>Piling onto the used

rewrite the poem using this line for inspiration. Its the best part.

>>10471521
dont be afraid to split words across lines. i see that you were going for a solid rectangular shape with your poem ( commendable) but if e e cummings can say fuck it to enjambment, so can you. Use symbols for and (&) to give it more aesthetic.

last line confused me. its hard to put into words, I know, but you gotta try for us all.

>>10471665

>surrealist post modern garbage.

[Anonymous No.10476080]

>>10476035
thanks for calling my poem garbage, you reminded me to take the trash bins in.

[Anonymous No.10476094]

My veins are heavy,
filled with lead and
ice,
burning with the
sharp tongue of dense
metals.
The flame that
cannot be quenched
is a
demonic flame--
that which is eternal is
unnatural. The smell of
formaldehyde accompanies. Dust
lays on all the surfaces
in the house.

You could say I’m
scared, but it’s simply a
sensation--cold water where my
heart should be, slower
pumps as I walk toward
it. The metal is dull, the
wood worn. The wood is
like all the wood in the
house. My heart slows
as I walk toward it.
There’s a whine in the
air, cutting electric. But
so’s everything. I don’t
know what means any-
thing, when to react,
where I am. Looking at
the gun, I have a weary
feeling. I know that this
is a trap. I taste gunpowder
in my mouth, and images
flash through my mind
like choppy video.
I tried
suicide--once, or more,
and it didn’t work. Like a
video game that
sets you back levels,
wipes your memory.

Each dream gets colder and
colder, night by
night. It takes a pronounced
effort to remember them.
There’s a will to
will. Mine is gone, or
dormant. This dream
flashes quickly in the
theater at the back of
my skull. Something
about the lithium
created at the end of the
beginning of the
universe.
I was an alchemist. I was
trying to figure out a way
to survive off that,
grinning like an
athlete.

[Anonymous No.10476102]

>>10476035
thanks for the crit, i really do need work on enjambment . i still kinda write poetry like it's prose

[Anonymous No.10476113]

>>10466895

History is over


I have a hard time
focusing, sometimes


Late summer rain no
longer means “late summer
rain,” because History is
over, History is
history

But as I was saying,
there was a late
summer rain building
towards what might
be a climax, but …

and there was an
orange light
shooting through the
puddles

I saw her standing
there, only five feet
from me

But that’s the thing
about distances

These days, distances
are all that
matters but they are
defined in multiple
arguments, or attributes
like a line of code

Distances are defined()
in a different way
now that the past
is dead
now that the future
stretches before my
lonely eyes like the
lit-up screens in a
BestBuy

Like the

best bargain in an
empty store full
of
nowhere people


Part 2

That was the year
that I couldn’t
sleep, and also couldn’t
die

[Anonymous No.10476116]

>>10476113

Actually it was just
that I realized
I would never get
to attend my own
funeral, therefore
death seemed like
another
bad performance
in a
series
of attention-seeking
acts--draw a straight
line from me squirting
chocolate milk
out of the
sides of my
mouth in middle school
to this maudlin
finale

[Anonymous No.10476121]

>>10476116
Also I was scared
as shit
I didn’t want to live
particularly, with this
dull throb, but
I also couldn’t
pull the
trigger

Hell, i was scared

enough shooting
at paper targets
Muzzle-flash and
force , demons
summoned singed
and air-rending

When you shoot,
the air is out of
place, the street
is in yr house, the
wheel is frozen
in midair--yr heart
is chrystallized

That smell is like
the goddamned
Devil leaving
a tracer round
in a cig


Everyone ducked


And me, I had a
guide, he firmly
grabbed my hands,
guided my grip,
showed me where
and when to
pull

Everybody moved
4. (post-script)
I hate
you,
for not
having the
strength to
hold the rope--
or not
loving me
enough
You could have
at least
supported me
leaving this
world, you left
me
not-hanging

I welcome
the hate
you stir in
me, it’s like a
communion
Burn through
me again
and again
Clench and
unclench me,
leave me
holding the
broken rope,
staring into the
mirror, waiting
for a lover
who could
end me,
wading in the
white noise
of the edge
of my mind,
the liminal
space taunting
me like a
schoolyard
poet

[Anonymous No.10476146]

>>10476080
I'm sure its very clever inside your head, but readers on 4chan have no fucking clue what your childhood references and high school memes refer to.

[Anonymous No.10476238]

>>10476094
That first part, "my veins are heavy, filled with lead and ice" sounds so similar to me that I wonder if we came to the same place. I use it to describe the feeling of being in trouble, the feeling of receiving awful news, etc. In fact, right before I switched tabs i had written something like "__'s veins went cold." before junking it because it sounded basic. I thin you should find a better way to say it, with almost the same words (dont say lead and ice, use one of the two. I'd use "her veins feel filled with lead" or something, but honestly, when I write that I don't feel the pride of a good sentence). I'll leave the rest of the poem to someone else.

[Anonymous No.10476287]

>>10472723
My statement stands - trite and uninspired. That wasn't a refutation, it was an infant squealing at its father.

[Anonymous No.10476289]

>>10472720
And?

Lewis' name is not a seal of artistic merit. I would tell Lewis the same I told the anon, save I wouldn't have to - he would know. I don't believe for a second Lewis wrote poem and considered it profound. He wasn't an arrogant man.

[Anonymous No.10476447]

an ikea salad

been bamboozled another by that moonslinging son of a whip-crack. one of these 3:36 pm’s i’m gonna wake with cake on my throat. speed racer earning some greasy simoleons, he does. grendall kirchner aimless and true mumbles his way into rightless eternities. my elbows grungy up to the idea of wingless avocadoes. please be told you are one buddy walleye in this fling-up parade. you are my rastaman from iceland with golden fingertips.

weightless birds with lego blood dance towards infernal burger joints. like 30 times the bunsen burner feeds the viagra babies in pepsi. with my lighter i set the mosaic mirror on fire. georgia peach in georgia font. keep on surgeon on for those mink iron answers. billy eyed bluebelly really ought to do something about this.

tennis elbow johnny manhunt lily willow steal this heart of water bells. the stream seems false. verify your freedom condition with your freedom identification. who do you think you are smoking space shuttles in the blossom pie night? the future takes you where? ablaze’n din and even ablaze’n lulls. the task manager is a task. go back to your home.

[Anonymous No.10476913]

>>10476447
Less drugs anon, I implore you.

[Anonymous No.10477473]

>>10466994
Kinda works as 2 fragments but it's hardly cohesive. I cut all the stuff I didn't like:

I burned at the feast.
Gather my wax into water:
see the droplets form,
watch the shapes.
Pour me onto your page
and cover the words.

Gather the last third of yourself and
send it off on a raft,
into the childhood weeds, the mint, the purple loosestrife.
Crumpled in the rain heavy lilacs, filled with dirt.
And decompose into the moss;
learn to die and let the snow melt
from those ancient boughs about you.

[Anonymous No.10477869]

>>10477473
Much better. Still don't like so many "the's" in the poem, even now that I am sober.

[Anonymous No.10477876]

>>10477869
Don't like that you removed and revised my favorite line, though. It feels weaker now.

[Anonymous No.10477891]

>>10477876
Sorry. I didn't like "Eyes and mouth filled with dirt" followed immediately by "see" but then I cut that out, so the line could go back. Idk really; it's not my poem. I'll post one of mine next.

[Anonymous No.10477892]

>>10468156
>Open there doo there

[Anonymous No.10477905]

Wrote this in an inspiration thread a while ago about pic related
If you turn away,
I’ll turn away.
(Your orange dress and all
the hidden colors of your hair
drag me out, heavy-fisted
with ropes. The lines
of your neck curve like owl feathers,
and from this angle
I wouldn’t be able to see any talons.)
If you turn away,
I’ll turn away too.

[Anonymous No.10477933]

>>10477905
You didnt do her justice, anon, desu. There is not a shred of impressionism in the poem, so >pic unrelated.

Almost makes me want to try something along those lines myself, although I am making something else right now.

[Anonymous No.10477954]

>>10477933
It's called Ekphrastic poetry. Give it a try, you might find it fun.

[Anonymous No.10478001]

>>10477954
>Ekphrastic poetry
I am referring to expressionism (I mistakenly said impressionism, damn) I literally do nothing but descriptions of painting these days, so you dont have to tell me twice.

[Anonymous No.10478051]

>>10466895
Here is another of my poems. Last one gathered a mixed reception, so let's see whether this one is any better.
The pristine cot is cool with novel sheets
known to many beds and many nights, cursory
in the cursives kept in pages 'pon pages, each
a set, which, paired as dancers met 'til the next piece,
extinguish little of the singe the hand feels through
their elmwood-ashes rough of paper-linen fibres.

The meagre cushion feigns hospitality,
its iodine imprint is a mâché ring of hell
or else an other burial site of pluméd things,
whose reddish earth would hide a bloodstain easily.

The treacherous give of the matress bears through hours
a self-sustaining wake that must remain undiscovered.

[Anonymous No.10478060]

>>10466895
Posted in last thread, to mixed response. Let's see if it's better this time.

...

The pristine cot is cool with novel sheets
known to many beds and many nights, cursory
in the cursives kept in pages 'pon pages, each
a set, which, paired as dancers met 'til the next piece,
extinguish little of the singe the hand feels through
their elmwood-ashes rough of paper-linen fibres.

The meagre cushion feigns hospitality,
its iodine imprint is a mâché ring of hell
or else an other burial site of pluméd things,
whose reddish earth would hide a bloodstain easily.

The treacherous give of the matress bears through hours
a self-sustaining wake that must remain undiscovered.

[Anonymous No.10478090]

awe yea I open a photo album I found under my bed
uhhuh, The dusty, leather cover decaying and smelling of the years
awe yea baby Regrets mingling with my tears
as I methodically turn the pages, you see
I like to dress up in REALLY tight underwater pumpkin beavers...
and I take a deep, painful breath
Because staring back at me from the tattered oragami licences
oh baby yea Are black and white visions of faraway hearts uh huh
Mistakes where made and moments lost
But I take the blame all for myself
awe yea You see, sobody's done messed up
my latvian women's soccer team fantasy REAL bad,
oh pagers make of cheese,
Isn't that cute? The fluffy pumpkins I mean
you can't HANDLE the fluffy pumpkins...
If I could just steal away one
tender moment from my past
And trap it in my heart
ohhhhhhh baby It would unravel the regrets
woven deep into the tapestry of awe yea baby my life
awe yea the Whiteness glimmers in

[Anonymous No.10478602]

>>10476913
if you want me on less drugs, i'm starting with my Invega (antipsychotic).

[Anonymous No.10478637]

>>10478602
BAKA how can somebody still believe the meds meme in the conterporary-date year

[Anonymous No.10479258]

>>10477933
I used the picture as an inspiration point, that's all. Here's another one you won't like and the painting I started with.

Awake Unexpectedly

Black with swimming
grey—
mist? ash?
Your breath on the window
with fingerprint trails pointing
up?

Phoenix feathers wilt into
rough smoke swirls together
making shapes, collapsing,
making shapes.
A catch of moon or starlight
in the corner

Her leg curled around him—
a pale bolt into the darkness
curving its way
towards feet, sheets,
ground beneath. With the
electricity in the air,
he stirs, she is stirred

The fierce brightening is
what’s important here.
In the scramble there are
accidental limbs.
There is definitely passion—
or at least excitement

He gasps her up and
darts outside, the horse’s forelegs
curl and flex—ready
to buffet the road below.
He rears and muscles shine
like metal in the fire.

Her eyes are closed tightly.
His eyes are wild
and blank.
He is grasping frantically
towards the light—
maybe not to safety
but to something

[Anonymous No.10480014]

I have no one else to show this, so I'm posting it here. Please tell me what you think if you speak portuguese.

De pé ante a Aurora,
Em fúria bradou ao céu:
"Por que negas-me agora
Da vida o doce mel?

Pois já são findos meus amores,
E cortaram-me os laços.
Quis amar a vida, as flores
E todas fogem de meus braços!"

Ouviu em meio aos brados
Coisa alguma! O silêncio da indiferença
Fez tremer até os paços.

Fitou o abismo da mágoa intensa
E chorou. Soube que seguiria vivo,
Amargamente sobre a Indiferença.

[Anonymous No.10480446]

Infernos decorating the joyful night,.
Colorful trees of blazing fire with cheerful miasma.
Disorganized howls of trumpets.
The clock ticks; hands pointing the number twelve.
All cheer for the new beginning; streets and homes filled with merry.
Promises were made.
But some of us know,
That things will stay the same.

[Anonymous No.10480736]

>>10479258
Jokes on you. I actually like the poem. It's much more painterly in its style.

I find the middle stanza a bit disappointing thought. The disjuncts are just too disjointed from the rest of it. Inserting commentary into descriptions is difficult to do without disrupting them. And the actually meat of the stanza is barely corporeal, "excitement" is a hella lame way to wrap it up, when you already have something as vivid as "accidental limbs" it's more than redundant. I find the last two lines disappointing for similar reasosn.

[Anonymous No.10480802]

>>10477905
Here, I improvised something for the same picture in the ten minutes I had between work.

A sea painted without blue
wherein a shade suggesting a concave
surface of a wave may not be discerned,
but is understood to be present.

A hairless brush dipped in naught
averted from the vein of the world
as precise as, thought not, a stylus
a of a reflection to allow an eye to nose.

Forthwith a jolt of a wire in throes
a junction to forward, the waves
parted aside where water bled
and where her pallor did not.

[Anonymous No.10480838]

Remark: Jenea is just a name, to prevent any confusion.


Jenea, Jenea, why so anxious?
Always so afraid to dance.
Sucker for quick validation
Why the cold and shaky hands?
Why the bitter sweet temptations to postpone all social plans?
Barter fun for introspection, in vain hope to find direction,
that can not be bought in grams.

Nights are cruel around these lands, and once day forfeits it's throne,
if you're sober and alone, have no doubt, from distant past,
demons you hoped were long gone, will return to break each bone.
Feast on fear.
On hopes.
On trust.

So the promise to stay sober, crumbles by the dawn of day.
Long accustomed to the odor of the gods to which you pray.
You're no disciple of order, mixtures lead your mind astray.
Powders, potions pave your way to a world where you are colder.
Blotters keep the dark away.

Vultures, hungry, not today, in this land you'll find no prey.

Jenea, Jenea, you will heal, but before you'll have to hurt.
Even after years you'll feel, bruises old, you'll still find dirt.
On your face.
Under your nails.
Memories of older fights.
As weeds grow over white rails, wind will fill your dusty sails.
Wend your way to kinder nights, hungry, thirsty for new tales.
Angry, antsy at the kites, taunting you at dizzying heights.
Dancing freely, bathed in lights, slaves with ropes tied to their tails.

[Anonymous No.10481306]

out there beyond the average life span
The end no longer means
what it did. Reprieved
by the strong reminder,
I get up the ante and go to destroy.

[Anonymous No.10482417]

High School

I.
In a parked car
behind a convenience store
I pass the bong
back to Nico
and attempt to explain how
the carseat angles on
my back like the inner
corner of a Pyramid
where I am
pleasantly
buried forever
eternally crammed
by every
thought and object and entity
i hold inside my heart

and he tells me i am too stoned
to go back to class
after this lunch period
is over

II.
On a school
trip to the book fair I
produce a fistful of
amphetamines
and give them out
to my friends
as well
as to one girl
named Sol
who seems
desperate to
not miss anything
that everyone else
is sinking
into

III.
Batsheva
stole her mother's
painkillers and
fell asleep
during French

When I did the same
at home, the world
was a fresh coat of Van Gogh
colors on a floating canvas
smeared to sludge with
my shaking palms
and instead of a teacher
I awoke to my mother's
black anger
staring at me
and my vomit-stained T-shirt
curled up in her
brand new bedsheets

1/2

[Anonymous No.10482420]

>>10482417

IV.
Laura's nose
is bleeding
and my jaw
clenches so much
it should hurt but

I
can't
feel
the dredged
loud
grinding
of
my
pulsing
yellow
teeth

V.
Mario and I are
laying by a tree
and looking at a
cloud bank
slowly shifting like
dividing cells
And we giggle in
amazement
when they all assemble
into one great machine
letting us see
the clockwork of
the Universe

VI.
After gym
we circle Christian
like believers

and stretch our
t-shirts for him
to douse in
Gebauer's Ethyl

disembodied
sweaty facemarks ghostly
printed on the fabric

we stumble
back to school
laughing
dripping
our faces numb
our tongues alive
the atmosphere
closing in
to embrace us
in the blissful
newborn light

VII.
The day after
graduation
I am floating
on Camila's pool
with Albert singing
and Andrea laughing
with the stars breathing
with the air blading
its soft warm fingers
all across me

2/2

[Anonymous No.10484209]

bump

[Anonymous No.10485268]

>>10481306
10/10

Good job.

[Anonymous No.10485278]

Why should I be scared of you? In
a past life I was a soldier, or a

rat. Insignificant, sure, but scrappy.
Now I am scared of softness, of

drowning in your chest, feeling your
skin too smooth against mine, getting
Unrealistic expectations. The world

will be hard and cold, I seem to
remember being told. I am from the
North, I used to know

how one lives, and survives. But
now my mind is shot through
with parasites, my vision

Fever-spotted. When I used to know
or examine a thing, it would
light up my brain like an

LED. Now flies live
inside the bulb. It is warm but
yellowed fatally. Sentiment,

I can’t remember if I knew it
as good or bad. How can I
trust a person?

And now my map is decayed. All
I have left are your eyes, my
body faltering--I need some of

your strength. Every host eventually
becomes a parasite. But I swear
I’m not greedy, I want either

Nothing or Everything. In the reeds,
trudging listlessly, I fall over and
over. A season in hell would

be a relief. I have Sisyphean poison in
every cell of my body. If I had only
known that there were things worse

than death, perhaps I could have avoided
being this sick with sin. But how can you
avoid falling when walking on such

a flimsy construction? When my face
burns up, I want it to burn up all
the way. When chewing through a corpse,

do not hesitate, or you will catch death off
it. These are rules you would do well
to heed. But even

heeding them is no guarantee.

[Anonymous No.10485293]

>>10485278
What's the point of the line breaks? They don't help break up the images, nor do they create rhythm, nor do they create multiplicities of meaning.

[Anonymous No.10485308]

>>10485293
i was just experimenting with using regular line breaks to help with rhythm. I don't know much about form in non metrical, non rhymed poetry

[Anonymous No.10485313]

>>10466895
all the parts
of me
which weren’t
supposed to,
harden--
turn cold
as a midnight sun,
reptilian underneath

Everything is grey,
everything has
already
happened,
time speeds forward
with a blended
monochrome hum


All I eat
tastes like
hospital food

Our conversation
is similarly
compressed,
the syllables
made short
and hard like
bursts from
a rifle--perhaps
the kalashnikov
that you have
a fear of, the
old piece of crap
that you know will
jam on you,
leaving you
vulnerable to
the outside

[Anonymous No.10485316]

>>10485313
I always thought
I would die at
my own hand,
but here I am,
in the mountains,
living as God’s
indentured
servant

Part 2

I can’t
remember my
dreams anymore,
and I think it’s
because I don’t
dream any-
more
That can be
dangerous in
a war zone
Dreams safe-
guard you,
keep you intact,
attentive, full

The enemy
can slip into
your dreams,
can steal them,
perhaps that
is where yours
have gone
missing. They
show up
in the night--in
your night,
always dressed
as a civilian,
always someone
you’d trust.
If you don’t
know the
language, you
will die soon.
They are
disguised as
the night itself,
ˆ
ˆ
and your
disease prevents
you from
distinguishing between
the night and
day

Time is
out of
joint, it
is always
too late, caught
in crossfire

Your brain is
dry as
the desert,
thirsty for the
milk and
honey it was
promised as a
child


All you are
afraid of is
a hole in the
ground.

[Anonymous No.10485319]

>>10479258
Tons of cliches and it doesn't really use the painting as anything more than a jumping point, but I sense you do have some understanding of music, especially with how the sounds lull for a while in stanza two, but they tighten together in stanza 3, creating a rise till the end.

You might be able to be a good or great poet if you work hard at it for 10 years or so. Provided, of course, you understand the lessons here:

http://www.cosmoetica.com/TOP.htm

And get proper critiques from people like Dan here:

http://www.cosmoetica.com/Contact-Submissions.htm

[Anonymous No.10485348]

Title: Great Wheel of Myself I SIng

Water

The damsel that sings “running water, running” whilst
In my dream, and one old Symbolist come to wake
Me, their throng of movements wide and deep, through
The oceanic space, returning me to slumber. Though,
There is an arc of cold that rises after the moment
Slowly to sureness, cups were emptied meaning
Until the thing left was bare-stripped, swaying real
Till walking in circles cannot help, lend thyself to paradise.

Fire

Thy open windows swing of God, permutated through dream,
And the lust for thy symbol clinging seams, soothed in eyes
Till one spark, stone upon stone, derived itself from within
Ignited, my own scars alighting, burning me, forage
In the very act that becomes. O it becomes, becomes!
All formations of the night sky, constellated for-ever
Swelled in the pit of the stomach, gaseous burning frenzy,
Into the hovering angel, Seraphim of the flung flame,
That told of trees, grottoes, and the fruit men should know.

Wind

Towards the East, there is a temple standing bolted to ground,
Whereby monks orate their positions, the emptiness there
Upon which, in the aftermath of my ashen lip, scorched with words
Comes the sheer embrace of the never-never, lacked in enmity,
And aggression persists denying the sacred, anti-totems there
Coagulate to form remnants of noise, bellowed in fools forment
Towards antithetical miasmas, adrift in aporias that swim
In their furious apologia, towards life, the endless hurricane
Swiftly unfurls its empty bellows, belting fish-heads from the sky,
While the women in the market yawn, and count their empty hands.

Earth

Then, there is peace. Wrestling with the ground. Who knew it then,
That the apples were mountained here? Nor the orchard stone
Gave regard to my breath. All I could do was wait. Stare,
At the gardeners picking themselves in the fruits they wear,
To which some, bruised in the baking sun, came down the branches
Swelled with juice despite the flaws, merging a realm of their own,
Into soft hands that delighted. The future grew from here,
And there... the way one man stares at possibility, perishes himself
Into infinite seas of opportune, limned with swabs of the wave,
Towards which, the morning rises, horizons sweep, and dawn
Rotates itself in the gossamer of these eyes – that, blanketed
Me in adrift. I sought the mermaid’s crackle. And wrapped
Myself in the coral, shells, and the parts which knew no end.

[Anonymous No.10485355]

Title: The Crush of Old

Too much emptiness dwells in Man –
Bartered coin births itself from stone.
Too solemn was the walk I took, slowly
Urged by the roads, horrid crowds,
Roaming upon the spheres, prostrate
Upon the rolls, moaning their pains
As though too unreal. I saw too many
Wrestling for a quip in the dirt, dribbling
Wrecks they were – the leaves fell on them
And they too became wind, blasted away
By the shore of myself that brought to call
The reasons they did what they were.

One day too, shall men understand
The tryst they consume, in all of them,
Garrulous consommé that they gargle,
Bloated upon their own ragout, perished
In their hydraulics, mad vices churning
Against gears, radios to each, hearts
Beating into the pipes, the brown ensured
To slough the stink of their being, they are
Nothing but coiled, in snaking earthiness.

Then, remembering a single linnet, held
On the branch of a thereafter, sung
The overtures. “Chrysanthemums,
Wisterias, and Rose-water, swim
Through, dripping their weights
For new attainments. Behold,
You are young like fresh stars
Birthed of heat in galaxies dispersed
Longing for a statement to your own
And wishing quiescence, dim meadows
In your eyes.” Cast itself a wing,
And flashed, a thousand hornets lit the sky –
And, O, the children of the Earth came!
One tumbling after another like dew
Wrung from the many – sired by the trees,
And soft hullabaloo came from them!
Howdee! Run-see! Did they embrace
The everything they stood, the morn
Of their life stowed in their springs! They
Lived like gems in a camouflage!
How could I not see them? Many-belled heads
Swiftly swinging their own verses, swelled
By the symphonies lit their sway,
As they crowded in gyres, dancing petty flowers,
Whisking through the days, until –
They left me, lone – and went in their song!

Did I, then, the poet’s book enflower,
Wreathed it with my pen, highlighted, closed
To itself – Romanticism stirred in me. I flew
Amongst the longing names of their dead
And far gone, their little precociousness,
Good-natured in their spirits, voices far-sung,
As they drifted upon such fantasies, swelled
Their tongues to it, martyred themselves on
The emblems they chested, muse, or soul –
Gone they were, their own roads, fellow feet
Born from the crowds they despised, derived
All their joy from the silent films, idealized
Their bloat. Eyes made service to their screen!

On the portico of their world, I stood. Beetles
Scurried with thin legs to their ends. I made
Myself scarce from the presence of myths, joined
The swarm, with one face pushed to the ground,
And sprouted eight limbs. Entered into the pitch,
And from the bustle, I ventured farther reach.

[Anonymous No.10485378]

Title: Training Wheels

The Poet must move In and Out!
Jump Up and Down!
To make the Myth you hardly see –
With the poet’s Minstrelsy!

The snake of Adam, exemplar –
Or, was it Eve’s? Look at the Scales
Glittering – a Tzar’s pearls!
What could they mean? Move in
And out of Meaning’s smoke, comes
The Angel – the poets choke
Upon the readers – a Choker’s Scar!

Blue fastness travels far! Wait...
And travels faster now! It holds your hand –
And let’s you linger on the patter
At your feet... the poet’s Dip!

To be fair, there are still the taxes left to pay
And you end your walk down avenues
To the Automated-Teller Machine
Where the Teller whispered ways!

It holds your Cash, Dark Interpreter –
Scheme of the Poet’s secret surprise...
It makes you lie! You’ve forgotten compromises
To life itself – your mother and father in the hall
And the Appalling Nature of your existence...
Which – to the poet – Is A Ball!

The trembling spokes of wheelie wheels
And bicycles that bloom their skids – the poet’s midnight
Snack! Did you think I was a Magician yet?
I held a card under your eye...
And made it vanish – hello – hullah!
I greet

The next man on the passenger bus... he looks at me
And walks away. His next stop comes
He wanders free – of my darkest crazy games...

[Anonymous No.10485588]

>>10480014
Isso é lindo anão.

As primeiras 2 estrofes são fantásticas, as últimas duas ainda precisam de refinamento em minha opinião. Usar indiferença da maneira que você fez me parece como uma falta de vocabulário.


Realmente gostei da poesia, mas não entendo de nada sobre métrica/pés/ritmo em português, não podendo assim dar uma crítica fiel. As regras em português parecem-me muitas vezes contra intuitivas, então acabo me aventurando pelo inglês como em
>>10475196


Vamos trocar contatos? Quero ter pessoas para compartilhar minhas poesias preguiçosas

[Anonymous No.10485621]

Oh Full Moon,
Let your silver hairs
Draw me to your hearth
Like the fisherman's line.

[Anonymous No.10485766]

[Anonymous No.10485886]

>>10485588
Obrigado! As duas primeiras estrofes fluíram muito facilmente. Compus a primeira em questão de segundos, e a segunda veio de umas anotações que eu possuía. Mas depois travei. Fiz as duas primeiras na metade do ano passado, e as duas últimas só ficaram aceitáveis esse ano. Infelizmente não ficaram muito boas.

>>10475196
Eu, ao contrário de você, tenho dificuldade com poesia em inglês, pela sonoridade, as rimas, etc. Mas acho que o seu ficou muito bom e agradável, eu já li alguns sonetos de Shakespeare e vejo uma semelhança, principalmente as comparações e "interjeições", como "gentle thief". Os últimos versos ficaram ótimos, gostei muito dessa personificação do amor.

Claro, vamos trocar poemas. Manda um email pra [e-mail] com o meio que você preferir pra conversar

[Anonymous No.10486904]

Bump

[Anonymous No.10488561]

Bump

[Anonymous No.10489059]

(written from the perspective of a hobo in Winter)


In afternoon, the city fills with sound
when leaves beat the concrete
with their pattering soft feet
following the silence of wind

highways roar like oceans far away
train horns drowning your ears
sounds of gunshots raise fears
but they could be backfires, too

while skyscrapers leer on galloping cars
people absorbed in phones
who talk in monotones
boarding buses to somewhere else

It is colder in Seattle this year
“The People’s” frozen shoulder;
apartment walls surround their
unfurnished and bare personas

If I grow tired, lay me down gently
on carpet near beer bottles
and wine glasses that mottled
the familiar place where I have shattered.

[Anonymous No.10489077]

>>10466895
i tried to love a woman
or was she a girl
i thought life was simple
take her for a twirl
kiss a dimple
shits on breah eminem said as i type
i wish i wasnt an asswipe
i like rock and roll
i like hip hop
i hope shit works

[Anonymous No.10490041]

>>10466895

Goddamn this gay Earth.
Its politics are messed up.
God, let me conquer.

[Anonymous No.10490050]

>>10466895
The Flower and the Bee

Along nectarsome buds in growth,
indulging in a spray a spree,
alone, yet profiting them both,
in ludic labour is the Bee.

The Bee toils, a daily plougher;
against the blow of night both nod,
though Bee was not who made the Flower;
the queen says it had been God.

[Anonymous No.10490128]

>>10471319
This is excellent.

[Anonymous No.10491229]

>>10489059
I want to say something about this but I am not sure I can articulate this very well. It is a bit on the generic side at times, but I do enjoy reading it. The first stanza doesnt really do a good job, it doesnt feel as tangible as the rest of the poem and has no real hook, the third line of it is better than the rest but not good enough to be the hook. As a result the felt description of mundane life falls a bit flat lyrically. I like the hobo perspective, but it doesnt really come into play before stanza four, or more precisely last line of stanza three (this is good cohesion btw, almost essayistic).

[Anonymous No.10491248]

Alzh

I met a bird today,
and I forgot its name.

It told me that
birds need more than just wings to fly.
They need hearts to pump the blood
and skulls to hold
the brains to make
the wings flap.
Without those things all birds would fall from the sky, it said,
just like rocks.

A bird told me all of this,
and i forgot its name.

[Anonymous No.10491262]

>>10490041
>forming the HRE before conquering the world with the vassal swarm
you suck

[Anonymous No.10491460]

written while listening to the suburbs by arcade fire.
I am not american.

hyper violence in suburbia, roccocco
the cynics downtown playing with themselves,
the endless yards that preface endlessness,
a cheap five-four cheap one from the corner highway store
saudede for the feeling of something more, more of the smae
longing for this place i never called home,
Americana is my inner emperor's dream.

[Anonymous No.10491700]

>>10491229
I revised the first stanza a bit. In my blog, I put a visual line break between stanza 3 and 4 to signify that there is a slight disconnection there, though it is obvious to the reader. Just more emphasis. Here is the revised poem.

In afternoons, the city fills with sound
when leaves beat the concrete
with their soft pattering feet
as if no silence follows the wind

Highways roar like oceans, far away
train horns drowning your ears.
Thundering guns raise fears,
but they could be backfires, too

While skyscrapers leer on galloping cars
rush past the people-like phones
Speaking in low hushed tones—
boarding buses to somewhere else

It is colder in Seattle this year
"The People's" frozen shoulder;
apartment walls surround their
unfurnished and bare personas

If I grow tired and poor, lay me down
on sidewalks near beer bottles
and spilled wine that mottled
the cracked earth where I have grown.

[Anonymous No.10491743]

>>10491460
typo on line 5. should be same. it sounds good to speak, though the message and theme is one that has been done before. It is a good poem, but I don't feel as if it is the "best" poem since it is lacking in something truly profound and astounding in the way it plays with words.

>>10491248
There is a feeling in this—something unique and untapped. Maybe an allegory towards human connection, fleeting in the moments where we share, and then fly off again. A glimmer of life behind tired mens eyes? I will come back to this, but my initial impressons are positive. Critically, I can't find anything sincerely wrong with it, though the lowercase I's may make it feel a little pretentious and Kaur-esque, which I would hope you try to avoid.

>>10490050
Cute, and the language and rhythm are perfect! Generally, I am opposed to alliteration since it feels like a poor mans substitute to proper meter, but since you've mastered the iambic tetrameter, it feels much nicer. Probably the best poem in this thread.

[Anonymous No.10491788]

>>10490050
You should be published!

[Anonymous No.10491811]

/lit/fags, how do you muster the courage to write? I always feel so constrained, like the things I want to write about will somehow make me a worse person.

[Anonymous No.10491875]

>>10491811
You will suck ass. Your next one hundred poems will suck ass. Your first book will be unpublishable. So will your second and third. By the 4th book, if you're not completely despondent with life, by then you should have gotten enough experience to make something salvageable. Your poems will get better. Cultivate your feeling of rejection and sorrow and hopelessness. Use these to create better works of art. Do it enough times and you will no longer care what people think.

[Anonymous No.10491940]

>>10491811
I dont understand what you could possibly mean by that. If this had been a different site, I would ask you to PM me about what these things are, but it's here, so I can only ask directly.

Remember that subject matter of your work does not directly reflect who you are. Death of the author is a useful dead horse to beat here. I write about nasty things all the time (except that naive Bee over there) and it's never felt wrong as long as I managed to make it beautiful. This is a really base and basic idea, but I like to stick with it: if you make something beautiful (or aesthetic/impressive if beautiful is too specific for you) then you have done your job. And it that thing was absolutely hideous when you began, even better.

[Anonymous No.10491951]

>>10491940
>>10491875
I was sick for a long time, I thought maybe I'd put it into words, but maybe it's an idea better left alone.

[Anonymous No.10491979]

>>10491951
I misunderstood what you wrote so my response was more towards someone who was insecure about their writing wrt the writing itself rather than the subject.

You can write whatever you want. Houellebecq writes detailed rape of one of his characters when he was 8 years old, and then has the character shit himself in fear. I have a book on my desk that says "do not ask if an 8 year old is a virgin, she will have sucked enough cocks to honorably be called one" or something to that effect.

[Anonymous No.10492686]

>>10485319
I can't tell if this is satire

[Anonymous No.10492768]

First time writing one, no idea what I'm doing really, just really need to express myself right now.

My mind's eye sees only myself,
A blast of colours undistinguished yet unique,
An explosion of unending confusion,
To witness this I must be conscious,
I want to be awake,
Yet awoke I am in pain.

The colours dim and glow,
Faster and faster they recede,
I want it to stop yet I need it to continue,
I wish to ask for the curtain to close,
I am scared but I must see,
It is too beautiful.

[Anonymous No.10492877]

I posted another one of these from my collection in the general thread but maybe I'll get different insights here.

Will be giving out some critiques. I'm off to eat

[Anonymous No.10493027]

Rate this poem as harshly or sweetly as you will

Occasional faces
My memory traces
Each of the various shadings of you
Without sanction. Still
Many moments to drag out in succession,
Still aggressive glances stolen
As though swiftly to kill
Or maim. My soul, impossible to tame,
Bred to wildness, to wickedness even,
Of savouring of cruel japes
Amid sordid assemblies of apes
For who could regard them
As otherwise
Tugging at the frayed hem
Of the wise

[Anonymous No.10493030]

>>10492877
it's not good enough to be as pretentious as it is

[Anonymous No.10493063]

>>10493027
>rhyming without meter
srsly your structure makes me not want to read past the 3rd line. I did though, because I love you. I did the best I could to trim it down:

My memory traces faces
occasionally shading them,
still without sanction.
Aggressive glances stolen
from wildness, wickedness,
amid sordid cruel assemblies
for those who otherwise would.

[Anonymous No.10493620]

Another of my 'Her, The Earth' series

[Anonymous No.10493970]

>>10493620
>>10493620

First off, dude, sedimentary is not a noun. Fix that line, it reads nonsensically. You have a grasp of how the language sounds—an intimate one at at that— but your bedridden ways have left you unable to form coherent thoughts. Your second line needs heavy revision.

I don't like the word betraying. It's pedantic. It's trite. It's very tryhardy. Find something better.

These objections aside, I quite like the imagery and the meter of the poem. Work on these lines and you will find your work far more refined. I am critical only because I see great potential in your prosidy, and as you as a poéte.

[Anonymous No.10493987]

>>10493970
>So

Remove that word in the 3rd to last line

>Bringing

They bring. Flows better. I know it's a spondee (or trochaic) to replace an iamb but trust me, as a reader, it sounds much better.

[Anonymous No.10494013]

One way ticket to brown town
One way ticket to brown town
One way ticket to brown town
And its going down

There is a town
that is quite renowned
that sits on a mound
and is colored brown

the smell is profound
cross the world round
but it made no sound
as it went down

One way ticket to brown town
One way ticket to brown town
And its going down

Children got off
Of the Bus
There heads were a rush
as they tossed out their lunch

a pile of poo
on the hill
youll find no thrills
just a great smell

One way ticket to brown town
One way ticket to brown town
And its going down

ruling was made
for the slaves
to go to the base
on the brown place

in shackles they found
around the ground
One lay mixed pood frown clown
One way ticket to brown town

[Anonymous No.10494105]

>>10493620
not bad. specialty the first 6 lines (even if they are grammatically incorrect) . what i'd recommend is to have those lines carry over.

having every 2 lines as an end stopped sentence reduces the poem into a series of individual statements rather then a cohesive whole.

also the ending makes the poem seem too inconsequential.