Quantcast
[ 3 / biz / cgl / ck / diy / fa / g / ic / jp / lit / sci / tg / vr / vt ] [ index / top / reports / report a bug ] [ 4plebs / archived.moe / rbt ]

/vt/ is now archived.Become a Patron!

/lit/ - Literature


View post   

[ Toggle deleted replies ]
File: 483 KB, 640x640, poetry-small_640x640_acf_cropped.png [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google] [report]
17229953 No.17229953 [Reply] [Original]

Post & Rate
No Rate / No feedback
Have fun

>> No.17229961

first for zyzz

>> No.17229962

>>17229953
You
My mask
And me

I lie
From
Time to time
You see

>> No.17229971

>>17229953
waiting for Frater Asemlen to post in here...

>> No.17229978

Cope
Seethe
Dilate
Sneed.

>> No.17229989

>>17229953
Here's a poem I wrote after stealing the first line from an ancient Chinese poem. I usually don't post poetry on here, just in case I want to try and publish a particular piece, but I don't feel like this one is particularly amazing, and the style is a bit outdated. Just something I wrote for fun, and maybe one of you will enjoy it
[note that the 2nd and 4th stanzas are meant to be italicized]

Seafaring men tell tales
Of a floating castle in the sky
That you can sometimes see
At night above the azure sea.

Have you seen it, the floating
Castle? With it’s court of stars,
With celestial beings striding
On clouds, singing sweetly?

Hunters and gatherers will
Tell you of a city of gold
Out there amidst the jungle,
Well hidden by thick vines.

Have you seen it, the city
Of gold? With it’s temple
Of fire, with hellish beings
Devouring souls, chanting?

Scholars will tell you of
Their improbability,
While the men of the field
Will follow you, to either
Heaven or hell.

>> No.17229997

>>17229953
>Post & Rate
>No Rate / No feedback
>Have fun

>> No.17230017

>>17229953
To pen an Ode upon the 'Oil-of-Bob'
Is all sorts of a job.

>> No.17230019 [DELETED] 

>>17229989
6/10
I enjoyed this, thanks.

>> No.17230711

>>17229971
He has forsaken us today

>> No.17230964

I'm going through Western Wind and this was the first poem I wrote for it. I tried use all five senses but I struggled to get taste in there

Leave before the dawn.
Right on second, left on third
Past the concrete and pylons,
The people blurred.
The dogs of decay
fade away,
to rolling hills,
gentle flowers,
a golden shower, a pleasant trill.
in sight an unknown tower
the air grey and sour
and the faint humdrum of rush hour
>>17229962
Simple, but carries weight. I like it anon

>> No.17231016

>>17230964
It's alright, after about the eighth line i had to force myself to keep interested. I like "The dogs of decay" though, good line.

heres mine

To My long-dead Bohemian Love:

I see you, marvelous haze
as mirror sees itself,
I repeat you–every word

and in art and death we rise
our fingers bloody
but feelings immortalized

>> No.17231175

>>17230964
>a golden shower
nice

Get rid of lines 1-3 also

The rest of it is quite good. Got a good flow to it.

>> No.17231220

>>17229989
i like your poem. but it is not too good, as you say yourself. for a fantastic journey, the sensual material is too sparse and abstract. and for a philosophical librarian's aphorism, the cerebral content is too airy. in a seafarer's story, it is important that the seafarer looks serious while telling it. the listeners should not doubt the authenticity of his tale. in the librarian's aphorism, it is the distance between story and narrator that is the crucial element. these two sides seem to be at odds with each other, without being reconciled.

>> No.17231519

>>17229953
Indeed I must confess,
When souls mix ’tis an happiness,
But not complete till bodies too do join,
And both our wholes into one whole combine;
But half of heaven the souls in glory taste
Till by love in heaven at last
Their bodies too are placed.

>> No.17231541

Ay me, can every rumour
Thus start my lady’s humour?
Name ye some galante to her,
Why straight forsooth I woo her.
Then burst she forth in passion
“You men love but for fashion;”
Yet sure I am that no man
Ever so lovèd woman.
Then alas, Love, be wary,
For women be contrar

>> No.17231594

Spun up on tires
And unlit fires
The homeward path unspools

Red light, swaying
Engine saying
For the moment hanging--wait

Prodigal flight
Car doors ache
Just one turn right
Just at the light

And empty lots and lonely thoughts
But

Wingtips cut the snow
And in the clearing show
In the white-on-green
Reflective lettering
The name of home

>>17231016
I enjoyed it. I'm running on no sleep and a lotta caffeine so I'm not sure what to say other than that

>> No.17231603

>>17231016
i find it a bit pompous. with the mirror that sees itself, the bloody fingers, the apotheosis through art – it's not easy to make something like that believable. a poem, not about what one is, but about what one would like to be – without self-recognition, a facade presented without comment.

>> No.17231607

Im not a poet but its interesting to read. Keep it up guys.

>> No.17231636

Strike a match
and burn that lucy for a month or two
with some luck
you might stub it on a dime
just remember to put it out before the grass gets dry
and that you dind't have that much in common anyway

>> No.17231650

>>17231594
i don't quite know how to read the poem. it always sounds a bit crooked. the images are crooked, too. sometimes i like them (red light, swaying - wingtips cut the snow). then they are quite meaningless or banal (the homeward path unspools - empty lots and lonely thoughts). the story of the poem is the weakest part (the prodigal flight). the strong part is the description of an emotional state (melancholy, homecoming) through sensory impressions: the red lights, the tracks in the snow - by the way, i understood the last part of the poem to mean that the green glow of the traffic lights, reflected on the white snow, are the letters of home. i liked that very much. now i understand that a street sign is meant and i am not grateful for this discovery.

>> No.17231660

>>17231636
also, here's one I wrote when I was maybe sixteen which I've come to like.

Behold the fragility of our realm
the glass legs which upon it stand
every sstep an overbearing threat to us

each man before out, blowing the pipe
guiding its step, so confident of where to plant the feet upon the path

some blow harder than others
but every vibration echo within the transparent wall of the construct

the murmur finds the glasssmith
a requiem for athanasia
it is the only noise he know of,
locked inside a cell without crenel

beside it countless other

sky-clad below no sun
their temple one of syncretism
their faith a fixation of a sky

it lay in arcadia without season passing
yet common concious tell of time's decay
and of past sculptors finding music in their pipe

they think of wilderness before them
and wilderness grace their thoughts.
No agrarian reigns here and so dandelions sometime find their way through the temple walls.

>> No.17231668

>>17231519
Abraham Cowley's Platonic Love
>>17231541
John Wilbye's First Set of English Madrigals

>> No.17231830

what does she wearing
on this of all nights
gangly green jacket
flop-along sneakers
band-aid nose sharp eyes
and yet sharper teeth
cigarette and mouth
not either filtered
manefur on coatneck
round ears from straight hair
and starshine freckles
shes what wearing does
>>17229962
Quite liked this.
>>17229989
Strong opening, falls off from the middle on.
>>17230964
Excellent imagery.
>>17231594
I swear I wrote an opening identical to this once. Might've been closer to "spun-up tires wave the fires higher" or somesuch.
>>17231636
Reminds me of Bukowski, I like it.

>> No.17232105

These small coins tell me
Something that this age forgot
Burden of wealth

>>17229962
very nice and simple yet heavy, I like it

>> No.17232200

I had so much fun making my first poem, I wanted to make another.

Do not lament,
Do not cry,
When im on the other side.
Ring the gong,
Sound the bells
Bang the drums
Crack the shells
Spill the mead
Leave not one grain
and defy Deaths reign.
>>17231016
Last 3 lines are very passionate, I love it anon.
>>17231830
Very good at painting a picture. I like you describe features with comparisons to others "and yet sharper teeth" and "not either filtered". Good lines

>> No.17232351

>>17232200
i like the idea behind your poem. but the execution is not very good. the middle part is drawn out. the gong was interesting, but you repeat the same idea three more times: "sound the bells, bang the drums, crack the shells". "spill the mead" made me interested again, because, in my minds eye, we had now moved from the dire funeral ceremonies to the jolly funeral feast. that single line totally shifts the scenery for me – while the bells, the drum and shells are just placeless noise. i think you should cut out the line "when im on the other side". i feel like its too much exposition. "do not lament" does the job completely.

>> No.17233852

Suggestion: rewrite the poem as you'd prefer it
Make remarks only if there's something interesting we or the author needs to know about his poem

>> No.17233861

>>17233852
Who's this directed to?

>> No.17234001

>>17233861
People criticizing. It would be more interesting to see how they'd improve it to cater to their tastes rather than simply "X made me interested... You lost me at Y... the poem was strongest at point Z."

>> No.17235131

>>17229953
flowers and meadows...
i am truly alone
coming to cover me
with flowers of dying age
with sentiments of crying rage
i see you with us
i wish to see us leaving
something of earth
into the blanket of roses
made by the sun
and lovers of rose in age

>> No.17235139

>>17229953
To trust the awakened man
As I lie fazed and confused and frustrated, but open...
I will never be a ~blue ball~ it's all so tiresome
The awakened man doesn't listen
I gave tears for him to see
I took arms against poverty— and I shook hands with modesty!
I turned into his eyes when he looked above me
All for naught I have sighed it's all for naught
Everything left with me is, it's not even a thing
I can't feel
I sit inside the crowd waiting for him to see
me

>> No.17235150

>>17229953
words of vision and stuff... it's not important if it doesn't make me feel anything
i should carve out a piece of yesterday's sun and instill in me its light
today i feel at lost without my light my light is my alone i exist alone i should not i can not i have too little left in me, to put out
you can't see my light i am dying inside

>> No.17235693

>>17232200
The first three lines would be a good poem in it self
>>17231830
Not for me. I don't get it.

>> No.17235791
File: 3.89 MB, 4608x3072, DSC_0671.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google] [report]
17235791

>>17231660
i like the "sincretism"

>>17235139
cut like a 40s hat

>>17229962
rupi, my chcikadee

>>17229989
alright, westside Li Po over here.

dithyramb epithalamium

>> No.17235820

>>17235791
The first worthwhile post in the thread is a found object

>> No.17236065

>>17235791
Was wondering if anyone was going to recognize the first line being from a Li Po poem. It's definitely my favorite poem of his, and one of my favorite of all time

>> No.17236092

>>17230017
No one on this 'lit' board would recognize this meta without googling it LOL

>> No.17236094

Wear your red ribbon tight in this very velvet road
Til the night rides a roll in the right to rote our goal
'Bri, this ring roars and reaches the rulers running rules
Rumbling brings wars to throes of our hope to tell the world:
"Let the screams howl and call to the vastest blazing tunes!"

>> No.17236121
File: 1.94 MB, 500x500, 1609793310392.gif [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google] [report]
17236121

Notes: Posted all I could find quickly, 4-7 are quick death haikus I thought of. 3 isn't good, wrote that when suicidal (4 & 8 as well).
1
Let the rain seduce you to sleep,
Enjoy your rest,
Goodnight

2 (LIES)
Lie to me darling,
At least I’ll hear your voice.

Fill me with poisonous joy,
I’ll hate you in five minutes.

3
Dreamless slumber,
Synonym of death,
Gateway to the void.

Medicine for the pain,
You are my only friend.

4
Sorry will not do,
For all of my shortcomings,
Forgive me one day.

5
The weather is bleak,
Flakes of snow begin to fall,
winter has arrived.

6
Raven caws nearby,
As black as the night to come,
Peace finds me at last.

7
Sitting paralyzed,
The world continues to spin,
I watch it go by.

8 (Failed Reincarnation)

Drowning in a puddle of tar,
I know not what to do,
Draw up a plan to create a sense of control,
But I’ll know the truth when I fail,
Reality is cruel,
Barely bearable,
I no longer want this burden,
I’m sorry loved ones,
But what life asks is too much,
Feeble,
I crawl through the days,
Hoping for each to be the last.

>>17229962
really nice
>>17229989
liked the first two parts
>>17231830
not picture but didn't like the style
>>17230964
>>17231016
>>17231519
not for me sorry guys
>>17231541
nice

>> No.17236134
File: 66 KB, 1280x720, maxresdefault.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google] [report]
17236134

>>17236121
>>17231830
>not picture but didn't like the style
got the picture

>> No.17236520

>>17236121
Free yourself from the constraints of the haiku. Also rhymes are your friend and ultimately make the poem.

>> No.17236644

Ha-Almah sings in adoration while
her swelling lips bestow a crown of ashes
upon a bed of hay. And, waiting above,
the assembly sinks into a dreadful silence
before a vacant seat. The King retreats;
A dove descends upon the weary world.

>> No.17236818

Currently trying to write poems with constraints by picking a random word I have to include and a decreasing meter around several poems. Here the original contraints were a hendecasyllabic verse and the word "fou" (mad). Since "fou" can also means the bishop in a game of chess, I decided that I would have to use the sound "fou" in every verse by moving it by one foot every verse, as a bishop moving diagonally on a chess board (meaning that the first and last sounds would be "fou"). This meant that I had to write eleven verses. Because there are eleven players in a football team and because "fou" sounds like "foot", I decided that my poem should mimic a football field in its form. Thus I had to to put the sound "but" (meaning goal) at the middle of the first and the last verse. I decided that the rhyme scheme would figure the two teams facing each other: I was free for the verses 2 to 5 verse, but the verses 7 to 11 should rhyme with them in a symmetrical way. The first verse have to rhyme with "fou" because of the bishop thing. Verse 6 would figure the line at the middle of the field and thus be free, fittingly, the middle of this verse, hence the "ball" (and the middle of the poem) would be the sound "fou", a "fou-ball" if you like. Anyway, the result is awkward at best, but let me know what you think. It was very fun to write and I recommend trying such exercices.

Fou rire ! Sur la butte entre chiens et loups,
On footbalise la tête d'un voyou,
D'un malfoutu, d'un insolent qui a vu
Naître la foudre dans son coeur. Sa tristesse
Amuse la foule qui connaît le jeu.
Lui, il voudrait s'enfouir derrière ses mains
Et pouvoir faire refouler cet aveu
Maladroit. Il a dit: "Che fou aime Inès !"
Et elle a rit de cette bafouille émue.
Car il est laid. Aussi laid qu'un gorfou roux.
Les rires sont seuls butins d'un amour fou.


Shitty translation:

Laughter! On the mound at nightfall,
We play ball with the head of a thug,
Of a rascal, of an insolent who saw
Lightning born in his heart. His sadness
Entertain the crowd: they know the game.
Him, he would like to hide behind his hands
And to be able to repress this clumsy
Confession. He said: "I luv you Inès!"
And she laughed at this emotional mumble.
Because he's ugly. As ugly as a red penguin.
Laughs are the only spoils of mad love.


I'll do my best for the feedback (ESL obv)
>>17236644
I like it, especially the movement it draws. It is about the birth of Christ right?
>>17236121
I wrote the same kind of shit when I was a bit younger, my advice would be to try to develop a more personal imagery. What you say is true in itself but it doesn't feel like it because you say nothing new.
>>17236094
you should probably be more discret with your alliterations, this feels very heavy
>>17235150
I like the second verse. The rest feels too vague, it's maybe what you were aiming for but then the second verse does not really fit.
>>17232200
I want the same funeral anon. I also agree with >>17232351

>> No.17236892

Yesternight I caught a stranger breath within my cell
And dogged its homing flight
To where its craven captor dwelt
A ray from lantern sent upon his tawny figure fell
Repulsed, he slunk away yet stayed,
Leering from his sunless veldt

Waifish cirri move their haggard frames
Along their vagrant’s way, with hunger
Unavailed by the star-seed loam they trode,
On shorn heads of trees astride my way
Which lurched and threw their boughs in roaring keen
Grudging birdsong’s paltry, piping echoes,
Heartsick soughing in between

A new friend, the wayward snake of smoke
Sings me to his city-steep of folly,
Where again I distant stare
At hangdog umbrae stealing off down darkling lanes,
Marooning lovers gowned in petals, paling in the lusty main
While within, the dovish rings of scholar’s specters watch
The scalpel, finger waltz across the waxen dancing floor

The stranger breath I hear again, from lightless pew,
But now eludes my grasp
And ever sounds its greedy rasp,
And foreign walls pursue

>> No.17236927

>>17236818
While the birth of Christ is definitely the inspiration for the poem, in my mind it tells a slightly different story. It's a kind of idiosyncratic reimagining.

>> No.17236951
File: 976 KB, 1280x1595, tumblr_0946d04893b847f5710ab47da2245e09_9b60f7a9_1280.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google] [report]
17236951

Evolution

“We are all parts of Him
‘Prisoned in earth;
Flung over heaven’s brim
Into black birth;
Forgetting the sparks will rise:
Burning through clod,
Up, into paradise,
Gods greeting God.”

— Anonymous

>> No.17236963
File: 390 KB, 828x1792, 962D6351-E9B8-43EA-A035-C3DF8EF2F1A8.png [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google] [report]
17236963

Throw me on the burn pile.

>> No.17237427

>>17236963
I read the first line and I did not like it

>> No.17237488

>>17237427
I believe you

>> No.17237653

>>17236963
I hate it. Not because it's bad, but because none of it seems even a little bit sincere. You can do better

>> No.17237822

>>17236963
I'd feel pretty cringe if i were Heidi

>> No.17237980

>>17237822
God I hope she does too.

>> No.17237984

>>17237653
It’s okay to hate it, but you should know it’s fully sincere.

>> No.17238251

i want to get drunk for a month straight and not talk to anyone so that i'm left alone to argue with my multiple pissed off selves, but how do i actually remember what happens?

>> No.17239015

bump

>> No.17239157

>>17236963
i have not much to say about your poem. but i wanted to tell you that i really like the first stanza and think it's kind of brilliant – the humour, the non-chalance, the ballance between tongue-in-cheek poetry-ness (like a premolar magnet orchid dropped / into the maw of things betook) and youthful naturalness (this is all just a guess / but last night when we were in the parking lot / I swear to god). you seem like someone who does not take himself more seriously than necessary. one of the few poems here that not only makes me smile, but is also intended to.

>> No.17239168

I posted a poem about a maggot here once a while ago, this is another poem I've created. I think it's worse but I can't quite figure out why that is. Hope it's worth the time it takes to read at least.

For the novel and odd, for the harsh texture of crust,
A drop of milk, a pound of lead.
Curved and mangled, shaped by the one unfed.
To undo the handsome, by a thrust,
Found dead.

Plucked, plundered, by a thread it may linger.
Cultivated by lack, diminished in life.
All too mundane, too exemplary in strife.
To wrap around the trench his fingers,
Put down, on his flesh, disfigurement is rife.

The cruel will joke, "It is life!"
When he is unable to see what is ahead.

>> No.17239270

Bump

>> No.17239486

>>17239168
perhaps you have chosen images of horror that have little to do with yourself? the starving man's leaden crust of bread, the soldier's fingers digging in the mud of a trench - these are common items of horror. but are these also your own images of dread? is it perhaps the mailman's frosty demeanour. i could imagine that this is where your problems with the poem come from: you work with pre-made templates.

>> No.17239517

>>17239486
I see, this is something that comes up often when I post my stuff. What confuses me is that I haven't really read works that use the motifs you're mentioning, nor have I read much of Kafka's work. I wonder why my poetry feels that way, maybe I just use motifs that are common enough to dissipate into the popular set of symbols we intake naturally while growing up. Though I will say you've interpreted the line about crust in a way I didn't intend it to be interpreted, I was more so trying to think of something unpleasant that would feel mundane and a little dire, maybe a little beastly.

>> No.17239693

bump

>> No.17239815

>>17239517
Don't write love poems; avoid those forms that are too facile and ordinary: they are the hardest to work with, and it takes a great, fully ripened power to create something individual where good, even glorious, traditions exist in abundance. So rescue yourself from these general themes and write about what your everyday life offers you; describe your sorrows and desires, the thoughts that pass through your mind and your belief in some kind of beauty Describe all these with heartfelt, silent, humble sincerity and, when you express yourself, use the Things around you, the images from your dreams, and the objects that you remember. If your everyday life seems poor, don't blame it; blame yourself; admit to yourself that you are not enough of a poet to call forth its riches; because for the creator there is no poverty and no poor, indifferent place. And even if you found yourself in some prison, whose walls let in none of the world's sound - wouldn't you still have your childhood, that jewel beyond all price, that treasure house of memories? Turn your attention to it. Try to raise up the sunken feelings of this enormous past; your personality will grow stronger, your solitude will expand and become a place where you can live in the twilight, where the noise of other people passes by, far in the distance. And if out of , this turning within, out of this immersion in your own world, poems come, then you will not think of asking anyone whether they are good or not. Nor will you try to interest magazines in these works: for you will see them as your dear natural possession, a piece of your life, a voice from it. A work of art is good if it has arisen out of necessity. That is the only way one can judge it. So, dear Sir, I can't give you any advice but this: to go into yourself and see how deep the place is from which your life flows; at its source you will find the answer to, the question of whether you must create. Accept that answer, just as it is given to you, without trying to interpret it. Perhaps you will discover that you are called to be an artist. Then take that destiny upon yourself, and bear it, its burden and its greatness, without ever asking what reward might come from outside. For the creator must be a world for himself and must find everything in himself and in Nature, to whom his whole life is devoted.

>> No.17239968

>>17239815
I wish I could give a better response since you graced the thread with an effort post, but I will take all of that into consideration. I suppose I should stop disregarding my own life as a source of poetry due to a fear of there being nothing to write about.

>> No.17240171

>>17239968
Not the anon you replied to but I agree with him.
Poetry is an act of creation in relation with being, as such everyone can write poetry. Everyone should write poetry but that's another question. Your idiosyncratic relationship to the world is unique. Of course you are probably not very interesting, we obey mechanisms that control our will (subconsciousness, dialectical materialism, whatever), but in the end your situation to the world is unique and there, there is something to be said. A lot of great poets didn't live very interesting lives if you separate them from their poetry (Mallarmé for instance) and other great poets were able to make beautiful poems out of the most mundane things despite having exciting lives. Take the instance of Char, dude was in the French resistance and yet his poetry barely concern itself with it, most of his poems have a very mundane subjects but they are so beautifully crafted, so loving, so original, that it makes him one of the greatest and most unique French poet of the 20th century (and God nows there were a lot of poets then and there). I could talk forever about poetry and being because it's essence lies there but I'm afraid it might be to abstract so let's develop a thought by Leopardi.
In the Zibaldone, Leopardi notices the role a window plays on our perception of the world. We usually think of windows as something that allows us to see, this is obviously true but there's more to that: a window delimitates reality. It gives boundaries to your look, it cuts what you see in half, it can also reveal the presence of the wall. As such a window does not only allows us to see, but it also gives us something to see, meaning that it creates a particular view of the world by hiding it, it makes us realise that it is here and that there are some things we do not see. In a way poetry acts the same way by creating a window with language, you create a view of the world that is not complete, you put some things away but you allow the reader and yourself to see exactly this particular thing you saw. Each reader will react uniquely, but what matters is that you obstructed most of the being to reveal a part of it and understand. The one who does not speak, sees everything but can never understand anything because he doesn't delimitate.
Finally a point about what the other anon said about the cliche subjects. A great pleasure of poetry lies in surprise, thus if you don't write something "new", there can be no surprise for the reader. Hence too why you should concentrate on your own experience, and be genuine about it.
Here are two books that might develop these thoughts if they interested you:
>Rilke - Letters to a young poet (a must-read, especially on authenticity)
>Bachelard - Poetics of space (I think it can help you understand the role of poetry for the reader, and the fact that there is always something to write about)
Independently of that, both of these are very comfy read with beautiful thoughts.

>> No.17240222
File: 120 KB, 1190x231, Photography .png [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google] [report]
17240222

>>17240171
Beautiful post anon.
The way you talk about poetry is really similar to photography. Pic related is a post from /p/ which sums up the essence of photography.
What do you think about the relationship between poetry and photography?

>> No.17240254

>>17240222
I agree with the pic you posted. That being said I know jack shit about photography so I cannot really say anything about the relationship between it and poetry. I never "got" photography which is quite weird since I love (some) cinema and classical paintings. In fact I cannot think of any collaboration between a photographer and a poet, but the links between painting/drawing and poetry are plenty (Apollinaire's calligram, Reverdy and Picasso, etc.). I'm sure there are things to be said but I never thought too much about it. You know probably a lot more than me about the subject, what do you think?

>> No.17240379

>>17240254
I was just lurking /lit/ and randomly read your post. Like you don't know much about photography similarly I don't know anything about the theory of poetry at all. So this my own understanding of poetry that I have read so correct me if I am wrong.
From last 30 years photography is moving towards narrative based "photobooks."
Like in poetry when you combine two words the real magic happens between the space of those words similarly when you place two photographs next to each those photographs become much more than just singular photos. I am not saying that single photographs can't do this by framing things in a certain way.

Raven is metaphor which many poets have explored. There was a photographer named Masahisa Fukase who did a photobook called "The Solitude of Ravens." I think this book is visual poetry. You should see this photobook flip through video(a video can't do just to a printed photographs but still it's better than nothing) and tell me what do you feel about it.

>https://youtu.be/UFnul81pRYo

>I never "got" photography which is quite weird since I love (some) cinema
Post some of your favourite movies and I can give you some recommendation if you want.

>> No.17240404

>>17240254
>I cannot think of any collaboration between a photographer and a poet
Here is a excerpt from Goethe's preface to the Propylaea. Do not most of the things he says about painting and sculpture also apply to the photographer (as long as the photographer is also an artist)? The photographer works like the painter, though his toolbox is filled with different tools. He, too, must choose from the abundance of nature, he must find a subject and arrange motifs and he must, above all and most importantly, discover himself in his work. But enough from me. Here is the excerpt from Goethe:

All that we perceive around us is merely raw material; if it happens rarely enough that an artist, through instinct and taste, through practice and experiment, reaches the point of attaining the beautiful exterior of things, of selecting the best from the good before him, and of producing at least an agreeable appearance, it is still more rare, particularly in modern times, for an artist to penetrate into the depths of things as well as into the depths of his own soul, in order to produce in his works not only something light and superficially effective, but, as a rival of Nature, to produce something spiritually organic, and to give his work of art a content and a form through which it appears both natural and beyond Nature.

The human figure cannot be understood merely through observation of its surface; the interior must be laid bare, its parts must be separated, the connections perceived, the differences noted, action and reaction observed, the concealed, constant, and fundamental elements of the phenomena impressed on the mind, if one really wishes to contemplate and imitate what moves before our eyes in living waves as a beautiful, undivided whole. A glance at the surface of a living being confuses the observer; we may cite here, as in other cases, the true proverb, “One sees only what one knows.” For just as a short-sighted man sees more clearly an object from which he draws back than one to which he draws near, because his intellectual vision comes to his aid, so the perfection of observation really depends on knowledge. How well an expert naturalist, who can also draw, imitates objects by recognizing and emphasizing the important and significant parts from which is derived the character of the whole!

When the artist takes any object of Nature, the object no longer belongs to Nature; indeed, we can say that the artist creates the object in that moment, by extracting from it all that is significant, characteristic, interesting, or rather by putting into it a higher value. In this way finer proportions, nobler forms, higher characteristics are, as it were, forced upon the human figure; the circle of regularity, perfection, signification, and completeness is drawn, in which Nature gladly places her best possessions even though elsewhere in her vast extent she easily degenerates into ugliness and loses herself in indifference.

>> No.17240434
File: 69 KB, 1200x666, poetry.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google] [report]
17240434

Rate my poem!
" If I speak for the dead, I must leave
this animal of my body,

I must write the same poem over and over,
for an empty page is the white flag of their surrender.

If I speak for them, I must walk on the edge
of myself, I must live as a blind man

who runs through rooms without
touching the furniture.

Yes, I live. I can cross the streets asking “What year is it?”
I can dance in my sleep and laugh

in front of the mirror.
Even sleep is a prayer, Lord,

I will praise your madness, and
in a language not mine, speak

of music that wakes us, music
in which we move. For whatever I say

is a kind of petition, and the darkest
days must I praise. "

>> No.17240437

When to the sessions of sweet silent thought
I summon up remembrance of things past,
I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought,
And with old woes new wail my dear time's waste:
Then can I drown an eye, unus'd to flow,
For precious friends hid in death's dateless night,
And weep afresh love's long since cancell'd woe,
And moan th' expense of many a vanish'd sight;
Then can I grieve at grievances foregone,
And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er
The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan,
Which I new pay as if not paid before.
But if the while I think on thee, dear friend,
All losses are restor'd, and sorrows end.

>> No.17240449

>>17240379
Not him but I really liked the video and it elevated the appreciation of the album when I read the reason behind the artist's art.

>> No.17240464

How does Longfellow get away with writing a poem with limited amount of imagery? Take Rainy Days for example. Usually, when someone writes that he is miserable, it is viewed as trite. So how does Longfellow get away with it? I love Rainy Days btw and I want to emulate it.

>> No.17240482

You've heard it, haven't you?
That story, whispered by a friend,
or in grandmother's croaking voice,
of She who found out Everything,
the inns and outs, God‘s recipe.

You‘ve felt it, haven‘t you?
That cold wind that blows us here and there,
that scatters us across the hills, the plains,
the streets and cities where we live,
if living is what we leaves do.

You‘ve flown with me, haven‘t you?
It picks us up and off we go,
we rise and fall and flit and fly,
the gusts direct our destiny,
the wind‘s who calls the shots.

She caught us both, didn‘t she?
The Lady Who Knows Everything,
she plucked us out of the airstream,
she had a thing to tell us both,
a lesson to impart.

You heard it too, didn‘t you?
She laid it out, held nothing back,
while cold gusts battered her, she said
that all the world‘s a lie and all our thoughts
are less than jokes.

You knew it too, didn‘t you?
It was not exactly news.
Those bleak lines of hers, with every one,
she just repeated things
that had crossed your mind before.


And I,
fluttering, crackling, wind-borne, said
“If all the world‘s a lie and everything is hollow,
yes, even this wind,
then why are you shivering?”

You were shivering with me, weren‘t you?

>> No.17240491

>>17240464
He doesn't. People don't value Longfellow as much as they did in the 19th century.

>> No.17240565

>>17240404
Damn, this is perfectly way compatible with photography.
Thank for posting this. I will defiantly try to approach my artwork through this frame.

>>17240449
I am really glad that you liked it.
If you want to see more of his photobook then I defiantly recommend "Memories of Father" and "Family." These are more portraiture oriented but nonetheless they carry same strong emotions.

Memories of Father
>https://youtu.be/hCGzAYBczJM
Family
>https://youtu.be/kDwiWmRvvpw

Cheers anon.

>> No.17240627

>>17229953
When she smiles light solidifies
When she sits on my penis it ossifies
Her mind is a marriage of opposites
She gives me head like she's popping a zit

>> No.17240744

>>17240434
i had to laugh out loud several times while reciting it melodramatically (espacially at "I must live as a blind man / who runs through rooms without / touching the furniture" and "I can cross the streets asking 'What year is it?'"). but everything from "Even sleep is a prayer, Lord" onwards is unsuccessful in my eyes. it misses the fun and gets lost in phrases. i really did enjoy the first half, though. i mean it. a good comedic poem.

>> No.17240759

>>17240744
Now let me tell you that it was written by one of America's most "respected" contemporary poets, Ilya Kaminsky.

>> No.17240822

>>17240759
may he continue to live and write funny poems. pathos and humour are not far apart. maybe he will reconcile the two one day.

>> No.17241007

What are the best books on reading poetry, and telling a good poem from a bad one?

>> No.17241159
File: 283 KB, 1080x1057, Screenshot_20210109_163119.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google] [report]
17241159

>> No.17241190

>>17241007
ABC of Reading, by Ezra Pound.

>> No.17241668

>>17241190
Looks great anon, thanks

>> No.17241733

>>17240171
The guy you're responding to here, thanks for another really good effortpost. Well I think my thinking is less that I'm just uninteresting, but that my lack of experience with mich of anything that isn't simulated gives me literally nothing to draw upon. I guess it's just generally anxiety related to a not so great upbringing. But, I can't really argue with your points, I will definitely take these things to heart. Funny you mention Rilke, I've tried to get into his poetry andnI can't really seem to. There's a poem or two of his I enjoy but not too many. I hear Letters to a Young Poet is really good though, so I'll give it a try. I also have Mary Oliver's Poetry Handbook, and I hear that's also very helpful for new poets. Thanks again anon, hope more people take to effortposting on this board so it generates at least a little value for it's users.

>> No.17242001

Lidschlag Uranias

Oh Licht,
Wie sah ich dich
Erneut die kalte Dunkelheit
Umklammern.

Bist du es, Licht?
Bist du das selbe, das
Im Angesicht der frühsten Zeit
Erschien und sprach: Ich bin?

Erscheinst dann immer neu, mein Licht,
Unerloschen, denn selbst auch
Raum in weiter Dunkelheit
Birgt blinden Blick,
Ein Sehnen nach Unendlichkeit.

Und immer neu, oh Licht,
Erfüllt dein Beben stillen Kreis,
Der bringt das laute Wort das du
Erhellst in tiefer sternenloser Nacht.
Ach, wär das Auge taub geboren,
Wir wären nie erwacht.

It's the only poem I ever wrote and I don't know if it's shit or not. Inspired by Hölderlins Der blinde Sänger and Goethe. Maybe I'll try to translate it later

>> No.17242660

Too many people posting their own stuff and not critiquing others. This is why these threads never last. People are lazy.

>> No.17242674

>>17242660
You can thank OP for phrasing it as a dumping ground circlejerk instead of treating it like a freeform discussion table, like /wg/ for example.

>> No.17242898

>>17242660
You usually get one reply when you post something, I think there are at least 3 or 4 posters that reply to multiple poems with criticism.

>> No.17243340

>>17242001
i think one problem is that, as a beginner, you have chosen a form that is too difficult: a free verse poem, recited with dishevelled hair and tearful dreamy eyes. this is a task that has hardly ever found a master - and you say this is your first and only poem! friend, you are like someone who thinks he can just sit down at the piano and play schumann. if you are interested in poetry, then write a rhymed poem, a brief one, about common things, perhaps with humour? as long as it is light on its feet, avoiding the pitfall of prophesying (as you can see for yourself from the poems here: apprentice potters, looking serious as ming vases, noses full of clay – that is funny stuff for the cabaret; though most poets dont want to be laughed at).

>> No.17243347

>>17242674
>>17242898
It's not even hard. I haven't posted anything ITT, but all I'm seeing are scores of poems posted by themselves with very little discussion. This is why reddit is unironically better in this respect - you can't post your own poetry until you've shown proof of critiquing two poems.

>> No.17243368

>>17243347
Your and OP's reddity mentality is what makes these threads devoid of discussion to begin with.

>> No.17243488

>>17243347
Alright, then go back to r/OCpoetry which is filled with people who have only read Rupi Kaur and don't actually know anything about poetry. It's easy to get feedback from people who have no idea what they're talking about. At least there are a few people in these threads who try to give good feedback to everything posted

>> No.17243552

>>17229953
I always stop writing because I have a crippling case of being shit at writing but here's something i started (will rate others in following post):

Of man, of his desire, and of his pain;
That all of these be one; the very same,
Of what is good, of what our vices be -
Be they both alike and both our mis’ry
To these this song - and with heart i dictate
To deaf ears with no muse to motivate;
Though still with zeal and passion i implore
Reader mine, just this once, to read on more.
As burning passions ignite beneath us
When within th’embrace of love where we thus
Hold onto friends just as they clasp us close,
With boiling tears - though that they are exposed
No fear we feel that they are seen at all,
Joy we know, instead, O’ that we both bawl
With a joy akin to that i bring ye
A tale no greater than my low degree.

>> No.17243617

>>17243552
Well, I wrote worst things
Its OK

>> No.17243623

>>17243552
Here i rate others
>>17229962
I love the simplicity and how the second stanza has a few more feet.
>>17229978
you have to go back
>>17229989
very nice
>>17230964
nice but not sure what it's about
>>17231594
I like this one a lot

>> No.17243639

>>17243617
It's not bad i agree, i am more proud of this one i had the courage to write more than a few lines:

A bog had been my resting place
though rest a gift that did not grace
me for longer as i had come
to my senses, no longer numb
was i as the light had consumed
my sight. So too had it subdued
my hearing, once silent and warm,
now under siege from all the harm
that came to me as cries of pain
from those around; those not yet slain,
a crack of gunfire far away,
and mines that blew beneath our weight.
No muse to sing for me this time
to be at all my only crime,
to think at all worse than to not
think all of those abhorrent thoughts,
ponder had i that i would take
my own short life for my own sake
and as i came to know that i
still lived and still saw that grey sky
a boiling anger deep inside
spewed from my lungs as does a tide
when it comes and washes away
the things we’ve built from stone and clay.
A wordless cry escaped my chest
until my lungs felt as if pressed
and, although loud, it could not face
the war around that went apace.
(cont)

>> No.17243655

>>17243639
I sat upright and felt to see
if both my legs were still with me,
with me too were corpses around
not one of them produced a sound
instead they lay down in comfort,
though torn apart no longer hurt
and displayed upon their faces
wide smiles and happy grimaces;
here one of them appeared to laugh
even though he was cut in half,
there one gazed with his joyous eyes
as over him crawled bugs and flies.
Just as they were then so was i,
wretched, rotten, and left to dry.
I could not tell my skin from mud,
if what i saw was my own blood
or the muck in which i sat still
cold, alone, and gazing uphill
where i could see what i came for,
distant it was, a few miles more
that pure, shining monastery
within which hid eternity
or some more time, at least just some
for i had wished to overcome
my miserable tragedy,
i just wished that i could once be
at all.

>> No.17243701

Sorry for the more laconic responses, I'm drunk.
>>17240379
I like the book you posted, and you are right : it works very well. It elicited various feelings in me, which photography doesn't usually do, including humour, which is important in a work of art. Do you have other names of such books? I'll try to find some by myself, and I believe my parents have some book by Doisneau.
>Post some of your favourite movies and I can give you some recommendation if you want.
Cries and whispers (and everything Bergman made), Pickpocket (and everything Bresson made), Stalker (and everything Tarkovsky made), La Jetée, Le salaire de la peur, The ghost and mrs muir, Ma nuit chez maud, Faust, Le rayon vert , Vanishing point, Stop making sense, Casablanca, The laureate, Roma città aperta, Blow up, Warui yatsu hodo yoku nemuru, Le roi et l'oiseau, Mon oncle, Tengoku to jigoku, 10e chambre, instants d'audience, The third man, Sunrise: A Song of Two Humans, Germania anno zero, Boże Ciało, La grande illusion, Paris Texas, Sunset Bld, To Be or Not to Be, M, La règle du jeu, Persona, Metropolis, Rear Window, Le feu follet, Det sjunde inseglet, Smultronstället, 2001, They Shoot Horses Don't They?, Professione : Reporter, Mullholand Drive, Une femme douce, Au hasard Balthazar, Portrait de la jeune fille en feu, Le Notti di Cabiria, Trzy kolory: Niebieski, Le Roman de Renard, Jagten, Un homme qui dort, Les Quatre Cents Coups, Lektionen in finsternis, Melancholia, The Red Shoes, Ohayô, Johnny Guitar, Chongqing Senlin, Boogie Nights, Kuroi ame, Nema-ye Nazdik, Das Testament des Dr. Mabuse, Sátántangó, Roma, Buta to gunkan, The River, Le Samouraï, Stromboli, terra di Dio, To Have and Have Not, La Planète sauvage, Apur Sansar, Love in the Afternoon, Aparajito

>>17240404
Once again, we can only bow to Goethe. Thanks for sharing that quote. I remember another one which is great but I cannot find the source back, maybe you know it: he basically says that after going to a painting exhibit, he sees nature with the eyes of the painter. This is kind of what I was saying about poetry being a creator of being (or a window if you prefer). What he says here applies to photography, you're right. If the thread is still up tomorrow I'll try to answer you more deeply with the reasons I never "got" photography while I could shiver and tear in front of some paintings.

>>17241733
>but that my lack of experience with mich of anything that isn't simulated gives me literally nothing to draw upon
To that I say to you: read more poetry, try to see the various currents and shits... Villon, one of the early great French poet, could write about fucking a farting whore and four pages later about the death of chivalry: widen your horizons dude. This impression you get is maybe because you read too much romantic (or epic, or whatever) poets. They can be great but they are often too much detached of life imo (at least for the french and anglo, the german are better here).

>> No.17243744

>>17241733
>I guess it's just generally anxiety related to a not so great upbringing.
I can understand that. I too got some kind of anxiety when I write because I cannot block the thought that someone will read what I write and judge it as he was reading some nobel-worthy shit (and thus be disappointed). The important thing is that you realise it, so you can try to find a solution to reduce this anxiety. And in the end what matters is that writing is important to you. Gracq and Breton have a great expression about the effect a good writing can produce on you, they talk about "the wind on the temples", be that wind anon.
Also what I'm doing right now is trying to do some exercices with contraints to try to better my writing without putting too much pressure on myself. You could try it too!
Letters to a young poet is not poetry and I believe that whatever you think of Rilke's poetry you'll like that. Never heard of the other book you mentioned, but if it fits you, that good!

>> No.17243828

People should only post their own poetry. We should spend more time making poems and less time talking about poems.

>> No.17243916

>>17240627
based

>> No.17244230

>>17243701
>To that I say to you: read more poetry, try to see the various currents and shits... Villon, one of the early great French poet, could write about fucking a farting whore and four pages later about the death of chivalry: widen your horizons dude. This impression you get is maybe because you read too much romantic (or epic, or whatever) poets. They can be great but they are often too much detached of life imo (at least for the french and anglo, the german are better here).
The poets I like the best are Chaucer and Wallace Stevens, I've been told I need to try new stuff out before lol.
>>17243744
>I can understand that. I too got some kind of anxiety when I write because I cannot block the thought that someone will read what I write and judge it as he was reading some nobel-worthy shit (and thus be disappointed). The important thing is that you realise it, so you can try to find a solution to reduce this anxiety. And in the end what matters is that writing is important to you. Gracq and Breton have a great expression about the effect a good writing can produce on you, they talk about "the wind on the temples", be that wind anon.
Also what I'm doing right now is trying to do some exercices with contraints to try to better my writing without putting too much pressure on myself. You could try it too!
That's fair anon, I should try to stop being so hesitant due to my anxiety. Sorry for the semi-blogpost, thought it'd be relevant.
>Letters to a young poet is not poetry and I believe that whatever you think of Rilke's poetry you'll like that. Never heard of the other book you mentioned, but if it fits you, that good!
Ah yeah I knew that, just reminded me of his poetry.
>>17243828
Well I mean reading the works of better poets and critiquing others is what gives you the feeling that you can truly improve, and practice is definitely important but i don't think we should talk about poetry kess so long as we're being productive.

>> No.17244533
File: 413 KB, 1080x1964, Screenshot_20210110_001237.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google] [report]
17244533

>>17243552
Not bad anon. I think the first line would hit harder if you removed the 'and'. I would also avoid the double 'be' between the third and fourth line, I see that it follows the speakers train of thought but I think there are more eloquent ways to phrase it that disturb the rhythm less. Overall, though, not a terrible attempt.

>> No.17244731
File: 225 KB, 1080x1024, 49CCCA0B-BBA0-4A64-8B84-3B34B9D57D04.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google] [report]
17244731

>>17243828

>> No.17244743

>>17244533
>>17244731
I connect to it but it needs more concrete imagery and alliteration wouldn't hurt

>> No.17244837

>>17229989

I dig the simplicity of the rhythm and vocabulary, it would work for a song I'd say.

>>17236818

J'aime bien le concept, j'avais tenté quelque chose de similaire il y a longtemps mais sur un seul quatrain et avec un mot plus long. Ici, "fou" étant monosyllabique la répétition se fait beaucoup moins ressentir, c'est plus pratique et plus judicieux. Le poème me rappelle un peu La Béatrice de Baudelaire mais en comique et moderne.

>>17236644

I liked that

Something I threw together on a whim a while ago, I don't think much of it.

L’Andréïde

Qui a descendu ses yeux maîtres et chasseurs,
Un bras sur le flanc gauche et l’autre sous le droit,
Qui approche une fécondité annoncée,
Grande mais aussitôt devinée sous un voile
De résine bouillant au climat des péchés
Indifféremment, claire à quelle soumission ?
Vénus chauve, relève-moi. Muse inchantée :
Perce-moi. Car ne lui est permis de m’aider
Quoique tu sois par lui inquiète et gracieuse,
Je soufflerai dans ces yeux pour un seul moment
Hors de ton absence l’emprise illimitée
D’être de mon amour ceinte la liberté.
Mon oubli furieux se mire dans ton mutisme
Mourant, ton sein brûle l’essence de mes rêves.

>> No.17244902

>>17244533
I'll likely change those but i have a strict pentametre desire so i will have to add something there in its place, as for the "be" i wanted it to be kind of repeating i liked it. ty fren
>>17244837
I really love that one, i sometimes write in French too pls lmk what you think

I

Un moment passe et un autre prend sa place,
quand nous chassons l’temps mais il aussi chasse
nos vies mais nous n’y pensons pas du tout
nous dansons et nous chantons jusqu'au trou
dans l’quel nous-nous trouv’rons ensembles un jour
et dans lequel nous resterons toujours.
Je chantes pour juste un moment une chanson
en espérant d’invoquer une passion
dans le coeur du peuple et peut-être un jour
l'humanité sera donc en amour
avec le monde et toutes ses créatures,
avec Jésus, et avec la nature.
Les chansons du passé, d’hommes éduqués
comme celles d’Homère, je n’crois pas surpasser
car je suis qu'un pauvre paysan sans richesses
ni sans inspirations et une prouesse
que seuls ces hommes d’excès y ont accès,
mes lignes des insultes à leur art parfait.
Je vous invites, lecteur, pour un moment
a suivre mes lignes d’un poème sagement.
Aucune muse ni sirène à chanter, non,
l’homme est seul pendant la dureté d’cette chanson.

>> No.17244907

>>17244902
II

Les arbres d’ici dansent en toutes leurs grandeurs
le vert de leurs feuilles vibrant comme leurs coeurs,
Leurs branches se secouent d’un côté à l’autre
en attaquant ceux qui s’approchent d’la côte,
ces titans hauts nous entoures dès l’premier
moment quand nos bateaux sont arrivés,
de Bretagne nous v’nons nous fils de troyens,
l’héritage d’Énée, missionnaires chrétiens.
Nous sommes p’tits dans ce pays oû la nature
menace de renverser nos bateaux durs,
elle nous chasse et détruit comme des vermines
avec des vents et des vagues si divines
que même le Français n’échappe son ultime
jugement jusqu'à qu’il s’assis sur la terre
sur laquelle nous attends que plus de guerres.
Derrière nous est la grande mer et l’passé
que nous n’verrons plus, pourquoi y penser,
et en avant il est a quelque part
le futur qui n’est jamais au retard
et une grande terre sauvage sans trajectoires.
C’est dans cette nation d’arbres que nous somme v’nus
deux centaines de Bretons à l'inconnu
un moment passe et un autre prend sa place
nous glissons cependant sur aucune glace
nous glissons sur nos propres semelles mouillées
dans la boue qui nous pogne par nos deux pieds.
Le ciel sans aucun oiseau, ni nuages,
blanc sans étoiles, ni soleil, ni orages
nous surveille d’en haut en s’cachent l’visage
et seuls les noyés peuvent y échapper
ou bien ceux que l’on avait enterrés
les vivants doivent sous son poids continuer.
Quand le Français cris sa voix cours aux arbres
elle change et elle revient dans une autre langue,
quand le Français regarde a l'horizon
Son regard lui retourne d’entre les buissons,
tous nos gestes nous reviennent, notre colère,
nos péchés, notre grâce, et nos actes divers.

>> No.17244934

Branches curl
Wint'ry thoughts unfurl
The castle turns within
Feather'd ramparts take to wing
When, whispered, singers take to sing
Across the sound of stony silence
Echo: the somber tread of spring

>> No.17245028

>>17244902

Puisque tu m'as adressé un poème français, je te répondrai dans la langue concernée car c'est plus facile pour moi. J'ai vraiment aimé le ton du texte avec le style quelque peu rimbaldien et faunesque, la fin aussi qui m'a frappé. Si tu ne m'aurais averti, j'aurais pu penser que le français est bien ta langue mère hormis pour les fautes que je vais pointer du doigt, mais elles sont facilement corrigeables. Ta conjugaison de la première personne du singulier que tu appliques comme la seconde par exemple : ajoute en "s" à la fin du verbe seulement avec "tu" et le pluriel finit en "-ent" aussi. Ce n'est pas quelque chose à laquelle j'accorde beaucoup d'importance mais si tu as effectivement tenté un poème décasyllabique, il y a le "e" sonore à prendre en compte avant la fin des consonnes.
Je peux te demander tes inspirations ? Ton poème m'a rappelé que je devrais m'essayer à la poésie de Jehan-Rictus.

>> No.17245039

>>17245028
un*

>> No.17245064

>>17244902
D'ailleurs le décasyllabe est un bon choix pour ce genre de poème à l'allure de chanson

>> No.17245087
File: 119 KB, 929x1175, 1600973534651.png [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google] [report]
17245087

*ahem* I would like to recite the following poem that I like to call "He does It for free"
>He does it for free, on an anime website
>Working on the dark, as he never sees the daylight,
>Not remuneration or acclamation.
>He copes with dilation.
>Frustration is at his sight
>Cleaning shit left and right
>Cooking hotpockets on the microwave
>In his dark and wretched cave
>He is a fat as a whale and ugly as a snail
>His ego is trully frail
>To the abyss he will send you if he please
>This beast is truly unease
>CHUCK makes him bleed and to SNEED you will plead
>FUCK NIGGERS
>FUCK KIKES
>AND FUCK JANNIES

>> No.17245304

>>17245028
I'll have to answer you in English because I only studied a bit in French, thanks a lot for the feedback, my inspirations are mostly Milton, actually (ironically) and i have only read a bit of French, the story is set in a failed colony near Québec city where a settlement in the 1600s only lasted for a year and it is meant to be the "tale of creation" from a Québecois perspective. An Aeneid of Québec for example.
>>17245064
I always use pentametre as i feel like the tetrametre is a little too short and anything over that is too long.

>> No.17246365

>>17245304
Oh, I didn't realize the specifity of the subject, I might look up into it. Anyways, this is honestly good if you're still a beginner

>> No.17246467

>>17246365
ty fren

>> No.17246488

>>17243552
Nothing wrong with this; write more.

>>17244934
I could nitpick some small things, but I think this poem succeeds in what it's trying to do. If it were longer I'd enjoy every stanza.

>> No.17246785

>>17230964
In most city layouts second and third streets would run parallel so left on one to go right on another is weird

I’m not a fan of the rhyme scheme.

>> No.17247265

>>17243552
This guy fucks
“Old English sucks”

“It's a cope
You sound like a dope”

It's a common trope

>> No.17247376

>>17243552
First two lines are good.

>> No.17248187

bump

>> No.17248489

>>17229962
Lots of posts I will try to rate a few but cant all
>>17229962
short and sweet 7/10
>>17229989
i mean if the first part isn't our own its hard to judge, the ending is anticlimactic but I like the idea and contrast, the imagery is decent 7/20
>>17230964
is this about going to work in the morning haha?
nice imagery very vivid, its a bit unclear what it means which isn't a bad thing necessarily
8/10 i like the intensity of the imagery
>>17240482
nice twist, I like the idea of the POW from a leaf, no big imagery but the buildup is good to the ending, and its satisfying 8.5/10

>> No.17248500

The shining moon
A wanderer's melancholy
Forever together
But never to meet

>> No.17248505

>>17248489
and here is something of mine I wrote a while ago any thoughts?

I went to Japan one time. I met a Japanese boy, in Japan.
At a Japanese bar in Japan. In Japan, I met a Japanese boy at a Japanese bar.
We talked, not in Japanese. We decided to go up to my room.
I stayed in a Japanese hotel, in Japan.
Me and the Japanese boy went to my Japanese room in Japan in my Japanese Hotel.
I put my ear to his Japanese heart.
And listened. I thought that I could hear the waves of the Pacific crashing in the distance, to a beat of his heart.
When he put his ear to my heart, there was nothing.
Not silence, not sound. Only an overpowering fear, and all-consuming darkness that could swallow even the sound of the ocean.

>> No.17248512

>>17248500
ouch, very sweet

>> No.17248617

>>17248505
i like your simple style, but the repeating of words doesn't make an impression on me in this particular case. though the passage where you write "In Japan, I met a Japanese boy at a Japanese bar. / We talked, not in Japanese" surprised me. as did the passage where the boy listens to the heart of the narrator and hears nothing. what to make of the "Only an overpowering fear, and all-consuming darkness", i don't know. because i don't like the repetitions, the poem seems too long for what it says. besides, it's very general. one day, somewhere in japan, in some bar, i met some boy and we went to some room: there we listened to each other's heartbeats; his was beautiful and bright, mine silent and dark. i wonder what you wanted to express, what you felt.

>> No.17248630

>>17248617
I agree with your critique, I wrote it like two years ago I think, no editing or anything. It can definitely be cut down, although I think I was trying to establish a tone with the repetition or a general feeling of boringness and then have a contrasfull ending, as I only write for myself and have only been lurking /lit/ for about a month the main thing I have come to realize is exactly what you said about the idea not being fleshed out, at the moment of writing I know what feeling I'm thinking of and so I don't flesh it out or pursue it completely its a half finished poem at best
thanks for your thoughts anon

>> No.17248638

>>17229953
I write poems making fun of poems

Tort ropes strained against love’s carapace.
In twain, mov’d tropes fly to mort,
whence upon a dew’d blade grew to adolesce
fraught hopes again from their death.

>>17229961
RIP ZYZZ

>> No.17248644

>>17248617
>i wonder what you wanted to express, what you felt.
as for this I wanted to say that I remember that on that day I felt a great contrast of spirit between us two, he was very lively and seemed very emerced in being Japanese (knowingly or unknowingly) not in some political scene just that his lifestyle and aura was as such while I am a shallow and depressed person so I think the main thing I was trying to express was the particular polarity between us two

>> No.17248660

>>17248512
Thanks Anon

>> No.17248670

>>17248660
np it struck me because i have personally stared at moons many times and had romantic fantasies knowing full well they will never come true

>> No.17248840
File: 94 KB, 603x589, draft.png [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google] [report]
17248840

I wrote this note around New year's, off a couple shots and a few beers, but who cares.

>> No.17248889

>>17248840
Better send this one in writing general

>> No.17248897

>>17248889
don't tell me what to do.

>> No.17249281

>>17229953
thick shadows
a drop of dreams
wet mosquitoes
fat vultures
lizards, cockroaches sing
the sick spirit of the sun over the face of the moon
in a drop of dreams in the cool of the shadows
memories of dead days
I evaporated to the beat of the clock
wild thoughts slowly broke away from the chain of the universe into the interspace of time
now I leave the human shell empty
I travel to dead stars , galactic jewelry, explore the past of aliens that don't exist
I return quickly to the limp shell to fill it with life

>> No.17249456

>>17248840
i think it's pretty nice
avoid overanalizing and cynicism like worst plague - these are both signs of death of true passion
plus what this anon said >>17248889

>> No.17250220

bump

>> No.17251087

>>17229962
Nice, short and pretty good; though of course low effort

>>17229989
I dig the imaginery you are going for, but the rhytmn falls flat and there is very little poetic skill displayed sadly.

>>17230964
not poetry

>>17231016
no effort

>>17231594
Somewhat okayish start, then empty conclusion; might be better with some refinement

>>17231636
>>17231660
not poetry

>>17231830
I like it for some reason

>>17232200
Just bad.

>>17235131
I personally dont like it at all, but it isnt a bad poem per se

>>17235139
not poetry

>>17236094
Just bad poetry

>>17236644
Liked this the most ITT till now

>>17236892
Strange that it started with rhymes and then abandoned them. The rhytmns also do not work, though I guess you at least made some effort

>>17236951
Not bad, but also not really good. I feel there might be a pretty good poem inside somewhere,

>>17236963
not poetry

>>17239168
Bad

>>17240434
Empty shallow nonsense

>>17240437
Not bad and with a lot of effort, but I cant really find anything interesting in it.

>>17240482
That one is really good

>>17240627
Last line doesnt fit and lacks any punchline qualities

>>17241159
not poetry

>>17242001
Thats a good one and really impressive if its the only one you ever wrote.

>>17243552
Bonus points for using rhymes and rhytmn and not just random bullshit with linebreaks; but there is sadly little imaginery or wit in your poem. Still definitely one of the better ones around.

>>17243639
This one is a lot worse then the first one, despite the two perfect opening lines.

>>17244934
I like what you were going for, but its just a pretty bad poem

>>17248500
I want to hate it but somehow cant.

>>17248505
not poetry

>>17249281
Just bad

I think I liked those two the most
>>17242001
>>17236644

>> No.17251359

Speaking loudly, slowly
With eyes wide open
The point pierced me
But she didnt hesitate
To keep on stabbing

>> No.17251451

Wind the greatest wingman
Cut cold in the low amber sun
Atop a stone on the mountain
We laid there two in one

>> No.17251465

Old flame,
I, responding, hard at task
And? he ventures ask
And I stepped in coals
Another pebble rolls
I think--no--happens to the best
For a moment I rest
Wiping life from my brow
And think just how
How all the good ends in trouble
He stabs again the dulling shovel
And, I once more, muttering at dirt
Boots trudge to pound fresh earth
I say, why bother
While looking down to my own father
He stabs again the dulling shovel
Wonders why not bury trouble

>> No.17251480

>>17251359
i dislike this poem because of its blandness. it has no music and sounds like plain speaking (that might still be acceptable). but: what is being said is trivial. the cold-hearted girlfriend who tears the narrator's heart to shreds. nothing in your poem justifies its existence. it sinks without a fight in the sea of love poems.

finally, something positive: i would praise 1) the fact that you introduce the "she" late in the poem, which creates a little surprise. 2) that it's not "her words" that pierce the heart of the narrator, but "the point" of her words - I think that's quite cleverly done and fitting for the knife.

>> No.17251481

August come, august go
Summer heat before you know
Blazing sun, dry air gust
Ice in wine, what's the fuss?

>> No.17251499

>>17251480
I see what youre saying. Whenever I write short one stanza poetry I like to invoke one image clearly. I'm gonna try rewriting the first two lines

>> No.17251539

>>17251087
cringe

>> No.17251793

>>17251480
also you might find this funny. The backstory behind the poem is an experience I had with my girlfriend, where she was so damned pissed at me, because I didnt let her buy me taco bell. So not quite my heart getting torn to pieces

>> No.17251972

>>17245087
Majestic

>> No.17252401

>>17251087
Mass responding: bluepilled. Cringe. Unbased. Suffering incarnate. Filter.

>> No.17252415

>>17239168
Are you fucking ESL? Use verbs. Write complete sentences.

>> No.17252462

>>17240437
Too lazy to Google. Whom did you copy this from?

>> No.17252674

>>17248840
Oneitis: that's a cringe from me

>> No.17253149

>>17245087
I made some improvements
>He does it for free, on an anime website.
>Working in the dark, as he never sees the daylight.
>Not remuneration nor acclamation.
>He copes with dilatation
>Frustration is at his sight.
>Cleaning shit left and right
>Cooking hotpockets in the microwave.
>In his dark and wretched cave.
>He is fat as a whale and ugly as a snail.
>Hell, his ego is truly frail.
>To the abyss he will send you if he please.
>This beast is truly unease.
>CHUCK makes him bleed and to SNEED you will plead.
>To freed yourself you shall repeat:
>FUCK NIGGERS
>FUCK KIKES
>AND FUCK JANNIES

>> No.17253157

>>17229953
The penis is flaccid and I am bored
The penis is hard and the head is engorged
The cum shoots out
It ends the drought
The penis is flaccid and boredom restored

>> No.17253219

>>17253157
Based and coomerpilled

>> No.17253293

And it was time
And I had the sheets in my hand
And I had the time to read them through
And through a broken glass a racquetball dissolved into ice and pale gas
And now it was, at last
And I had been thinking for a while now,
What is the past?
Is it memories that you recall or ones you forget?
Down goes the racquetball into the flame past the mantelpiece
And it snows outside and I am cold
I'm growing old.
It seems the racquetball is coming towards me now
It seems it's gotten older too
Creased with mud it comes towards me
And shatters the broken glass and dissolves into pale gas
And again and again it happens and
there was time

>> No.17253529

>>17252674
this one's making fun of 'Oneitis' people

>> No.17253555

>>17253149
I don't have a nice voice. I decided to use tts. kek
https://vocaroo.com/172mBmg9yKfZ

>> No.17253578

>>17253149
I don't have a nice voice. I decided to use tts. kek
https://voca.ro/18ERYCMP0tNL

>> No.17253621

>>17229953
I C

QC

A OK

>>17229962
me
>>17251087
>Nice, short and pretty good; though of course low effort
Things that are unnecessarily long are low effort. A lot can be said with very little. Its not easy but can be done.
>>17251359
Words put together. rhyme is your friend. >>17253157
The penis is flaccid and I am bored
The penis is hard and the head ignored

If cum shot out
It would end the drought

But there is no men
about

>> No.17253648

>>17251087
This is a weird poem. I think it’s the numbers confusing me.It seems like your definition of poetry has something to do with hackneyed sentimentality, but that’s okay.

>> No.17254586

>>17251087
>17248500 (You)
>I want to hate it but somehow cant.
any particular thing that seems bad?

>> No.17254989

bump

>> No.17255283
File: 34 KB, 600x450, haiku by a robot.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google] [report]
17255283

>> No.17255291
File: 179 KB, 601x1689, for a recently discovered shipwreck matthew olzmann.png [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google] [report]
17255291

>> No.17255302
File: 85 KB, 809x690, variations on the word sleep margaret atwood.png [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google] [report]
17255302

>> No.17255343
File: 30 KB, 490x586, what rings but cannot be answered rebecca lindenberg.png [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google] [report]
17255343

>> No.17255410

>>17255291
>>17255302
>>17255343
Fuck off I just want somebody to give me attention for my shitty poem

>> No.17255421
File: 30 KB, 559x541, aedh wishes for the cloths of heaven w b yeats.png [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google] [report]
17255421

>>17255410
which one is even yours?

>> No.17255449

>>17255421
It is one of these but I will not tell you which:
>>17251481
>>17253293
>>17251465
>>17251451

>> No.17255500
File: 55 KB, 560x585, he was touched or he touched or marianne boruch.png [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google] [report]
17255500

>>17251481
Short and cliche.

>>17253293
This is the worst of the 4 by far. all those and's--I barely have the desire to read past the first couple of lines, and when I forced myself i saw it was a worse version of the sophomoric "xd time" poem everyone has read 1000x times.

>>17251465
abbccdd rhyme scheme ruins anything that might have been going on, so not much.

>>17251451
cute and by far the least offensive of the 4. could be built into something bigger, if you wanted.

>> No.17255555

when one is drowning
should try splashing; not swimming
'least you'll make a wave

>> No.17255800

>>17255500
You're too stupid for it you pleb

>> No.17256405

bump

>> No.17257936

bump

>> No.17258159

>>17255800
>writes bad poem
>gets criticism
>”lmao you’re just too dumb to understand my vast intellect”

>> No.17259400

The light is flickering
I have not paid the bills
With my life, what am I doing?
Time to pop some pills

>> No.17259407

>>17259400
Yoda, this nigger thinks he is

>> No.17260348
File: 46 KB, 429x463, sound has ears manuel abreu.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google] [report]
17260348

>> No.17260408

Before the dark had even come
some fortold its near arrival
a when it started out the came
and claimed there wicked end was here
and more began to join their cause
and more the dark became the law
each less hopeful than the last
the dark was the fault of ours
the dark was a now a fact of life
til all had called it , seen it steer
all now knew its cause was clear
and that it would be forever here
and jeered was i for having hope
and watched there faces as dawn broke

>> No.17260601

The colourful beast is itself a window,
Behind which lies the wished-for remote;
The sea that rushes in shells to borrow;
Or old steamships on post stamps sold.

>> No.17260607
File: 1.06 MB, 1333x2000, EncRNcBXUAE-VUT.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google] [report]
17260607

Can somebody recommend poems for this feel?

>> No.17261193

>>17260607
You killed it

>> No.17261214

I shit my pants
It smelled like poopy
I told my Aunt
She went kabloopy
I like poopy nice and warm
I can't want until I eat some corn
Poopy All day and and poopy all night
Poopy, I just might take a bite.

>> No.17261488

>>17260348
Am I supposed to understand this?

>> No.17261828 [DELETED] 

Un ange, un jour, me pria de le suivre
Dans tout Paris. Il posait ses yeux cuivres
Sur les passants qui prêtaient touts leurs sens
Au soir tombant. Il était leur appui.
Il me confia son secret et depuis
Je récite ses versets en silence.

L'ange est parti, mais Paris est resté
Et le soleil garde la liberté.
Je peux la voir entre tes mains qui dansent
Quand tu me dis : "Il n'y a que beauté !"
Tu as raison, d'ailleurs à ton côté
Je récite les versets du silence.
Shitty translation:

An angel one day begged me to follow him
All over Paris. He put his copper eyes
On the passers-by who gave all their senses
At nightfall. He was their support.
He told me his secret and since
I recite his verses in silence.

The angel is gone, but Paris remains
And the sun keeps freedom.
I can see it in your dancing hands
When you tell me: "There is only beauty!"
You're right, besides by your side
I recite the verses of silence.


>>17261214
I know this is a shitpost but I think the word kabloopy is really funny.
>>17244902
Vraiment pas mal pour quelqu'un dont le français n'est pas la langue maternelle! Le thème est chouette aussi.
>>17244837
Je me trompe ou c'est très influencé par la littérature fin-de-siècle? C'est peut-être le titre qui me fait penser à Villiers de L'Isle-Adam. J'aime beaucoup l'expression Vénus chauve et la partie "en énigme". Sinon j'imagine que c'est volontaire, mais je trouve qu'on étouffe un peu, peut-être est-ce parce que les phrases sont très longues et les adjectifs très nombreux?
>>17255555
Based quints and based philosophy of life
>>17260408
I like the theme, but I feel like you weren't ambitious or personal enough with it. It makes me think of the Church scene in The Opposing shore, maybe give it a shot.
>>17260601
>The sea that rushes in shells to borrow;
I like that line, other than that I feel like my knowledge of anglo poetry is not enough to judge you. It seems good though, and it intrigues me.

>> No.17261835

Un ange, un jour, me pria de le suivre
Dans tout Paris. Il posait ses yeux cuivres
Sur les passants qui prêtaient touts leurs sens
Au soir tombant. Il était leur appui.
Il me confia son secret et depuis
Je récite ses versets en silence.

L'ange est parti, mais Paris est resté
Et le soleil garde la liberté.
Je peux la voir entre tes mains qui dansent
Quand tu me dis : "Il n'y a que beauté !"
Tu as raison, d'ailleurs à ton côté
Je récite les versets du silence.


Shitty translation:

An angel one day begged me to follow him
All over Paris. He put his copper eyes
On the passers-by who gave all their senses
At nightfall. He was their support.
He told me his secret and since
I recite his verses in silence.

The angel is gone, but Paris remains
And the sun keeps freedom.
I can see it in your dancing hands
When you tell me: "There is only beauty!"
You're right, besides by your side
I recite the verses of silence.


>>17261214
I know this is a shitpost but I think the word kabloopy is really funny.
>>17244902
Vraiment pas mal pour quelqu'un dont le français n'est pas la langue maternelle! Le thème est chouette aussi.
>>17244837
Je me trompe ou c'est très influencé par la littérature fin-de-siècle? C'est peut-être le titre qui me fait penser à Villiers de L'Isle-Adam. J'aime beaucoup l'expression Vénus chauve et la partie "en énigme". Sinon j'imagine que c'est volontaire, mais je trouve qu'on étouffe un peu, peut-être est-ce parce que les phrases sont très longues et les adjectifs très nombreux?
>>17255555
Based quints and based philosophy of life
>>17260408
I like the theme, but I feel like you weren't ambitious or personal enough with it. It makes me think of the Church scene in The Opposing shore, maybe give it a shot.
>>17260601
>The sea that rushes in shells to borrow;
I like that line, other than that I feel like my knowledge of anglo poetry is not enough to judge you. It seems good though, and it intrigues me.

>>
Name (leave empty)
Comment (leave empty)
Name
E-mail
Subject
Comment
Password [?]Password used for file deletion.
Captcha
Action