P

unmelodic to the extreme

>how quickly that whiff became a stench

>critique thread
>OP is his work

selfish piece of shit

posted this a while ago as a joke.
first stanza removed because it didn't work so it just kinda starts now.

/lit:

Of poetry we must profess
We dont know much and so regress
To the romantics.
Or those who wrote in Jew or Greek
And dont translate and so we think
Must be fantastic.

Since Our philosophers decree
That we should always disagree.
We’ve separated .
The Sci-Fi and philosophy nerds
Against the recent-purchase herds
Who wont be baited.

Our numbers now we must admit
Are not as great as /k or /fit
But we know better.
Since all they have are guns and gains
We’ll trick them with our massive brains
Which really matter.

Old hats remember with some dread
Back when you couldn't read a thread
Without Marx.
These days /pol try’s lure the weak
To reading Culture of Critique
And other larks .

Since average simple minded blokes
Who dont get Foster Wallace jokes
Get more affection.
In individualist of herds
On old online message boards
We found protection.

Some say that reading doesn't matter
But we prevail since we know better
Then read for fun:
And laugh at all those poor freaks
Who read a word without the Greeks
As we have done.

does anything of worth get posted on these?

what you seek is a diamond in a garbage dump

Be merry and a Soldier of Fortune.
Sad is he who knows War and Joy not.
For War alone makes hard.
Sad is he who knows Joy and War not.
For Joy alone makes shallow.
Be light and deep, a Soldier of Fortune.

Mde this cute little thing last night for my girlfriend. She didn't dump me so that's a good sign. Girls like it when you do little things that show you care, even if they suck.

Do me, do me:

It's that time of day when the sun still casts
Light in deepening shades of red
And you can see the moon
In the daytime sky
Thin and transparent
Through the haze of early evening cold
As it staggers into place
Like a blinking film projector

Which is the one, which of the imps inside
Unglues itself from the yin-yang embrace
Of its good twin or its bad twin and plays
The angel advocate, the devil's guide?
Which blob of conscience, like a germicide,
Catches and kills the impulse when it strays?
Which impulse with light playing on its face,
Its fright mask, leads to the dark outside?

All of them shapeless feelings given form
By words which they in turn give substance to.
As particle and wave make light, they swarm
Together with their names. And we do, too,
Praying that God knows each of us and cares
About the things we speak of in our prayers.

Don't use it as a substitution for a Christmas present. Cute enough, but not that cute.

I dunno, rhyme feels forced and probably unnecessary. Maybe try it without that. As is it feels like you compromised to fit things into that. Form and metre isn't the maths of poetry, I don't think. Maybe it is, but try it differently anyway.

Night noises away from me
While the sand caress her feet
Light poises, no, my others
Handhold the semblance of hope

Right there stays landscape
Cumbersome eyes insist to regard
More, more and more to say
Mouth has no one to tell

Absolutely alone
Moon and beach
A family's crowd
A dove flights from my hand
She is waiting the sea
Look, Absolutely alone

Bought her a 1910 Victorian erotica guide book and a box full of chocolate chip cookies shaped like dicks.

Destroy me Veeky Forums. I need the criticism to get out of this slump and get better at this shit

It’s a sonnet so it’s in iambic pentameter. You have the just of it, but really every second syllable is stressed.

OOPS forgot it:

I was not one for anything besides to be.
Faltering in the midst of heroism and the act of socialities.
For I was not as strong as a Greek epic, or a Cytherean beauté.

I was a wildflower
An untamed, unknown life in the strangest places.
Under the shades covering up the sun,
Above the canopies unseen by the eyes.
What my only diversion was to grow
Into what I can only be.

For I was a breath of sigh,
A life,
Found in a valley with no oasis,
Waiting for the honey bee to come.

I
Am.

It doesn’t have a title because it’s trash and was more me just venting and is a shit poem

Why do I feel
Like I’m all alone
In this world full of people

How can I know
If there’s something wrong
If I’m really good or evil

I just want to push away
All these doubts inside
And soar into the sky

But I know
That there’s no way for me
No way for me to move on

No future just a lie.

Not always. It looks like there's a phyrric on the 2nd line, and a few strombees and trochees. Otherwise you're write in that it's a dimeter feet iambic pentameter

This is my first poem ever

Living
World out of sight
Leaving
To search in the light
Working
Together until night
Dying
She was a dyke

I be on the block on the regular
With my niggas busting at the cops, on the regular
Bitches sucking dick, giving top, on the regular
Catch me water whipping straight drop, on the regular
Yeah you know I'm running with the shit on the regular
Bare faced, I'ma hit a lick, on the regular
Posted with the drop, loaded Glock, on the regular
Yeah I'm 6ix9ine with the nine, on the regular

Niggas want war yeah, kick the door yeah
Run up break your jaw yeah, get it all yeah
I'm the hitter say yeah, broad day yeah
Niggas act fake yeah, catch a fade yeah
Niggas said I changed yeah, made some changes
I could never change yeah, feel the same yeah
I'm still in the hood yeah, pushing drugs yeah
Puffin on the wood yeah, smoking good yeah
Shorty want a pic yeah, that ain't shit yeah
Told her do a trick yeah, on the dick yeah
Bust her whole shit yeah, in the ribs yeah
Leave her with my kids yeah, on the lifts yeah
Skrt off in the Benz yeah, doing tricks yeah
200 on the dash yeah, do the gas yeah
They want me, I don't lack yeah, got my gat yeah
They talk bout getting wacked yeah, body bag yeah

Here Anons, let me have some gut-punches.
___________

A quainter winter carves an island,
amorous like an animal-eyed child,
and singing songs that suggest fineness
of carcass, marred string-thin.
She finds her floor upon an iris
of an ancient lake whose dusted surface
disturbs hardly with her scuttle;
there she amazes herself with eyeing,
while gliding on the cyan-wet parquet
that perfects to allow her to better see,
the other pupil black in the haze beneath.

He snuck upon us, surfacing the Mynd
With no start or end, with a breeze of wind.
The earth moving on, with its own signature
As beautiful as a piece of written literature.
Through the darkest of times, it appears with its shine
Gets rid of all evil and makes everything fine.
A rise to remember and to describe with great
Passion, and love is it own fate.

If 95% of your poem is one massive cliche, the last line wont be enough to save it. At least not unless you go full expressionist with it.

That last line wisdom is so cancer I felt like puking reading it. If there is a reference (and I can hear the Burial of the Dead, so there probably is) I dont get it. I have no idea who the initial He is, and he doesnt seem to make more apperances throughout the poem.

I glazed them myself.

A tramline shifted dough under my fingers moving, the belt moving the dough moved now moving and they at the windows all children, the old young and the new young.
Wafting scents glaze their eyes glued to the glaze shifting under her fingers, her hairnet, my fingers my hairnet.

Six dollars a dozen please, the scent carries in the breeze in their cars they pass the trees.

You're probably right about that. I just wanted the picture of that particular thing, but I didn't know how to get there. Another guy said the same thing more or less, except he liked the last line enough to say it saved something that's otherwise pretty pedestrian in any other form. It's unfortunate the quality of that particular image is basically defined by how much you think one line saves it.

Try me:

(Chorus)
Dabbing on em
Ya
Blabbing on em
Squaw
See this blade in my hand
YEP
I'm stabbing on em

(Verse 1)
It goes Yet it don't
Suck my cock, i bet she won't
Ya
I'm in art class
Watching some thick ass
Drawing on a sheet right on this easel
bitch, I paint that
(DAB'S on canvas).

(Bridge)
Because I'm

(CHORUS) ×3

Silent Night...in the era of the cacophony of mass media’s hologram. Silent Night, the protective womb of the soul’s incipient aspirations.

Yes, doubters, its precincts are virginal, a fecund space not penetrated by dogmatic daytime systems of belief. Only the God Of The Vast Unknowable may gain entry.

Within the Silent Night the Redeemer God does not channel surf, binge watch, nor check his twitter account for the number of retweets accrued.

The Silent Night is Holy Night’s midwife. Thus your own unique tale is born — a deathless tale that will define your days.

I have witnessed a virgin birth, firsthand -- a hard, painful delivery -- it came to pass, amid the ruins and detritus of my collapsed casuistry and foundering cant.

An awful experience, fraught with what seemed at the time interminable suffering...that comes highly recommended.

A wise man asked, rhetorically, why is the world’s saviour born on the floor of a manger, amid the faeces of barnyard animals and not amid the glit and glory of Rome?

His answer: A rural, malodorous barn would be the last place that Caesar’s bloated ego would guess fledging redemption would be found.

Thus the fledgling saviour remains safe in his cradle from Caesar’s assassins.

Dissolute on his throne of mammon, Pharisee’s agitated mind cannot envisage the redemption held in Silent Night, Holy Night.

This is not to deny entry to the season’s lambent spirits. Be Merry. Feast. Imbibe. All is Holy. Yet one must commune with Silence.

One’s heart must be privy to the eternal lexicon of the soul, to prove resistant to the commercialised come ons and the perpetual gibbering of New Rome’s distracted citizenry, clamouring for piffle, as oceans die and the sky burns.

This is garbage man,
This is real poetry,

I called this "The serpent’s acceptance"

Any advice, criticism, suggestion, random thoughts after and during reading it?

Determined decision
Of halted momentum,
No time for repentance.
—It’s published addendum—
We’ve craft our conclusion
And aren’t regretful,
Our only solution
Is being respectful,
of those in God’s favor,
Undoubtedly humble,
While we are left legless
Though not made to stumble.
But truth makes acceptance
An easy occurrence,
And so we writhe forward
With not God’s insurance.

tbhI just came across the author on fb by happenstance. I completely agree with you; it is as if he ate a thesaurus and then vomited it up for us to read.

He must be one of those liberals who constantly dishes out word salads filled with nothing more than incoherent babble meant to impress somebody who has a below basic understanding of the English language.

I only ever see postmodernists do this. I assume it comes with the territory.

I call this one "l'autre côté de Alfred Prufrock"

Holy shit it's a dumpster fire. It's not poetry. It's not even pretty sentences. It's just fucking pretentious words.

I'm more into prose than poetry but recently jotted down some poems, here is one. I also have german, not english, as mother tongue.

Once there was nothing
as thick as can be
Then there was one thing
like the root of a tree
It grew into everything
that can, was, will be
Then went on to be something
like the flight of a leaf
In the end, there was one thing
one thing that can be
One thing, it was nothing
and as fleeting as me
(and you)

Also also not completely sold on the tree metaphor yet, might change that if something more fitting crosses my mind

>like the flight of a leaf
is what you should change
change it to: like the birth from a seed

OP here: Yeah, that is the line that bothers me most, but your suggestion doesn't quite fit into the narrative idea that I have of that part (something fleeting/death/dying).

The flight of leaves and rotting seeds.

It's in iambic tetrameter.

Add >like to the start and it's ancephalous iambic pentameter.

you could try
>like the cold, rustling leaves

Rhymes are simplistic, meter is basic, shows understanding of concepts but doesn't experiment to draw attention. Many lines are repeated in a way that makes the poem feel shallow. Imagery is basic and the reliance on prose is noticeable.

However, it shows that you are trying to stick with some sort of meter and rhyme scheme. Furthermore, the metaphors are adequate for the subject and work well.

B-

thanks for the ideas and assessment. I'll go over it again when I have some time, maybe I'll post the new result

The first stanza is good, and uses good meter. Wrenching with 'poises', but as a crossline inrhyme it was neat, though poorly executed.

Loss of meter and substance from here on hurts the poem, and it becomes less clear what the subject is as the syntax becomes worse. It is only thing to change syntax in accordance with an action, it is another to discard it entirely with no warning. It feels like stream of consciousness but since the poem is so short, there is no connection with the speaker so it feels disconnected, cold, and lame. A more robust beginning and more details to give us a better picture of who the speaker is and who the girl is will improve this poem. Adherence to meter and rhyme would also be beneficial, if only to accent the uncategorized nature of the last line

C+ (for a good idea)

Who'd you know?

Everything he says in that image is correct
There was even a case of a guy suing a police department because they refused to hire him because his IQ was too high.

They want racist thugs to enforce property laws and disproportionately harrass minorities.

They don't care about solving murders.
They don't care about stopping rapes.
They don't care about preventing suicide.
They don't care about de-escalating conflict.

alright sweetie

Thanks for your time spent giving advice user, much appreciated!

I will definitely work on it in the future, I didn't put much thought this time but I hope to make it better.

>Police department does IQ tests

my nigga, that is fucking hilarious. They don't do that shit. The person who they didn't hire was likely do the fact he was a narcissistic, self important asshole who wouldn't do well in a position that required order, discipline, and fucking following the rules and commands of superiors.

No problem.

I recommend picking up "The Ode Less Travelled" if you want to get a good, solid foundation on the mechanics of poetry. It will teach you a lot and improve your ability to write poetry immensely.

...

Changing the syntax and removing certain pronouns does not make it a poem. I've given two good critiques but this I can't do. Its just prose.

10/10 would read again

Thanks again user, nice to see a insightful poster on Veeky Forums, I will check it out.

>I
>Am.
lmao

he's recc'ing a book on poesy written by Stephen "if it's got a cock I'll give it a try" Fry. Clearly he isn't that insightful

its in the Veeky Forums poetry starter guide. Its a good stepping stone for learning things like meter, rhyme, structure, etc ABC's of Reading can come later.

Hi Veeky Forums,
I've been feeling surprisingly down this week and attempted to capture the feeling in a short poem which I might continue at some point in the future.
Please do reply with your genuine opinions. Thank you.

With its twists and edges, rights and downs,
Alleys of emerging highs and misleading drowns.
Carrying due load one willingly lent.
A road will not reverse with a mere intent.

Rylan stands on porch steps. He waits
for his sister who used to laugh
with him, who now works in retail.
And Rylan does not work at all.
And they do not laugh anymore.

Oh Helen, little Helen,
ever sweet: laughing and clever;
will you be smiling forever?
Oh hazelnut haired Helen.

no
the barrier to entry is heinously low

Labyrinths inside my dome
Closely resemble a hive
Where horrid creatures like to roam
And nothing seems alive.

Walking through its corridors,
I saw a ghost strolling loose.
It seemed to be a foreigner,
Its character I tried to deduce.

Many alike I had already seen.
None were as ugly or strong.
It kept writing: "you have sinned",
On the dark walls all along.

Attempts to soothe it were fruitless -
They magnified its passion.
Every wall is painted now, yes,
I'm stuck here as its ration.

It s a vicious cycle. People post poems, you deem them too shit to comment on, there is no feedback, people cant improve, people post poems.

A short one:

A strange passerby

Your gleam, like one remembered fondly,
Lingers.
A cadence.

Sonnet doesn't have to be in iambic pentameter.

A cute passerby

Your gleam, like one evoked, sexually,
Lingers.
I cum.

>2018
>not writing in Jew
Get with it you spaceheads

>thinks writing like Yoda is poetry
>poet you are not young gaywalker

A stranger
The English language
Your words I use
Improperly

Favorite haiku of mine:
>Winter without end
>Lone road immeasurable
>The dog among wolves

Lol!

;)

Good imagery. I'm not a haiku expert so I can't tell you much more than that.

A.

Rupi Kaur level effort. Enjambments alone are not what makes poetry prosidy.

C-

Solid structure and rhyme scheme. Word choice could be better; some words are too simple or not evocative enough (imagine if Yeats had said 'the great wings flapping' instead of 'beating' in Leda and the Swan and you'll understand). The story is nice although I think the character of the ghost could have been more developed with a dialogue or something to that nature.

Overall, your piece shows good intent and a interesting story, but the poverty of language holds it back from being truly stellar.

A-

Wrong. Litfags dont improve because they don't read enough. This is the only answer.

My critiques. Nobody critiqued mine so I'm reposting it. This is what I put on my Instagram.

Most don't even know what poetry is; they assume it's pretty sentences
Enjambement and thoughts
Curled up about
Tree frogs

Or shit like that

some don't even try
they assume it's all just rhymes.
very few can realize
That the heart of poetry is time

>Thinking you can define poetry in an image board post
All the world's greentext and frogs is not enough to grade your folly.

>po·et·ry
>ˈpōətrē
>noun
>literary work in which special intensity is given to the expression of feelings and ideas by the use of distinctive style and rhythm; poems collectively or as a genre of literature.

you spelled pʰəʊ.e.tɹi wronɡ

And I asked for the definition of poetry, not for the defition of "poetry" my friend :)

this is shit. like, you're 16-years-old-and-think-you-know-shit tier shit. read more poetry and stop writing, for a long time. she's gonna dump you btw

oh god, is this what teens think poetry looks like?

have you read any poem, ever?

...

Either be mystical/transcendent or allude to classic shit, but not both. Yernoteliot.jpg etc.

And splitting I am into two lines doesnt unmake the cliche

it aint 2014 anymore. the ironic character of condescending white guy has lost seven / 9ths of its rhetor force

>implying that if user wrote something beautiful she would understand it.

I gave you two. I told you the heart of poetry is time and then gave you the definition. get the fuck out of here with your vague, psued bullshit, faggot.

I just got called pseud by a guy who thinks he can provide a definition of poetry in one image board post. I find this not at all ironic in any way.

>met with
hate this use of the word. like "the assault met resistance" or "my flirty hints met with her rebuff." it's a lazy, passive use of a verb when a better one can't be thought up.
>keeping hushed
same critique as above. lazy use of this verb.
>french
just who are you trying to impress? what is the stylistic point? why not use english? too plane jane for you?
>ending
is trash

When the poem is short, one or two mistakes will destroy it. I say throw this one away. not strong enough to revise.