Poetry Critique

Sudden starling
drops loose its
peacock armour

rupi kaur tier

I remember days like
Forty years, fifty motorbikes
And i remember days like
A burning rain, but much the same
The day before, the day past
He burned his leaf and hit the glass
And every day after, played out much the same

A bit psychotic and infantile

Don't act like
Im not five feet away
Dribbling and skipping with my brother
Big brother jack, with some brand new gloves
Give it a tug, and Ill show you love
Dont act like the rolling papers
Act like shields to those who act
Out, low rent wizards, but not my brother
No, my brother, Big Brother Jack
In a sunshade of august
Of a mossed out pool in july
And the tree frogs holler, flattened out on the road
And cicada shells, and septum reds
And bloody shells, the big gray beds
When a tree frog hollers from the big gray sky
On my brother jack, big brother of mine
Aunt Sue, oh god, too much to drink
And she gave her out her song
To the big gray sky
And big brother jack, that brother of mine

why isn't anyone TRYING to transcendence over something in their poetry? fuck love poems and fuck contemporary poets

quite like the "silky light" term, but in general the form felt a lil cliche. Keep working on it

Misting tears on my eye,
Kissing my fears goodbye,

Darkness had lay before me,
Hopeless days because of she,

An unexpected hope,
An unwitting elope,

Pulled out from inside myself like a snake, you are the charmer, hopefully not fake

Exploring the cosmos via some tabs, I discover you and I work better then her and I had

While I still fear it will break, My heart is already yours to take

I'm falling down this rabbit hole, I find your eyes calling to my soul

It shall be, whatever it will be, I put my faith in you, & you in me

This is for someone special (if You couldn't tell) so I'm not trying to write anything for contempary audiences or anything

>Exploring the cosmos via some tabs, I discover you and I work better then her and I had

If it makes any difference

In the first two weeks we even started talking, her and I tripped on acid on 2 separate occasiaons together

I can see how without that context (and by an outside observer even with that information) it seems shoehorned

light of the moon
refrections through the blinds
and fold across the room
white light and white heat
redirected from the sun
blooms artificial at my feet
(and we who once worshipped darkness)
await dawn
close our eyes amd sleep
morning comes

it's about the false allure of nihilism.

>Misting tears on my eye,
>Kissing my fears goodbye,
>Darkness had lay before me,
>Hopeless days because of she,
>An unexpected hope,
>An unwitting elope,

let me be frank, if it isn't hexameter or bound verse AA rhymes seem lazy.
beside that, the images are overused, the idea trite and cliche

>Pulled out from inside myself like a snake, you are the charmer, hopefully not fake
>Exploring the cosmos via some tabs, I discover you and I work better then her and I had
>While I still fear it will break, My heart is already yours to take
>I'm falling down this rabbit hole, I find your eyes calling to my soul
>It shall be, whatever it will be, I put my faith in you, & you in me

this whole stanza is extremely clunky
you're switching images extremely quickly in the first two verses, going from snakes to space and it isn't working that well.
>via
this isn't a good word in poetry
every other verse has commonplace phrasing making it bland and boring.

if she's a normie she'll say "awww how sweet :)"

>light of the moon
>refractions through the blinds
>and fold across the room
nice, but could be more concise ie
>>moonlight through blinds
>>folds across the room

>white light and white heat
>redirected from the sun
not needed; not needed.

>blooms artificial at my feet
rework it
>(and we who once worshipped darkness)
>await dawn
>close our eyes and sleep
somewhat okay

>morning comes
not needed.

it has some good groundwork, but this is still RAW
here's my attempt to rework it

Moonlight through blinds
Folds across the room --
Stolen blossom at my feet; --
Once worshiped darkness,
Closing her eyes,
Awaits dawn.

I'm this guy Forgot to say
>it's about the false allure of nihilism.
when you present poetry to someone you are letting the poem do the work for you.
Think about poetry like this
To sing is to think, but what you sing isn't what the song thinks, and what the song thinks isn't what you sing.

Tittering
Fluttering

The bird flys by

Shining
Rhyming

I sit & wonder why

If the sparrow walked on two feet,
And if I had wings to spread,
Would my life still feel incomplete,
and make me wish I was the bird instead

The sun is shining
Inside a sphere
That brings Christmas time
Every year

And if I am tried for the rape of some
Fear not that I have won
For Christmas will come again
Whether or not I'm in the pen

Dripping space, expanding time
a whirlpool from a straight line
The door is leading to itself
an infinite corridor or just blank space?

Abstractions of the dark drowned by the sun
coloring the scene in it's own way
But in a world where everything's painted without my say
do I close the curtains, or choose to be numb

Some milk in my coffee
It doesn't really taste different
looks sorta decent outside
Maybe I'll take a jog later

i appreciate that user, thank you

>stolen blossom at my feet
I like this
good point. Since Im aware of where Im posting this I didn't want to overestimate my audience, but you are right.

PROLOGUE

My soul would screech in song ecstatically
That great Folly hast seduced
With feline claws of avarice unfettered
I, Kadmon, the ragged King of Spades

Hear my wrathful roar, O' mighty parasites
A gift – scorching fire I bring forth
To feast upon the Muses flesh

I like this one, but the first six verses are unnecessary. It reminds me of Baudelaire's Albatross.
There's a good motive and idea behind the quatrain that you could expand on or make it even more dense. Do redo it

This is a shitty poem I wrote after seeing a girl placing flowers at the site (a tree) of a recent fatal car accident on my drive home. It was one of my first attempts, though I doubt I’m much better now. Can I improve it? Or is it just shit?

it's 1.49 am
i see you standing in the cold at 1.49 am
with flowers
placing flowers to mourn your lost friend

i drive by you
and the decorated tree
stalwart as ever
not slowing, not stopping

i see him speeding
racing home
hoping to avoid
being stopped

he swerves
between lanes
fighting to see
through swirling gaze

he concerns himself
with tickets and arrests
the lives of others
are nowhere on his mind

he blinks too long
then never again
metal squeals
as it wraps around

my grip tightens
heart pounding, jaw clenched
he made his choice
he got what he deserved

it’s 2.12 am
i am wrapped in a blanket at 2.12 am
hidden from the cold
waiting for sleep

i shut my eyes and you return
your body shivers
as streetlights reflect
in your wet face

i wish i could feel your sorrow
understand your pain
maybe then
we could be better

you lost somebody important
and i
too occupied with false superiority
didn’t care

i didn’t know him
i don't know you
he shouldn't have died in that crash
but i’m glad he didn't kill anybody else

here's a fun one

I like this. The poetry on this board usually deal with life, death, and God. Topics way too grand in scope which show their authors's amateurism. This, on the other hand, is good because it's authentic. You're writing what you know about. It's real and doesn't try to be anything more than what it is. Good work.

This is absolutely awful. An entire poem to complain that the girl you want wont fuck you.

That haiku is bad.

...

>Annihilate the Day

Dust will set in fold and crack
of eyes shut tight throughout the night.
Tocsin try to save the live,
but raise the dead to life instead--
sunlight flash; alarm-ring bang.
Dream this flame return to ash,
in cloud above to shroud the world,
and reign the day by grey unfurled.

Sulfur mixed with petrichor
befog a trance of Neverland.
Poison mushroom cap-and-stalk
arise across the land of Lost.
Blinding flash; vaporizing--
Tinder-stick dreams igniting
by some sun's focused lighting
through some hyperbolic god's
parabolic eye.

>Left to Be

Oh column cut like gear
shaft stuck to roof and ground--

how you did turn the earth
and moon; and were you wound

by hands to track and keep
place your timeless shadow.

True to test you stand, in
rest--your shade by your side.

Today, vines small and thin
twist round stone and quiet.

Grass, trees, violets, and weeds
sit within you shadow

as sunlight beams to you:

Monarchs oscillate the grove--
Luna's coop in granite groove.

You, in my eyes, perfect
as is. A monolith

telling time to none which
care. And should this soft woods

be dozed, and grasses razed,
for pages stained in lampblack

that ignite the glories
of this old column's past--

these eyes would not read them.
For green round chipping stone

is all I've ever known
you to be; not of then--

Oh pillar of man, pinned
forever to the land,

stand always!, left as is.

>The End of May

Out from winter comes the spring
which flows with life's awakening.
Bambi's, Thumper's--fresh from womb--
prance merrily ignorant of winter's tomb.

June will warn through lullaby,
and August chores will drain in sweat,
the rain which kept
the earth in youth
and nights of bitter cold at bay.

Come mid-May when school let's out,
and parents work their days away,
Uncle Tim's the route it takes
to leave the kids to sit and wait.

TV shows, old card tricks,
and boring conversations
are all he has to offer.
One would rather flick their phone in silent, vacant laughter.

"Let's go on a hike then, huh?,
I know some trails your grandma
showed your mother and myself.
Long before we got 'old'; back when we were twelve"

"No? Okay then. You can talk
with your friends on that face-
time app. Sam thought that magic
was dumb too--now he might as well run this place."

That sullen, mid-May brother
contemplates til Sam retrieves
his kids within the hour.
Thoughts of past precess this dusk through timid, chilly eves.

'Fore the sun can mask the moon,
May will whimper into June.
Soon, July will dry to August
burned by drought-born, robust fires.

Ash September turns into
October bright with dead-leaf
fires. Orange and yellow embers
fall, smothered by November's breeze.

Round the bend of icy stream,
December's end will wholly freeze.
Recycled waters bled from spring then
cycle dreams which wet those minds in silent hibernation.

In the billowing hills of Uzbekistan,
Beneath the nostrils of Allah,
My father fell upon his crackling knees
And let loose many farts.

And then the sky did open
And a young woman appeared
Crowned with lilacs and roses
To tickle his taint and rumble his grundle.

Alas! Poor Yazidi!
Bryon! Keats! Mohammed Ahmed Zayed! The Philadelphia Eagles! I do not like bread, she said, graced by the aria of God.

Bucephalus! A supplicant! Why does grandpa always touch his penis through the pockets of his jeans?
Your child is
A
Filthy
Little

Muffin.

Aye aye, yo
What it is doe?
Shout out til Lil B Juicy
And dem thots n hoes.

I'm in this rap game nigga
Out dis crack game nigga
But dis crack game nigga
Issa gay game nigga

I got cheese on my wrist hoe
And rocks in my shits yo
And sluts on my dick bro
And diamonds on my kicks doe.

Fucc wit me get dealt wit
Fucc wit me get melted (?)
Fucc wit me get pelted
Fucc with me get dealt wit

Bump

Very nice. You could be the next 2Pac.

Bump in hope that my poem gets commented on not because I crave validation, but because I truly want to get better.

Which one is yours you shameless bumper?

The one with the doggo at the computer, near the end of the thread. It's whacky and postmodern

(Quitting on unrequitted love)
Now theres this part where I'm not sure
The question aches me, aches me down to my core
I think I may have finally found the one
But if she don't love me, my work here is done

I love this girl, I lover her eyes, her hair
But to my schoolyard crush she just doesn't compare
There's no focused view when I look at her face
I'm not sure if it's really love in this case

Now there's this fact, this fact that completely kills me
the lowest part is we got no chemistry
It's time to stand up, stand up for how I really feel
It's time to clear my delusions of reality
time to understand what I'm feeling ain't real

Oh my god, Logan
Stiring in my heart again
Oh my god, Mackenzie
I'm going through a frenzy
Oh my god, Mackenzie

I've gotten to the point where I crave defeat
So I can hurdle up in my hole and retreat
I know the two of us ain't soul bound
But I just want one night out on the town
One disappointing night
To make things right
Right in my mind
To recognize she's not of my kind
So I would know
The truth of how things go
How she really isn't the one for me
How for her my heart doesn't need to bleed

Oh my god, Logan
Stiring in my heart again
Oh my god, Mackenzie
I'm going through a frenzy
Oh Mackenzie

Or as she'd prefer, I'd call her a he
but that's not what I'd want her to be
And I know if she'd be the one to hear
This from me straight to her ears
She'd think I didn't give a dam shit
about her or her well being
She wouldn't see I'm still well meaning
But I've seen we've already split

And that we've yet to see one another
Cause neither of us can seem to bother
I'll die with her on my mind
Still, though I wish I could rewind
She was not one of my kind

(One for the Hermits)
Why are even the saddest songs, ones written in strife,
written about people who had a real, social life
Where are the songs about the hermits who never tried?
What songs were sung of their tears when they cried?

What songs were written for those who necked themselves before their story began?
Or those whose closest ties to love was a numb left hand?
Who never came out of their shell and died enclosed?
Or whose feelings, thoughts, even a book died undisclosed?

These forgotten men are who I stand up and sing for
Let them have one song they can truly call their own
Who endure a silent and apathetic suffering we can't handle anymore
Let the suffering of these men be respectfully shown

They left no cry, They left no echo
For if they cried, none shall know
They cried alone but to no pair of ear
Just a wish to be average
but it was never quite near

(Some kind of goal)
Good god knows with love that I've tried my best
Good god knows theres got to be some kind of love in this chest
Theres got to be some kind of twin soul
Good god there must be some kind of goal

Good god, I can't live on this damn social path
Good god I'm doomed to be another sociopath
There's gotta be some kind of love for me to be found
But maybe it's me who lacks some chemical compound

I know I'll never find a real connection
I know in love I never will be
I know I'll never find the right direction
I know sex is not all it's cracked up to be
But Good god love is all I've ever wanted
And Good god do I feel haunted
by this emptiness that's inside of me
Good God is this really how it ends for me?

( Abstract to Me)
To Run and Hide
Is not abstract to me
I know the ups and downs
But I just can't turn this life around
Su-i-cide
Is not abstract to me
I know the ups and downs
But I just can't turn this life around
Su-i-cide
Is not abstract for me
I know the ups and downs
But I just can't turn my life around
But Iiiii
Feel like a psychopath
Cause I just can't do the math
Why iiii
I feel no connection to those who surround me
Or who can see what I can see
But Iiii i'm
Feeling like a psychopath
And I just can't do the math
Cause I feel no connection to those who surround me
Or to those who can see what I can see
Su-i-cide
Is not abstract to me
I know the ups and downs
But I just can't turn this life around
There's an emptiness inside me
That I decree just can't be pleased
Su-i-cide
Is not abstract to me
I know the ups and downs
But I just can't turn this life around.

I see suicide as a means to an end
But a group plan would be nice
Your secrets, you won't need to defend
Let communication be your vice

To stand up on stage in front of you
Has taken all my might
I know I'll fail to follow through
I know I'll lose this fight
Don't call it a fight, call it a beating
Call it life without a friend
Call it life without meaning
Call it days without an end

[Nature Walk]
Danger signs,- Alert me to - a short, tranquil road
That ends in, a clearing, shallow brook, rope, and swing
My facial lines, - are amirrorred to - my heart's heavy load
Cheap rope, you need a good kick to jump off the damn thing

I'm as lost, as I'll ever be
But those waves are hip notize ing me
Freezing cold, but eye-catching
Travel guides don't help a damn thing

BRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAP

Was the sound that escaped her posterior
That beautiful boisterous exterior
Merely seeing it makes me wearier
Though also certainly cheerier.
Shit on my chest, sit on my face, spit in my mouth
You are my superior.
Life free from you couldn't be drearier.

memories of others
ego stained mirrors
haunting the present
manipulating thought
animate a shell
devoid of all essence

plural aspects of
a construction
manipulating body
a realisation
pouring from mind
dripping
through spinal column
a current traversing
nerve to existence

>ROOMS cant YAWN

The night room heaves a sigh, yes Heaves, a Sigh — old-fashioned comical room, oh me I'm hopeless, born a joker never change, flirting away through the mirrorframe in something green-striped, pantalooned, and ruffled — meantime though, it is quaint, most rooms today hum you know, have been known also to "breathe," yes even wait in hushed expectancy and that ought to be the rather sinister tradition here, long slender creatures, heavy perfume and capes in rooms assailed by midnight, pierced with spiral stairways, blue-petaled pergolas, an ambience in which no one, however provoked or out of touch, my dear young lady, ever, Heaves, a Sigh. It is not done.

As far as fantasy poems go, this is pretty fun. Is there another part to it?
As skeletal as this poem may seem to you, it looks like it is off to a good start. I'd try rewriting it in a few different ways. You could try using less enjambment, rewriting the images that you think are most pertinent, or deleting lines that may not belong. It's definitely worth working on.
Reading this poem feels like discovering an old ruin in the jungle. Your scene is very comfy, and the form feels like it adds to the poem. I'd take out a few "and's" and maybe the is on the "is" on stanza fourteen.
I like this poem. It's a little bit juvenile, and the line breaks at the end could use a little bit of adjustment, but overall not too bad.
I like the overarching theme of this poem. It's nostalgic in a way that doesn't beat the reader over the head, and has good form. I'd mess around with the rhyming lines and see if you can tighten up the overall flow/beat of the poem. Very well written.
Shakespeare incarnate.
You put a lot of work into these poems and it shows. One for the Hermits is my personal favorite of these. You should check out W.B. Yeats if you haven't already, you would probably enjoy his poetry immensely. On your poem Nature walk, I'd try to avoid wordings like "tranquil road" and "heart's heavy load' as they may trigger the average lit poster. Abstract to me has a very good rhythm to it, and reads like a song. You may want to think of a way to address suicidal thoughts without directly stating the matter at hand. Like a good running metaphor where suicide is the overarching theme.
The love song of /bant/.
This poem has a good basis in imagery. Its first stanza delivers a clear message and image. Similarly the second provides a clear image and thought. I can't help but feel like they're two different poems entirely.

Hope I was helpful.

Stranger: I'll give your asshole a little kiss if your a good boy and do a good job

>SEA girl
Please stop, my dick can't take it and theirs probably couldn't either once I got hold.

Acquire tea, then rhyme to the people and end.
Wind calms, star glitters.

Only sing to the mad.

i don't have a title for this yet though i greatly feel it needs one

my rosen hands
jammed down my throat
cry out an equivocal fog

all filled with filth
as i pull out my lungs
into the stifling water

by my blushing flesh,
my breathing breaths
flee from garrots of steam;
with those hands
of mine a demurral
scream deadens all
sounds into silence.

we fume the lungs
that we slowly squeeze
pumping through it our coats,

ours made of woolen
eyes, all shivering fingers
that tire with each gasp.

so let try to soak
up wet awful feelings
ghosting about all around us

as lingering thoughts
in sweltering air
envelope us claustrophobic.

...

I can't write poetry the way I would like to.
Is it possible to reach a point where you can be satisfied with your own work?
Or is it just a matter of regurgitating all that has been said before?
I don't have original thoughts. That in itself is not an original thought.
I have no depth. Being aware of my shallowness does not give me depth.
I am selfish, unhappy, and unsatisfied.
For the love of god, user.
Yes, for the love of god.

Sunset found her squatting in the grass, groaning. Each stool was looser than the last, and smelled fouler. The more she drank the more she shat, but the more she shat, the thirstier she grew

Follow up to another one I wrote my partner.

Not feeling "milk white skin" so much.

Must-read poetry/books before I write?

Baudelaire Rilke Rimbaud Pound
but don't write poetry after several months of studying poetry have passed

I am Thank you for the comments and advice. I have pretty low self-esteem when it comes to my poetry, so I naturally assume everything I write is garbage. I'll try working on it some more rather than deleting it.
If I may ask, are there any glaring mistakes or things that seem out of place? Or should I just play around with it some more and see where that takes me? Thanks.

Excerpt from a lyric chapbook im throwing together:

His candor, too intense
The poison too steeped in misery
Disaster, the influence
Pressured by a thankless society
Her spirit, delicate
A princess with high top converse on
She knew it, his madness
They blew it and lament thee undone.

would someone be able to describe the purpose of using dashes? I don't understand what impact they have on a piece.

noir is the null
no shadows
but infinite hues of grey

a molecule in Arctic mist
one of millions
lost...

Aretian storms
Nahuatian pyramids
sacrifices unmourned

your first kiss
trapped in memory
a rejection of hope

embracing the serpent
as the dove stares coldly
i'm too tired to be afraid

the guide's gentle pull
a comforting advance
BRIGHT

entropy increases
the universe tilts
if only slightly

I think you could try to play around with some of your verbs in the poem. Mainly the "I see, you see, i feel, you feel." For example you could try rewriting the line of " I drive by you" as "driving by you." Many of the I verbs can probably stay for comprehension sake. You could also try writing more vaguely. Like "Placing flowers to mourn your lost friend." could be "Placing flowers beside the road." Other than that, playing around will always be the easiest way to get better with any poem. Revising is very helpful in crafting personal style. Drafting a poem is like being in a tense argument. It's only on the staircase, long after the argument, that you'll think of the perfect words.

t. shitty analogy guy

This is SOC poetry inspired by hip hop

>This a sentence slap that sniff a certain curtain rat drifting into certain splat; donut motion rock smack, I don't rap raps I haphazardly hack happiness and set the track, no train slacking, my brain magic make the compartments trap bastards while a fat conductor dials in and wiles about the missing miles in front, while I hold a pile of tacks and wood and steel: build that shit up, improvised blunt wheel, hanging up front like a fresh meal, feet peel as I stretch myself, steel sketch myself in a daring move to help bullet barrel and groove without losing its shoes, no losing in clues or tunes cept missing the news that new mood is rest lube; my sex tube squirt my hex move, while breath looms beyond a gray tomb of hooves and ludes; I'm blackadder shrewd and light skinned black, backpack tap my cat raps and bring flowers at late hour to the flat cemetery where all artists go to die, limited minds, inhibited grind that blinds all eyes, which are not all on me; gall that they breathe, haul all reprieve and leave with new thought trees, heave the weight that make you bleed, I'll wait for you to find a trick up your sleeve; I'm up my sleeves with some niggas on the moon, we eating peas with no trees around to cut down and spark our doom; outright booed off the earth for being so crude, next boo boo I hear I'll kill you with my pen, best fear: no writing, I'll stab you in the ear and the eye till I can piss right on your mind, and bitch they'll call me kind, you wasting what behind your eyes, hasting to arrive at a hive with my kind; met more people with eyes who blind than wise old bats who never shoe tie; to you I can't lie, me soul spy that hoe grind, Edgar Allen Poe mind, shit you can't say you great enough in rap, better wrap up that steez and hide it, no treasure map; i wear a riot hat, all quiet facts function to fuck with your lapse of judgment; putrid, pungent, damn yo shit stink, like you drink the spit of bums and finks; no-shower chink, I love my stink, I hug my sink and think about the things that make me cry and lie on the bathroom floor and wake up, vomit dry, fuck if I know why I break into the shy parts of my mind, or choose to lie to all around me; tall foundry erected with my words, y'all round me best get terse and tighten those lines, I got verses like vines in a vineyard and I've already set sail with weight, new mail say I'm jailbound, I stole a whale and a hound to bark my sound all round the world; hurl rhythmic curls like a girl on the bed, no sex just give me head, while I jot down some thoughts, organic hot box, manic cockblock myself, I need new health, I may love myself but damn do I get bored, hoard all whores and lords like change in your pocket, social socket; postal for all you so called rappers: candy bars closer to rapping than what you stacking, and my car lacking prestige but goddamn do I rap with ease, and senpai I don't even rap raps, I haph-

His crush-and-crackling soles upon the sand;
the seasweep shuttered to a bluegold band
by beaten grist and beads of broken rush,
recalling roused remarks amongst the gush.
Oak twig tiptapping pushpits through the shoal -
a stilted sinusoidal stumble stroll -
absently gentrifying crab chalets;
crimped crests of chartreuse champing on gilt graze.

The trackless mire meets my heel with a burp,
releasing brackish breaths of sundried scum,
as caked-on crud unfolds into the earth
beneath his furrowed tread. Each rhythmic slurp
toned by streamspeech and mouths of slobbered plum,
his wife-and-mother plunged in childless birth.

I wrote poetry back in high school (the subject matter was typically juvenile but I like to think I had more technical skill than my peers), and I'm trying to get back into it. I just banged this out; I'm mostly looking to improve my skills in general than perfect this particular poem.

The walls draw ever nearer, funneling me through
The tunnel which before me lies
And ends with my demise
At some far point, from here a hazy fleck.
And as I travel, I must cut from me
Pieces of flesh, small ones to be sure,
But when I reach the end I fear I’ll find
Myself sent scattered back throughout the route
And I reduced to little more than nought.

There once was a poster on Veeky Forums
Who saw a thread and opened it.
He found then some verse,
And he'd never seen worse:
"All of these poems are shit!"

Hey all,

I have an MFA in Poetry from a top program and I started this project a month ago. Send me your creative writing (I also write novels) and I'll read it and give you a response. I like teaching and helping people grow as writers.

tl;dr: send shit here, get feedback

>feedbackforfree.wordpress.com/

I this and that
I shit and shat
I tit for tat
I pit for pat

I cuss and curse
I huss and hearse
I piss and pierce
I puss and purse

I love my nurse
I lick my nose
I lack a noose
I hug my hose

I my myself
I cry my shelf
I hinge my helf
I binge my belf

I me my mine
I mine my me
I be my brine
I spree my spine

I stroke my stick
I strike my stock
I poke my prick
I ride my cock

...

-The poem you wrote for me in my dream that I woke up and wrote for you-

When the cat brought a mouse in,

I wasn’t sure if you empathized more

with the killer

or the killed.

But it didn’t matter

because you were telling me about

this palm-reader you knew,

who takes months to read a palm,

and in the army

he lost his arm

and he had a sculptor carve him a new palm

with a perfect future on it.

Said a horny old man from Mayo,
"When I'm idle, or when the day's slow,
I'll sit by the rad,
And I'll twist round my lad,
Up my arse, I'll see how far 'twil go"

I'm pretty new to this, so would appreciate some advice. I'm just proud my poem can be interpreted in more ways than one to be frank.

I posted this in the other critique thread. I just shit this out. It's been a while since I've really written anything. I guess it's a poem but it's in that run-on prose style that I'm not sure I like for poetry so probably will be rewritten.
“Sorry, I am making a mess of this. I do not know how to cut open a mango.”

This is, of course, what you told me, while making a mess of a mango,
on a stony beach far north near the end of the world, in a place where no mango
belongs but we had bought a pair at the last grocery that had them in stock and
they had sat wrapped in plastic at the bottom of the lunch box until now when it
was time to snack and now you were sitting there, the mango peeled, and its juices
having dribbled all over your windbreaker and among the morass of mango flesh a few
neat cubes and I was reminded then why I had agreed to go with you, first hold your hand,
and delighted at the taste of your lips and so on and so forth all in the glowing sunlight of fond
remembrance and now knew what I had always known that it was going to end soon
because I had made a mess of all things simply by not knowing
and it was a fucking mango on a stony beach of a northern sea that never knew
clear waters or a still surface,

and of course I imagined it all from a desk in an apartment I was renting at the time
and I was the one mucking up the mango and tried to see it from the eyes of you who
do not exist but I could have given you the features of countless who have, (or perhaps now had existed since having not spoken to you and not seen you in a long time your existence becomes doubtful until contact again),
like hair
as brightly red as the mango’s flesh is an orange-yellow,
and eyes
a painterly mix of blues
like that the endless tumult of brine on a rare clear sky day, and whoever else’s features I could simply
mix together, from a keyboard atop a desk they no longer sell but should

And I cannot even imagine a path that would have led to me and you
sitting cozy at the tent’s entrance, while a wind howls in the only way that it can howl
in such empty vastness, an expression of that impossible emptiness that yet murmurs
with life, and it gives me the sense of the sky breathing down upon me.

I just ate a mango and it was delicious.

I like the imagery which im guessing was a major focus, its very colorful and vivid, lot of action going on. if you take out the human connection it very much sounds like a material being moulded and worked on so its raw in that sense. words sound nice together too. only think the last passage could use work, esp the double use of 'was' towards the end sounds a bit off.

appreciate critique

pages

i came across a broken shelf
with books astray and pages strewn
a gust of wind blew them away
as i reached out to catch a few

i didnt know what words were writ
what letters had spelt out for whom
soever wished to read their crypt
what stories lay within this room

they vanished like a conversation
never destined to be heard
they scattered free like dust and ashes
like shattered glass frozen and burned

i felt some peace and resolution
not chasing what escaped my eyes
i sensed a sense of absolution
no mysteries to parse and prise

no shortcoming left to despise
no finding what had now been lost
it was released without a cost
before its burdens were surmised

the fractured pieces of a whole
that could have never been rebuilt
had left and found a sweet abode
one with the shore now nondescript

had returned to the open mouths
that gave them birth and flesh and sound
had breathed them into open pages
had layed them deep with ink abound

i sat across the the wooden shelf
dusty dreary dilapidated
so grey and brown and buckling slowly
to weights of pulp all dissipated

it lay still for some while just quiet
a final resting purgatory
then rose a page then it flew higher
a different time a different story

Lol title it "The Nerd Who Thinks He's Made Friends By Doing Everyone's Work". Anyways like the other guy said it's more of stream of consciousness. You win brownie points from me for your honesty though. I've seen both sides of the fence when I was in highschool.

>"the fuck"
Im crying

Naught is quite a dated word and conflicts with the previous language, especially the second line of that stanza.
I like the hammer blows as a rhythmic element to the music - have you considered placing greater emphasis on the other sounds of the environment?

Haha I like it

>tfw your poem is so shitty it doesn't get critiqued

I just had a kiss from the green fairy.
It came as no surprise.

This would be a suitable conversation that provides an initial impetus and leads a character to write their first masterpiece. On its own, the poem lacks a central image - the use of words "satisfied, regurgitated, unsatisfied" suggest a taste or meal that could base the expressed feeling around a sensual image, making a stronger poem.

What's the catch?

Thank you for this. I'm going to keep working on my poetry and try to make it better.

When, long ago, the gods created Earth
In Jove's fair image Man was shaped at birth.
The beasts for lesser parts were next designed;
Yet were they too remote from humankind.
To fill the gap, and join the rest to Man,
Th'Olympian host conceiv'd a clever plan.
A beast they wrought, in semi-human figure,
Filled it with vice, and called the thing a Nigger.

Thank you H. P. Lovecraft. How'd that resurrection spell work out for you?

STEMTARD WRITES THEIR FIRST POEM:
Perceptions coercive child
Conceptions running wild
Semiotic supervenience, a Necessary illusion for inferential convenience.
>note the big (N)

Pretty dope I must say

I love this. Wish you had more

What does this mean to you?

that the conceptions we make from our initial perception of reality, shape how we perceive reality later. Conception supervenes on our perception, ie there is nothing more than what you know. The concepts we later perceive are by necessity real despite not being actual.
you know, like how people who haven't learned what the color blue cant see the color blue. Blue things are not real to them. In actuality it is the way eyes pick up certain wavelengths of visible light that produce what we later signify as blue. See Peirce's theory of signs and his triadic model, aswell as biosemotics for more relevant information. IM too fucked up to communicate properly

opps
4 u

I think the theme (there is nothing more than what you know) is interesting but expressed so abstractedly it has no emotional content and makes very little sense. You could separate the poem into two stanzas; the first being the view of a child, the second being the view of the adult/scientist; each focused on the same image or repeated event.

Besides this, the overlong words suggest more a struggle with communicating the concept than the expression of intelligence. When you first write poetry it helps to use a strict form to guide your expression - perhaps a quatrain in iambic pentameter for each stanza?

bump.

>My deck twinkles in the starlight
>For I have given it a lovely wax
>With tender loving care with every brush
>My wax and care make wood so thrush

>Because I live so far away
>From all the people who are gay
>I can see the galaxy
>Filled with stars that I can see

It's my first attempt at poetry and I'm writing it from my phone. Dick auto-corrected to deck but I just went with it. Is this rush what high culture feels like?

>Let Me Sleep For a While, Darling

I am in the bed, and the bed is my body
With limbs of soft whites and a head of thick cotton
I remember you always and it is dreamy
My alarm clock refuses to stop when I tell him stop
Reminding me to stop dreaming