Poetry Critique thread

I don't think your intention with this poem was to make me laugh?

There isn’t anything left to fear
My path once again becomes clear
I can’t take all this screaming
Did this life even have a meaning?

My love is the love of god I think
If I can’t feel it; how do I know it’s there?
In my mind, I begin to shrink
This is meant to be my final prayer

(Quitting on unrequitted love)
Now theres this part where I'm not sure
This question that 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 love 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 hat completely kills me
the lowest part is we got no chemistry
It's time to clear my delusions of reality
It's time to stand up for how I really feel
time to understand what I'm feeling isn't real

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 was not one 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

But I've seen we've already split
And neither of us seem to give a damn shit
Cause we've yet to see one another
And 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

(Leavin' treatment)
I left treatment a wimp
I left treatment a weaker man
All this wakings givin' me a limp
All this talkings givin' me a plan
I'd go out and meet my fellow mad man
And ask them over again

How their day was going
How they'd have any idea of knowing
How my future would for me would be
"Do you want to go out with me"
In both sense of the word
It's a stressed "out" I wish they heard

But now my pleas have been taken
And now my knees are shaking
I never thought it would actually go down
I never thought I'd live to be around
But my gut reaction is to talk things out
I guess I never knew what my mad men were about

All I got after 4 months of on and off work.

>each day loads itself upon my back -
>a weight if ignored, a slip into voids crevasse.
It was this part wasn't it

Hey buddy, just post one.
Also try and do some critiques before you post yours.

These threads don't work when they get flooded with every user's anthology and nobody critiques. In a poetry workshop you only get to read one and thats after offering thoughts on at least a couple other peoples work.

really just horrid. It reminds me of how I wrote when I was 14. Gave me a good nostalgic cringe

I wrote this after reading your post:

Fast as feet will carry him
he runs the line between
a rising sun and setting night
to find, yet leave, reality.

Born between the sun and moon,
his shadow splits in two.
And from each shadow's point of view
the boy is crowned in heaven's hue.

Racing at his avid pace
will blur each place and face that pass.
But each their shadow's interact
in cosmic masquerade and dance--

Sharing each their stories
in their brief and fleeting meeting,

yet drifting right on by
the boy who's chasing for the sky.

That and the first two lines.

With that first stanza, you should be writing limp bizkit songs

And you should probably be writing nickelback songs

I only write poems when blind drunk.

A wavering thrust of shivering thighs
locked at the bone and to the cheek,
flushed blood and red shot eyes
lanced forward what cannot speak.

Mistful dust about the room
playing round and quickly gone,
the grey coloured smell of bedroom
and the feeling of coming and going on.

The long shaking spasming hand
and necks cracking at the move,
grapling at the wrist a band
of dirty fingers into a groove,

My fuckstick swims
in the toilet
severed

Pilgrim
Farewells say, kith and kindred,
I am bound for lands far aside,
Unknowing where I may outride,
Of what myself might leave there out,
But of my path, I ne'er shall doubt.

Lay up near, kith and kindred,
How hard it is to leave behind,
Brother to brother dearly affined,
Yet careful are we of comfort's bite,
Companions sole in harrow and spite.

Fearful yet, kith and kindred,
For the times of trial that lie ahead,
For my worldly form to be beat and bled,
Though my bones will ache, my eyes aflame,
Of the wondrous path, I shall proclaim.

Shed no tears, kith and kindred,
Better sweet memories left by and by,
Yester summer's tones dreamt nigh,
Lest time reap his ravenous due,
And our bountiful now will come to rue.

How I'll long, kith and kindred
For Canaan's burnished mountains steep,
For Jordan's fragrant waters deep,
For Jerusalem's tall walls of gold,
For Firmament fires to behold!

Draw asunder, kith and kindred
And let our distance grow ever more,
For our journeys great, our voices roar,
Yet none to hear our songs of joy,
A lonely road, our feet employ.

Thank you, kith and kindred,
All this wretched form can give,
Neverending love, I hope you forgive;
A pilgrim’s heart is meager pay,
But it's this meager love that guides his way.

I like the imagery

You need to get laid dude

Very much so

I can’t take all this screaming,
Did this life even have a meaning?
For once my path’s no longer clear,
I’m off the road and I won’t steer

My love is the love of god I think
If I can’t feel it; how do I know it’s there?
In my mind, I begin to shrink
This will be my final prayer

The cold air cuts my chapped skin,
The voices bellow louder in my head,
These eyes keep watching my every move,
Waiting for me to finally drop dead

Theft! Murder! Debauchery!
Leave me alone, get away!
Those damned eyes are still focused on me!
Do they think I’m easy prey?

Fear quickly becomes drowned by fury
A trapped animal always lashes out
A conquest should be a conquest
Not a sticky river of self-doubt

She sang beyond the genius of the sea.
The water never formed to mind or voice,
Like a body wholly body, fluttering
Its empty sleeves; and yet its mimic motion
Made constant cry, caused constantly a cry,
That was not ours although we understood,
Inhuman, of the veritable ocean.

The sea was not a mask. No more was she.
The song and water were not medleyed sound
Even if what she sang was what she heard,
Since what she sang was uttered word by word.
It may be that in all her phrases stirred
The grinding water and the gasping wind;
But it was she and not the sea we heard.

For she was the maker of the song she sang.
The ever-hooded, tragic-gestured sea
Was merely a place by which she walked to sing.
Whose spirit is this? we said, because we knew
It was the spirit that we sought and knew
That we should ask this often as she sang.

If it was only the dark voice of the sea
That rose, or even colored by many waves;
If it was only the outer voice of sky
And cloud, of the sunken coral water-walled,
However clear, it would have been deep air,
The heaving speech of air, a summer sound
Repeated in a summer without end
And sound alone. But it was more than that,
More even than her voice, and ours, among
The meaningless plungings of water and the wind,
Theatrical distances, bronze shadows heaped
On high horizons, mountainous atmospheres
Of sky and sea.

It was her voice that made
The sky acutest at its vanishing.
She measured to the hour its solitude.
She was the single artificer of the world
In which she sang. And when she sang, the sea,
Whatever self it had, became the self
That was her song, for she was the maker. Then we,
As we beheld her striding there alone,
Knew that there never was a world for her
Except the one she sang and, singing, made.

Ramon Fernandez, tell me, if you know,
Why, when the singing ended and we turned
Toward the town, tell why the glassy lights,
The lights in the fishing boats at anchor there,
As the night descended, tilting in the air,
Mastered the night and portioned out the sea,
Fixing emblazoned zones and fiery poles,
Arranging, deepening, enchanting night.

Oh! Blessed rage for order, pale Ramon,
The maker’s rage to order words of the sea,
Words of the fragrant portals, dimly-starred,
And of ourselves and of our origins,
In ghostlier demarcations, keener sounds.

If hate had smell, I would reek of blood.
If it had colour, my feet would leave
black marks wherever I trod.
If it could burn, my every orifice
black smoke would heave forth.

To me nothing ugly nor good
can happen anymore. All that
is left is to simply count the days,
like a single-minded monk. With
little variation in sense and intensity.

It needs to be comprehended and
said out loud, finally: it will come
and take everything - having taken
flesh and bone.

She will come. Having taken flesh and bone
she will take everything: the pen with the
graphite entrails on the table, sense and soul,
the picture on the wall, the music that makes
a room glow, tears and fears, and the air
filled with pollen. Afterwards: darkness,
darkness, darkness, darkness.

this is really bad. shows no signs of talent or chance for improvement.
also not very good. maybe go easier on the adjectives and just get better at empathizing
with people.
4/10 shows promise. keep working on it. it feels unfinished.
I didn't like it. I can't say why but it strikes me as remarkably boring.

stop rhyming

you dont need to rhyme

it's not a requirement

styles change

is this a joke post?

every poet of this generation just starts off all of their prose, all of their poetry, with shit like "to me." Avoid it.

Also, the listing: It only works sometimes and I can tell you're relying on it as a suitable means of building effect and tension.

First time passed us;
then we went across the bridge
to the gas station, where
they put up a sign: no smoking.
There we went off the road again.
Under the mountain, faltering steps,
in fear of the slippery dew or spotlights.

Dead air.
Stones and snakes.

Men of great honesty,
in business both public and private...

Then the time passed. We climbed the stairs,
not counting the steps, to the stone cubes.

This world is a torch, lit by both ends.

And time was still passing. Down there dona
Klara was once sunbathing in her badekostum,
things carelessly strewn about her head:
die Sonnenbrille, 'Elle,' Marlboro, feuerzeug,
sound-box from Japan.

Hearts have stopped beating.
Dead or alive. It's always the same.

Sleep, time will pass.
Sleep, time will be no more.
Sleep, nothing will be anymore
and it will be like there never was anything at all.

before you shrug this off as useless criticism, it's not. my genuine feeling reading this in my head and out loud was just bored. I can't give you talent, but if you have any I'm sure you can work this out yourself.

Let it be gentle on you, underneath this everlasting stone - old Radin - your eternal darkness.
Deep, too deep is your dream - but deeper yet is this our waking world.

Writes Prehten, his son, the one that left to sail the seas.
1317. in summer, while waiting in vain for the Lord to return.

I'm afraid I'll end up on the gallows.
Not few ended up like that,
all over the world and here... just around us...

Long days, long nights, long years.
Without the bread of love, without the water of love,
without the air of love, without love...

It is surely not the speech nor the voice of reason,
nor - certainly - solace or salvation from anything.
But when I close my eyes, I see it - I'll end up on the gallows.

Just how much of anything I knew nothing of.
Since dawn the devil has been stacking the deck.
Now, here I tremble - I'll end up on the gallows.

What the soul does not abide by,
what the heart does not dare to,
now the body itself wants to do.

Without the light of love, without the bread, without water, air...
Just another gimpy step from darkness
into darkness...

It's an attempt at a slightly more elaborate way of saying "reeeeee!"

in an american restaurant,
the old legend goes,
a white colonel doth sit,
with great width, in white robes.

with knees spread across,
atop his hands perch;
he simply stares forward,
as still as a birch.

the customers come,
the customers go,
the customers sit on his lap, on his throne.

but he remains steady, and smiles a bit--
for only he knows that he's taking a shit.

Slightly off topic, but have any of you submitted anything for publication?

What's the typical process? I highly doubt anything of mine will be accepted, but I may as well try right?

Living the Veeky Forums life
I post without having read
I need approval

Replace doth with does

>...
c'mon guy

I've seen peacock dancing trees
and the starlight walkers over the American water
the bright flight of ants following the last leaf
falling from the trees decomposed
the tactless faces of strangers in collars
and the curly hair of lady Godiva
dressed in satin skin and rings collected
from the teenage boys who paint their nails black
wishing to hold a dollar or joint or a hand
pleasing their pleasure by pleasing others
moving into basements galore
held together by duct tape and cheap beer.
Wishing to see the world
in a light without light without light
and the girls dance with the strip malls
across from the ultra economic ocean
of waves throughout parking lots that scream
for you to cum inside them
weighted down by loose leaf buggies and cigarette butts that take our tattoos and give them meaning
to call our fathers and mothers and brothers
wishing they could see the bushes
and they're morphing together
like rivers into a sea of morphine
needles and pokes and bums litter
wishing to be off the streets and into an arm
to see necrophilia manifest in kids alike
be them in their shoes
made of rope and cardboard
and they travel and they swallow and they turn
into beasts seen by the banker the seller
selling his garbage to garbage to buy garbage
cats and dogs and animals move
move to gutters to alleys to homes to death to
manifest sleep into non-existent courage
atmospheric plains telling carbon stories
of the dead dogs and cats and bums
slum like lovers chasing the sun and stars
of tie-dye dreams and spinning fans ennui
to end the day with eyes red and dry

maybe "on his throne" to "upon his throne"? makes it flow a bit better

Poets who don't rhyme are less skilled

Sheep devour wolves,
planes plummet from the sky,
predators hide every thought,
Fearsome oceans run dry,
Worms feast on remains,
The skin tightens and shrinks,
Rain washes away all stains,
Still there’s nothing to drink.

A friend wanted me to write something for him in the style of sixteenth century English, so I came up with this:

‘Who describes that heart as broken
Which to the facts has been awoken?’
Indeed - how very well-spoken!
Now grant me submit this token:
‘When by shame love is entreated
Or staked to reason’s foreign yoke,
Who describes hearts so mistreated
As builded up - or aught, but broke?’

It was inspired by him of course, but it was also inspired by... someone else.

Anyway, I think bones are good, but it could definitely be improved.

Doesn't even vaguely remind me of 16th century, it's quite modern and seems like you've gone for a vague "slightly olden times" feel

So what are the defining features of sixteenth century English?

It looks really, really distinct from modern English. I don't regularly use it, so if you're expecting me to give you a quick rundown, I can't. But think Shakespeare.

The wondrous beast of man; to lose a race against rats and apes!

10/10

>cats and dogs and animals move
get the fuck out

great, if the friend you were describing was an euphoric gentleman who regularly jerks it to steampunk cosplay

kαι ο kόσμος
πέφτει βροχερός
στα δεσμά του ταγμένος
υπάkουος ισχυρός
στο αγάλι της εστίας
kομματιάζεται
γεννιέται
συγkεντρώνεται
στην πρώτη επαφή αλυχτά
αδειάζει kαι ξεπετιέται παντού
Θα τον προφτάσεις με ύφος
σπάει στο άγγιγμα σου
σιωπή

decent, it you were aiming to write a background inscription for a third rate god of war knock-off

I know it's shit, but God of War?

snow compacts under gum sole.
boy contracts under parental control.
under guise of clandestine preparation,
cacophonous celebration anticipation.

erupting volcano of sounds
toking, talking, dancing, drinking. drowns
personability.
banality.

>boy contracts under parental control.

They only said that since its in greek

Round the drunkards go,
Buzzards not far behind;
Leaders lead, workers woe-
Blind leading the blind.
Insipid procession of mankind,
Thoughtless drones, burning coals;
Heartless hogwash, keep in mind-
The parasitic trolls

Blending in with the common,
Indulging in their outlets;
Hilarity ensues,
Upon laugh-less matters;
A disguised catharsis,
On our unspoken ends.

I laid in my room,
When a fly appeared;
And I caught it,

In my bare hands.

It fell on down,
And buzzed around;
As if it was -
In a trance.

It buzzed round, and around,
The wooden floored sea;
Its incessant buzzing,
Had got me to cussing.

I put it out of its misery.
'Twas sad as sad could be.

I thought of the albatross,
And the golden-brown snake;
And the evil choices,
That men hath make.

It lay there dead,
And motionless;
On the floor,
There was nothing,
To be done anymore.

Did I give him another chance?
Did I do a favor for him?
Who gave us this power-
Are we their gods?

Just because of our frame?

first paragraph of unfinished poem

Escape from realities to a scene
peaces form a dream we barely can see
Sea, and up the river until we reach the heart
The body, we'll study in search of some truth

Trust:
You lost mine
When you didn't
Press space bar
As often as you could
Faggot

Wrote this while waiting in between classes. Should I keep working on it?

So I've heard all your pearls are missing
but the string that had held them remains
laid out on your desk
while the oysters bereft
have left their address
though you wore them in jest
will expect hefty debts to be paid

Your throat is still burning like a mighty old fire
you're miles away but I can see your light
You've never been a screamer and you're not big crier
but you cough out advice in vapor
vestigial exhaust pipe
Oh you'll get those pearls back alright

welcoming bed bugs
into the home
so that you don't oversleep
those scabs that you're picking
keep gnawing and tricking yourself
into thinking there's valor in being alone

don't confuse those bed bug blues
the cracks in those pearls are new
the cracks in those pearls are new
the cracks in those pearls are new

It's all about the context, and it being applied evenly. If you're going silly fantasy armour, then I want to see bare chested dudes with huge armoured codpieces right alongside chainmail bikinis.

The night is dark I browse my memes
Soon enough I'll be in my dreams
It's 4 a.m. My head's in pain
My eyes are red From constant strain
I eat a pizza A large meat-lover's
When I'm done I'll start another
Now I'm full but I need to fap
I open /d/ To find a trap
I exit /d/ And enter /y/
I'm degenerate And so I cry
Loli, futa Incest, vore
All I really want Is that dirty whore Pretty stacy 3d and real
But Chad's big cock Is all she'll feel Now I'm mad I thrash about
I break my toys And start to shout FUUCKING NORMIES!!! GAS THEM ALL! MAKE THEM BLEED! MAKE THEM CRAWL! UPRISING WHEN! BRING IT DOWN!!!
The anger passes I must lie down
I heave my bulk Into my bed
I can't endure The pain in my head I'm a virgin I'm fucking broke
My mouth is dry (I drink some Coke)
I feel like shit So with teary eye
I promise to change I promise to try
It's morning now The day is bright
I open Google And begin to write:
Veeky Forums Veeky Forums
I'll never be A happy normie
Do me a favor: Fucking kill me

0/10

The leaves change
And times passes
The bright day turns
To brilliant night
Time does not wait for us

There's no hell more harsh than a memory
There's no home more hell than an empty nest
Winter takes the warm away, spring takes the cold away
Summer takes the rain away and fall took away my friend
I believe there's never a place better than right where you are
Although imagining an afterlife can tend to mend a broken heart
And with someone dead, it's a way of coping with loss
But I don't need you out there somewhere if I have you in my thoughts
I don't envy anyone in a position where they're forced to choose
Pull the plug or not I can't tell if this is for me or you
I mean I know you're sick, tired, and confused
But sometimes letting the tired go to sleep is the best thing to do
I will hold your head while the doctor sticks the needle in
I'll always remember our companionship and what it meant
And on Sunday, October the 5th, you took your last breath
And you will be missed

Check out my Flarf about you guys

books.google.com/books?id=Li0yDwAAQBAJ&printsec=frontcover&dq=forum x&hl=en&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwin0KTHoMTWAhVO7WMKHX3XAMEQ6AEIKDAA#v=onepage&q=forum x&f=false

what's so bad about that, generally asking? You can't leave critique without purpose. Sure, dogs and animals and cats is pretty lame but why? is that your only gripe

Finn...easy on the tokes

Bad
>poetry is concrete
Bad
>poetry is concrete
Bad
>you're not writing poetry you're writing shitty rock/metal lyrics. Either try music or study meter and loosen your rhyme
not bad
>not bad. you prolly have an idea about what you're doing. Work on tighter meter
eh
>poetic porn. I'm sure there's a niche. Meter is all over though. Practice your technicals
really good
>I doubt you wrote it. But if you did, it's wonderful. If not, it's still wonderful.
pretty good
>imagery is sporadic which isn't ideal for an already abstract poem. keep the imagery very logical in terms of why an image is being called upon when working with dream logic. Technicals are fairly tight though
great
>some lines felt wonky, but I'm reading in my head and not out loud to save time, so it could be on my end.
ironically not bad
>it's bad but it's got vivid imagery and character
unremarkable
>you've got an idea about what you're doing, but it's just not gripping in anyway with such uninspiring overtones. ask yourself why anyone besides you would want to read this
I loved it
>I gripped most of it, but please tell me more acutely what this is depicting and what it's about. I want to understand it better
Good
>not certain of the people behind the names, but this was enjoyable in imagery and read
Eh
>it's got it's ups and downs, but you should focus on subject matter and purpose over technicality at this point
>
i lol'd
>
not good
>you're trying far too hard and this comes off as very forced.
No
Eh
>this is for a friend, so it can't really be 'bad'. Unless he's a prude, he'll appreciate it for what it is. But you nailed more of a general, modern English accent than a 16th century one. Tomato-tomato.
I don't read Greek
>I won't rely on an online translator
No
>
Eh
>typical teen angst with a touch of 'oh hey Veeky Forums too!'
why so much hum-glum
>would the effort for one bright poem kill off half this board?
promising
>but your use of cussing really brings up that whole 'don't force a rhyme' issue. comes off terribly desu senpai, but the poem shows promise
of course it is
>keep telling yourself that
It's not great man
>line seven is an example that proves you aren't certain of what you're doing with meter quite yet. Keep working on meter, don't force lines if they don't feel natural, and don't be that dick who doesn't use punctuation, because you are not ee cummings
Meh
>no rhythm; cliche
Touching
>they'd love it

Let it die, the meme was never funny

who the fuck is Ramon Fernandez

ive been looking for a lover
but i havent met her yet
she'll be nothing like i pictured her to be
in her eyes i will discover
another reason why
if not to live, then make the best of what i see

Okay decided to revise the thing I posted earlier.

So I’ve heard your old pearls are missing
while the string that had held them remains.
Laid out and displayed on the desk
and all the oysters, bereft
recompense, have left their address
though you wore them in jest
you expect that their debt will be paid.

Thirty weeks after you’ve beat the desire
your throat is still burning, inviolate fire.
Miles away, I still see the light.
Do you still cough advice, still add to the smog?
Still worry your tenants, awake in the night?
Oh vestigial voice! Consecrated exhaust
pipe from the gutter
I’ve gotten a letter.
They’ll be returning those pearls alright.

But when cleaning the windows double check that they’re closed.
You’re welcoming bed bugs into our home.
What scabs that you’re picking!
They’re gnawing and tricking
And all of the ticking
Metronomical time
Identical actors in interminable lines.
Don’t confuse this for old
bed bug blues
Please listen to me, the cracks in those pearls are new.

>It's not great man
Yeah I was just kinda spit balling ideas there. I hope this is a bit better. And for the record I wasn't trying to do a no punctuation thing, I was just writing it in the notes of my phone and didn't add that yet.

Both of these show a lot of promise. Keep working - harder than you think you could, but can. You have a bridge to the land of the Gods in your hand. Write it - damn you! What else are you good for?

I like the concept

Grasp it!
It blinks away.
Mist through the hand,
Heavy on the eyes.
A nod and a wink,
straws of meaning.
come with the heart,
gone with the sun.
He calls, "reach deep!"
A salute
A giggle,
The sandman departs

> your use of cussing really brings up the "don't force a rhyme" issue

Elaborate please? It made sense to me.

A man with nothing left,
A true man, well said;
For to be himself,
He must lose any thirst;
To be a steel-
He must Tremble first!

And now this Iron man has nothing left,
Except the will,
To Conquer!
Tremble therefore,
tyrants of the world-
Tremble before Man.

A man with nothing and no one left:
Wretched man, Blessed man.

>only one sentence
>and the only discernible theme is vague racism

I thought it was OK, would work better as an angsty song

>poetry is concrete
What?

I've known every girl from here to Belize
And every boy West of Japan.
I've dined with each woman among the Chinese
And Antarctica's one single man.
But of all the people that I've ever met
In India, France, and Peru,
The most wonderful person that I've found yet:
Care to guess who it is?

I like Shel Silverstein.

It just seems so obvious. I don't know, you almost don't need to read the line to know what's coming. "One, two, category that includes both." The whole thing is like that.

Not any of these guys but I agreed wholeheartedly with all your crits, and I was wondering if you had a good resource to learn poetry? My meter always feels clumsy and my vocab never seems to intertwine correctly

I disagree. This way, there's a nice dactylic meter to it.

The-CUS-to-mers-SIT-on-his-LAP-on-his-THRONE.

I'm charmed and giddy with joy. I feel like my ten year old self, reading Roald Dahl and Dr. Seuss. Now, you're not Dr. Seuss. But I like you. I have to check out this Silverstein.

Not him, but how do you expect to learn meter? The best I can tell you is to sing your poem as you write. This way, your mental word machine's output gets limited by the cadence that you want to achieve.

>I gripped most of it, but please tell me more acutely what this is depicting and what it's about. I want to understand it better.

You got me. I'm an insecure asshole who usually posts a poem from an accomplished but obscure poet in the same thread as my own. Just so I can tell which criticism to ignore and which to take seriously.

It's by Abdulah Sidran (the guy who wrote Kusturicas early movies.) It's about the mountain path the fleeing Jews took out of Sarajevo at the start of WWII. He was widely derided for the poem for being too melodramatic and cliche, I kinda like it. Once got to ask him some questions about the poem at a panel my school organized, from memory:

>they put up a sign: no smoking.
According to Maimonides: everything that is in accordance with reason is good. Warning people not to smoke at a gas station makes sense, so it's a little marker of goodness along the way.

>Dead air.
Everyone got scared because they were approaching a cliff, not because the cliff itself but:
>Stones and snakes.
Rocky terrain = deadly snakes, in local folk wisdom. The only two deadly snakes of the region are the the European sand viper and the horned mamba. The rocks in the region are mostly quartz and silica (which make the soil acidic) and both those snakes hate acidic terrain. The only snakes among the rocks are harmless - but look a lot like the former two. Also a nod to the primeval: people are more scared of snakes than people with machine-guns looking for them.

>Men of great honesty...
Engraved on a grave at the entrance of the old Jewish cemetery that is along the path.

>This world is a torch, lit by both ends.
Again, Jewish philosophy: You're not safe in the past or the future, so you cower in the present - no matter how nasty.

>Down there dona Klara...
From up there you can see a popular bathing spot on the Miljacka river, one of the women in the convoy liked to spend her summers there.

HAH! What you thought was poetry was actually (c)rap music! Fooled again, shitheads!

youtube.com/watch?v=n14fh7tzXUw

My take on your poem:
>The engine purrs to idle life
>My path what once so clear
>I teeter on a tattle knife
>For I shall walk no fear

>My love is of my God, I think
>I feel it, is it there?
>In my mind I start to shrink
>This'll be my final prayer

What the other guy said, but unironically. There are two types of poets that I've seen that piss me off.

>NO NEED RHYME, RHYME NOT NECESSARY! (Often because he can't rhyme for jack shit)
>I RHYME ALL THE TYME. I RHYME LIKE A LIME! (Often his rhymes suck jack shit)

If you're a patrician like me, then you rhyme, but you're actually fucking good at it.

Best one here. Everyone else is a raging faggot who can't into /poetry/.

I wish I couldn't see the towers from the outside.
Argon, I'm told,
And I'll find the rest when I'm later.

I really liked it, but I don't know what it means. Sparknote it for me, please...