Do you think this poem has the potential to put a stop to the public acceptance of crap poetry...

...

Disregard. I'm a pleb.

Anyway, real-talk. The fact that you have meter down is a great start, but it still reads like beginner stuff. If you insist on writing in meter, I'd recommend you practice scanning free-verse.

As for the fire thing, the way you used it could be twisted into a technique. So of an inverse to Frost in Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening. Frost uses the triphthong 'mile' to create a unique rhythm for his last line by giving it a half-syllable of sorts. You could take away that half-syllable to affect the rhythm in your own way. Just make sure there's a good reason.

Also, the extra syllable and feminin rhyme in:
>The tribes expanded and gave rise to cities,
>The people chose professions, formed committees.
is jarring, and feels kinda bad.

That said, the worst thing about this is the sanctimoniousness and lack of compelling imagery.

I think it is good OP, but posting it on Veeky Forums is pointless. Teenagers who have no taste will critique you, smart people like me will steal anything good you've managed to stitch together

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A great poem in itself.

Can someone post it here so we don;t have to go to a sketchy site

steal Prometo’s flame, in form of phrase,

To faze with fire, what made fire blaze.

I don’t invoke the muse; I know she knows

We are to blame for nonsense we compose.

Our story starts when man invented speech,

To organize his mind, to learn and teach.

He made up words to express his simple thoughts,

To entertain, impress or call the shots.

In time, his simple life got mixed with cants,

His rough, coarse shouting turned to tribal chants.

The tribes expanded and gave rise to cities,

The people chose professions, formed committees.

Order, culture, intellect were prized.

In sooth, that’s how the folks were civilized.

From this event, arose a mighty chain

Of basic roles that most, still, remain:

The architect’s a geometric seer;

From what he’s jotting down, titans appear.

The thinker spends long years to read, construe,

In hope he write one sentence that is true.

The scientist, with discourse clear and terse,

Writes models that explain the universe.

The engineer invents; the doctor heals,

And the chef cooks us delicious meals.

But then, the poets, like the phoenix rise,

To waste our time and fill our heads with lies.

For centuries, verse was heart of culture’s heat,

Till songs and lyrics made it obsolete.

The poets who still readership demand,

Are those who can’t find friends to form a band.

‘Tis not a noble deed, and ill advised

To mock a thing by Nature satirized.

The throng of poets, once a mighty race,

Got marred in time and lost their former grace.

For once, Augustus sought what they could write,

And through their art, affirmed his sovereign might.

They strode with pride in courts of kings and queens,

1/?

And generous patronage secured their means.

‘Twas a virtue just to read their verse,

To copy, learn by heart, recite, rehearse.

Sometimes, like Bede, struck by Caedmon, awed

So much, their verse was deemed the voice of God.

But now, the poet is a creature poor,

Neglected, sad, behind a closéd door,

Indulged in weakness, wanting clear notion

With vague speech, exposing vague emotion,

With style so lame, and ideas so few

“I Press Enter,

So I’m

A Poet

Too!”

Or if his taste’s antique, he throws a show,

Repeating rhymes of thousand years ago.

Some, every chance they get, promote their ditty;

Perchance a friend would read it out of pity.

Some send them to some journal no one sees

Except their staff and other wannabees

Who hope to taste whate’er their ilk have brew,

2/?

To ape their style and publish something too.

Some win awards by chance or strong rapport;

They think themselves neglected act no more;

Their name might float around till they are dead,

Forsooth, the volumes still remain unread.
But those who hate to see themselves ignored,

Or long to be, by public eye, adored,

They sell their soul for seconds of applause,

And turn themselves to servants of a cause.

They hunt for headlines, heed the talk of day

And set their song to every tune they play.

An artist’s worst offense is lack of pride .

When art is sold, ‘tis Art Undignified.

But brace yourselves, the worst is yet to come;

O god of expectations, roll your drum;

I sing of “Death of Art”, a shameful fad,

A ritual worse than those that Aztecs had;

The foulest con in age of artful scams,

I sing of competitive Poetry Slams,

Where left-wing youngsters, acting as a sage,

Discharge their empty rage upon the stage.

They rant, they curse, without a trace of craft,

They sing (they mewl!) of subjects trite and daft,

With grace of actors in a high-school play,

The audience claps to wash the cringe away.

But ‘tis not fair to fight a verbal round

With rivals who are plastered on the ground.

Let’s back away to times of glories past

When sun of age on them no shadows cast.

Let’s censure verses of the bundled best,

The Homers, Virgils, Wills and all the rest.

3/?/all i'm posting

pretty good OP. Kind of rough at sections, can be improved.

pleb here but isnt 'employer' three syllables? just wondering about that last bit

It's specifically comparing loir to the -ployer

hatred cannot drive out hatred. Only love can do that.

Ah, you foolish tease.

Heroic couplet IS prosaic. That's the main problem romantics had with it. I personally find the prosaic and aggressive nature of it very appealing.

Pope's poetry is filled with jarring eye rhymes and ellipsis. I thought I could get away with one or two feminine rhymes.

Also, this is a poetic essay. It relies on wit, rather than imagery.

But where else can I post or publish it? There's literally nowhere else Poetry is so dead no one even cares about a poem disparaging poetry.

>“I Press Enter,

>So I’m

>A Poet

>Too!”
High school shit, OP. Sanctimonious, and particularly funny given the mediocre quality of your poem. Focus less on namedropping and jerking yourself off over your saviour fantasies and try to convey something beautiful or real.

This. The first section is a cringe-fest (including unironically using the word "cringe" in a poem). The later sections are less shitty in style but possibly more shitty in pretentious wankery. Sorry, OP, but you were born in le wrong generation. Appreciate poetry for what it was, but accept that it cannot be that again.

Do you think this mixtape will show everyone real hip-hop is back? I freestyled this to show white boys can be real too yo.

>it relies on wit, rather than imagery
it you can't manage both, then you can't manage wit

Blaming captial P Poetry for the fact this is uninteresting as far as technique (nearly barren as far as technique) and emotionally sterile show that you aren't interested in improve. You're just Rupi Kaur, but you got stuck one step further.

I read and enjoyed this poem. Good work OP. I'm also impressed with myself that I managed to get through the whole thing. Anyone else have trouble finishing things they read?