Poetry Critique

I'm a shitty poet. Pls Help

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My feelings reach towards spring
New life, Green life, Red and Pink life
Where you, so strong and statue-like
Lording over my fresh green
Are but a goal in a fool's reality

Or so it seems

It seems as if you are the rock
Immovable, and wise
From years of hot metamorphosis
And cool sedimentation
And me like water
Turning, Twisting, and Loving
But letting the fruit of life slip from under me
And nothing of beauty willingly hold's water

My feelings, they reach towards spring
New life, Green, Red life, Pink life
Where you so strong and statue-like
Lording my fresh green over
But a goal in a fool's reality
Or so seems it
If you are the rock
Immovable, and wise
Of years of hot metamorphosis
Of cool sedimentation
And me like water
Turning, Twisting, Loving
But letting the vital fruit slip from under me
Nothing of beauty willingly hold's water

>doesn't even rhyme
What's the fucking point?

● don't capitalize each line
● don't start anything ever with "my feelings"
● your metaphors are weak. Stretch your self.
● nail the ending. It's important
● "And nothing of beauty holds willing water"

I like it

what kind of poetry did you want to write

Yea my metaphors are kinda weak sauce, I guess I'm scared of being pretentious and esoteric.

I like free verse a lot

there's a lot of forms of poetry and many different schools—it's hard to decide what you want to do without anything to go on.

Esoteric isn't connoted to anything bad. Edgar Allan Poe is esoteric, Anne Sexton is a little esoteric.

this
unless you're writing an epic poem in blank verse, it has to rhyme to be valuable.

No

langston hughes is in the house toniiiiitee

everybody juss have a good timeeeee

4chanlit.wikia.com/wiki/Poetry

read more poetry than you write. period. if you aren't reading poetry you're not writing poetry. everything you write will be terrible if you're not reading, i promise you this much.
as a matter of fact, everything you write will likely be terrible for a long time. maybe forever, if you have no talent. poetry, in the year 2017, is one of those things you're either able to do or unable to do. you can practice and get to the point where what you write is not-terrible, but to write something GOOD, you'll have to have a feel for it.
and you can develop this feel by reading. you have to nurture your talent, if you have one, by reading reading reading and writing. there's no shortcut.

ignore all this.
all of it. ignore all the advice you've been given. none of it matters, you're not writing poetry if you're following someone else's rules and guidelines on how to do it, because poetry has no rules and guidelines. you follow your own. this is why you read: to learn firstly what the tools, rules, and devices are, and secondly to form and develop your own mannerisms and pick and choose which ones you like and which ones you want to use to create your own personal piece of art for everyone to appreciate. it doesn't have to rhyme and it doesn't NOT have to rhyme, do whatever you want. that's what the point of poetry IS. don't be afraid to do something if you want to do it. you shouldn't be discouraged from writing something because it might suck, because it WILL suck. you're going to be irredeemably terrible, yet that's how you grow as a writer.

but you can't do it unless you actively seek it out. read, chief. read poetry, read ABOUT poetry, read more poetry.

imagine if poetry had no rules or standards

yeah someone around here might actually write something that doesn't make me regret waking up in the morning instead of wracking your undeveloped brains in search of a word that rhymes with "tatterdemalion" because you think a poem has to rhyme no matter what (why? because user on Veeky Forums said so lol duh of course) and following contrived metrical schemes that you don't even understand.

contrived doesn't mean bad it just means perilous to the untrained

>perilous to the untrained
and where do you think we are

point is, someone learning shouldn't spend their time trying to contort their lines to meet a fixed standard if it doesn't add anything to their writing, and if you don't know how, when, and where to use them (and how you LIKE to use them) in the first place it's just going to be an exercise in taking a shit in my eye sockets.

well maybe some of us want to take a shit in your eye sockets?

it's not about shitting in MY eye sockets, it's about shitting in everybody's eye sockets. besides, it's not about never using meter or any given form. it's about knowing how to, something that rote rule-following isn't going to teach you.

HELP Veeky Forums

So I shat this thing out at 4AM a few days ago and have been fiddling with it ever since. I'm just wondering what type of poetic format would best suit something like this, or if I'm better off just leaving it written like a short story. Also overall suggestions, criticisms, and thoughts are welcome:

Fagus grandifolia

I remember how I learned the nature of Beach leaves, going for walks with my father through grey New England winters. 2015 and 2016, those ones seemed especially colorless. He would drag me outside into the cold for my own good, out of love. It was when I was in withdrawal, when my legs had stopped listening to me. I fell forwards through the sleeping forest, an infant atop stilts, tumbling down the icy rooted paths towards the water. My thoughts were not my own. My body; burning, crooked, and crumbling, no longer heard my voice.

What makes the North American Beech Tree so distinct is that it hails from the tropics. Long ago these giants wandered into a foreign land, gradually northwards from warmer climes. Lost in the snow so suddenly, they were forced to leave their authentic selves behind, to adapt, to survive. Unlike the maple or oak with their dark skins and jagged ridges, the Beech is smooth, flat, and light. Here in the north, the Beech stands out. Ever a stranger, there is no one in the landscape quite like it.

I have learned from books that the purpose of this adaptation is to distribute heat evenly, to prevent deadly frost cracks from forming; but I believe differently. I believe the Beech looks this way because deep in its sturdy trunk it remembers. As it sleeps under the low New England winter sun, that lazy egg yolk in the sky, it dreams of home.

The Beech comes from a land where there is no winter, where leaves may live year round without a care in the world. Down there they always full, they are always green. No such thing exists up here in New England; not for these giants, so stranded in the cold. No, their leaves shrivel into pale white nothings.

However fragile they refuse to die, turned downwards on their stems like scraps of paper quaking in the wind, they are a sore sight indeed. However feeble, the Beech leaf holds a quiet strength. It never lets go. It holds on because in the tropics, because in spring, the leaves do not let go. It refuse to die because it remembers what once was, because it knows what again will be.

I remember being in withdrawal, what it meant to be paper thin, to flail in the wind, to hang pale above the icy ground. I remember how I learned the nature of Beech leaves, how I smiled at them as I trudged on quietly through the snow.

Frostian. Don't type out a year; it's unimportant.

ROOMMATES WITH NATURE

Collecting the warning labels of ciggarete packages
I stumbled upon the fact that they are unequally distributed;
About time Death hired proper marketing department.

The city's night pollutions have seeped through the blanket.
Mother is both embarassed and doesn't want to embarass,
The sky's expression a kid wandering in on parents fucking.

Great advice here, especially on the ignoring all previous advice given so far part.

Really what makes poetry good or bad is a sense of time. Now the bar-none easiest way to establish this feeling is to write a few poems with a strict rhyme and metric footing. For example: AABA-BBCB rhyme scheme with eight syllables per line. When doing this, you'll eventually reread over some that you've written and feel the meter better or worse as each line ends in or out of time with the others. But as you grow in understanding, you'll realize certain words and their syllables flow smoother than others; this may have to do with either the word itself or how it's metric footing fits within the already established meter. This is when you'll begin to see or write poems where each line may vary by anywhere from 1-6 syllables, give or take (or more or less), yet still be in time. It's at this point you'll have come to have a grasp on feeling meter. From then, it's all experimentation, practice, and finding your style. But it never hurts, when experiencing a hiatus or writers block, to go back and write in a strict form for more practice and/or inspiration.
Otherwise the only other necessary advice is to write concrete imagery, even about the abstract. Poetry will hone your symbolic and metaphor skills to a sharp point if you stick with it. Not to mention your diction, grammar, and vocabulary by constant refining to what words and ideas are absolutely necessary.

Ghengis Caesar Richard Pizarro
led with plight death war and conquest,
to reign attain command and fight so
each could prove their right was best.

To disobey would born a slave,
torn from those they would obey,
to pave a way with shackled hands
while bleeding faith to dying lands.

Faithless on their hands and knees
do drip their eyes to broken earth,
as soldier ants from cracks emerge
defending each their colonies.

What a sight to slaves indeed
must these voluntary fighters be
that bite their prodding fingertips--
to die to fight god's hand who rips
their life long pits they call their home
is cause a thrall has never known.

Crawling up their limb and skin
the insects burrows in their head.
Filling not with sorrow, dread,
but instead of voice of matron--

Serfs naked in the dirt exert
similar qualities to rats that
act in broods asserting
service to mother's dominance;
yet they're seen a shrimp-like-parasite
by their king's encroaching reich.

The lips which kiss their withered minds
then finds forgotten fealty
inside abandoned folds of thought
each filled with love so motherly.

Suddenly their head is buzzing
with words in rhythm drumming
as a wasp-swarm war-march
stinging their passivity.

But as the dirt will turn to sand -to dust-
must a slave forever know-- loveless
is the slave always,
even top their silver throne.

Golden isn't just a metal, but a shine
behind a hivemind found
resounding in a love of kin
which only queen, never king, can truly ever bring.

Fucking kek

could somebody give me some pointers on how to get better at writing (what to read, "essential" techniques, so on and so forth) because I'm still very new, here's a little thing to judge. Any feedback is appreciated, thanks

All remnants of consolidation
now knocked down, forever falling
further away into the absence
of life, love and gifts.

Like a tossed stone breaking into
a lake, the tongue trembles to silence
until the fickle mistress leaves
and carries upon her back the portrait
, which acts as a mirror to my heart

But perhaps all that I deserve has come
in swift judgment. Is there a case to plead?
And I must doubt whether or not I deserve to be
anything more than a candle lit in daylight?
Or a flea upon the mutt?

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

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.

I laid in my room,
When a fly appeared;
and I caught it -
With 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 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.

...

believe it or not, its shit

Only one I read so far worth replying to. It's good but I'd tinker with some other literary devices. It looks like it'd be great with some more alliteration. For me, the parts where you used it were particularly effective (tongue trembled)

>cold steel
Hmmph, nothin personnel kid

Music plays in clinic halls
and bathroom stalls
While wheelchairs wheel
by stainless steel
and doctors sleep on call

I dig it user really good shit, maybe find a few more ways to say cold/snow but flows very smoothly between ideas and doesn't feel hackneyed. Maybe the last stanza could be a little less on the nose but overall I liked it

Please don't acknowledge bait posts

>could somebody give me some pointers on how to get better at writing
4chanlit.wikia.com/poetry
seriously. not kidding. click the link. nobody ever uses it around here, for whatever reason. click it fucker!

Silver leaved trees struggled
In the sea wind which stripped the coastline of sun-kissed colour
and blew across the sky masses of clouds.
Only metallic things shone under this grey light,
Granite boulders, copper flowers, those silver leaves
Flickering on fighting branches; the constant drone
Of the sea wind,
And the cavernous roar of swell

Here's something I started and don't think I'll ever finish, but maybe some kind of outside remark might get me back at it. I think it's an alright start and I have an idea where I want it to go:

Where could it be?

My eyes have watched the ceiling shrink
and homely walls condense around me.
My mother said 'it's all quite quaint'
with her knuckles locked around me.
Perhaps it's why an hourglass
now best relates my body's shape,
and why I've watched the ceiling shrink
instead of breaking free.

So where is it?

No eggshell ceiling has been cracked;
no yolk of sun has broken through.
The front door opens easily,
and the sky outside is infinite blue.
What sort of tree and nest is this,
which exits onto concrete streets?
What leafy tuft of cosmic bough
bears nestled clutches such as these?

...tbc?

My suffering is true
As true as the sight
And suffer I might,
it's real inside
Immaterial but solid seeming
Hatred boils, I'm sick of feeling.
Posessed by ideas that unravel
How much further must I travel?
Lay here and rest, it'll be alright.
My mind is altered and the pain subsides.
The familar prick
The savoury sting
Ultimately, it's the sweetest thing

Another one:
Priorities are best left unsaid
Ride my shotgun into your head.
Better alive than covered in dirt.
You can’t exist so you can’t be hurt.

I am God and you are nature.
Law is won by total strangers.
Scream the jealous wenches lie
Boy cried wolf, but the wolf had died.
Strangled and mauled by his creator,
I am the great annihilator.

Freedom now to pursue the good
Consequences misunderstood
I’ve hoarded riches, you’ve hoarded blisters
I am the great annihilator

I think my ending is weak, any thoughts on how I could revise? Or thoughts on it? It's not much and most of the time I don't rhyme..how do you feel about non rhyming pieces?

Who is this person you've become?
Are you still my friend?
Are you still her son?
Who was it I told my secrets to?
Was it him, or was it you?
Because Im unsure who I'm speaking with
And I'm not sure this is worth the risk

Read 10 poems for every one poem that you write

No.

Diction is choppy and hard to follow
I can’t tell what the message is either

The meaning and structure has been crowded out by the flowery language. Think about the purpose of your poem before becoming too ornate with it.

i like

Down at the beach, it filled him up.
Slapping him round, the angry waves
reached inside his throat.

High-tide came, gold sand went dull.
People locked up to their knees
could only point and shout.

Lifeguards could only strain their eyes
and watch him bobble up and down
before he disappears.

Cloaked over by water, swallowed up
the ocean’s cavernous arch in his lungs.

Was her perchance not waving but drowning?

Anyway nice to know that Lana Del ray posts here.

I used to write a lot of poetry when i was younger, i haven't done much since, i wrote this

i hear these sirens in the shallows,
goading men into seaweed gallows,
acting out the malice of their souls,
reflect the men to which they call,

really didn't take long 0 work on it, is it tacky lit? i always think my shit is tacky

>don't capitalize each line

pleb

This is the best post in the thread.

Most people on Veeky Forums are completely ignorant about poetry, even if they aren't about philosophy/prose.

See that thread about Ellen van Neeven

yeah i like too, something short a sweet actually pretty high tier

yeah i'm pretty ignorant about poetry but i've heard people on here talking about how rhyming is tacky, but that shit falls under the whole paradox of not listening to the rules, but it feels more natural to write without rhyming now i guess.

the dying man rests
next to his son and his son
(who's a year, half and one)
leans to hear pa's breath
that reeks if death
and chewing gum

Within my eyes
Grey is all I see
My hell given to me
But a voice comes through the shadows
Light and sweet
What you guys think?

That's supposed to be of, not if

They say “do not go gentle into that good night”
But in these days I can see no light
I cannot no long tell if my thoughts are right
I am too tired and weary to continue this fight

Mother Nature grows green with envy,
When I gaze at you,
She cries the summer showers,
And weeps the morning dew,

She consoles herself in Eden,
Among eternal ferns,
"What does he see in her?" she asks,
"Men never seem to learn."

"My beauty is forever!"
"And hers if for a season",
"You waste your odes and accolades",
"What foolish, mortal reason!"

She still bellows with her wrathful storms,
As my reply tempts lightning from above,
"I'm so sorry, Mother Nature",
"But your aeons are not a day with my love."

>tfw not sure if I'm an illiterate brainlet or if Veeky Forums just sucks at poetry

IMO there is one good thing in this entire thread () and no coincidence it is short and sweet. Everything else in this thread is like somebody picking up a cello for the first time and trying to play like Rostropovich

This also has something to it but probably not poetry in its current form.

I really really enjoyed this.

gregorian chant, a haiku

chant is fancy words
easy on the liquiscent
easy does it yes

do you like my haiku Veeky Forums?

Nice

Dreams can be a pleasantry or
damning of the dead and dying.
That is to say--to spend the day
to contemplate, to not attain,
will then remain a sleepless ghast
in roam of night when light is lost:

An apparition that whisks a
wisp of dream which lifts
the dead to glittering tricks
in absence of their luminous
slits, and then begifts a sense of
weightlessness.

Once one's feet have touched to ground
will life resound with gravity.
A spiral down when last was up,
and for unbound ability.
Tranquility, then, shines in rims
of coffee cups, like a light
within one's irises so dim.

Should one spiral through the day,
might they meet all those by Virgil.
If not, one always finds their way,
watching up while digging circles--
depressing dirt with each their steps
precessing within each their trench.

Would they split the ground within their
mind to find and see a symmetry,
they each would walk not up, but down--
not down, but up would each they walk.
Their breath would fill their ghast in dream,
at last, then freed from all despair.

How come poetry critique threads are so much better than story critique threads? 90% of what's in those threads is trash; these, less so.

Yeah, it's only like 80% trash!

The trick is not to litter your poem with adjectives

practice, duh

Please sit down and let me explain!
Tonight is the night where I shall fail again!
Your judgment is poor, misguided, and plain.
Yet you continue to come every night in vain!

What is it that you want from this tired fool?
To be an ass, or to be a tool?
I persist in the play only to stumble and drool.
Should I just end it all and sink in my pool?

The night is over with jeers and boos.
I resort to the comfort of flavorless booze.
The inhibitions is gone, my life's a ruse.
The audience was right, I am a buffoon.

Be as critical as possible please i am new to poetry.

both

reminder that the fact that you have an idea doesn't make it a good one

Yeah the two six line stanzas chop it up a bit. It's basically on the idea that a queen is truly the power figure the world needs should be able to finally come together; how even a king, who sees his queen as below him, is a slave to his own ego.

Andantino e poco grazioso

Awash with tempest tongues, a sloughed flue pipe
intoned, dislodging tawny phlegmgouged fluff
in tiny clods across the open slype
and wafting fume into priestly dun snuff.
Smokeblue clouds wallowed, clogging nave and pew
with plumes from gnawed cigars; notes of clove
and rosewood blown through the hazy brew,
riled by the wetted soot and hoarse, lisped shrove.

Limp, wizened Father Wald nipped his napped frock
sleeve, nodding off, unworried by dull wind,
his aching ankle raised in holey sock,
toes sweating from lanklunged hymns for the sinned;
the choir echoed hueless scales, easeborne
into a duet of bowed bass and horn.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Furioso e crescendo

His husky quaver tinged the flute, and wells,
adorned with twiddling kindlecrowned kinglets,
rising through liplicked slang, diphthonging bells
and echoed out in fugacious ringlets.
Creakhollow offbeats of dewslapped brogues fouled
the air, briskspiced the fugal melody,
as one deep-bellied belch of thundercloud
discharged, cleaving the sky in revelry.

A leaden rain careened through the lunettes,
riling moultgrains of free and frescoed lime
that filled the rimose grout of auld rosettes
and pooled, bestirred with each cathedral chime.
The stormpeeled doors, ajar; christened stillborn
demeaned and led to hearth from rood-rolled thorn.