Critique Thread

...

Me = 1
Blonde/Blue= Is true
This is me and you. I see blue.
Math, and math. God. And me.

Poetry with the divine, Bright, crisp.

Creating magic, so as this.
Poetry for the soul.
The twine of fate.
The love at stake.

Yum, I love steak.
Meat, me at dawn.
Says the long love sawn.
Me, and you, so you and I,

Magic, math and mass with lisp.
I whisper for my learning list.
It's the wandering winter hiss.
The one, hidding, under never where.

The reds, the brights.
The loud crimson lights.
Flavors like orange
Color like banana ice cream and steak.

Mind sets, patterns, solved.
Ideas, futures, features, found their muse.

Me and you, to the for ever blue.

Now it's white, so please write;

Thanks man. Since this is a short story I'm striving for Cormac McCarthy's style of background/setting/detail where one or two vivid images let the reader color in the rest

On Saint Anselm’s Proslogion Excerpt

From Saint Anselm’s "Proslogion", comes a small excerpt, a short passage on a particular meditation on "The Desire for The Vision of God". Saint Anselm began his meditation —or at least the passage began there— with calling on man as an insignificant man. With his annunciation, we are to be aware of ourselves as insignificant men. Knowing our little existence, is an invitation to humble ourselves before the Lord, so that we may truly seek Him with no haze of the earthly world, of our tasks and labors, of our cares and troubles, of our restless thoughts. Through speckless lenses of clear skies, we may yearn for the Lord, long to see Him, and strive to know Him. Our eyes will not be hindered any longer, nor will the air choke our proclamation. Let the light of the Lord shine upon your intellect, strengthened by your faith, for we cannot fathom comprehension or even dare to paint the face of God with our little reason.

This is not to claim our reasoning is being neglected from its full potential—we, being made in the image and likeness of God, have our intellect as one aspect of many that are reflective—, rather the greatness of God transcends our limited, physical capacity of rationality, for He in every possible aspect is suprarational. He is the supreme being, who supersedes our reason that seeks. It is of His nature; He is exalted higher and we are humble below. We desire to approach and make sure of our nearing steps with a small scepter of reason, but we, men, require the grace of God, along with our faith in Him, so that we might truly see, truly know Him with conviction.

So, I say to you, let the Lord lift you higher! Reside not in the dark pit of the dumb as if you are struck with meekness. Dare to reach a hand out with strong faith to rise grander. Truthfully, loving the Lord thy God with thy whole heart, and with thy whole soul, and with thy whole mind, shall reveal God to you, for He and His love will reveal the mysteries of such great beauty. It is only with God that we might know the truth of Him, the goodness of Him, and the beauty of Him. To know the Lord thy God, to be with the Lord thy God, to serve the Lord thy God will put thee amongst the awe of ecstasy.

A fearful voice weakly called out, begging and crying and pleading most piteously. Although the words were almost completely unintelligible, it was unmistakably a plea for mercy. Realizing the other occupant of the shed was not the enemy, he lowered his rifle and pushed the hammer back into the safe position. Watkins pulled himself up to the top and took a quick peek down to make sure he hadn’t been followed. Satisfied, he turned around and began approaching the shadowy figure, whispering his countersign, hoping it was a comrade. Either by understanding his words or noticing Watkins’ uniform was too filthy and ragged to be that of the other side, the apparition stopped crying. As Watkins began to approach the two tiny specks that shone like the eyes of a cat in the dark, the moonlight slowly drew back, revealing the unknown form. Watkins couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Was this a hallucination of the imagination? It was neither friend or foe he had stumbled upon, but a girl. Long and unkempt black or brown hair (the lack of light made it impossible to tell), blue eyes, no older than 16. Upon closer inspection, Watkins saw she was wearing a pink flower-patterned dress and barefoot. Her left breast was marked with a yellow six-sided star with the letters J, a pair of O’s, and D stenciled into the center. His attention then fell on her stomach...

pastebin.com/3RnQStcP

Please tear this apart.

It was swollen to the size of a basketball, at least eight months along. A smaller bump protruded where her naval should’ve been. At last, he comes face to face with her. No longer seeming to fear him, the girl stretched out her hand and offered Watkins to take it. Not knowing what else to do, he obliged and she quietly walked him past the corner to a hiding spot she's put together among the loose piles of hay. Taking a quick look around, Watkins noted that her only possessions were a small diary, fountain pen, pendant and a half-eaten carrot. He took off his knapsack, feeling relief as the weight left his shoulders, unclipped his his belt, and put them both alongside his rifle in a nearby corner. The girl took a seat among the haystack, squirming and grunting from the discomfort of her stomach. “That must have been what I noticed” Watkins realized, “the poor gal can’t even find a comfortable way to sleep”. Watkins himself tried to sit down opposite of her but was immediately rewarded with a burning sensation in his back. Suddenly, he remembered he still had an inch-long piece of shrapnel still lodged in his back. It had been there the entire time but the rush and fear that pulsed through him for the past 12 hours had kept him from feeling it. Noticing his discomfort, the girl offered Watkins to sit next to her, where the hay would help cushion his back and prevent that damned twisted piece of steel from digging in any further. Gladly accepting, he moved and sat next to her, quietly whispering “thank you”. After a minute or two of dead silence, Watkins mustered up the courage to point to her and ask her name, hoping she’d understand him. Initially staring in confusion for several seconds, she suddenly had an epiphany and meekly replied "Anne... Anne Frank”.

NO

FUCK OFF

i mean it's cute but what's your point? like it's cute and fun but where are you going with it. doesn't seem to relate back to itself from one line to another

word salad

its just fun for me, I'm trying to see how loose I can make a coherent thought with it still giving the bigger picture.

I like to portray my self through analogies and metaphor, I just play with form.

not him, but . . . really?

user, I have some bad news for you

Here's mine.

Hey, I'm willing to do a crit for crit. If anybody takes a moment to review this draft I'll gladly return the favor.

Not very good, but if you're new to poetry keep at it. My poetry is nothing special, but the shit I wrote when I started out was so appalling I had to acid wash it from my HDD.
The first two lines are the best of the stanza and it then gets progressively worse. "Captivate my child as a muse" doesn't work... the verb "captivate" doesn't agree with the act of taking something as a muse or inspiration. "Abduct" is not much better, but at least it makes sense.
"Dance with the 1 2 3s" no.

Why the early modern English? Is there a purpose for this, or are you intending to come off as anachronistic?
Otherwise this is quite good, though I'd highly recommend modernizing the diction.

This has potential. I liked the last two paragraphs the most. Providing some context/backstory would be nice, but I'd echo the other user by saying that this sets the scene nicely. Keep at it.

I write in "older" forms or styles because in my opinion it is more fit for English and also seems more of a challenge with more reward in the end.

I will critique yours in the morning, as it actually looks interesting.

>Wake up, cold. Brush my teeth, cold. Walk to work, cold. Suck up to my boss, cold. Get pressured into going drinking with my coworkers, cold.

strong repetition here but consider changing the order. the first 3 sentences are short and rhythmic in a way that is kind of disrupted/jolting in the latter sentences.

>I was born in the northern region to a family with too many kids already, and through 20-something years of life, I've come to know the different kinds of cold there is.

consider a different way of introducing the 'here are the different kinds of x sensations' passage. seems a little clumsy here. is the too many kids already a necessary detail at this point in the piece? maybe it is. i think this would be stronger restructured either way.

>every nook and cranny of your soul

'nook and cranny' cliche phrase

> perfected to the point where you can't tell if it's sincere or not.

just 'perfected' works here just fine if placed before the please come back again

>the coldness when you come back home from another strenuous day at work, to find a dark, empty apartment, unchanged since you finished moving in the furniture years ago, reminding you that nothing changed today, nothing will change tomorrow or the day after, or the day after that.

YAWN!!! whats empty!! what does the apartment look like? is there a table with a bunch of dirty glasses? are there blackout curtains? does the tv get left on all day? is there a timeless misery to the place? oh right ok it is just depressing and unchanging. thanks.

>Maybe it's all an act
you just said it was a facade

>but I'm not one to judge
you just did

>I was once out to one of the peer pressure drinking events when I met one of these travelers.

oh is this finally the story? consider narrowing the exposition.

>It's Saturday.

this entire paragraph is good. write more like this.

>South. It's that way.
>And so I started walking.

very cute ending.

I'm I find your story very post modern. It could easily be something we analysed during my advanced English course.

Your words do a great job of portraying a family in poverty with a disinterested father. Or maybe he is interested, but is held back by the hostility between his children? That you leave the gender of the protagonist ambiguous also works well.

You could maintain more image if you wanted. I get bursts of image every so often, but then these lines of monologue where I see nothing but the page. You open with lines that really tend to not show anything at all.

It's the intro to a larger story about this guys' travels and the values of a modern life vs. a simple life.

And thanks for the critique. It's still very much a work in progress, so it'll be edited.

this is really good in terms of imagery. i think the strongest bits are the ones tied to weather. im a little confused by why the golden ration and virgin suicides details are there. they feel too heavy and specific in placement to be random, but they don't seem to have that same weight of meaning when it comes to the actual symbols of the story. i think they could be but it'd take some expansion. stylistically it's really great though. you're clearly talented. it's also really nice to have a story set around an empty pool.

i think the strongest part of this piece is the relationships between the 3 characters which, even though it's so short they feel fleshy and real somehow? if i were you id start there wrt expansion

I mean your totally right.
I just wrote that real quickly to see if it was any good.

I have trouble viewing what makes some poetry "good"

Thanks, I'm headed to bed now but when I'm up I'll review this first.

I'm still that way, for the most part. Although I've read so much more verse that I have a better appreciation for its elements I guess, especially re: enjambment, cadence, tense. My best suggestion is to read more classic poets, honestly. Yeats and Pound jump to mind immediately, but there are many talented modern/post-modern poets currently active in academia (I forget her name but she's tenured at Yale last I recall, last name Munro-- really wonderful poet).

Thanks! Yeah, I'll be editing this heavily tmo morning to substantiate the details a bit more.

Our home was built on the horizon of our birthplace. We have conquered the very barriers of the earth-the sea, the mountains, even the cold wastes, to carve a new history for our people. It is a testament to our broad future. Humans, with their protectors...the ancient Bolvei, glorious inheritors of flame, have nothing to fear. We have shown that to the world, to any of those who may oppose our very ideals and way of life. But that is not enough. We must be ready to protect it as well. For no matter what good we may bring to the world, no matter how we strive for peace within our own walls, they will try to bring their values as truth. What is wrong for us will become right. We have created our place in the world, as the City of New Parthurn, and now we must show the rest of the world why our ideals…are truths. History will decide who is right, who is mighty, and we are capable of solidifying our position within it. New Parthurn was built on the Advent Coast, the very graveyard of our ancestor’s mortal enemy. But there is still so much to prove to the barbarians-
Damian shuddered and stopped writing. He had written this passage at least four times by now. His advisor, and "friend" by association, Alexander Morris, had chastised him multiple times to avoid exuding arrogance in his passages. He remembered, with a wry grin, how he had been warned to “dampen his flair for dramatics”, that “Lord Damian must remember to avoid acting aloof of the common man”. But Damian had always disagreed internally, that as a Lord it was his duty to appear lofty at times. And he couldn’t help but feel above others, Damian had almost never interacted with others outside of his manor. It was in his nature. Of the twenty-five years he has lived, he had almost made it a point to feel indebted to none but himself. But he knew he had to listen to Alexander, for regardless of how strongly he felt on the matter, he would not want the advisor to complain about Damian “acting like a child”. Damian was in enough trouble with his peers as things were, for they never felt he had earned his seat in power, and for good reason, as he was instead born into it. Indeed, his father had been a knight most loyal to the King of New Parthurn, who had hoped Damian would share his father’s wisdom, compassion, and sense of duty. Because of this, the young man was granted lordship of a manor, which, to Damian's liking, was situated rather apart from society, a cliff overlooking the ocean, as his father remained ever next to his king's side. The ruling body of New Parthurn was a council of five, and a King, appointed by the Bolvei. No one questioned the king to continue the old tradition of nobility granting power to their ken. But Damian had felt none of his father's more positive characteristics, and had spent most of his time within his study. Six years of these activities had not been kind to his reputation, and, he had to admit, neither his physique.

I would have liked it if the initial said/Dad were reversed. I had to jump back to Dad after realizing the quote had ended at the comma.

I didn't need the second "and" in the "up from the couch" line.

The line about the noise after he opens the can of pop makes me replay the same footage over again, you don't need it. Your previous line even ends on the word "pop," it does enough work on its own.

The forty-eight years old bit seems odd to join with his location. It feels like you're gluing details together just to avoid starting too many sentences with "He". That area could be fiddled with. "Eyes betraying age" went completely over my head, for a short moment I wondered if you were hinting at pedophilia or something.

I originally thought the "When you take a Fibonacci number" line was a continuation of the girl speaking. It doesn't actually sound like a reply to what she'd said. When people explain thing to me, I usually don't just pick up the explanation where they left off the instant they stop to take a breath or something. Doesn't seem human.

The girl kinda popped up on the diving board for me since I wasn't sure just where it was. You could also throw a "then" in the sentence where she's taking a seat on the edge, before the last bit. Having her positioned over the pool makes the the image for everything afterward come through super clearly though, and the spirals tie into the drain and the empty pool and the suicides very well. The brief moment you get me to imagine her diving headfirst into the empty pool is also a great touch, pretty much everything after she sits down on the diving board is great.

If you want to go through with c4c here's mine: pastebin.com/VA7cCR2P. Your feedback would probably be interesting, particularly in regards to the conversation I end on. It's longer than what you posted though, so if you just want to go up to the first set of asterisks that's fine. I'm not much of a stickler in regards to c4c.

>When people explain thing to me
t-h-i-n-g-s to me, I mean

Highrises and arcades had made way to apartment complexes and bulk goods stores, that in turn had made way to suburbs and grassy plains. I'm walking on a main road, perplexed by the slow transformation from urban to country. It's not even noticeable at this slow pace, you just end up finding yourself surrounded by buildings at one point, and the next you're surrounded by trees. It's as if the world molds itself around you, changing to fit the path you have chosen. Whether it's me that's moving relative to the Earth, or the Earth is bending itself to make way for me, is indistinguishable, or so it feels as I keep my heading.

The amount of cars have narrowed, and so have the road. I'm no longer on a wide swath of asphalt meant for cross-country truckers to let loose on, but rather on a small, not very well maintained gravely street snaking its way through the small valleys carved from millennia of erosion. Buildings have become scarcer, and more shabby looking. Pretty much the only ones I see now are small farm cottages made from wood or bare concrete, with dim lights flickering from within as its inhabitants gather around the wood stove and prepare for the cold night. There are a few skeletons of modernist architecture scattered at prime spots on the outcroppings on the mountains, monuments left from an age of economic expansion where owning multiple homes wasn't a far off dream. But those dreams evaporated as fast as the bubble did, and with no resources flowing to these constructs, their husks of timber and stone are left on their own volition to once again sink back in to nature, given time.

The night is falling. The last purple clouds are struggling to illuminate the treelines on the surrounding mountains, and the sky is turning from violet to deep blue to obsidian so fast that you can almost spot the hue change with your naked eye, if you stand still and observe. The first stars are coming out, clearer than what you can usually see in the city, but still dimmed from the background lighting that flood from the mountaintops in the direction I came from.

A chill breeze catches me from behind and makes me shiver for a moment. If I don't want to spend the night walking, then I'll have to find shelter soon. I can't just set up my tent anywhere as this land is owned by people, so I'll have to ask the owners if I can camp on their lot tonight.

you're welcome

Could I get a critique on this?

It reads like a sermon. Not a hillbilly wooden church one, but one you'd hear from a bishop of a marble cathedral.

I'm not really into theology myself, so I can't comment on the actual content, but it reads and flows well. I'd stop and give it a listen if someone preached it on the street.

Thanks man; yeah, it's a meditation—and religious, so it's theological—, but I could see it being read aloud to others as a call to action

Are you doing this as a part of a study, or for yourself?

For myself. I'll basically write down tidbits, phrases, aphorisms after reading something—material like the Bible, books by Saints, prayers— and build off of that single thought.

Or gather the main elements of what I had read (of a passage or excerpt), and expand upon each part of it.

Interesting. Planning on doing something with it?

I've been writing specific, important religious revelations in my life as well; there's only two written right now (3600 words). I wrote one piece of apologetics (just like 3600 words) and I got about 3600 words worth of those 200-700 word meditations.

To answer your question, I'm not sure. I've been researching writing contests and have come up with nothing I could enter my work into. When I realized that I pumped out like 9000 words within two weeks (first week was during my finals), I had a pretty young thought about putting it all into a book.

I definitely want to show others what I've been writing, that's kinda why I'm back on Veeky Forums.

You got any suggestions of what I ought to do with it?

Yeah, keep writing them and collect them into a single book. Then go to a religious publishing company and get it out there.

I'm not religious myself, but your writing is good. I'm sure it'll appeal to a number of people

Thank you for the encouragement! Maybe my future book will change your mind hahaha

Just balance damnation with hope, and it should be all good.

Godspeed. Pun intended.

hahah, don't worry. I have some that discuss how shitty we are and that just saying "I love Jesus" doesn't cut when your actions are saying "I despise and hate Jesus"

I'm actually reading a book by a saint that basically makes you feel awful and calls you out for it.
>insert hope
He reels the reader back in to raise the morale and changes him/her for the better.

and that was a God pun!

Calling on the hypocrisy of modern day moderate Christians would be pretty cool.

Go for it.

The nature of Christians (including me) is being hypocrites. It sucks lol.

I'd want to call out our slothness, our laziness in regard to stop rejecting God.

>It's a problem with protties the most.
When a man thinks he is saved the instance he believes no matter what, he is free to sin like a madman with no consequence.

sola fide is such a dangerous doctrine.

I've heard some awful stories regarding men who have refused to apologize and ask for forgiveness because they feel that they dont need to. It's sad really

Thanks user! I didn't want to clutter up this thread but I respect your desire to be recognized. Do you have a work posted I can crit?

How the fuck do I write meaningful human interaction?

Thanks for the critique user, I hope at least it was entertaining!

Learn from Oscar nominated dramas. Takes notes of their gestures and dialogue

It's an old wound. A wound I used to dress with cottony memories. Happily. Silently. And then I threw the cotton away one day. The silence remained.

Oh this was lovely. This character's depression and his very clear emergence out of it is beautiful. You describe and create a great scene of how he used to be, and then now he becomes quite nicely.

>Money do nothing for me.
Money does

You could probably introduce his apartment a bit more, or expand on why he hates how he's done nothing with his life, and how he continues to change afterwards, but maybe you just wanted this story to stay in this place, and have him change in this way, rather than have us follow him, and that would be ok. I'd like to see more of him, and see what he does next, but that's up to you.
As a short story, this is much closer to done than you might think.
As a novel, you could make this a strong starting chapter, but you'd have to back it up with a lot more.

Good luck faggot

! do nothing that is of no ( insert the meaningful human interaction required for use ) !

! ΘανΧσ βε το Θε σηγεσυ , Θε Διφινε ινφινιτε υνιτυ , Θε Δελτα-Διφινιτυ ,.

It was as I moved past a thicker oak to get a better look at him and came into the light of the clearing that I couldn’t find him. Maybe he’d already seen me. I wasn’t sure how, and I called out for him to wait up. I started to head to only other exit, a hole in the trees on the other side of the clearing.

When I felt something prickly that tugged on my legs seconds later, I thought it was a tripwire. Almost immediately after, there was something just as spiny curling up my right arm, which tugged and dragged my whole body down onto the ground, between the rocks and grass. My head was a bit more lucky, and landed more safely in the dirt. Only once I struggled and puffed and turned red in the face fighting the vines did the boy come out from the shade.

He was dressed just as poorly as before. A scratchy white shirt that smelt like it needed a wash, and torn brown shorts. He walked up to me and asked: “What do you want?”

His whole body looked so much taller from this angle.

The thing he had got my arm and leg pinned down with felt scratchy, like some kind of vine, or a tree root. His little vanish and reappear trick was smart, and completely unexpected, but that’s all that was good about it. It was a cheap shot, a fake out that relied on me not knowing what trick he had pulled and how it worked. If he ever tried it again on me, I doubt i would’ve fallen for it.

“You’re the girl from the shops right? What do you want? The cops’ reward money?”

I struggled to free my trapped arm and leg again from the brambles and vines, but that just hurt them more. They felt too spiky to be natural.

Opening could use more work? Who is Paul and why does he hear voices?

Also: work on your transitions. The delivery to the inner dialogues are weak.

Newfag here. How do I reach your level?

By writing shit.

Hey, I'm the guy who wrote the swimming pool story.

I like the intro premise around the temperature but could do without the second line ("it's been cold for as long..."). I could also do without the "repeat" at the end. It's kind of a worn out trope at this point, almost cliche.

My people don't refer to their own age as 20-something, that's usually when you make a guess at somebody else's. Doesn't come across as natural, IMO.

"every nook and cranny of your soul", don't know how I feel about invoking romantic language like 'soul' so suddenly. It's probably fine, but is a bit off putting to me in this context. Personally I'd go with something more material, since that's what you've described to this point (i.e., "nook and cranny of your flesh").

This is beginning to read like Chuck Palaniuk (sp.). Not a bad thing.

"Accumulates, accumulates, accumulates" in the plural, is what you want.

The simple dialogue is good.

Overall this is 'okay'. Not much to offer here in terms of excitement nor emotional impact but that could just be the scene itself. I find this needs more of a 'punch' to pack.

Noted. Can you be more specific on what you mean by delivery?

Also anyone has anymore feedback? Really appreciate it

Hey, following through on the C4C here. I have to leave for work in about 10 minutes though so I'll have to keep things concise.

>pulled her feet out of the snowy boots
I'm liking the imagery already.

>Japanese!
Okay, i like this.

What's this about his mom saying suicide isn't funny? Context?

I like the simple dialogue.

I like the protagonist's imagination.

The philosophy conversation is a little overdone, maybe. "it was a good argument by empirical standards". idk about this. Is this how people actually talk to non-philosophy types? And this is coming from a phil major who hung out with mostly other phil majors.

The Bouba-Kiki part is good in general.

The ending part where she prepares the salmon and eggs is nicely done. Overall, this whole thing is solid throughout.

Sorry I couldn't dig into this in more detail. I usually hate reviews that are purely positive, but there's not much on first reading that I can dissect here critically. I think some of the dialogue in the middle re: their academic dispositions is a bit of a distraction and we could do without it, but there may be something revealing there that I'm unaware of.

Hey people, the offer for a crit-for-crit still stands. Really eager for feedback on this draft.

His head turns to look at me, he has not moved. Face to the painting, mask to me. Searing darkness behind the eyes. We stand in front of a painting, the only one in the room, distant murmurings filter in from other exhibits. A white canvas. No. Subtle structure begins to take shape- hair thin lines- red and ochre intricate.

The mask cracks a smile, loudly. How did I ever think the canvas was blank? That darkness seeps out of the broken porcelain. I keep watch on the painting- lines assembling, no intention or intelligence, but assembling all the same as in my peripheral the darkness shimmers like air from a boiler.

“From the illusion of control we derive control.”

The words shock back the ink and the air is clear again but for a thin keening. The man spoke those words, the walls shouted them. I feel the first bite of a cold- that dreary weight, that heat in your gut.

One hand clasps my shoulder. Avuncular, familiar, wrapped over steel cords. He has not moved. Mask to painting, face to me. Why would he smile? He has no need to comfort me and no desire to gloat. One rock in the riverbed has resisted the water’s wear and will forever. The water flows over it in the same way it always has. He nods and smiles and is not moving. If I could one day learn that trick: to walk while staying perfectly still.

The air fills with music and the hand on my shoulder pushes me sideways, lying down. With a touch I stop the soft bedside chiming.

Today I am going to the museum.

First poem and first quatrain of a sonnet. Alright? I'm still very much learning the theory behind these. Thank you in advance.

Bereft, I saw the face of she whose light
my soul did take amid the glooming void
and gently set me down as feather’s flight,
to look upon my hands the work employed

--

What can man do which nature can’t surpass?
no king upon death can compare his worth
to the grain of sand or a sea of grass,
for all he births shall lie beneath the earth.

Post a high-res version of that pic and I'll review it.

Aw, man. That's a bit unfair. I'm trying to find a high res one. No one else has to fulfill such requirements! You make me sad.

I know I am a pleb but can someone please criticize what I wrote. I don't even know if those two paragraphs are coherent.

I am revising what I wrote based on the one user that offered some feedback but... would really appreciate if someone could further break down what I am doing wrong/right

Haven't posted or written in a while. Would enjoy some constructive criticism, thanks.

The neck of vermouth clanked against my glass while bitterness occupied my sinus and botanicaled my gustatory. The sky was an orphan that night; with an acrid coughing fog. A vagrant looking for shelter. I placed both glass items on each side of the blanket in my backpack, zipped it up, and went on. I came from west and looked toward a beaten path only to become perpendicular with a whimpering blood soaked hyena laid upon tall grass. I walked to it and observed that there were wounds. It was gnashed on its legs and neck yet still breathing. I laughed at the hypocrisy. Here lies a beast, when healthy, ready to rip larynx from throat and feast upon gizzards with no remorse, suddenly staring into my eyes with helpless desperation. I felt sullen and confused. I had no compassion for its body but found myself sympathizing. Stripping away fur, snout, the primal blood-thirsty feeding frenzy was a creature no different than a rabbit in its sentience. It was a mammal, an animal. I snapped out of it and couldn’t let myself be weak so I became the hyena brain. Inhibiting my inhibitions. I placed my right foot upon its neck and held its body down with my left arm. It was a bound hound and our free limbs battled. The hyena rapidly writhing and contorting trying to overcome constrained pain and escape. I, invading its wounds and ripping out the muscle, slowly starting to enjoy the act. I was squeezing the meat and watching it gush between my fingers. Flinging scraps, until finally I dug my way through its chest cavity and came upon its rushing heart! I was the Hyena and the hyena was starting to seize! How I was amazed at the sight. I was feeding upon the scene taking place: the heart audibly beating; the smeared humors splashed about; and the trails of movements drawn in the dirt. I removed the organ, still beating thump thump, lifted it to my lips thump thump, and took a bite as if it was a live red delicious ripe peach. The hyena’s seizure settled and it too became a dead rabbit suffering at the hands of no Lenny. I knew of no other sweetness that could match the fruit of my labor. No other sweetness.
And so I continued on for a few days until another eventful happening. I came across a field of untrodden daisies. Hateful as I was, I felt lonely and rational; and besides, it was the daisies who knew I’ve no home. Home became the daisies…until I hated the comfort and one day I drew a match from my sack and set the field ablaze. The daises did not mind. They knew I was a vagabond. I guess there was a tell in the way glances were exchanged between us where we both acknowledged what was coming; an acceptance.

bumpin

i have over 80 poems posted on instagram so as to keep em saved but ive never really gotten critique. could you guys please help with that. I would love anything constructive, ive never been taught much and im still relatively young

Im thinking of you
And i dont want to have to say it
But i hope youre thinking of me too
Days are really short here
Or so i like to tell myself
I lack the love for moonlight
I thought i had when id smile
A grin turned grimace as the miles stacked distance,
I cant find the place we used to call home
Im sitting in the chair i thought id never lose inside
Lost under the patch of sky near the place your lips first met mine
Its a nice view and im sure to take it home tonight
Its a nice life and im sure ill take it all by my own sometime
Ride the wave and sing until im a deaf ghost of failed faith
Im all on my own tonight and i think thats ok
I think alot but if i say it wont it stay ?
Id ask a friend if i had one
An ambitious search in vain for a soul who doesnt quite want to know
Maybe one thats rather loud and willing to string me along in song
And a step forth before i proclaim independence through local dependance
I found an intravenous solution and im cleared , a menace sentenced
Vengeance ended and problems vented, distrust scented
Im alone for the moment
Turned moments turned hopeless
Now its been a minute and i feel soulless
And I dont want to have to say
I hope you never come close enough to hear me say... "again"

ive fallen in love too many times not to be absolutely captivated by it.

She went through a phase
Always showing face never looking fazed, knowing fake news fades
To save her inner soul she'd practice escapades, a picnic basket, sweet bread with marmalade,
Canvas and some paint to paint away shades of blue, lingering
Alone without mingling
Given the chance, a moment in those eyes, and love just might be happenstance
Given the choice, it's easy to become one without a voice, as silence strengthens individual choice
Known to her she's one to always listen, from budding children to those without wishes
From the ambitious to the righteous to the vile and indecisive
She saw their path and left a petal
Saw my path and left a petal
Unknown origins, coming from an unknown origin feeling kind of light
And this petal smells like that of trust
Now my hands blooming, a couple petals at my fingertips
Your world's a garden, where flowers live
Watch it rain then bloom again, total silence bringing forth beauty as a ghost
No audience to watch the stems sway
To and fro, the winds blowing boldly
Equivalent to a crowd speaking loudly
End of the night and you're the one who knows the dance
The steps, the motion and the peak of erosion
This week's the first without the hostess
Instead, she's left behind a garden in my mind

I hope this is some jaded satire. . .

I don't get what you mean. Are you a jaded soul? Your response contained absolutely nothing constructive.

What I like:

>The introduction

I think you do a very good job of grabbing the reader. That introduction from the very first sentence, feels natural and non forced. Flows very well in my opinion.

>The setting.

Again reads nonchalantly, with a slight ominous air. Certainly grabbed my attention.

What I don't like (think you should work on):

>Your introduction of the guy speaking to the main character's sister.

Is he sinister? Is he good? Is he just a schmuck? Your introduction of him to the story comes off too strong for what amounts to him making him way/sneaking behind the main character's sister. On the other hand, you did take your time to introduce him, making me believe that he might be more relevant to the story later on. If that is the case spend more time describing him. Physically or psychologically. The few sentences you used to introduced him leave you wanting to know more as to why you even introduced him in the first place.

>A few run-on sentences and/or small blocks of text that are supposed to be very descriptive but don't describe as well. This needs work.

"A loud gust threw leaves into the air. They wafted in the unfilled air above the pool before dropping, suddenly, to the bottom where they stuck to the lining. The wind is picking up, said Dad."

Not the worse description ever but, it doesn't flow as smoothly as it could. And it has words that create urgency like "suddenly" when that particular event probably doesn't require that level of urgency and intensity. Lastly on this point I will say that you can either hone the art of intricate descriptions and/or prioritize better what you wish to show the reader.

Motorway towns outgrew the countryside, their purchase power manifest as sprawl.
Farmers and horses moved to the periphery.
Telecommunications networks compounded the urban dynamic, inviting trading posts and brothels.
The whole eastern area became spoken of in venereal terms, former management hubs isolated at the eastern end before the highway. Office blocks on a high speed exit island, abandoned like shipping containers in a desert.
The abandoned overpass, rising to nowhere, seemed to convey the economy of something other than human. The road stopped and the pillars continued into the dunes. Tent communities formed underneath.

Compare this to the thousands of other love poems that have existed throughout history. Does yours say anything about the subject in a new way? Also there's this 'rhyming for the sake of rhyming' song lyric feel that doesn't really add anything to the poems.

I would suggest to get rid of most of the lines that goes into airy angst, rhetorical questioning, or a jumble of images. Look at Neruda's poetry, for example:

poemhunter.com/poem/if-you-forget-me/

See how concrete and clean the language is. Most of it outlines an image or action.

Also, garden imagery is cliched and has been used a thousand times. As well as stuff like "total silence bringing forth beauty as a ghost".

Look at this poem from ee cummings too:

poetry.org/cummings.htm

And see how whimsical and witty it is, while being able to capture the small little lines that lovers use with each other.

Fits the form, but totally bland. Look at this other Memento Mori poem for example:

poetryfoundation.org/poems/44299/elegy-written-in-a-country-churchyard

"The curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
The lowing herd wind slowly o'er the lea,
The plowman homeward plods his weary way,
And leaves the world to darkness and to me."

And notice how the strong Ls and Ws gets you to feel the dragging weight of the scene. Both of your examples have not taken into account this internal music. Nor does it have wit like these lines by Shakespeare:

"Imperious Caesar, dead and turned to clay,
Might stop a hole to keep the wind away.
O, that that earth which kept the world in awe
Should patch a wall t' expel the winter's flaw!"

I just wrote a very short piece of narrative journalism, so to speak, about something that happened to me about an hour and a half ago.

It's in spanish and it's very pompous. Anyone care to read it?

I'm reminded of this excerpt from William Gass' Temple of Texts where he talks about the best writers in the ornate sermonic prose style:

"The full list, the final role of honor, would include all the great Elizabethan and Jacobean prose writers: Traherne, Milton, Donne, Hobbes, Taylor, Burton, the translators of the King James Bible, and, of course, Browne, or “Sir Style,” as I call him. I would later find them all splendidly discussed in a single chapter of George Saintsbury’s A History of English Prose Rhythm, the chapter he called “The Triumph of the Ornate Style.”"

Yours still lacks the kind of vivacity of prose that appears in stuff like Donne's meditations:

"Is this the honour which man hath by being a little world, that he hath these earthquakes in himself, sudden shakings; these lightnings, sudden flashes; these thunders, sudden noises; these eclipses, sudden offuscations and darkening of his senses; these blazing stars, sudden fiery exhalations; these rivers of blood, sudden red waters? Is he a world to himself only therefore, that he hath enough in himself, not only to destroy and execute himself, but to presage that execution upon himself; to assist the sickness, to antedate the sickness, to make the sickness the more irremediable by sad apprehensions, and, as if he would make a fire the more vehement by sprinkling water upon the coals, so to wrap a hot fever in cold melancholy, lest the fever alone should not destroy fast enough without this contribution, nor perfect the work (which is destruction) except we joined an artificial sickness of our own melancholy, to our natural, our unnatural fever. O perplexed discomposition, O riddling distemper, O miserable condition of man"

This one was at some asian-fusion retro bar,
She sat with her legs crossed hands in lap.
I asked her if she had the time
When she smiled and looked down she saw her watch had gone missing!

My face surprised painted a destroyer--
‘Let’s find it! We have no time to waste!’

A small child running in circles,
Als das Kind Kind war

Just like everything I think,
My feelings were disjointed
The minute hands on her clock flew,
But we were yet to find it

Do you know that feeling at the end of the night,
When everyone parts ways with hugs,
Or maybe just a wave and exclamation,
Or maybe just dismissal without eye contact?

Oh god, and the next day,
When you lay in bed criss crossing the ways she existed there
The way she smiled? The way she felt?
Do you lay in, lazy sundays, the thought of her,
Pure, innocent thoughts that only lead way to
The destroyer within us all

But this one lost her watch,
And I hadn’t the time nor intentions
To keep her from looking,
So so simply,
I let her on her way.

kinda lost it midway through

idk mine seems different form that specific excerpt. But yes, I do want more expression and liveliness in my writings. I think that'll come by virtue of reading more and enhancing my prayer life.

What suggestions might you have for me to bring some more color to my prose?

And thank you so much!!

I am a little vain hahaha; and yes! it is right here:

Probably all of those writers recommended by Gass & that book on the History of English Prose Rhythm. If I remember, Kierkegaard is also pretty lively in his writing, when he's not being too philosophical. Maybe De Profundis by Wilde and the writings of Thomas De Quincey. I suppose you've probably read Confessions by St. Augustine already.

Of aphorisms, Nietzsche is probably stylistically king, but you might be opposed to the content. Just search out any of those poets who have done that form of writing - like Pessoa with the Book of Disquiet.

Irony/10

okay, I'll look into those writers. Indeed, I have read confessions. I am in RCIA and I am going to be confirmed soon; Augustine of Hippo is my saint name!

And yeah, I'll disagree with Nietzsche, but I've been reading the Gay Science and I must agree, he has style.

I really appreciate the help buddy

feel like you havent gotten a constructive critique on this yet so wait on me a little while ill be here to tell you what i think tomorrow morning. youre good but i have some (hopefully) helpful points

>True enough.

this just screams aspie reddit voice to me. I know it seems harsh of me to say that. but it's... I can't express it, but it hurts to read

you gotta sharpen your prose. I liked para 3

I just started, can I get some opinions on this prose:

Tall trees provide shelter to the snow-laden dirt ground. The insects have finished their migration, the animals in hibernation. No life can be observed or heard. The clouds are absent tonight, the sky is black.

Not very far from the calm beauty of the winter forest, an age asphalt road lies with broken markings. A slightly-decomposed squirrel covered by a layer of snow.

Thanks lads. I think I'll be developing this as episodic chapters, where each of them could be a standalone short story.

Kinda related, what's a good female antonym to the classic energetic sporty girl type, but one that would still go on a journey?

that's a sick poem by Naruda there

Bump?

Ill go in depth later; but Jesus that was disturbing.

I know you were going for that, so good job

Imma come back later

>botanicaled my gustatory
this...this is not good

>observed that there were wounds
why not use 'saw'? it seems you're intentionally placing words in your sentences that disrupt the natural cadence of the line. it doesn't flow smoothly when multisyllabic words are unncessarily thrown in willy nilly

i mean, this isn't bad as a whole, but IMO over-written and laden with too much melodrama for me to ever find enjoyable

I wanted to show how the idea of offing yourself just pops up like that but simuteniously maintain the character's immaturity so as not to have him look like someone who'd thought his way into depression or something. I also want it to be contrasted to the girl's memory in how far back it is and who's being remembered, but seen as similar in that its being used as a preventative measure.

Thanks I guess. I'll have a newer one out in maybe twenty minutes, I'll reply to this post.

>I laughed at the hypocrisy. Here lies a beast, when healthy, ready to rip larynx from throat and feast upon gizzards with no remorse, suddenly staring into my eyes with helpless desperation.

this sentence can be fixed. I think there's a better way to convey the "here is a beast known for this magnitude, but here it lays meek"

>I, invading its wounds and ripping out the muscle, slowly starting to enjoy the act.

don't use the invasion as a descriptor of you, make a description about it. I invaded the wounds, or my hands invaded...

I bet you can make it more disturbing that it already is in a more effective and efficient way