Is this the pinnacle of poetry ?

is this the pinnacle of poetry ?

no.
it sucks.
but that's really
OK.

kek kek

OP here, I accidentally posted the wrong poem. This is what I wanted to post.

Oh, in that case, yes.

CRASH!
Only one pancake
remained
two if
you counted the golden retriever

That 6 year old has a future.

>idented YES
>no mention of They're Singing a Song in their Rocket
>weird 90's "computer screen" font face
Which blasphemous, clandestine edition is this?

All of Veeky Forums reposts this little poem but they can't appreciate it like I can, because their minds are so fucking feeble. It hurts that I call everyone here a brother in our love of literature. But, since you all seem to have this sense of irony attached to this beautiful poem, I will break it down for you. The tiger obviously calls from William Blake's masterpiece of eponymous name, which describes that majestic tiger, whose great fire in his eyes, the sheen of his coat, turn him into a star, an inferno burning within 'the forests of the night'. Yes, it is quite clear that this is the same tiger that Nael is referring to. I suspect that Nael is a false name, since he wishes to keep his identity secret and thus, not let the ladies distract him from his art. When the tiger destroys his cage, it his him bursting forth from the forest; from this earth, and calling out against all his oppressors that he will not be contained—he will be free to rampage, roam, devour, destroy, consume, eat, and engorge himself upon everything the world has kept to him. Yes. YES he exclaims; the world of possibility opens endlessly before him. The humans look on in terror. The speaker, for which this poem keeps silent, joins in the tigers jubilation; he knows the power of the tiger and he too exclaims his ecstasy. Beauty and rage cannot be contained, or so the speaker feels. All of these emotions are contained so perfectly within the 12 words of this poem. The poem is a cage. The white space represents freedom. The minimalism represents the primal nature of the world. The tiger is the man. The man is his fear. The fear is everywhere. He will destroy it.

That's absolute fucking nonsense. Nael is clearly writing about his own coming-of-age story under the oppressive thumb of his alcoholic, abusive stepfather. The stanza solemnly ends with an emotionless "The tiger is out," signalling the author's remorse in not being able to have a fruitful childhood as his peers have, and in bearing the psychological burden with him for the rest of his tragic existence.

The overarching theme is more general, however; while it tells a personal story, the author relates his plight to the story of Patrice Lumumba's final hours in the Congo.

You bumbling idiot. There is no possible way that an author of this caliber would need to write something so personal in such a way; the misery of the artist as requisite to great art is a myth. No, I contend that the artist himself, who is likely, as I have noted, a persona created for the purpose of this piece, is wholely absent from the lines. These were observations likely made at a Zoo, and made upon the reflection of the cruelty of keeping said tiger locked away in a cage. It is akin to the struggles we have in our society under a feudalistic capitalist structure that winces in horror towards anything original or unique (which I suspect you suffer from as well) and wishes to enslave it, contain it. The tiger, like the artist, has much deeper meaning. It is a beautiful soul locked in the confines of a society that has no wish to view absolute beauty, lest their eyes be burned and their life-story become paled in the contrast of such greatness. Ayn Rand would have loved this artist. Homer would call him god-like. Had he be born in the 4th century, it would be Nael for whom Dante meets at the gates of hell.

Every time I read this poem. Ecstasy is ejaculated into my fucking bloodstream. Dopamine and serotonin fucking skyrocket. yes. YES.

this thread is reddit

>Yes. YES he exclaims;
oh fuck

fuck off, Age 7 poster

samefag.

Tryhard pasta is tryhard

I'd really like to know where the tiger is today

has those been posted before?

>I got everything there was to get from this poem in one reading

shite

Marinetti spent his entire life trying to make something this good, but he never could. Nael outdone him after a few years of literacy.

This poem combined with this analysis is proof of how hilariously subjective art can be. We should frame the poem and sell it as high art.

the poem is unironically better than most contemporary poetry

Is it objectively better or has the meme surrounding the poem elevated it in your eyes? Context is important when reviewing art.

Without memeing, the poem shows a certain child-like innocence and when reading it you can't help but crack a smile and feel happy
Despite its simplicity and unintentional brilliance it seriously is a fantastic poem

Of course if instead of Nael 6 it were written Alison 38, it wouldn't have the same effect so the it's not a perfect poem since it requires knowledge of the author to be appreciated

I don't think it has.

It's a contraposition to Rilke's panther.
>the tiger is out.
>the tiger is not paralyzed
>the narrator is exicted
Pretty gud for a 6 year old.

This is our world. Shit is good. Good is shit. Nobody can tell the difference anymore. The ones that could are dying or dead. Generations of kids, old kids, young kids, dead kids; we wouldn't know objectively good if it bit us in the ass.

The tiger is capitalism.

So this is the power of autism...

this

yes
YES

Shade of gray
splashed on the wall
lil peep dead
only eyes call dust wind noise two
rage fury three eyes on sticks teeth biting lips
so blue
you touch my hand and we squad
one lonesome
day in russia

I made the words be nonlinear but Veeky Forums destroys ART

Stuff like this poem i wrote is the shit i deal with in denmark

Going through the motions
so in tune with the moment
dove into an ocean of lonely moods
then stole the moves of a dolphin and swam with you
solitude's not an option, sorry dude
My soul is fueled by lots of torments
I hear it howling through:
"something's good? then that's not important, you fucking fool
there's only room for improvement, no excuses."

You can pick your nose,
And you can pick your friends,
But you can't pick your family
This I know;

A lighter note about fame
Through the bustling
and the rustled thoughts
I battle in the day

Friends are not obligated
Nor are they at all
Inconvenienced by the
Company they keep.

...

why does this give me a rush every time I read it?