Poetry Critique/General

thank

i was def working for a tonal change, but does it not feel productive?

A multitude of poems by W.B Yeats.

No games at this computer station but
a hand exploring fabric forms restrained
impressions in the gentle marble that
the quarry-goers spurned in favor of
the perfect vein of Galatea’s Love.

I'll swear you off as I've sworn off the bottle
Just to by sunset drink from you again
And then to thirsted wake in early morning
And beg forgiveness, then repent in vain

Another day will pass with glasses filling
My chalice always stand half full of pride,
Half full of sorrow - bitter, unforgiving
And last night's laughter will ring out bright

And last night's tears will be long forgotten
Regret will once new give to hope
Uncertainty will fill another bottle
And fantasy again will spin its rope

Ooh, i like it. Got any more?

Thank you yeah I've got one more in the same kind of style

My glasses found a place upon my eyes.
I saw the trees take form to sway in wind
Above my spread of spots across the yard.
But colors seemed to yield to lowly gray
Despite my work to wipe the dust away.

Yeah, i dig this. You've got style. Ever been published?

i think the end is the best part desu

No I just kind of do it for fun. I appreciate what youre saying man I dont usually share what I write

No, I feel that. I've never tried to publish any of my stuff either, though I have loads of it written down. I feel like if I start doing it as anything more than a hobby, it would kind of lose all the fun. Still, I'm saying, if you ever did, I'm sure it'd find an audience.

I really like the word choice, and the overall feel of it. It's very expressive. However, not exactly my style, seems a bit more like prose, just because I'm a normie that like more conventional rhythm and rhyme.

...

wonderful, publishable

Poem reads in monotone; work on your punctuation—add excitement.

>L6 through end

Certainly better than the beginning. Very expressive word choice here flows much better than the first 5 lines, which is a shame since I feel like this has the elements of a great poem. I would strongly consider that you revisit the introduction and contemplate if bone stupor and weights and pressure really fit the nature setting expressed in the middle of the poem.

B-

Reads more like prose than a poem. Its a great novel idea. I enjoyed the 3rd stanza. Word and natural rhythm come to play in the 4th stanza—more SoC akin to modernist poets or Joyce.

Also, thanks for the critique, but Sol was meant as a pun (Sol being the latin name for our sun) in keeping with the space theme

I love how quickly you go from the physical to the abstract to get your meaning across. Its very sweet and sincere and I enjoy it very much.

props brother

strong meter and rhyme scheme. You're missing the last two couplets to make this a sonnet. Last stanza turn isn't enough to make this poem punch as much as I want it to. Theres a lot here and I look forward to seeing it flourish.

attached is a shitty poem I'll put on instagram later because visual shit is kinda cool to me.

Stuck in the muck
Hope is struck
Down, and down again.
Condemned to push the stone
Forever up the hill.
Only for it to roll back,
Crushing the will.

I know what sol means, but the pronunciation is what i took issue with (and the singular use of a mid-word enjambment)

Thanks for taking a look at mine. A comparison to modernists is always a good thing for me.

it's good to see someone who likes to specify the type of stars when talking about space. you seem like you play with meter, have you tried making your own meterical patterns to stick to?

pic-related is an unfinished exercise that shows what i mean.

i think the 'gone poor as the folk stuck' line shows a certain disconnect between the narrator and the 'poor folk' that doesn't seem to add to the poem

also, "gray against grey" feels way too playful, but desu the voice changes from L5 and onward.

whoops

I love playing with meter or inventing different schemes to play with. Even when I try and free verse like above, I still find myself counting out syllables and editing autistically as if someone will get it. In the end, I find myself wanting to copy the stylistic ways of Eliot—moving in and out of rhythm and rhyme to emphasize certain points, eg a climax or something serious or to convey speed. Its an extra element I truly enjoy, even if nobody else gets it.

i don't trust poets who don't look at their rhythms like crazy.

Me either. Good observation! I don't think its necessarily great for producing publishable work, but its an excellent exercise for self-improvement, however.

>I would strongly consider that you revisit the introduction and contemplate if bone stupor and weights and pressure really fit the nature setting expressed in the middle of the poem.
I'm afraid I don't see what you're talking about here. There really isn't a nature setting in this poem. The weights, bone stupor, and pressure are the central "setting" of the poem. Is the paraphrase of the poem not coming across for you? It's hard for me to tell how clear it is.

remove "as poor as the" and replace it with like, change "their dry roots like the dry grass" to "their dry roots and dry grasses".

agree with poster about gray against grey seeming a little too much. there are some really great lines in here

>wetting a sunburnt face full of America

> windmills catch the flow from clouds like mothers catching their.....fly by

Ending is great.

I'll reread it again; those were first impressions. Don't put too much weight into them. I don't read these poems more than 2-3 times before I write a critique. I'll come back tomorrow.

Nah, the high-tier contemporaries are crazy about rhythm too

look at Yang in The Grass
poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poems/92663/the-grass-58b9dcf30ef80

or

Marianne Boruch in 'a'
poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poems/57905/a-56d23bd2a73b9

still, i would say a strong sense of voice is the most important thing right now to get publish (aside from knowing someone)

I mean that theres this walden feel in the center of the poem with wet pine needles and a lake and skies, gift, heaven. I'm actually enjoying it more now that I'm rereading it.

No problem, just trying to see if something isn't coming across.

There is nature in the poem, but I don't know if I could describe it as a setting. And the conflict with the apartment, television, etc. is meant to be intentional. The "major setting" (if that makes sense) I think has to be the setting of the first few lines and the last few lines, not the pines and lake in the middle.

Carven, the throat
Of the funeral goat
He festers in the moonlight

Exposed to disease
My phallus seeks
The embrace of his delights

The will to insert
In this creature, inert
My actions have begat disgust

My only release
This creation, deceased
This is necrobestialust

thanks for the feedback anons, much appreciated

stanza three, l3, doesn't match the rest of your self-imposed rhythm scheme.

stanza 2, l3 is confusing because its trochaic; the is rarely a trochee. can't think of a way to fix it either.

good idea, just needs a little polish.

not that guy but wtf are you talking about with the meter. nobody would read "the embrace of his delights" starting with a trochee. that is stupid. it's easiest to scan as elision from the to embrace... in shakespeare it would be th' embrace, but we don't actually write out "th'" anymore, we just elide. but even if it was an anapest elevation (much more logical to go to than a trochee) it would be fine probably

You are a child of the sea
You are the sand that welcomes the tide
The crystalline shimmering of aquamarine stones
Paints your sun-kissed skin
As you take on the color of the wide night sky
Your gentle waves rocks the drunkest sailors to a calming sleep

You are a child of the sea
The sand that welcomes the tide
The crystalline shimmering of aquamarine stones
Paints your sun-kissed skin
As you take on the color of the wide night sky
Your gentle waves bides the drunkest sailors goodnight

...

boy you guys are good

...

so these are the people who claim the publishing industry is a scheme, who think political agendas don't belong near poetry, who clamor to protect the virtues of meter and musicality. everything ITT is prolix, limp-wristed tripe that manages to say nothing at all. good luck boys. i'm laughing at your lives

>inb4 t. ess jay dub
>inb4 t. lord of stem

rude, i don't think most of those things, and my poetry has MEANING

there are a couple of ok things in this thread. good for amateur poetry. were you expecting keats? post your poems

I never thought I was going to read anything this good on Veeky Forums. Gosh.

Bogged down

When trudging through,

Trials and tribulations,

Doubt and dismay,

One knows only,

Consistent coherence,

And unwavering strength of adherence.

Anything

What could, would not,
and may never, leaves only
That which should, and shall.

nah, i don't need validation on the chans. i'm at the point where i'm older than 90% of the userbase so posting my work would be vanity

i’m like 99% sure your “work” is shit

>posting my work would be vanity

Unfinished sonnet
Is it to suffer missing their embrace
That God made eyes which nothing more desire
Or curse a lonely soul in sad disgrace
To watch beauty secretly inspire
A wicked fate, to toil for love with zeal
Without humble hope or skilful art
Denied of feeling love's relentless deal
Or gifting other with a blessed heart?
Illusions lurking in my flesh will tell
Desire's bliss which emanates a gleam
And sink me quickly to the deepest hell

Then I got a girlfriend and now I don't have that incel frustration nor inspiration anymore.

Not that this inspiration was doing anything, my metric is shit

Wew, lad

Am I a brainlet if I don't enjoy writing poetry? I enjoy reading it far more.

listen fuckslut, listen well:
I will ream you with my bell-
end until you gasp and blush,
'til toilet-bound you fart and gush.

Software Engineer
---------------------------

He never hit the headlines as a boy,
With skittish stallion turned towards the sun:
At school he passed unnoticed, finding joy
In games of chess (not all of which he won).
Nor has he wrenched a coastline out to sea
To set the rebel city there ablaze:
In fact, when thousands cheer great oratory
He's probably alone, and somewhere else.

Yet practicing his craft behind closed doors
He daily conquers worlds. Across the sand
Spread out beneath him, polished breastplates flash,
Spear-points are lowered, hoofbeats rise to a roar:
And nothing follows but by his command
As two gigantic swirling armies clash.

>Look mom I posted it again

You wrote pretty much the same thing a few threads back.

Cringed at the last line

I'm an amateur, so any advice is appreciated.

BITTER

"And so it was", he then did cry.

A dead end on this hallowed ground.

Here he had thought, "I wished to try."

He had neither dollar nor pound.
It wasn't a unique story.

I wouldn't call it good, never.

But he handed it off to me,

A lasting chill in cold weather.

oh hey it's you again. how's it feel to be a mediocre young white male?

cozy.

Falling faintly, through and through,

Listlessly layering the ground.

Miles above, and below my feet,

an angled haze cold and pale,

Waits again for morrows eve.

Thirty thousand feet
I wave out of the window
Sat next to me is
You and as we fly on my
Shadow waves back from a cloud

I unironically love this. Language could be tighter, though.

Christmas Eve?

Not sure what you mean by tighter :(

It's in strict Tanka form. 5 / 7 / 5 / 7 / 7 syllables.

Glad you like it though.

counting syllables is for autists who need an arbitrary structure to center their writing because they lack the rigidity of a personal voice and personal opinion, and who think a garden path is a worthwhile and critically interesting device anywhere in a poem, let alone on the final line

I'm disappointed in the end of the lines
'to me is'
'on my'

They could be stronger words. Though, it does give the poem a skipping quality. I enjoyed it. Thanks for teaching me a new form.

Get out of my poetry thread.

>out of the
wasted syllables
>as we fly on my
excluding 'fly' it's wasted syllables
>next to me is
wasted syllables
>back from a
>wasted syllables

I close my eyes and seize it
I clench my fists and beat it
I light my torch and burn it
I am the beast I worship...
And I know soon come my time
For in mine void a pale horse burns
But I fear not the time I'm taken
Past the point of no return.
Wage war like no tomorrow
Cuz no hell there won't be one
For all who deny the struggle
The triumphant overcome

Please put the katana down user.

"next to me is / you"

is obviously an intentional effect, splitting the line where there is no pause in the natural rhythms of speech.

Obviously I am doing this to draw attention to "you" sitting next to me.

Similar answers could be given to the other points you raised, but I'm assuming at this point you're just trolling, so I shan't waste any more time.

"Hitting the right keys when you play the piano is just for autists who aren't able to let their imagination race free and unfettered, like a noble wild horse on the plains."

>I don't like the way people read my poem
>Only poetic scholars can critique
>user doesn't understand I did this on purpose
>Obviously it's their fault not mine

Get out of my poetry thread.

MC Ride plz

Sometimes I am mistaken
And so I retrace my missteps
But those footprints that I follow
Reliefs in the sands of my past
Do not seem my own
For many are too large
Others too small
Others, alien in shape
Of some ancient prehistoric man
Whose feet are not my own
A man who walked a path much distinct
From this one I now rewalk
His steps leading him
To a place long gone
And yet they lead, still
To the place I am returning

1/10

4/10

3.5/10

8/10

1/10

0/10 kys

8.5/10

3/10

9/10

2/10

inb4 hurr dis isn't critique hurr—I gave it exactly the attention it was due: 5 minutes per poem (yes really) and (yes really most of you stink—where do I put this (?

...

>
>2/10

It's about me when I was 5 and got stuck walking in some mud.
Bog down

To slow down or burden someone or something.

Bog

Become stuck in mud or wet ground.

not the person you replied to, but you should just take criticism and move on. user has no more merit to his words than you do. He has no credentials or certificates or degrees. His word isn't law. Take it in to consideration, but don't obsess over bad critiques, especially if they have no substance.

>Bogged again

>literally retarded

Get out of my poetry thread.

nice treatment of image and solid resolution

this poem would benefit greatly from being shortened. the "trials and tribulations" is a straight turn of phrase and superfluous to boot. axe it

nice last line, very strong syntax

Catullus is smiling somewhere

never try to be directly sentimental

Since this is also a General thread, does anyone know if pic related is a good resource, or are there better alternatives?

>giving value judgements for unquantifiable pieces of "art"

See

...

Two things of opposite natures seem to depend
On one another, as a man depends
On a woman, day on night, the imagined

On the real. This is the origin of change.
Winter and spring, cold copulars, embrace
And forth the particulars of rapture come.

Music falls on the silence like a sense,
A passion that we feel, not understand.
Morning and afternoon are clasped together

And North and South are an intrinsic couple
And sun and rain a plural, like two lovers
That walk away as one in the greenest body.

In solitude the trumpets of solitude
Are not of another solitude resounding;
A little string speaks for a crowd of voices.

The partaker partakes of that which changes him.
The child that touches takes character from the thing,
The body, it touches. The captain and his men

Are one and the sailor and the sea are one.
Follow after, O my companion, my fellow, my self,
Sister and solace, brother and delight

way to find a shitty Wallace Stevens poem.

Why do you have to ruin my fun
>Shitty
Your mom is shitty

It sounds better as trial and tribulation

When trudging through,

Trial and tribulation,

Doubt and dismay,

One knows only,

Consistent coherence,

And unwavering strength of adherence.

Oh, Photon
Hallowed child of Athena
Sew thine thread
Threw mine eye

A thousand portraits
Living and dying by
The pull of that seamstress

Always true
And yet
And yet

Your tapestry
Dwindles

tattered

Oh, mind of moths
Tired leper of Khronos
Covet her flame
And set dull my poor soul

Online Question 1:

When I was a kid, I was excited about the carrots,
their spidery neon tops in the garden’s plot.

And so I ripped them all out, I broke the new roots
and there is so much life -- all over the place.

Dead possum bodies, littered across poems.
Ada Limon’s work repeats itself.

Two by four: a wooden board
I think I’ll go beat my brains out.

What I actually hate is having to read through whole collections at a time.

You could have more play in here by disregarding the always true line and bringing to light phenomena such as mirage or diffraction

Life isn't;
Then--
Life isn't;

...

There is a little lad
Whose poems are all quite bad
And though he posts
Expecting roasts
His readers just feel sad

Don't worry about it man, I liked it

...