Poetry Thread

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Post your shit
Post other people's shit
Admonish the greats
Celebrate your poetry waifu
Ask for crit, maybe get it
Do some poetry

dudes in the crit thread posting their poetry as an image as if concretism wasn't a mistake aaaayyyyy

When we were kids
I remember
Finding porn
With my friends
Behind the bike shed.

A dingy magazine
With white lines
Running over each scene

I didn't find
Anything in those
Jagged white lines

Three of them
Dead now
Newspaper clippings
Stuck to the fridge
Jagged white lines
Running over each face.

Where on the paper freckled with rebirths
a crease -- unoval, kneaded organ-like
by the origamist's ruler-flat caress:
with shifting wrinkles of unvectored veins
that wave whence its own maché-sea avoids
the axial needles that trisect, inject-
ing eye-ether through restraints -- a crevice is,
a cut (which is forbidden) into which
to kiss the word that finally makes see?

this would make a good midwest emo song

That's actually quite good.

Since when, my friend, haven't you seen the glittering of the stars ?
Since when, my friend, your soul has find no rest ?
By wanting to get closer to love, haven't you burnt your heart ?
Did the flames of passion have given way to the flames of anger ?
Are you wrecked on the cold ocean of solitude ?
Or do you go forward lost in the dark, with no aim nor mark ?
Do you see the light at the end of the tunnel or is it just a candle that you will have to blow ?
Do you see the destruction of your world comming ?
Do you see your feelings and sanity fall apart ?
Do you fall from your pedestal in the frozen bath of reality ?
As god, is love dead ?
Do you face again, the futility of your own existence, trapped in your own shell ?
Do you think you want to have lived differently, or more likely having never lived ?
Nothing makes sens and you are alone in the dark
Your feelings unleash and you are alone in the dark
Your reason crumbles and you are alone in the dark
You don't know in what to believe and you are alone in the dark
All the gods have gone silent and you are alone in the dark
You don't know what to do and you are alone in the dark
You don't know yourself anymore and you are alone in the dark
No one will come to help you, you are alone in the dark
Everything abandonned you, you are alone in the dark
There is no light to be found, you are alone in the dark
You are alone in the dark

(Intentions)
It's something I wrote based on how I felt in the moment and I wasn't thinking about what I was writting, I just wrote what came to my mind.
Also I wrote it in my native language, which is not english, so it may have some translation issues.
If someone is interested, I'll post the original version.

Thoughts on a crooked path
Get broken in half
Like a run away train
On their one way lay
Passeging ideas for ever lost
Destination found
But not occupied
Arrived
For empty jobs

post original. sounds more second rate neruda in english.

have a good english poem because repetition doesn't work as well over sustained periods in english:
>Things, Fleur Adcock
There are worse things than having behaved foolishly in public.
There are worse things than these miniature betrayals,
committed or endured or suspected; there are worse things
than not being able to sleep for thinking about them.
It is 5 a.m. All the worse things come stalking in
and stand icily about the bed looking worse and worse and worse.

did you find anything in their jagged white lines ( the ones of your friends)?

What are some good poems about farting? Besides The Canterbury Tales

That was me and I. I have it typed up and would rather screenshot it then type it again, so what? Concretism can have it's moments sometimes, though I don't think it's important.

Still in style
Still in fashion
Some see sad where I see glad
Pitiful is not a word I would want to use
It's all just a ruse
just a ruse.

Made up on the spot no less.

oc no steal

It is called the Seige of Jericho
and Exodus or Magisterium.
Profani wander in delirium;
the neophyte, to Hades he must go.

And it is called the rugged dozen labors
of Hellas' pride and glory Hercules
Intrepid Jason's quest for Golden Fleece,
whomever comprehends, our Great Work favors.

And it is called The Passion and the Rise
of Jesus Christ from Death and ossuary,
whose holy blood was spilt to pay the levy
so nascent sin from every Christian flies.

And it is called the noble acquisition
of relics by that Pure Fool, Parzifal,
the budding spear shaft and the Holy Grail,
by these the adept overcomes condition.

And it is called the careful manufacture
of most sought after Philosophic Stone
which rectifies one's flesh as well as bone,
bestows upon a chemist blissful rapture.

The Thread of Ariadne we regain
from days afore the Deluge Era's plinth
and 'scape the Cretan Monarch's labyrinth,
attaining rightful sovereignty again.

Last line should be where shadows fleet

What does that word sound so goddamned retarded to me?

Here you have the original one, it's in french, if some of you can read it.

Depuis quand, mon ami, n'as-tu pas vu le scintillement des étoiles ?
Depuis quand, mon ami, ton âme n'a-t-elle pas connu le repos ?
À force de vouloir t'approcher de l'amour, n'as-tu pas brûlé ton cœur ?
Les flammes de la passion ont-elles laissées place aux flammes de la colère ?
Es-tu naufragé sur l'océan glacé de la solitude ?
Où bien avances-tu perdu dans le noir, sans but et sans repère ?
Vois-tu la lumière au bout du tunnel ou n'est-ce qu'une bougie que tu devras souffler ?
Vois-tu la destruction de ton monde venir ?
Vois-tu tes sentiments et ta sanité s'effondrer ?
Chutes-tu depuis ton piédestal dans le bain gelé de la réalité ?
Comme Dieu, l'amour est-il mort ?
Te retrouves-tu à nouveau face à la futilité de ta propre existence, enfermé dans ta propre carapace ?
Penses-tu vouloir avoir vécu différemment, ou juste n'avoir jamais vécu ?
Rien ne fait sens et tu es seul dans le noir
Tes sentiments se déchaînent et tu es seul dans le noir
Ta raison s'effondre et tu es seul dans le noir
Tu ne sais plus en quoi croire et tu es seul dans le noir
Tous les dieux se sont tus et tu es seul dans le noir
Tu ne sais plus quoi faire et tu es seul dans le noir
Tu ne te connais plus toi même et tu es seul dans le noir
Personne ne viendra t'aider, tu es seul dans le noir
Tout t'a abandonné, tu es seul dans le noir
Il n'y a aucune lumière à trouver, tu es seul dans le noir
Tu es seul dans le noir

I'm still beginning to write, even if I always had ideas before, I would never write it. So I understand that the repetition might be (way) too much, even in french.

'fear', 'anxiety' : those are words I wouldn't use in a combo. 'Filled you with fear' makes it even worse. Why not make it ' that faithful summer eve' while your at it? Uncertainty? Brah, you can't use that in run of the mill poem. Other than that: Good use of space and good ending. Needs work.

Just age. The cuttings were and creased like that because time has passed. I think every time I see things like that it reminds me that I'm older.

Forevermore seems a bit out of place.

Everything I do needs work. This is early brew stuff.

From whence the blue of her eyes came?
Which source or fountain is the same
As those soul-panes stained with kobold,
That my love does unmatchéd hold.
What origin of that hue fits,
Accounting for the blue that sits
Within her face, and takes me so,
Far more than does a sapphire's glow.
And topaz, lapis, fluorspar,
Be no as bright as her gems are.
The highest grade is those rich stones,
All others be derivéd tones.
From ocean not her color lies,
Nor does it hail from the skies,
And seems inversely that they art
Composed of paints which from her start.
So Nature's plumes and butterflies
Seem to me crafted with her eyes.

heh
>tu es seul dans le Noir

*where shadows SKEET

In my language
blackbirds are
"black black"
or the "dark open ravine of hunger"
as is the ring ouzel
"the gluttony of rocks"
or the brook ouzel
"the ravenous lull of the river"
so too "the lull of the storm"

But the hen
she is a "waxen" black "chick"
like the beetle is a "minor piece of wax"
and the record "a swarthy young
wax disc"

I often think of the record turning
the black beetle crawling round
and the blackbird's wife's
thicker dripping song.

[hopefully format holds]

>From whence

try again

Shakespeare uses "from whence" and so have others. Try again.

What's the é thing? Makes you look like a pompous arse.

> So Nature's plumes and butterflies
Seem to me crafted by her eyes.

Still on the outs on that one. You could do a lot with that sentence. Changing one word. But it's probably the best as is.

>What's the é thing? Makes you look like a pompous arse.
he probably meant it to be a grave not acute

The accented Es fit the meter of the poem by changing how the word is pronounced. I'll try playing around with words here and there as I continue to refine it.

They managed to get their
name in anywhere. Saturated
with all sorts of colours, meanings
hidden in the typeface, and framed
with a mugshot chosen to display
the best angle, their names were
typed, copied, sent and printed to
anyone with the means to read.

good but needs more or at least a driving title

nice panic googling :^) as you say, derivéd [sic] tomes

How's this then?

From whence the blue of her eyes came?
Which source or fountain is the same
As those soul-panes stained with kobold,
That my love does unmatchéd hold.
What origin of that hue fits,
Accounting for the blue that sits
Within her face, and takes me so,
Far more than does a sapphire’s glow.
And topaz, lapis, fluorspar,
Be not as bright as her gems are.
The highest grade is those rich stones,
All others be derivéd tones.
In oceans not her color lies,
Nor does it hail from the skies,
And seems inversely that they art
Composed of paints which from her start.
So Nature’s plumes and butterflies
Look to me crafted by her eyes.
All royal pigments ever been,
As well as every earthly seen,
Does cause me insult to compare
Them to my lover’s crystal stare.

Not like poetry sticks to strict grammatical rules anyways

The lion tosses it's
feathers, and
the bird tosses it's fangs.

The blood of Eden is
nothing to rely on, but still,

What a moment this is.

We soar, begininglessly, in
the union of the woman
and the man.

Dreaming a man's dream,
born in the sand, but met with money.
Through these clouds will we meet?

you probably mean "its" in both cases. if you end at "sand" it gets very strong

Concentrate
Focus energy
Into butt

is this like a classy insult? How about you throw some of your stuff this way?

A confined ocean within a vessel
upon another. I scrape my back
upon a porcupine of salted splinters.
A minute of consecutive suns warms the filth.
A bodiless notion to rise arouses no
embodied mind.

If there were cool to apprehend
within Liberty's flag of French surrender,
a declaration of innocence, hiding the copper,
different from the Marianan grave,
I has never dived to ascertain.
There were never any Sirens
whither the helm ploughed,
nor Rusalkas, nor carnivirous Mermaids
wreathing seaweed with entrails
with scabby kisses.

I am telling you stories.

Each man is his actor and his 'Speare.
They pretend to forget
he loved his Lear and his Tite best
and had for his Ferdindand no such zest.

I am telling you stories.

They played the Caesar part then.
And here I rest, hidden, bereaving
the audience of a classic heroine.
with one ocean warming and another swaying
with the first, relieved, receding
into the latter.

Here's a sonnet I thought of today while skiing.

Standing upon this snowy drift
About how we met comes to mind
Your love is wind that gives me lift
A treasure hidden, never to find

We speak with light hearts
Similar feelings, like with friends
Late night in the Driftwood playing darts
Every night, begins with a day ends

For I know we will never be one
And the pain hurts me so
But my love is not done
The next day, always being my foe
The attraction that I have seen
Makes your eyes glow ever green

May God bless and keep you always,
May your wishes all come true,
May you always do for others
And let others do for you.
May you build a ladder to the stars
And climb on every rung,
May you stay forever young,
Forever young, forever young,
May you stay forever young.

May you grow up to be righteous,
May you grow up to be true,
May you always know the truth
And see the lights surrounding you.
May you always be courageous,
Stand upright and be strong,
May you stay forever young,
Forever young, forever young,
May you stay forever young.

May your hands always be busy,
May your feet always be swift,
May you have a strong foundation
When the winds of changes shift.
May your heart always be joyful,
May your song always be sung,
May you stay forever young,
Forever young, forever young,
May you stay forever young.

no, i'm not trying to insult you, if you meant to say "its" as in the possessive, and not "it is feathers", and if you end it at "sand" it's a strong piece of work.
if you meant "it is" it works too but most people will think it's its.

I thought you were calling me a sandnigger (in a bantz kind of way). I visit more than one board on here, so sometimes it's hard to distinct one from another. Thanx for helping me with the typos though.

lol no probs, keep writing

How about -

Trying to pronounce the name of birds
filled the cubicle with dust as I ground
refluxed pebbles with filling'd teeth

doesn't fit with the rest. make it two poems and call the first one facebook.

I'll make the comparison.

And?

It's an improvement, if anything.
> in oceans not her colour lies

> So nature's plumes and butterflies
...
I was thinking more in terms of prepositions.

Too many used as the first word of a line? I felt that, but it was hard to think of better ways to start them. I'll keep revising that if that's the case.

My knees are growing old
My stories growing tenfold


Life is an adventurous tale no longer
I'm sitting at THE table

Has it been good? Has it been fullfilling?
Not in the least.

But I was here. And I've tried to hold onto it as long as possible.

Watching a man die is watching a museum burning down. It was all for nought.

I shall gladly surrender my fear and my anxieties to the next generation.

It's good but needs to get out of its own way

>unoval
And two lines later
>unvectored
The "un" is repeated to closely together, I think. And also
>by the origamist's ruler-flat caress
>ing eye-ether through restraints -- a crevice is
These two lines have one two many syllables. Throws off the meter

Hey nice thread dudes

I had this published recently. But I still would like feedback and general thoughts

Good pyrrhic or phirac feet is present, even if unintentional (most likely, it is)

Might I recommend using polysyndeton in your final stanza? Using "and" would emphasis this

A bit rough. Some pleonasms that would better be discarded. Lots of these words are very anti-poetic, and I would usually advise to avoid so many in one line.

Disagree or agree.

French is 6/10:
Tes sentiments se déchaînent et tu es seul dans le noir
Ta raison s'effondre et tu es seul dans le noir
Tu ne sais plus en quoi croire et tu es seul dans le noir
Tous les dieux se sont tus et tu es seul dans le noir

I enjoyed this.

>get broken
Delete.
>passeging
Delete. Actually, the entire line 5 should be deleted. I know this goes against your synthesis of lost-and-found but that's my advice.

Overall I appreciate the rhythm. It's an easy poem to tongue and recall.

Caught my interest in first two lines as I thought it would be a short lyric but you lost me with line 3 being so cliche.

I won't go much further as you said you've just made it up on the spot, though.

Some decorum, some not-so-decorum. Ending was well wrapped.

Probably my least favorite in the thread so far. I don't like what you're doing here. This is neither witty nor fun for anyone. You're flailing around entry level occult/mythological references in loose form of poesy.
This is something a game developer wrote unto a dungeon wall for some riddle.

I prefer traditional form, but this is a bit of a mess. That said there are a few great lines, some inbetween, and some rubbish.

GREAT:
>What origin of that hue fits
>Composed of paints which from her start

OKAY:
>From whence the blue of her eyes came?
>The highest grade is those rich stones

RUBBISH:
Almost everything else in that they are lazy lines made too unimportant as a result of the very few good qualities of the poem.

I agree with Come up with a title so I know some more. Or tell me something else.

First two lines are hardly compatible.
>Your love is wind. . . your love is a treasure. .
Stick to one.
>every night, begins with a day ends
Delete.

Last stanza needs too much work. Keep at it.

What is a traditional form? Sonnet? Herrick and Marvel used iambic octameter in some of their best poems. Any advice for revising the other lines?

What I was saying was that I do like what kind of poetry you're writing. Sorry for the confusion.

Oh, alright. I prefer traditional too. Any advice for revision?

No I'm not failing around references. These things are all metaphors for the great work. You just don't understand which is why you make mean comments on lit threads. and also, i dont play video games.

Read it out loud and imagine it in song. Like I said, the good portions stand out too much in the poem. I recommend a study into Keats.

Thanks, I will look into his poetry more.

unironically good

>These things are all metaphors for the great work. You just don't understand. . .

I hope you never write anything again. If you were my student, I would tell you to study your fundamentals twice over.
"I'm too genius and you just don't understand" is not an excuse for poor quality work.
This is a critique thread. Asses are made to bear and so are you.

This is the "finished" version. I plan on further revising it.

Too late. I wouldn't study poetry with someone who wrote what you did anyway. I wrote this for fun and I had fun, you can't touch me.

You're a whole new level of faggot

this user thinks you have talent. too often this place is a cesspool of negative criticism and crab bucket mentality. dont stop writing.

Best I've seen in a while.
Well done, lads.

I'm sorry I hurt your feelings . . .

Thanks, anons. I take all the criticism here with a nice handful of salt.

Thank you. One examination in a life makes a few others worth the wait

A miner's cough
inherited
resides

Brick, mortar and spaces
made from

this ironclaad rule
you used to be beheaded from

proclaiming out aloud: I am man.
And here it is again

Like clockwork.

Here dead we lie
Because we did not choose
To live and shame the land
From which we sprung

Life, to be sure,
Is nothing much to lose
But young men think it is
And we were young.

add an in after resides. mirrors the again in the second last couplet, like the froms mirror. and flows better as a sentence. i like it.

>.< second last verse, not couplet

user this is wonderful

Solid advice. My art is not an Eminem song but I shall take it to heart nonetheless.

How does one get published?

Get Submittable
And submit to every opening you see. Make sure you actually read through their past issues to know what they want.

Know what poetry is preferred by who.
Once you get maybe 12 or so works published this way then opportunity will show itself

Why would you chase publication?

I'm a 30- something fag. So I've scourged the earth for quite some time now. Where does the idea that hapiness is the highest attainable good stem from?

I'm a misarable fuck and I'll probably be a miserable fuck for some years to come. Why do I have to tell people I'm happy? The situation as it is is shit, it's a shit bargain and I wouldn't recommend it to anyone. I have hope though. But each and everyone has to make that out for themselves. I don't like this 'Better yourself and then you'll be happy and happy is the highest attainable good meme.' .

Wrong board.

Try to grasp or clutch
at any hour day or month
resolve the pine sap scent
into the lines you’ve read
and written.

Follow this trajectory
It’s the first heat you’ve ever felt
first glass of water
This is the one on
which all things have come to pivot.

You have never been so alive
nor I
and you have never seen so deeply
and you are on the cusp of something
and you cannot hear it falling.

The Colossus, Sylvia Plath. Check out that collection. It's okay to just be okay. Happiness is pressure, perhaps an obsession.

Treat it like your favorite candy. It's a reward, it something you do occasionally. Having one constantly would make you hate it.

It's okay to busy be okay

write honest poems and let the muse inhabit you in any circumstance, it's the only way

this is very sexy. stet.

thanks, french user inspired me by reminding me words mean different things he deserves some credit

Any good pedo poems? I'm not entirely sure I've seen a single one expounding on whether there's anything more to their wants than pure degeneracy

All souls day

The blondewigged demon
rolls his silverdollar dice,
the pig man laughs.
“All the acres in this sundog sky
will never buy him pride”.

The whiteglove angels
come down from up high
to make an address
“We have nothing to hide”
I’m not surprised.

The cloudwaves break into
riptow tides I am submerged,
the onlookers smile.
The ships come in in lieu of due time,
they have survived for another while.

The owl flips burgers and lets himself inside,
he is at home where uninvited.
“All the smokestacks in this shadow puppet sky
could never constitute a life”,
don’t be surprised.

Collige, virgo, rosas, dum flos novus et nova pubes
et memor esto aevum sic properare tuum.

why'd you fuckin cum across pictures of your dead friends

i'm guessing the second time it's newsprint not cum, user

very nice flow. in in lieu of due time is masterful. nice dubs too

Does somebody have a link to this?

c mauvais frr

because my sister is published and she writes awful romance novels. She barely passed high school—her grammar is atrocious.

So you want to be published because your sister is published?

No, but because I think I'm at least 5% better at writing. My girlfriend tells me she likes my poems, and that I should be published. She's been published before, also. I don't know what avenues to take. Everyone tells me that I am an excellent writer but I don't believe them. Perhaps all I want is for a publisher to tell me that I suck ass and will never be published. Maybe then this fantasy of validation will cease.