Is this any good, Veeky Forums? It's influenced by Aristophanes' speech in Plato's Symposium.
Critique Thread
Cameron Williams
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Zachary Wilson
>My hands are sticky with divine glue
kek
Jonathan Fisher
You pervert. But you're right, it does sound awkward.
Jonathan Morris
Is there any point to critiquing a genre you don't read? I'm guaranteed not to like it. The only advice I could offer is stuff an editor would catch anyway.
Hunter Phillips
You don't like any poetry?
I'm not trying to publish this. But I want to know if it's worth developing at all.
Jose Rogers
Shine suns the fog into hiding along the valley and its acres of corn-ear silk or cotton-tuft thorns or flooded timber, sends the dew up into the vapors, simply drifting,— drifting over sprouting greenfields, settling cross creeks, and amidst all the warmth the dew feels directionless, then when you breathe it your nose feels enlivened, and you are reminded your youthful memories of warmth, but soon you forget them for useful concerns, as the dew simply drifts.— The day itself wakes,— the yawning hills, dreadfully wise, gaze displeased through the dispersing fog upon the valley, upon its sorry waywardness, setting far shadows against the trodden grasses, satisfied the rain rolls down, and then when you mount them you’re given oversight, but after you’re worried by their dreadful wisdom and your sight gathers all with displeasure.— The trees loosen their sleepy arms, reaching restfully for morning and breathing in the vapor,— and those mounting the hills wryly whisper when those along the valley are reminded joyously of leaner rings, but quickly their memories and whispers disperse, dreadfully dawning on the unrelenting world.— But then, groveling, having relented to burdensome footfallings and hooffallen scrapes, and having forgotten the tired sorrow of processions crossing from one horizon to the second then returning in jest, of roaming circumnavigations, hapless, confused between an irritant and a pity, of arbitrary bounds, drawn from pitiful, irritating settlements, and having forgotten the aching wounds of widened, inordinate cultivations, of dulled diggings broken nonsensically,— and before any shine, before the drifting dew, before the hills go yawning or the trees go reaching you have already cleared your eyes and have set upon your work, and having hauled out the plow from the shed, having forked then pitched hay onto the cold and dirty stablefloor, having followed barbedwire by the corners of the fences, you hold there while turning round, fearing all the valley at once has found you, you fear your heart again, your eyes glint against the early dark as a fire, your breath again gasps wildly, then you are reminded the land and its grandest passions, its caring discipline, its graceful givings made dear by takings dry or frosted over, then you are shown to your knees where you weep, where your nose is stuffed and your senses are wavered from surrender to awe, where you, hands clenched into the grass, are made naked, then there, facing the old soil, the unrelenting world is dissipated and again you are fearful.
Jack Parker
It was just a general thought. I submitted something earlier and nobody liked it, but they seemed like the Serious Literature types who wouldn't read it anyway.
Zachary Lopez
Eh, not feeling it. Too much going on. You might try simplifying the language and focusing on the images you're using.
Yeah, you're prob right. Sorry they didn't like your stuff.
Kevin Cook
Angel Hall
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sorry I know it's long but you can criticize without listening to the whole thing