Poetry Critique

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Let's get one going Veeky Forums

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genius.com/Doc-watson-hicks-farewell-lyrics
youtu.be/SySZdvsFYt4
twitter.com/AnonBabble

Today has been cancelled
Please return home
It's raining out

Out by the old, red-brick corner,
there's a gutter with old beer and cigarette butts
and some old, abandoned dream
left-over, still unfinished
Today is cancelled you know.

The sky grows dimmer
The day grows older
I'm heading for the corner
into an old dream I'd forgotten about

Tomorrow has been cancelled
please stay home
It's still raining out.

bump

Today has been fucked
Please return your shithole
It's pooping out

Out by the gold, brown-brick corner,
there's a glutter with old pee and cigarette ass
and some old, abandoned Rick
leftistscum-over, still finished
Today is fucked you know.

The Mexicans grows Zimmer
The night grows older
I'm shitiing for the corner
into an old wet dream I'd forgotten about

Tomorrowland has been cancelled :( #imsad
please stay home in Facebook
It's still shitng out

very good critique tbqhwyfam

Past burgergurgling gutterbrook,
and grannyrot back lot,
the Country Fair cajowles by hook
of hot pink polyglot:
Here gams and guns and cans and tongues
and hams and bungles of fun
“a perfect combination”
writes Robin Morgan of the Sun.

--Jangle the turnstile a few—there!
Now Haste! The starlets come!
We watch, we all, our answered prayer
their rintinnabulum:
with Lips that glitz like Typhoon Dew®
and Swaffel® maquillage (Dutch!)
and chintz and chew and razzmatazz too,
they sell catwalk mirage.

So caught awhirl in the hungry grab,
the random fandom slosh,
contestants march with bodyguards
and shorn OshKosh B’gosh®.
Up on stage:
Lady RixaTrix
and then Chardonnay
and then Froufaraw
and then Miss Risqué
and yes beautiful,
ten out of ten each sexy same…

But Mary Anne Sue.
Mary Anne Sue was golden Home,
American True,
Our hearts’s mome
Which starts!--and spindles and hopples and tortles and fangles and drooly is judged;
and last, the questionnaire, run fast, to prove her wit’s no grudge:

Is it our responsibility as a nation to punish Syria over using chemical weapons on its own people?

“We all need to help each other…”
Applause shatters and shatters and pitters and patters and fadens to a refractory hush.
“And team up to end war… be confident in what you are…”
And shatters and shatters and pitters and patters and fadens to a refractory hush;

She palms us so--like mercury--
adroitly vortickal;
she goes in for the killing spree:
“God Bless, I love you all!”
And all Hunder and hackle and holler and rain, and hinders, and hems, and hups;
And huffing and guffing and hurgling and stuffing to the last, phlegmatic sluff.

I look one more time, but I forget.
It must be how those hot lights,
those Electric Eyes—resplent her lustrous guise
Like the tincture of a Dream.
Like the offal and fermata of a Dream.

I kill your brother
you made cum the music
I forget the hot lights
She kill a dream

My voice is not slow
Not boring like every fuckim poem
The war is the end
The begining is the peace

reddit.com/u/PoemForYourSprog

this user anon user,
its eating my canon
like a tamal, he is in rule
hours dont aged her

vagina bomb are useless
Boobah show is the geopolitical hell
modern compresor
tha cant fuck you pression

you shouldnt be scare
im not a robot
this captcha is putting a knife in my tongue
my teacher of english
yeah, she have dat ass, she have dat attitude
mexican sugar is not dancing anymore
Holocaust denial is prohibited
You cant talk, unless is shit
Banana is not spell out
Normie get out
A trap is killing my dreams
my knowledge is off
Responsability, Education, every place where we go, we make our self slaves,
Its not raining out
So shut up, shut up, shut up "KE PEX" Shutt tt UP
Tomorrow is the gold,
the legs are our skinny stairs
Your inmaculate mom is masturbating
A moderator is watching
Hes cool, but can he understand my poetry?

reddit.com/r/ShittyPoetry

The young Rick
Hes a man in a feminine suit
He replys, He replys, He replys
He undress me

The siege of my Homeland
The fate of the cold sun
A banana is breaking in a breaking down
The slave sells herself

Veeky Forums cant understand, tha all is in our minds
3, 4, the numbers are delusional,
the killer rabbit is the shadow of the eclipse
Mountains are full of holes

Denied, your face, that head, can be so strong
The climbs and the sunny killer
The place where threes are black
where you can get paraplejic

That ass old man is a epilogue
from the nasty sex
to the rapt of angels
The analogic death

Mrs. Hamilton I think

Her suitcase felt like old dollar bills.

What kind of work are you going into?
Finance I said, that was my kick then
Just make sure you get a pension.

I let her work the TV by herself
Tasting her Lemon Drop childhood 60 years away.

who /cringe/ here?

(My spanish version)
El hoy a sido cancelado
Porfavor vete a casa
Esta lloviendo afuera

Afuera por el viejo, esquina de ladrillos rojos
Ahi un desague con antigua cerveza y colillas de cigarrillos y algun viejo, sueño abandonado
Abajo-izquierda, queda inacabado
El hoy es cancelado tu sabes

El cielo se ve mas tenue
El día se hace mayor
Estoy alrededor de la esquina
Dentro de un sueño añejo Me había olvidado

El Mañana ha sido cancelado
Por favor, mantente en casa
Sigue lloviendo afuera

>The War is the End
>The Beginning is the Peace.

That's a pretty iconoclastic message he's got going there.

I came to the place where the lone pilgrim lay
And patiently stood by his tomb
When in a low whisper I heard something say
How sweetly I sleep here alone

The tempest may howl and the loud thunder roar
And gathering storms may arise
But calm is my feeling, at rest is my soul
The tears are all wiped from my eyes

The call of my master compelled me from home
No kindred or relative nigh
I met the contagion and sank to the tomb
My soul flew to mansions on high

Go tell my companion and children most dear
To weep not for me, now I'm gone
The same hand that led me through seas most severe

Dirty Hippy/10

The time is swiftly rolling on
When I must faint and die,
My body to the dust return
And there forgotten lie.
Let persecutions rage around,
Let Antichrist appear;
Beneath the cold and silent ground
There's no disturbance there.

Through heats and cold I've toiled and went
And wandered in despair;
To call poor sinners to repent
And seek the Savior dear.

My brother preachers, boldly speak
And stand on Zion's wall.
Confirm the strong, revive the weak,
And after sinners call.

My little children, near my heart,
And nature seems to bind,
It grieves me sorely to depart
And leave you here behind.

Oh Lord, a father to them be
And keep them from all harm
That they may love and worship Thee
And dwell upon Thy charm.

My loving wife, my bosom friend,
The object of my love,
The time's been sweet I spent with thee,
My sweet, my harmless dove.

Though I must now depart from thee
Let this not grieve your heart,
For you will shortly come to me
Where we shall never part.

Pretty good man. I'm a Fedora Tipper but even i enjoyed it so that says something.

>Pues está lloviendo fuera (sounds more poetic and it flows better if u used connectives at the beggining of the verses)
> La vieja en vez de el viejo (esquina usa articulo femenino)

There's moar but i'm too fucking lazy.

For us, when we give up to the light,
Our price and value is just one cent!
It is a difficult time to understand life
The sun sets, you are mortal,
mortals, we must go to bed at night.
After a hundred years, tell me a thousand.
Similarly, in 1200 then hundred and thousand.
Then after we went into the thousands,
We eliminate his friend, who may not know,
Or, may be jealous -some people, you know...

good if anachronistic

A GLIMPSE through an interstice caught,
Of a crowd of workmen and drivers in a bar-room around the
stove late of a winter night, and I unremark'd seated in a
corner,
Of a youth who loves me and whom I love, silently approaching
and seating himself near, that he may hold me by the hand,
A long while amid the noises of coming and going, of drinking
and oath and smutty jest,
There we two, content, happy in being together, speaking little,
perhaps not a word.

>El hoy
Just "hoy".
>Por_favor
With a space.
>Está
c'mon
>lloviendOAfuera
Make it "Lloviendo fuera". Sounds neater.
>...la vieja esquina...
C'mon
>Un desagüe con cerveza y colillas de cigarrillos, algún sueño abandonado
In such a simple poem adjectives are going to kill you. Use them, but not a lot. Also, C'mon.
>Abajo Izquierda
Ok, I'm done with this. Stop using google translator, fag.

genius.com/Doc-watson-hicks-farewell-lyrics

you're a huge faggot. try harder next time.

>i'm a fedora tipper
XDDDDD
could you b8 any shittier if u tried???

0/10 would not smoke weed with u

nonsensical
you can eschew grammatical rules if you want but it still has to make sense. You're making me work too hard and the pay off isn't worth it.

Waiting For Class to Start:

Today I met Academy Award winner Gwyneth Paltrow outside of school.
She told me this: tomorrow I will break up with my boyfriend.

She told me this
And then we spent the hour walking across campus talking.

Gwyneth told me about how recently, she and Chris had grown distant.
Gwyneth told me about how they didn’t have much in common anymore.

She told me that she didn’t like his constant negativity,
And that one time he pushed her quite hard and it scared her.

Gwyneth Paltrow told me that she thinks Chris Martin takes her for granted,
So tomorrow they would break up.

Class was in session when she told me these things,
So the campus was empty and it was quiet,
And daylight savings had just ended
So the campus was getting dark too.

At one point we both commented on how large the campus was,
And how easy it would be to spend four years here
And still not have seen it all.

For a while we sat on a bench opposite the theatre
And waited for her rehearsals to start.

For a while we talked
And shared with each other some funny things we’d seen online.

And for a while we talked
About how sad she was and how she wanted to branch out and meet new people
So tomorrow she would break up with Chris.

And we sat and we talked
And she told me these things
Until class had broken
And the campus was full again.

I want to love uncontrollably, free and wild
In the ecstasy of unburdened passion
Where the virgin lilies are left to bloom
As they please, no demand to grow large
And white, alone. Given room to burn
In amber glories, scarlet ignitions,
Caught up in the rainbow bloom.

This is one of those poems that if it had been written by Tony Harrison everyone would study but because its on Veeky Forums it just comes across as amateurish.

Take of that what you will.

Lo, the temple, it crumbles to the ground!
Seek refuge from the raining stones!
Flee this godforsaken land!
Vie with your brothers for safety!

Lo, the skies, they race into the abyss!
This land shall see no more of the sun or the moon,
These nights shall have no stars to behold
And these fields shall bear the lord no more life

The heavens have drowned in saltwater,
Yet the seas have no more to give
The lands hold no pay for your toil
And the trees bear no shade for your wearied heads

Tremble in fear, ye men of flesh, for I am no doomsayer
Forgive me, chanter, for I am no fortuneteller
Kneel for the air you breathe, o Great Lord
For I do not bear these things for you

She has left us to rot for another
So let us also seek for a home
For the law does not pursue the dead
And the law does not pursue the lifeless

Truly, I say onto you
That not a single word tumbling from my tongue
Has been of the ark, nor the lamb’s blood,
Nor the sayings of the man in the cave

Now, wallow in your bread, your wine, and your stones
For it shall be the last of your indulgence
Before we return to the walking dust
We’ve led ourselves to be

Drink the wine that is white as snow
Break the bread that is crimson and milky
Don the robes that hang from the ceiling
For, at last, the time has come for our reunion

Unfinished invocation to the muse, for a long poem about a lot of things

Sing O muse in fertile verse, the means by
which your ephemeral voice does speak to
all and through mankind, to I as others
long before, that I may craft that vision
which stirs my thoughts, as Durante stirred
by your adept touch did write of the sin
and virtue blazing pure his holy mind.
Or the bard most famous for your gift whose
heart did guide his pen and spectacle taught
his fictional discourse, not long before
your earthly rounds arrived you at Milton’s
stead to grace common man with rhapsody
of God and His ways, though veiled as He your
saintly poetry was true enough to
put to print. As he did lax his grip on
life so did you cut your corporeal
tether to drift, a mist, across Irish
sea and find your waiting host under whose
poor feet gold and silver cloths you did spread.

pls b nice, literally first time ever trying my hand at poetry

Flippity Floppity
Flip Flops past
Angel on shoes that are rubbery
Those feet that ass
But im alone
Just a loser coon

This is actually really good.

I'd add "all" before alone in your penultimate line. That'll help the rhythm you have going.

I been getting dirty money Jordan Belfort
Stacking penny stocks while I'm flipping these birds
Sipping on Ciroc, trip em up with the words
I just popped a molly and I think this be my third
Jordan Belfort
Jordan Belfort
I been getting dirty money Jordan Belfort
Stacking penny stocks while I'm flipping these birds

I just flipped a birdy, Money so dirty
Got my bitch a mink, furry like Furby
Came up made a milly, spent it on a rollie
Stackin gouda, feta, chedda cheese 'n' ravioli

Or maybe fettuccine, dirty martini
I'm a fuck yo bitch (What), call me Houdini
Drivin' Lamborghini, yo ho in a bikini
Eight bottles to the neck, three wishes from a genie

Benjamin ain't dirty, but these Franklins be filthy
Always going to court but I'm never pleadin' guilty
Ballin' so hard I only be slam dunkin'
Beat steady rockin' and the trunk straight thumpin'

I be ridin' foreign pourin' merlot while I swerve
Pedal to the medal when I'm whippin' round the curve
Rollin up this marijuana you can smell the herb
And I be getting all this lettuce and I ain't talkin' iceberg

Jordan Belfort, Burberry shirt
LV loafers on my sofa in Bel-Air
Turnin' up daily cause we can't turn down at work
I been lightin' loud lately
Like my volume switch don't work
And my cologne is Versace, Medusa got me stoned
I'm always high on something
But I usually like to smoke
We been long time friends, me and Ben Frank
Every fucking day he needs a ride home from the bank
Muhfucka you don't know me you ain't in my tax section
My wallet ain't fat it's in the gym straight flexing
I don't call your bitch back and shes checkin' her reception
Bitch with double D's she's all up on my erection
And I'm in the ovaries but I ain't about affection
So easily the sober me just smokes and then forgets them
Sometimes this life seems a little stressful
Especially when they tell me that I am something special

I took the liberty to write a loose translation.Sorry.

El día de hoy se ha cancelado
Por favor, regresa a casa.
Afuera llueve.

Más allá de aquella vieja esquina de ladrillos rojos,
Hay un desagüe rebalsado
de cerveza añeja y colillas de cigarro,
Junto a un sueño mustio, abandonado,
Aún inconcluso, desechado.
Ya sabés,
El día de hoy se ha cancelado.

El cielo palidece.
Envejece el día.
Y yo me decanto hacia esa esquina
Encima de algún sueño desgastado
Que ya ni recuerdo haber soñado.
El día de hoy se ha cancelado
Por favor, por favor, quédate en casa.
Aún llueve tanto allí afuera.

good, I like it, it shows real drive and an anger that is conveyed through the words

sorry I don't like it... too bleh

(1/2)
the rooster crows in my belly
an old hangout for the billiard cues of the morning
and table-hopping hail hail the ganglias all here
after sunset like a mouthwash last yesterlight
and the white tails of the gorillas on television
and that liberal politician stumping for twilight
supremacy
down by that old
shill
stream
As I buttonholed the Ancient Auctioneer
how goes America going
going

after the thunderbird pooped out over the canyon
when he clovered her cleavage
and she pleaded like an electric organ in the rain
the moon greased out of the ten commandments a make-
up too late
what about the negative feedback of death
what about magnetism striking as a poisonous snake
or a hoop of jazzedup wire
snarling up communications over the Morse Pole
after the statesman belched ionized yeast
and the physics convention approved the musical
selection
Quartet
For
Four
Mesons

in an expanding economy they do not matter

the rooster will take us on a guided missile tour
we are knellbent for automation
the minister prays Our Lord Who Art in Heaven judge
us not by our actions
but fractions
the skullskinner intones judge us not by our trans-
gressions
but analytic sessions
the physicist says christ anybody can have a halo
wheres the hesitance
when we can boast electronic resonance

you think anybodyll look for the pinprick in an
expanding economy

look easy and you will see
a cad and a ford in every nebulae
that no comettail you lost
but gods custombuilt Buicks exhaust
Americas producing for the Infinite
Holy Ghost Mongerers for the Universe
Export or Die
theres a report we got a parimutuel for the flying angels
constipation
will be solved by
automation

Miss Wall Street does a dance of the seven ticker-
tapes
mathematicians enter the bullring to lock equations
in the circus the economists show off their
Trained Graphs
the specialists hide from the specialists
the whores organize their first Vertical Union
to which madames
pimps and
cops must belong
waddya mean youre contemptuous of the Middle Class
theyre the
National Compromise
going
going

(it's like some sort of abdominal bell)
the historians yang and yin
says its not too late to get out
and not too late to get in
hole hole the gongs all here
like some sort of abdominal bell
shes a Supermarket Baby with all the skimmings
mate doth look for automate
male finds femalleable
we dont die we reincarnate
this goes for everybody but the lower animal orders
those down-at-the-heel aristocrats who simply wont
take in boarders

Make that (2/3)
its already noon and I'm still expanding
I'm a Paul Bunyan Giveaway
schizophrenia for lonely dolts
manic nuts for shy bolts
paranoia for those who say nobody has followed them
telescopes by god for those who say we've hollowed
them
hail to the architects whove eliminated the five-
oclock shadow

we function beardless from cradle to the nave
free sexual irrigation for the ascetic
and thorns to bower the apoplectic
the cardiacs will look like roses
in this Promised Land without a Moses

hail to the farmers and their cows
in swimmingpools of milk and honey
hail to parity granaries of money
the worker with his fake-home pay
and the sociological gangster parentally rejected
steals his fathers in property quite protected

alls fair in an expanding economy

alls fair in love and boredom
the heavyweight champ
is still damp
behind his fears
the opera star endorses beers
the homerun king belts one into the stratofears
rich as a churchmouse the saying goes
the deacon leaves cheese between the foes
the cathedral is built in stunted gothic
this is america
their very own
I'm going to the bank to get a loan
get a loan
little dogie
get a loan
going
going

get a loan to
integrate the negro in the south
with white hoof-&-mouth
a new perfume
for the bladderroom
pouting purses
for wetnurses
democratic steel
for teething kings
david-slings
for the delinquent
juvenile
and giant breweries
spiking castoroil with luminal
waddya mean whats the international policy
we got an expanding economy

(3/3)
we're counting cosmic rays in the bank
crow
rooster
crow
we got cocacola in labrador
thats what you call getting your mouth in the door
crow
rooster
crow
we'll have skyscrapers in the ionosfear
every suicide'll live a charged particle here
crow
rooster
crow
we're putting extra-sensory-production on the
perception line
get rid of that goose
our economys on the loose
we'll advertise a hermit for snob-appeal
we'll get every hunchbacked shoulder behind the
commonweal
crow
rooster
crow
pile all your energies into the new Golden Calf
THE ELECTRONOLAUGH
THE COMPUTER
WITH THE SMILING TOMORROW

all the great comics willed their bodies to it
the graveyard with the future in it
WHEN IT LAUGHS IT DISPLAYS URANIUM-FILLED
TOMBSTONES
the bones
of contemporary saints
CROW
ROOSTER
CROW
going
going
Forest Lawn?
NO!
ELECTRONOLAUGH!

Thought so myself. It's not what I usually write but it was worth a try anyway.
Not sure why you're translating it to Spanish but that probably makes it seem nicer.
>poetry with butts and poops, lol
t. Rimbaud.

i'm pretty sure this is not plagiarized, or else you've done a really good job of hiding your source, therefore i will treat this as if it is OC.

why are you writing in 17c english?
>did did did did did
it's unreadable, not to mention you're just filling meter with all those "did"s which doesnt even make sense because you don't preserve meter elsewhere
>spectacle
>discourse, not long before
>under whose / poor feet gold and silver

basically, write contemporary. and enough with this muse shit, it's been done thousands of times and you are adding nothing to the conversation.

I mean, not really. It's a shitty poem.

bump

one night i was restless.
I couldn't sleep!
I lay there minute after minute.
Trying so hard to close my eyes.
But i couldn't.
I didn't know why but something was bothering me.
A little itch at the back of my mind.
It couldn't be scratched. It wouldn't go away!.
So yes i got up
like we normaly do when we can't succumb
to those pretty dreams
and i went to the kitchen to get a drink.
It was dark.
The lights weren't working.
But i could see in the dark (it was ok i could see in the dark).
I grabbed my glass and i filled my glass
and i drank the water because my throat was dry
and that bothered me (but not as much the little itch the little itch at the back of my mind that couldn't be scratched that wouldn't go away!).
Then when i finished i went back to bed and lay there.
And i didn't sleep.
I didn't sleep at all that night

Not really poetry, m8.

>I'm 16 and this is deep

Someone pls respond.

Don't see why it can't be poetry just cause it's loose.
However, there's definitely line breaks (just about the main reason to call it a poem) that don't contribute anything, which makes it veer on pretentious. Overall I thought it grabbed my attention, then got way less interesting with all those fluff lines and basically describing nothing interesting

Too long

Here's my poem:

Just off of work
My dick in dirt
Veeky Forums is gay
Have a nice day

it's ok to revise stream of thought a little m8.
But for real, a lot of the times you start rhyming just feel contrived, and half your mile-a-second imagery and metaphors and wordplays don't work or make enough sense put together like that. Also don't use 'poop'
There's good parts to it-- the language that's less hoaky. Dig them out and try hinting at a narrative or direction beyond days passing

Niggerz ain't touchin' my shit
They get really excited when they see my dick
My Dick pays rent and my dick pays quick
So I got a little story that would rattle your tits

Breath
let the eyes watch
and learn to count with every pore.
Breath
rape your lungs with air
you need and desire
ever more.
Pepermint crisp skin
frozen
by bitter words
and with acid like saliva drops
crawling
like morning dew across your face
it hurts.
You can't count the times
you've covered your ears
and you've covered your eyeballs
with pretty words
you've sung until they've become harmonies.
They eco across your stomach pit
and they dance and turn your throat raw
with their thistle like thorns
and silk smooth rose petals
that you need and desire
with your every bone
down to your very core.
Shine
who shall remember.
Bring
your brittle heart forward
and see the blackened tar
given to you by your thoughts
Dig
with your bare hands
for reasons only you know
dreams and desires
buried, in the ashes of your brain sells
Forgive
the stranger you've become
See
a shine and the air you breathe
you thought long gone
then forgoten
once more.

>Don't see why it can't be poetry just cause it's loose.
It doesn't really have any of the qualities that make poetry poetry, though, like rhythm, constant or inconstant, rhyme, regardless of scheme, or imagery. The only thing vaguely poetic about it is its relative concreteness.

well that's free verse. As much as most contemporary poetry in this regard is shiet, the form itself can be done well enough as a straightforward, narrative-with-meaningful-enjambment type of writing. Which could be appropriate for user's poem since it's a really ordinary event.

that's free verse. Though most contemporary poetry in this regard is shiet, it can be used for a straightforward, narrative-with-impactful-enjambments type writing, which I think could be appropriate for user's poem since it speaks of a squarely ordinary event that wouldn't require fanciness.

i ain't got nobody
ain't nobody got me
i'm just like a little apple
hangin' on the tree
don't nobody want me
i can plainly see
i ain't got nobody
and ain't nobody got me

i ain't got nobody
ain't nobody got me
i'm just like a chunk of wood
floatin' on the sea
don't nobody want me
i can plainly see
i ain't got nobody
and ain't nobody got me

>no rhythm
>free verse
How does it feel to be so mediocre that you fags don't even know what true free verse is?
Free verse. Wow.
Go fuck yourselves, cucks.

>cucks
GOT EEMMM

Each day while walking home
Past a tall and well-branched tree
A piece of past begins to moan
Of the time I was ten-and-three
With a stolen knife, ready to hustle
I sawed at the cord, hard like muscle
Now twice that age, I see it there
Now just sticks and tattered rope
And I force myself to stare
At the butchered corpse of hope

The Faceless rose, spoke, and so came forth this:
"There lies a land, near, past reach nonetheless,
where mournful peaks glance to ley below,
and roads no feet have tread nor builders kept
in memory of page or scribe. Yet said,
’tis no empty land, though stirs naught within.
Scribes, it has, and builders and fathers and sons.
A King, it had, and courtiers and pipers and drums.
Tables, there are, set beneath still faces,
and no food, though untouched by creature or beast,
but mouldered and rotted to stain.
Those scribes, they hunch, over parchment gone to dust,
their hands stayed, in monument unwilling,
of those deepest crimes for greatest cause
wrought in vain, and none left to lament."

The razor had a keener edge
this evening; perhaps because
I was out of soap, and thus
forced to rub the gleaming blade
(down, down, down, then up, up, up)
against the flushing strip of flesh,
naked, between nose and lip.
It drew blood, of course; incessant
globules bubbling out to mark
invisible punctures, two
on each side, skirting the philtrum,
like the imprints left by some
nocturnal visiting undead.
Caution creeps with every passing night,
I suppose; in twenty years
my drooping lip would repel
the very approach of the razor
if ungauzed by a lather,
and an ungauzed incision
would probably hurt a lot more
the morning after.

i am really struggling to understand why you wrote the same comment twice but slightly tweaked it the second time

>down down down up up up
>flushing strip of flesh
>globules bubbling
>skirting the philtrum
>PHILTRUM
>caution creeps
>ungauzed ... ungauzed
>the very approach

all this gauche alliteration, obscure words, and meaningless phrases. it's like you're calling attention to yourself in the cheapest way possible. the poem doesn't even pay off with a pleasant twist. you've just shoved your pseudo-wittiness in my face and ran off with my time

Thank you for the critique! I am bewildered as to why you think "philtrum" is an attempt at being willfully incomprehensible by using an obscure word, when it is the *only* word for that particular part of the face.

The poem is about the vitality of youth and the weakness, and hence, the caution that sets in with age. I'm sorry it didn't work for you.

Tis folly yes, no?
The poem, nil purpose, so?
Rhyming from go
Tis quite aesthetic although
Inspiration rife aglow
Tis great then I suppose

bump
Going To make and paste here poetry in 11 hours.

Do you feel like taking a nap on a bed of sand under the sea? Ease into the darkened depths that will become your watered dreams.
Sink down passed the Fisher's hook that the blackfish for a meal mistook.
Angelfish illuminate your face and then you wake up with a scream but you can't breathe and so you drink and fill your lungs until you're sleeping with the fishes, see?

Needle in your arm, anesthesia in your veins
Paralyzed your body and your brains
Stick you in a straight jacket
Attached to giant stone
Confess now to your sins
For now you must atone

Don't expect a last supper
Deep hunger you will suffer
You will never have another
Delicious home cooked meal

No longer will you steal
Another precious life
In the name of Satan
Who showed you to the light

just honing my craft G.
(or maybe my computer tricked me into thinking it crashed and didn't submit the 1st time)

There was someone actually looking for a poetry thread besides me? Oh, my moon and stars!

>ten-and-three

stopped reading there

youtu.be/SySZdvsFYt4

Ode to spot

pseudfag

Friendly reminder I keep writing all the good rated poems here and will publish a book of poetry in a few months time with all of the stolen OC.
Feels good man

that's why i don't put my poetry here. you all would be aghast at how much below me you are and you would steal my shit.

The girl was singing in a church choir,
About the weary abroad, far away,
About the ships in the sea, so dire,
And those who'd forgotten their happy day.

So sweet was her voice flying up into highness
With shimmering beam on her shoulder of white,
And every one listened watching from darkness
The way the white garment was singing in light.

And every one thought that the joy was there,
That the ships were all in a quiet bay,
And the weary people abroad, full of care,
Were now all blessed with a happy day.

The voice was sweet, and the beam was shining,
And only up there at the royal rack
A child, conversant with secret, was crying
That nobody, really, would ever come back.

Buzzword. Why don't you say what you mean?

How is that iconoclastic at all. It's pretty standard 'hurr war is inevitable'

The moon is in total contrast against the towers.
Awaken, awaken-- the feeling has vanished
laid bare under the light
You converse with luminous bugs in the air
We travel, and
The moon is all bright, shining on the water.
I speak with mournful toads on the riverbed
The vision darkens, and
backlit hungry
in the hallway
killing crickets, with no way out
From which dreams
our closest friends
seek shelter
trying to remember.

I want to be good at poetry
wait no I don't
I want to kill every poet

-Anonymous

Because I think you wrote a stupid poem about nothing and then attached a bullshit meaning to it afterwards. Nothing in the poem conveys "vitality of youth and the weakness." And you're gay.

Is this Gil Orlovitz? It sounds like it.

it makes perfect sense, learn to read before you critique stuff (im not the poems author just an annoyed user)

>nd enough with this muse shit
retard tier

if he likes it who gives a shit?

It is, yes. I wanted to see how Veeky Forums would react to it. I didn't think anyone would recognize it.

I think is good for being my 5th poem

Are you kidding? Did you even read it? It's pretty obvious; I haven't even enciphered it.

My Most Recent Position Paper
Bob Hicok

A little bit of hammering
goes a long way toward making
the kind of noise I want my heart
to look up to—or have you ever
gone into a woods and applauded the light
that fights its way to the ground,
and the shadows, and the explosions
of feathers where blue jays
have been ripped into the bright
and hungry future of hawks—
and there’s this—writing an etude
by pushing pianos off a cliff
until one of them howls or whispers
just so—like a vagrant
slipping into a clean bed
or a man lifting a dying child
toward the sun and begging help,
rescue—if my eyes could speak,
they’d be mouths—the tongues
of my fingers ask to be words
against your skin—and when I
was a librarian, I lost my job
for exhorting patrons to sing
“Bye Bye Miss American Pie”—
it’s not what we do here, I was told—
yet I know this is a world
made by volcanoes, and don’t want
to keep this awareness of kaboom
to myself—so have picked up
my zither and begun walking
and strumming like an idiot
who thinks music is all
a body needs to feed itself—
and though I haven’t eaten
in years, I have been fed.

>sabés
Che, regresate a tu choza de mierda, loco!

I was about to nag about the weird rhymes hear the end, but the original shitauthor also used them, so whatever.
Maybe try using less adjectives, tho. But I like it in general.

HE LIKES IT, STOP SAYING MEAN THINGS, AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAyou'rertardedAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

Peter the piper
played on a viper
Old henry got so mad
Peter the piper
was shoved in the gutter
because Old henry was his dad!

Grauhesch leers from his chamber, unbidden,
as we slink the shade of his view, unseen.
Grey king abed in his prison, unchained—
as our fear far stricter bids us silent.
That courtly mock: a wrinkled brow in thought,
repeated in bulbous and reaching flesh,
scornful wet facsimile of our own.
What hubris took hold and drove us here—
to cower before the insensate?
Long severed and silenced and bound but still,
the echo remains and shackles in turn.
Foul prophet those mouthless lines to lay,
not in mist and shadow but statute and stone.
What fault is this but ours, and ours alone?

no actually it's not obvious, what's obvious is that you wrote a pretty bad poem about shaving and threw in the phrase "in 20 years" just to get us ruminating about the future, has very little to do with shaving. your images are weak, your prosody is bad, and you think your poem is obvious because you wrote it but are blind to its flaws. i am not trying to put you down as i have no interest in you as a person, i am merely stating how things look from your reader's perspective

v good

I told myself I needed to write something before bed. So I just shat this out, and now I can sleep in peace.

I lie at night apart from slumber.
Teetering along the edge
of sweet sleep and steady wonder,
devouring a hopeful pledge.

'Just once more' I warn my finger,
flicking the moon along the sky.
Prying for gold hidden asunder
of the light sought most at night.

Ten, nine, eight, then seven
Few parts remain of the whole.
Yet my digits carry thoughts to heaven
Stoked steadily from a digital coal

The lifeless flame claims no warmth
Sparing no remorse of dark
The cushioned embrace of the hearth
Makes no closer a dreamy dozer

Three, two, one, then zero
The careful night consumes the room
No treasure found -an antihero
Rescued from his gloom

With fingers tired, moon-pulled sore
I swim within my firmament
Until the sun awakens me,
paying me in scores.

muse-writer detected

look, I don't really give a shit either, I am just trying to tell that guy what I believe he's doing wrong. after all, this is a CRITIQUE thread, not a "praise my shitty poetry and if you don't have anything nice to say then just be quiet" thread. if you think that muse-writing hasn't been beaten to death, then please by all means continue writing it

My Manager, The Warden.

My manager parades the supermarket aisles
like they were prison corridors.
He, the prison warden
with his baton,
his flashlight,
his steely gun, stinking of WD40 and gunpowder residue.
His face splits open
and a smug smile rips across his head
his teeth point in my direction.
The smugness is needed for his position,
a position of power and ridicule.
Like the broken heart to the love poet
the bottle to the novelist
the shovel to the midnight grave-digger.
I know that one day too, my manager will dig my grave beneath a laughing moon.