post your shit and please try to critique others
Poetry Thread:
Jace Thompson
Jose Rivera
Here's mine:
Some refer to life
As being snuffed out,
Like a candle in your chest.
But frequently,
It’s like beating flames
With a heavy wool blanket.
Tenacious fire
Can force waves
Of buffeting suffocation.
Some even leave
Embers that spring
Alive with each breeze.
Meteoric extinction
Is somehow much nicer
With it’s constant thudding,
Than bursts of light
Piercing through ether,
Like a rushing, mighty wind.
will critique back
Hudson Mitchell
I dreamt I was a bean
rolling along
down the hill
filled with feels
not even a human bean
just a mess
I hope I taste good
when someone eats me for dinner
Lincoln Barnes
I am the space between my eyes and wall,
To which I look and think of naught, at all;
As empty as the atoms in the air,
Existing as the space from here to there;
I am the light projection of myself,
Upon the open pages of my shelf.
I live in flux of transitory whims,
And hold the fleeting folds of phantom limbs
Of memory, the wake in which persists
A presence, that my sense of self exists:
I am the empty space between the leaves,
The pattern on the ground that shadow weaves;
And when I gaze into my mirrored face,
I see the emptiness inside a vase.
I sit and stare at shadows on the wall,
And wonder why I’m even here at all.
Hudson Cox
i don't know english poetry enough to tell you that it IS in fact good but i can tell you that i liked it.
although
>And hold the fleeting folds of phantom limbs
what did he mean by this.
Ethan Collins
Sepia laughter
With sweet velvet kisses
On moonlit verandas; the spark of her eyes.
Moving as thieves, we narrowly rise
To branching out
Balconies,
Churches say,
'Come to me!'
Then we lie under willows,
Bees fall out of sky -
Tears stolen by wind.
Our hearts soft like pillows.
Our minds start to billow.
We dream in our silver-thorned crowns...
I wrote a story yesterday about a boy who is told to eat his beans, but sees them as humans bleeding out. He finally eats them (while crying.) His dessert is far more horrific.
Ethan King
really like this except
>filled with feels
doesn't really add anything to it
pretty cool, but the use of naught seems weirdly stilted and makes it apparent you chose the word to fit the meter
everything else is top-notch though
>I see the emptiness inside a vase
fucking love that line (but i have a weird thing for convex/concave things)
change sky to skies and that line will seem more natural (to me)
>Sepia laughter
this is a cool line, but part of me want more on it
>Our minds start to billow
this comes off as trying to force a rhyme scheme which i'm not a fan of
Evan Price
A hollow, reach your arm
in, palm around. Find it?
Must be
where else
but here it's not. Stomachs
gurgling ask for a fast
break from hunger. Even they
plange, This is too much!, or,
We've been patient for
quite some time, where are
the tender ones, warm and immediate
ebullience: none; introductory words.
Won't grasp much if it's not
elbow deep.
Grayson Ramirez
I'm the Sepia dude. (New to poetry and getting critiques. There was two other verses but I've lost them.) Sepia laughter remains unchanged for the reason you wanted it to be. I've changed the other things you mentioned as well as rewriting hearts to heads. You got any poetry?
Zachary Peterson
1.
If, for, a bird mistook
you for a system of power
you, me, he, nor she should
be included.
Its over there non-withstanding.
Ambulant smile walkers
mauled by their
reverie they let
all at once take them.
Should not then ever must be
no, no
for we are it,
over there, them, no.
What did your teacher
need you to remember
about the Greeks?
4.
Derrida speaks of derision only when
meaning to go see that new movie,
wanna come?
Flit, flit, flee thistling for
crepuscular slow breathing
at the crosswalk to change.
Let’s go unless the bells are ringing
UP! They are. Look at that.
Reschedule for marg’s on the
porch much later, okay?
Be there until we can’t bear it any
longer, we drink in
behinds, three, thick, filibustering
by their own might.
14.
Gulping down onion-ring sized
coffee stains on the page. Please,
allow me to take you in. All of you.
Hungry but unappetizing and displeased
with the results, isn’t it always?
Not this time. Dismiss it as
not the right fit but gas-powered
and earnest, it’ll show itself the right door.
Being your happy. When will I put
down the last of these lumps,
breastsized and nibbling gnawing
needing. Doughy is the boy who
identifies his delirium. Last supper
for two: want in? What poem
was written tight-fisted and tissueless
after a 5’-o-clock-gravy-train-dinner?
15.
Whitman, an American as good as any
of us, left poems in his wake
by the fistful. He sold them out
on country roads (39¢) to show
he could disregard and fly from
any love currently his. His tip hat
is overturned by bills and bullion and
tender so green you could bite its
worth, not, into a single tumbling crumb.
17.
Slickened and slathered I need you
not too warm but just right I’d like to
thrust: UP. U-hP. Up. Heavy, forceful, one
more time let me guide your hands to
where I am. To flip you and find you
right where you were. Buttered
and battered you collect yourself
when I’m through with you yet. Mewling
once more, I’ll meet any gaping cashmere
your hems dribble out for parting
with brigades, seizing last left
legs of your feast to vulture.