ITT: We critique our poetry

You are a humongous fuck face

>Oh this? Oh I just threw it together

Take your low grade lazy attention seeking shite elsewhere. Never write again until you have something important to tell the world.

Lmao

well heck

>Poem I just jotted down

>First poem

If you're going to excuse your shitty poems before we've even started reading the maybe you should keep them to yourselves.

wh o
the e fuck
cares

u are so dumb like DAWG
so dumb
lmao

Welp, I thought I'd try checking out this board for a change but fuck that, I'm outta here. Peace faggot.

O fuck thee
Suave naturals the same
I have a great day and I will be in
I have a great day and I am a bit more
The following says thank God I am

The first place and other
Day trip to see you
There then you will have to
Or is it possible

Mourning dove into the annex
I am a bit more
Time for a while and then you will have
Then we can do done some
Then turn it on the other day

We fish the same thing as a result of the time
The only thing I can get the same as the one that is
Not nor the sender immediately by return
Not boy and half four to complete yet by form

- keyboard auto predicting shit

>keyboard auto predicting shit
Is that the name of your poem or was it really your keyboard? Because I like this.

Fuck you

--just jotted down

so butthurt kek

I care, and im not the guy youre responding to. and those people are annoying

dont feel too wounded we are all on the same boat here

1) punctuate
2) stop writing song lyrics
3) think about what you really want to say cause this livejournal stuff doesn't cut it

what the fuck is going on with this rhythm. It's like I'm reading a stroke

I'm the dom, you're all subs,
I'm an oak, you're all shrubs.
So checkity check these dubs.
Just check them, nubs.

Veeky Forums doesn't think prosody matters

I know this is a joke, but seriously this is the best use of meter in the whole thread so far.

Like seriously, why do people randomly line break and punctuate their poetry in unusual ways? Can't you see how it ruins any modicum of flow your piece had?

using the word "modicum" so cheaply should be disallowed

also
>best use of meter itt so far
>only use of meter itt so far
>also worst use of meter itt so far

Not in my head right now.
FUCK you.
Sorry. Laugh track.
Dehydrating. Hyperventilating.

I'm sick.

My mind is rotten.
Stomach is not.
Shouting in the night,
makes me slightly perturbed.

Sometimes I wish I had a gun.
Sorry I can't do this, let's try again tomorrow?
The bottles smash lightly.
Where is that dam wind?

This stupid country.

depression feels like being a balloon that's been inflated for so long that almost all the air has seeped out, it's shriveled and doesn't float.

depression feels like someone molested your inner child on their birthday

depression feels like watching your dog hobble towards you after he got hit by a car

depression is a scorched earth policy for your chemical reward system

depression is putting a tight burlap sack over your head so the sun doesn't get in your eyes

depression is like when you're playing videogames with someone and you're getting your ass kicked so much that you also, start killing yourself for fun, jokingly in the game so you feel less pathetic

depression is like being a deaf man at a music concert

idk

OP I've already said what I think. Definitely pay attention to flow.

Doesn't really create the mood of it (I find that to be the most effective mode of communication). Lots of clickes too. Not much of a poem either, just a bunch of sentences.

>makes me slightly perturbed
weird line to put in there

>poem I just jotted down

Not worth putting here if that's true; besides, you won't learn as much as if you posted something refined.

I don't think the formatting adds anything to it. The rhyme in lines 2/3 is jarring.

is me

>clickes
cliches

sonnet in progress

To Frances

They dredged you out from underneath; your breath
Had run away from us. As such, you were
As pale as water; cold and fragile, but
Still trembling. Signs of life still to be lived.

They thought they’d save you; such tears and prayer,
But words can only do so much to dry
Your broken parts. We tried so hard; you were
But one small girl, wrung out.
We tried so hard.

Do you remember? When our mothers held
Firmly in our hands the weight of our youth;
Reminding us to look before we sank.

After all this time, I have not forgot.

(10)
(10)

youtube.com/watch?v=pWStaRmuXzY&index=7&list=PLsUficC8YQYHwYbkek1Gc1B_x88lLQRtK

This is for you

I realize how knotty and overblown it is, but I'm trying to get at something here that I think is hard to understand. By the way, I am taking for my model here Yeats's 'The Sorrow of Love,' which I think to be a vastly underrated lyric.

The Sorrow of Literature

'...Think.'
--The Waste Land, §II.

Think of the brawling song in which achieves
The milky violence of a poet’s sigh.
In thought we make a harmony through sieves…
And yet the image of ‘milky violence’—Why?

Because the mournful myth of cadence dips
Beyond the living, loving world that leers
In laboring souls and every page that rips;
Is murdered; and becomes domain of fears.

It dips, and now the clamorous Muse achieves
The fully empty heart that cannot sigh.
The sighing leaves are brought fro’ the world in sieves,
Whose sighs compose a simple utterance: Why?

Purple sky
Darker days
Lonely thoughts
Lonesome ways
The wind writes a song
The grass begins to sway
To and fro
A dance of the blades

Did you REALLY feel you needed to post that? Then again I guess it's somehow better than most of the other garbage in this thread. But there is literally nothing original here.

Maybe youll like this one more ?

Smiling

I'll smile until you turn around
Ill Hold a frown until you see me down
No need to worry
I'm doing fine
Or so I'll say
Tounge in cheek
I'm truly doing ok
And so youll look away
As the bottle kisses the sky
That sweet bitter taste
Another drop another sip
Trust me I'm doing fine I truly am
As the cans begin to stack
What's there left to even say
When there's nothing I can mutter
Behind a raspy breath behind a stutter
Keeping the bugs away with the odor
I'm perfectly preserved
Emotions and all
Memories cemented in my mind
Not even the bugs will touch me
Not even the flys will eat me
Or what little left I haven't killed
Another kiss
Another smile
Another frown this lonely day
As I roam the streets
Hidden behind a stutter and a stench
I'll draw you near.
Pair you with death and drink you whole
I'll drink it all

My friend i was merely posting a bit i wrote in hopes maybe i'd receive constructive criticism. I do it solely out of vanity

depression feels like a balloon without a ceiling

depression looks like a child without a childhood

depression feels like a memory I can't touch

redemption is the earth
redemption is the sun
redemption is acceptance of my mortality
embracing
redemption is
feeling
the vibrations

I danced along your streets
At nights,
Staring into your eyes.
You saw my dance and looked away;
You saw me jive down your alleys,
Shuffle thru your tunnels
And moonwalk through your trains.

Why did you not look away
If you could not bear the sight?

Terrible, this is terrible. I can't even think of a way it could be improved.

Coming up beyond belief
On this coronary thief
More than just a leitmotif
More chaotic, no relief
I'll describe the way I feel
Weeping wounds that never heal
Can the savior be for real
Or are you just my seventh seal?
No hesitation, no delay
You come on just like special K
Just like I swallowed half my stash
I never ever want to crash
No hesitation, no delay
You come on just like special K
Now you're back with dope demand
I'm on sinking sand
Gravity
No escaping gravity
Gravity
No escaping... not for free
I fall down... hit the ground
Make a heavy sound
Every time you seem to come around

I read this with rap flow tbqhwy pham

catch your breath
light a cigarette
count to ten
breathe
the jingling rain
the minaret sounds
its bells again
breathe
across the square
a burning bush
the smoke-filled sky
heaves
with metal birds
and screaming

I'm not sure whether I'm in a position to critique someone's poetry or not. You judge. Thank you.

just smile all the time
and fill your heart with slime.
swallow pride for the sake
of stoicism you refuse to brake.

just laugh at every joke
and fill your heart with smoke.
drag your blanket blindly
and answer every call kindly.

keep justifying your highs
by sharpening them with lies
and shine your teeth till meaningless
that's how you fight loneliness

A forum of idiots, asking one another
to rate their idiocy—

beneath contempt, to be sure, but...
maybe they'll like mine?

xd

Pretty good except you could describe the actions better. Fot example "Make a heavy sound" sounds too dull.

I also can't find the beauty in such styles of poetry, no matter how I try.

the sun sets
and with it my defenses

the night makes me vulnerable
to you

the stars are out
I look up

I can replace each of their names
with a memory of you

and when I piece them together
you become a constellation

and when I piece them together
you become a constipation

you drown your sorrow

This is based off a conversation I had with a friend:

I said I was a raindrop,
My friend had disagreed.
A snowflake is all you’ll ever really be.
Though you are not special
And though you are not interesting
The thoughts that you do wrestle,
Will come to sink your vessel.

I wanted just an answer,
To why I am this way.
Must I be so solemn and must I seem so gay.
The person who I am
Is all I’ll ever be
Writing with my hand,
Baked like a cut of lamb.

I know I am a snowflake,
Like everyone on earth.
Whether you're down or happy and filled with mirth.
Not everyone is kind
And not everyone is evil
But what I am to find,
It’s best to keep this out of mind.

you ever notice how you put a bit of salt on your pork and it tastes way better? then you put a shitload of salt on it and it tastes like you're drinking salt

ha_gay.webm

...

Sweaty hair slipping hands
Rope running red running
Hold on baby, Daddy's coming

While I stand in line waiting my turn,
Down the well beaten trail so many have walked before,
I look ahead of me and see those who came before.
They are the men and women of hardship,
Had meals with their neighbors,
Praise respect and manors above all else.
They witnessed great social change though the years,
Fought great wars which shaped our world today,
Meet each other face to face with a sturdy hand shake.
They were beaten by their parents,
Walked to school uphill both ways,
They have yet come accustomed to the ease of life they created.
The last real people.
They approach the end of the line fast,
Leaving everything behind to us,
Passing turmoil and burden unto us.
Though I fear the future,
I know my only option is to keep on walking,
For stopping in line would make many weep.
Scared of what is to come I look that those with me.
The fruit of great acceptance,
We are the children of “equality” and “understanding”,
Yet it will take even more time,
For you cannot teach an old dog new tricks.
We were raised by our TV’s,
Told we could be what we want and who we want.
Some of us will lead,
Some will work to the bone,
Some will be remembered forever,
Some will be trampled in the race trying to gain any lead,
Some will just be content with a simple and comfy life with friends and family.
We are social justice warriors bickering irrelevance,
We work for a brighter future which seems to never come.
We populate the internet,
Always seeing everything yet blind to the world around us.
We are next in line,
Next to take hold,
Next up to the chopping block.
Saddened by this I look to see those behind us.
I see a sea of faces,
Too many for our great mother.
These are the children of media,
Some of them already have technology 100x more powerful than what their grandparents held.
It is up to them to resolve generations of struggle,
Put to rest wars,
Wars of colors,
Wars of gender,
Wars of religion,
Wars of pointless bloodshed and misplaced hate.
No longer are they taught the pen but instead the computer,
No longer struggle and challenge but instead great ease and comfort.
They will come next after us if there is even anything left.
They will inherit responsibilities that even we are not ready for.
With this final thought I wake back up for another year has come,
It’s my turn to step further along the line,
Closer to the end of the line.

First thing I've written in awhile shit ya nay?

I think this is pretty good. Not sure if the "dam wind" is intentional or a typo. The last line also is kind of confusing -- the vibe I got from the rest of the poem was more about the loss of sanity and general mental well-being.

haha fagger

lacks melodic momentum. So it lacks something pretty.

Lacks differentiation to be readable

But maybe this is not supposed to be pretty.

rate me connoisseurs

picture a ball, ever so small
the growth begins, and does not stop
the fathom of the event is nigh unreachable
whether fate brings us to the end is a question of time
a wandering glimmer - the crystal of hope
stained through time, faded from time
the sweet promise of purpose is what sustains
fortunes abstained, through sacrifice we gleam
a window into the fathomless with which we might deem
an event so monumentous, it cannot be weighted
the scribe of existence, let him be the judge
the stupendous moment reached, the glimmer unfolded
the whiteness blinding, the nothingness enveloping
fade to white

One thing: sieves doesn't actually rhyme with achieves. dictionary.com/browse/sieve?s=t
I've had the same problem, rhymed avarice with thrice once and couldn't figure out how to change it.

I also wasn't quite sure what was meant by "cadence," either in terms of voice/rhythm or music, and the first stanza's last line could reworked as less redundant/clumsy sounding. "Milky violence" is also somewhat ambiguous, I wasn't sure what to make of it.

Aside from that, I really like this poem. It has a lot of great lines and images, and I definitely get what you mean about the theme being sort of complex, but I think you did a pretty good job conveying it.

wow this board is sodisgusting

you pretentious fucks

Oh that was meant to say 'rope rubbing'

A lot of words saying nothing
Seems to attempt an evocation of grandeur and drama without sounding or describing anything particularly interesting ('the scribe of existence', 'the stupendous moment')

An Etude of Scriabin

It was in the early morning
That I learned of the great sadness
Papa had passed before sunrise that day
He had yet to hear me play as he did in the past
An etude of Scriabin
This was the first time I cried.

"What shall I play?" he cried,
From the piano each morning.
It was the first time I heard Scriabin
A simple prelude filled with sadness
Papa told me he loved it as a child, smiling at the past
Such were the events of Christmas day.

But he cannot hear me today
So at the recital mum cried.
"Papa would have loved it, it's too bad he passed."
I remember feeling sick this morning
And only a moment of sadness.
Perhaps that was the prelude of Scriabin.

I hadn't played much by Scriabin
But I read through some of his etudes today.
So that I may understand his sadness,
I imagined him when he cried,
It was four in the morning,
As he did in the past.

But that feeling passed
And I put away Scriabin
As I did every morning
And got dressed for the day.
Last night I too cried
Thinking of him, overrun with sadness.

Sleep puts away sadness
And conjures times-passed
It forgets I once cried
For papa and Scriabin.
It brings from history a new day,
A new morning.

My art decried for loving Scriabin
Overcome with sadness, what dad said in the past
Had not struck me until to-day, this morning.

Childhoodrats tickling me pink
from my yesteryear's brink.
Relient K, the tower of babble,
spell 'fucking' in a game of scrabble.
Two pence, three hens, hence:
my complete social over-reliance.
Thematically Frankensteinian,
the tree treaty buckles this time again
under its own paperweight
under Pete's pearly gates
and his fermented rice wine
to the tip of the tongue: touched, sublime,
sublingual, subprime
loans/salon.
I can't count my own lawns,
loan or count my discount pawns,
brush the rushed, brisk dusk till dawn
like Mike what you leaning on?
A preachy Cheech and Chong sing-a-long song
called 'The Resonant Resident Gong and Bong
Song.'

Human terminal velocity
is the same as escape:
zero:
Nepotic like
Nero:
vomit like
Heathrow:
villain like
hero.

Although I agree with the first commenter to some extent, I don't think it's without merit––you're at least talking about the right thing. Perhaps find a less direct way to address it by tying these emotions to a concrete image!

Whew, that's quite beautiful honestly. I love the simple language, centering around a concept, playing with time. Gorgeous piece.

I like the end a lot more, rest just seems a little unnecessary IMO. I mean... count my own lawns? sublingual? This works more as hip-hop than pure poetry.

Thank you! It's the first time I've tried writing a Sestina and I found it a lot of fun. I'm glad you enjoyed it.

Okay, now to share something of my own:

The night's rain
Slipping from the tree's fingers;
The river rippling around
The baptism of a gay church singer.

Grass sways; wind quivers.
Glory, hallelujah, lord on high, deliver
This one to the sliver of heaven you save
For the gay church singers.

Of course; happy to comment. You did something enjoyable that I have a hard time doing: you examined a concrete event over a period of time.

If you ever want to talk about poetry feel free to message me. (I can't give away my detail here because they contain my name and I like the anonymity but I would love to discuss it). And I enjoyed your poem quite a bit!

Stop trying! Read it out loud, do you like it?

I'll be here often to talk poetry. No idea how to message people. Sorry.

One more poem before I sleep:

The hair on my head is red,
The rug on the floor is blue;
The blood on the wall is still quite fresh
And I am missing you.

The car is in the garage,
The turkey's in the fridge;
Your arms and legs on either side,
Cold fingers I still kiss.

The kids are in the back yard,
Playing hide and seek;
Your folded clothes are turning hard
With the dried blood's reek.

The children will be hungry soon,
As late as it now is;
A quarter or a half past noon,
How long that sweet last kiss

Cranberry mist meets my lips
your cheeks meet mine by the hips
of rose. I chose your pedals to ride
to see what makes you swiss cheese on the hide:
mountain peaks perilously mountably so and
veni, vidi, visibly on them I came surmountibly plus
lush valleys gush Gloria's glorious gallons of goo down to the estuary
all while my peener like a kid in a confectionary.
I eat cereal for breakfast
and then do redneck shit
squirting blue blood on my night shift
while the through the settled sentiment I sift, sift, drift—
parlor games are dying
and children are crying
and men are prying
and others are lying
while other keep trying
and women keep buying
mutually relying
people still denying
people still denying
the importance of damn near all the things
I don't care if you care for the things I bring.

My mouth definitely curdled at the first 'milky violence'.

It's too self-aware, though I know you're going for this. Pull back a little.

Stupid wooden whale game.

>Manors

I quite like this but feel it has more to give.. description of the music, perhaps

Doesn't move me

Close eyes an drift off. Undulate -
feel the network of waves, the links as limbs.
Ripple and receive the reflection.
Affirmation, information.
Move to be present, excite all eigenstates;
jubilate! Stasis is
not.
Move. You can't help it.
Resonate.
Delight in movement, simplicity of existence,
tendency to being.
The coordinates of nebulous secrets
are encoded in oscillation:
a tsunami through the vacuum.
Is, no reason.
Is.

Reap what you sow
Sow what you reap
The mighty fall
and the dead will seek

best poem in the whole thread ngl

this some legit avant garde shit

>nigh
dropped
not even kidding

how are you gonna throw in day/today, cried/decried, past/passed, yet in a poem about death you're not gonna at least try morning/mourning? too cliche? you too good for that?

Goat

It's not good but it was comfy

read it like g insberg

The twenty thick wood shafts that have been in me
Have made me what I am: a sturdy faggot.

>mourning dove into the annex
I love this

Connection
Connection to host failed
Data not received
Message lost
Call dropped
Sent.
Delivered.
Read.
Online.
is typing…

Why act like a bitch tho?

depression is like getting the shits on your wedding day

depression is like a sobbing circus clown

depression is just another word for nothing left to lose

I thought about it but didn't feel it felt. I wanted to retain the image of morning and what it might signify.

Counting vertebra
Flying shoulder blades
Snuck out of the skin of corporeal neon

Swept by fumes
From a musky rib
Nails dug into ether, unhinged, unpainful

I am blotched art
On your dreamy palette
In this blue even your vermillion is gone

Paint me tonight
With one color
The others left the door ajar

sent :^)

Here goes nothing

the mockingbirds grieve
'cause they can't make her cry
And they'll soon start to believe
That the lady has died

Oh what it all goes to show
It ain't my job to say
For who am I to know
Why she's actin' this way

Oh once again turn away
If you're sure that it's done
Tell your prophets to pray
Tell your bandits to run

Take your eyelids of stone
They won't do you no harm
And take your cross made of bones
Take your your fly-paper arms

And when everything's placed
In your coffin of gold
Throw a scarf 'round your face
'cause the subway gets cold

Pack up your sunflower smile
And your bandana blues
Take your worthless denials
They're all you've got left to lose

Take your tinkerbell lies
And your weary desires
Take the tears in your eyes
Take your cup full of fire

Ah give your lover a call
If your legs start to fail
And he'll come break your fall
With a bed full of nails

No need to glance back again
There ain't nothin' to see
Just this drunken old man
And this woman and me

And you've made it quite plain
That we're just wastin' time
And you say it seems strange
That I'm staying behind

But don't you worry 'bout me
I can make it alone
'cause I got no place to be
And I ain't far from home

I am susceptible to you;
Darker clouds have passed
And much higher waves stood weathered
But here, in my self, I find you.
In your eyes, like the cold of the morning,
I find you.
No lover am I.
Let men with lips purer than mine
Taste the rose water.
Let them taste what feels made for them,
And let them find they were made for it, too.
No lover am I
But the man at sea
Hoisting a punctured net.

Please be Gentile

This is not a good poem

Really interesting poem, well written. Some menial critiques:

Second stanza's rhyme scheme doesn't fit in, the first is kind of the same with "red" and "fresh". Also, 'is' doesn't rhyme with 'kiss' quite perfectly, which is sort of dissatisfying as it's the concluding rhyme. The rhythm could also be touched up in some places (like "with the dried blood's reek," which could also be rephrased--it makes it sound as if it's the reek or smell that makes them hard). Other than that, nice piece.

Ha, I'm astounded someone actually replied to that. It was a bit of a joke poem (I wrote it right then) and I'm not really a fan of it but I thank you for the notes. I rarely write with a cogent rhyme scheme so it's good to get feedback on it.

Here's another:

What I mean to say (this is the title)

What I mean to say today's
to daze the waking moonlit haze:
it feels like coming rain will raze,
erase this unlit taste we've raised.

Brazen sunlight seeks embrace
of nighttime's pockmarked chalky face,
to face the lines of circled lace,
to tear the web of midnight's grace.

Secrets hidden in dark space
will come to light like flies to taste
the burning meat and brewing haste
of humans chasing dark away

What I mean to say today's
that we're all running in some way.

gay. gayyyy