Poetry Thread:

Critique your poetry, critique my poetry

Does mine even make sense?

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I like the 4th, 5th, and final stanzas, others need some work in imagery and rhymes. But I'm shit so what do I know?

>there is a tautology in blue down the occidental improbable
>and a carrefour by the cypress way
>i have seen the limits and grievances of Paradise
>unshuddering
>yet cringed before Ossian
>in light of those dire moors

>quan le monde
>and now the bitter dusk of reason
>i alone know the savage design
>of the wilted dream

>mild nocturne
>spare yer fearful ontologies
>spare yer tragic byzantine!
>wish not for a lover
>but by might of posture and pose

>you and i are the contemporary
>the kind arms by which melancholy guide
>in vitriol and of absinth spite
>we shall speak the beautiful language of our century

Wrote this when I was 17, cringey but I'm getting back into writing and I'm wondering if there's ANY merit to it at all

Real eyes realize real lies.

before i fall asleep
i think
what will i dream
will it be a meme
or a mystery

I'd say ditch it, in my experience fretting over old shit
just makes it harder to focus on what you're writing now.

do kind of like the last stanza though. What's it about?

here's my recent effort.

We scuttling claws dwell where light pales
In the dim. Sandy troughs are a fitting home
For our ugly warts, our coarseness.
I hunkered low and lamented
My pincer grips, no good for hand-holding.

Then, Like two hot knives, I saw the
Swimmer’s legs cut through the surface.
A storm of sand mud shale stirred
And onto me she fell, a long glide
Across my shell, touching who is never touched.

With clutches of mud she crests and
Swims up the riptide, limbs flung awkwardly.
Heaven is surely her body
Caught in the drift, my Venus.
If they might, these claws could love fiercely.

I am resolved. I free my self
And make my scuttle with the drift
Back up to the shore where my Venus
Patiently awaits her one true.
The current is strong but we will reunite.

how do you guys feel about hiring an editor to look over your poems? Is it a waste of money?
I want to publish a chapbook but I'm a little insecure about my stuff and just want someone to look em over.

It's not bad but I'm not sure it counts as a poem

force yourself to write in small words for at least 2-3 poems until you write one that you're happy with. then try thesaurus benders like this again if you want.

3/10
seen it before though so you might be famous

get some professors (if your in school) or at least some people you know that actively read poetry and let them look at it, and explain to them you genuinely want to get better. Once you realize any feedback can be helpful (whether you take the advice or not) to help you understand how other people read, you'll get better. That said:

>We scuttling claws dwell where light pales
be careful about that direct of a reference to Prufrock.
>In the dim. Sandy troughs are a fitting home
the linking enjambment here is professional-grade. the fact that "In the dim, Sandy troughs are a fitting home" works as its own lines is great work, really.
>For our ugly warts, our coarseness.
I don't feel like 'ugly warts' is good compared to second-half.

do you feel like I am being helpful? I'll finish if you'd like.

I think this may actually be prose, but I just got finished writing this to cure insomnia and would appreciate feedback. There's a very obvious inspiration for this, although it wasn't meant to be as such. I also wrote it trying to avoid using any form of 'to be'. The prompt I gave myself was 'No Self'.

The room has only white walls, white floors, and white light.
Where did the light come from?
No obvious source shows.
In the center of the room sits a pile of clay.
Thoughts of childhood resurface.
Making little clay people.
The people lived, fought, and died.
At the end of the day the people always went back into the big clump of clay.
As this memory appeared it reflected in the center of the room.
The memory shown back in explicit detail.
A child's hand smushing and rolling up the little clay people.
Seeing this memory from the outside almost felt sad.
What did the clay people do to deserve that?
No matter, their lives existed only in the mind of a childish creator.

There was one professor I used to talk to about my work but she passed away recently and I'm not studying literature anymore so I don't have any professors who I can approach.

I guess I can ask friends, hadn't really considered it. Not many of them actively read poetry.

Yes please, continue.

With the reference, is it cringe-worthy to be too obvious about it or what?