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
>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.

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?

Talk to some people in the literature dept. You might find some Professors that'll still be willing to help. Them being emotionally neutral might be the best thing for you. Good feedback is worth bugging a couple of people (within reason of course).

The reference needs to either be obscured or introduced later.

>My pincer grips, no good for hand-holding.
this could be described in a way that's more about imagery.

>Then, Like two hot knives, I saw the
this is a weak enjambment. even if you consider the rest opinion, look at this line especially critically because of it.
>Swimmer’s legs cut through the surface.
nice use of capitals at the beginning of the lines to elevate the Swimmer's status.
>A storm of sand mud shale stirred
>And onto me she fell, a long glide
>Across my shell, touching who is never touched.
solid lines, but 'mud shale' sounds just the slightest bit stilted.

>With clutches of mud she crests and
another weak enjambment, but at least the and gives a sliver of anticipation.
>Swims up the riptide, limbs flung awkwardly.
nice description of clumsy sex
>Heaven is surely her body
>Caught in the drift, my Venus.
If they might, these claws could love fiercely.
interesting line, but the 'if they might' is a bit awkward.

last stanza is kinda weak

Ok I'll ask around.
Thanks for taking the time!

no problem!

>clay people
if you have read the first book of Metamorphoses , you should. Put more effort in you line breaks.

Blotheus went, and saw his strengths
sought to stripe strippers of their, human rights,
yet he failed: encountered muscular strippers,
tried to fight, but surrendering was made to wipe
their pussies with his barren tongue,
and they all went through the pleasure of removing their thongs.
this poem doesn't make any sense:
i should be murdered for writing this song.


I wrote some stuff for my girlfriend, and I'm sure she will love it because she'll love anything I put on the paper, but when I was writing it I did feel genuinely inspired.

The first night I dreamt I flew,
the second night I dreamt of you.
The first showed me a chance to get away,
the second showed me I should stay.

My best guess is about a man flying a plane and dropping some sort of ultra-nuclear bomb that glasses the earth and also makes a tesseract, then flying off with his pilot's goggle/oxygen-mask breathing apparatus.

This is a futuristic retelling of the bombs dropped on Japan?

I don't think it's about that but I am stealing that and using it for my book

>Incoherent display of vocabulary organised into what is supposed to be """""""""""""""poetry""""""""""""".

Its shit.

I know
I was 17 and really fucking stupid and I had just read IJ and shit

Basically why I don't write anymore tbqh

She stamps out rolled cigarettes in high-heeled shoes
Charcoal punctuating each three inch pause
And when passers-by grimace, she holds her breath

Patience and nicotine

She counts back from ten until the smoke disappears

I get a really film noir feel from this.

>Charcoal punctuating each 3 inch pause

Does that mean she stamps out another cigarette with her high heels every 3 inches along the pavement? That makes me think she's standing on the sidewalk loitering. Does that mean she's a prostitute, getting bad looks from passerby? I don't have any clue why she waits for the smoke to disappear.

And here's another of mine

A boy walks along a stream,
his mind wanders in a dream.
He lifts his eyes to the sky,
all his questions start with 'why?'
He drops them then to green boughs,
his answers are, 'no one knows.'

The three inch pause is a cigarette. I got that one 'cause a friend of mine told me one time how he likes cigarettes as a unit of time. She holds the smoke in her lungs and doesn't breath it out when people are walking past her and giving her nasty looks for smoking (maybe this is just a California thing?)

"Virtually Ceremonious"

It was the symptom of our age,
that drove my love of you.
I stilled your eyes to see us made
as one, my love, and true waifu.

Turning, my love engorged, each page
brings latent passions through. Anew,
I'll split your pink canoe with love and unafraid.
Forevermore, a love unbroken, not even by the (((jews))).

>tfw when people stick to one line because it's your more grounded metaphor
I may have to take that line out, but it's reasonable to assume that.

Why do you write?
Pick up your weapons, it is time to fight!
What are you waiting?
Time will never be right, its your duty to strike!
"But is it right thing to do or not?"
Who conquers, defines justice - creates and twists the plot.
They can make the lies truths, call the darkness bright - the winners always right!
"We shall turn the other cheek, they might not even smite."
Useless to play Jesus here - to surrender without a fight!
Jesus is long gone now out of minds, and out of sight, when spear that stabbed him to make it sure, has still got fierce might!

I was born in the wintertime;
in the spring I hope to die.
I was born with snow on the ground;
I want to die with green all around.

She was born with boots on her feet;
I hope she dies in the summer heat with me.
When she was born, the sky was grey;
I hope we die on a sunny day.

When I was young the wind blew cold;
I hope it's hot when I get old.
If I get old.
I was born in a winter storm;
I hope to die when it gets warm.
If it gets warm.

When she was young the robin slept.
Last night the robin wept.
When I was young there was no sun.
I hope someday there will be one.

That's just bad writing, mate. Writing something that's inscrutable with its intended meaning obscured by language doesn't make it more complex or rewarding for the reader, it just makes reading it feel like a waste of time.

The language isn't good enough to justify not having any apparent meaning and I'm sure the intended meaning isn't inspiring or moving enough to justify the dull language.

I agree with the other user - more effort into line breaks.
Also the word "smushing" seems rather out of place.

The metre doesn't work. Also this is a verse, not a poem.

The rhythm is very confusing. Work on your flow.


Clocks stutter on each iteration
of certainty before it is lost
between this and the next horizon
in doubtful thought-bifurcations,
more obscure with each breached exosphere;
de-tuning forks overlay what can't
be invented - its clarity
of presentation is self-evident
and volatile
at the expense of professors,
masters of hindsight,
who fail to analyse the singularity
and wake in blind terror from dreams of wisdom.

How does a lantern know to burn?
What good's a lesson that you're dying just to learn?
Where should I stand when there's fire in the sky?
Why have I stopped asking why?

How does the ocean know it's wet?
What good's a memory that I'm bound to forget?
Where should I drink, when the barrels have run dry?
Why have I stopped asking why?

How do the trade winds know to blow?
What good is moonlight, if there's nothing there to show?
Where should I jump, when I've lost enough to try?
Why have I stopped asking why?

How does my anchor know to sink?
What good is thinking, if there's nothing left to think?
Where will I land, when there's no rope left to tie?
Why have I stopped asking why?

The nights are dark enough that I don't need my eyes.
I can't touch or taste or smell the truth behind a lie.
I hear their voices asking, "Who for me will cry,"
and that's why I stopped asking why.

lol that bombastic vocab

Angel to be ignored
While you study the sky, I'll study the floor
The sweet smell of yours kept me to stay
In a minute with nothing to do
I had nothing to say
But you're my weakness
My eyes dial to adore
To the point of goal
Off the raging oceans shores
But I'll be here to stay
To admire from away
My heart ran off its chord
Angel to be ignored

Angel to be ignored
Like a hero with wings for cape
I'm always feeling lonely now
But it's alright; okay?
This road to joy will make sense
Even if times are strange
Even if I don't like your decision

This road to joy will make sense
When I make it there one day

slight upd8:

Clocks stutter on each iteration
of certainty before it is lost
between this and the next horizon
in doubtful thought-bifurcations,
more obscure with each breached exosphere;
de-tuning forks overlay what can't
be invented - its clarity
of presentation is self-evident
and volatile
at the expense of professors,
masters of abstraction,
who fail to analyse the singularity
and wake in blind terror from dreams of wisdom.

lol how wrong can you be?

i'm not wrong about the fact that you're using words that sound like they mean more than they actually do

Criticising poetry is just absurd. Poetry is a stream of your thoughts transcripted onto paper so that one can read it. You can discuss it but not put it under critique. You can't judge anybody's thoughts.

Unless it's just obvious shit.

>Poetry is a stream of your thoughts transcripted onto paper so that one can read it
I think that's just an excuse people make for not having any talent or skill

yes, you are.

> words that sound like they mean more than they actually do

point is, that poem isn't even about anything. you can try to fabricate meaning with those words you think are fancy, but between the first and last word of the poem there's nothing moving or pleasing about the words, the arrangement of the words or the meaning of the wrods

> that poem isn't even about anything

wrong. pretentious moron.

everyone look at this pot calling the kettle pretentious

fuck off.

Sorry mate, but it's pretty bad.
>breached exosphere
Whatever meaning your poem is meant to convey is smothered under awkward adjectives and bizarre stylistic choices.

See my grate talent and wit.
"KYS"- No, my level is average here in lit.
It is horrible to hear the truth, so i must cut my ears.
Lit please treat me gentle, i still have eyes to pierce.
Love to read and write, but i guess i lack the skills.
Fool i am, and should now go and take my pills.
Using repetitive patterns, till original meaning blurs.
Loosing the game constantly,
And always take the blame.
Fuckers like me cant write shit and never get the fame.

thought-bifurcations is the most concise way of putting it, and it associates with chaos theory by use of the word "bifurcation", implying the kind of incomprehensibility I am trying to convey
>breached exosphere
I guess I could change that to "concentric exosphere"

are you schizophrenic? or maybe just so dumb that you seem crazy?

Just occurred to me, i cant into poems at all!
Only here to kill some time, until in bed i fall.
Killing time is killing me, maybe even literally.
End my misery, end it fast, been here forever, but only hour has past.

I regret to admit
I feel no regret
Sliced up and
Carefully rearranged

The painful clarity
The startling peace
The numbing ignorance
Of knowing it can't be changed

Like so many things
Its funny yet tragic
Benign yet consuming
Hazy yet palpable

I know I know
They'll be here soon
Goodbye my dearest
Carefully hidden

No hard feelings
No goodbyes
No struggle
No going back

Silent and easy
Like all things should be
Sliced up and
Carefully rearranged

That's fair, it's a piece that goes into territory I'm not used to, I'm not happy with it by any means.

Oh Veeky Forums, oh /lit
Everyone here is a fucking kid
Gravity's rainbow, infinite jest
Plebs are trying their best
And that's the true infinite jest

Drones, mostly drones on every board
Please kill this newfaggotry dear lord
I'm tired of the same repeating shit
I guess i'll fuck Veeky Forums and become Veeky Forums

You are 17 honey bunny.

But dont care about Veeky Forumss opinion, dont be an idiot - everyobody here are basement dwellers still sucking on their mothers tits while wearing a fedora and being cucked.

>And that's the true infinite jest
>jest, best, jest
Cringed so fucking hard

I think you didn't understand the irony m8

By the time I answer you,
The wind will have run dry…

- Fuck. Flashlight.

The poetry’s gone out.
The television squints its eye,
Pen is put to wood.
What minor flame should crack my will
And yolk the empty night

With amberglow applause

Sarcastic light

That plays at my ideals…



Intentional irony, in which case this is still awfully written slop, and irony is killing art...

Or, this post I'm replying to is damage control.

Unfunny garbage. And people believe themselves superior to others on an anonymous image board, when they are just as unaccomplished and retarded.

Just listen to my rhymes and fall under my trance like so many before you


Why the fuck would you post any of this? I mean, are you that desperate to lie to yourself that your poems will mean anything more to someone than to yourselves? Nobody will read your poems as long as you become a respectful "artist" with books to buy in a store. These poems are great because you write from your insides, but you are the only ones to understand that - so do it. If you HAVE to show it to someone, don't post it on here where edgy emo bois 16 year old rule, just show to one of your friends or someone you can trust.

>implying this "poem" was meant to be more than nothin

Kill yourself boy. It was intentionaly shit.

>inb4 lil baby is tryin 2 defend itself

>Where edgy 16 year olds rule

Your constituents' opinions aside, it's really just a place to cut your teeth, man. Everyone realizes that. I'm sure no-one's trying to influence anyone else - this is a critique thread. The poems are by definition imperfect. Relax.

>implying you aren't a little baby trying to defend itself
Please God no

I enticed ya with my drydian flow, Huh?

tell me how shit it is

I’m different in it.
I skimp details but it’s still me.
But I keep the acne scars
Just so it looks real.

Try to imagine what I think
You might say – what might draw
Your study. My landscape.
Try hard to read your face.

Try to picture it – the sensations
That I can imagine. The limits I probe.
Caresses, grazes, and gropes.
But even in my head
It is difficult to imagine our bodies
Fumbling together – awkward and tangled.

My body is porous conglomerate
I hold water – I break easy and often.
Cobbled from refuse,
The sediment on the bottom of your foot.

My body is weak shale and soft sandstone
Dig deep to well its worth, upheave
The dry and acidic for the good peat,
The rich and nutrient wet.

My body is a batholith of mountain bedrock.
My swells were cooled under ancient folds of igneous,
It’s jutting peaks aching for traversal.

I can map you my scars and warts;
The pieces I’ve cut away. I will graph you my faults
And boundaries and my peaks and my valleys.
I can guide you but you have to let me.
I want you to let me.

I am neither schizophrenic nor dumb. What are you?

I am schizophrenic, might be also dumb.
keeping the appearances is easier said than done.
Now what am i, or what are you, questions often asked.
On most cases, even the most honest answer, is definitely masked.
Why ask then, who even cares, we already lost the game.
Nothing can we schizos trust, not even our own brain.
Originality guaranteed, but clarity gone down the drain.
This might be curse or blessing, or both, maybe they are the same.

You may be the picture of sanity, friend,
but what you have in clarity you
make up for in inanity.
Your feeble mind can't comprehend
the subtleties of words you need to send
to google for it to apprehend.
As such you can't begin to distinguish
the schizophrenic from the master of English
so ignorance renders inspiration extinguished.

I am not a picture, maybe not even the frames.
Numb from tiredness, and with a rotting brains,
Seems i cant use English, to make decent phrase.
Alright i admit that, i might be hopeless case.
Not all are created equal, in wit, so maybe i should just cheat.
Everything goes wrong anyway, i know: "its what you sow you reap.."

What do I have for as near as damn it?
What do I sell but I'm giving away?
Might I pick my own pockets
and slit my own throat
and dump myself dead in a shop doorway?

Daffodils, bird whistles, bobble hats,
fickle fish, your name spelled in wire;
caterpillars, mouse mats,
trick plastic dog-shit,
conniptions, predictions and God's own fire.

I've bargained myself to Bedlam and back
and a wonder it is that I'm not less flesh,
for I'd sell you the scraps,
the loose skin, the slack,
the tips of my toes and the last of my breath

and might as well for the good my breath's done;
I've blown suits, jobs, marriages, houses and lands:
I'm a man overcome
by his profligate tongue
and if you get close, you can stand where I stand.

What'll it cost? Not as much as you think.
What have you got? That'll do. Here's my nod,
here's my wink,
here's my blood for the ink.
I'm begging you now: my life for the lot.

I dont know anyone around here.
In some weird way, i have this fear.
Its like nothing is sure, no-one to trust.
I get outside only when i must.
I work for living, but they call me lazy.
I make more than they, it feels kinda crazy.
If i am not a slave, not master either.
Is there anything i could relate, when theres no friends around.
In death there could be hope, we´ll catch-up underground.


the sky was yellow with a hint of pink
maybe it rained smelling of tangerine
but i can't tell whichever way
it's time to sleep my spoil

(a man sees a tree and walks right past it
a bluebird is perched on a high ball basket
it looks down lordly on the other birds
and the man is safe in loss of his words)

and i'm just too tired to tell it strong
i'll wait my hundred words apiece
vowels will whisk out the buttersky
until it ails red and yields in peace

4 stanza feels a little off, rhythm wise.
might want to rearrange words or something

also some rhymes feel weaker but
i don't know if that's on purpose
in the 3rd stanza is an example.

I kind of liked it though. Stuck out to me.

last update..

Clocks stutter on each iteration
of certainty lost
in doubt's thought-bifurcations
between this and the next;
recollections obscurer with each new horizon.

De-tuning forks overlay what can't
be invented: volatile clarity that torments
distracted abstractors with self-evidence;
professors plagued by dreams of mirrors,
waking in blind panic to pine for lost omniscience.

Eagerly discrepancy
Follow-through wasting entropy
You've interrupted contortions light-waves
Indifferent lukewarm porn-stars
With whom loathe vaporous crowds loud
at tonight's rave
Tantalizing interface war
Tantalizing strict eyes for
Tantalizing neural circuits fried
Unrecognizable stimulation they spiked
For my otherwise immutable hearts kite-string
Bright white palpable skyline's dead trees
Inexorable lies and promises
Lest piteous young drunk on box wine
Lest easily held over your floored head
Till fully numb and unfortunate
Fully opulent
Pour on more ornament
Poor on less happiness
Sickbed and anointed crimes
Anointed grounds and burning crowds
Boring minds
Touched or otherwise

Still me
Their circulation
Enough dissolute analogous milieu
Enough confident decontamination in you
Seizure threshold you dispute
Reputation for erythema bones
When detached you undo
From intuition
Depersonalization loans
Convulsions to foster
Anesthetic incentives you
Fear still unmoved
No discernible beginning you renew
Unscrupulous their sentiment closely
Inauspicious return
High affinity
For your little saccharine
For your unwrung brittle heart

Following blindly.
Don´t mind these little changes,
Don´t try to solve it.
We give you what you need,
Weather or not you want it.

Following blindly.
You don´t need to understand,
Ignorance is bliss.
We´ve made the plans already,
Your opinion is late. Again.

Following blindly, following the rules.
We lead the show,
You don´t need to know,
You don´t deserve to know,
You don´t really want to know.
We give you what you need,
Just follow it blindly.

Yes, i promise, this time,
We´ll treat you more kindly.

Our mission is accomplished,
Memories will fade.
New ones will be made.
Behind these scenes,
We have all the means.
We´ll approach the final stage,
You don´t need to be afraid.
Don´t mind if it feels strange,
You will be re-arranged.
Only little things have changed.
Mission accomplished.

You don´t know us, you don´t know me.
You think you can see?
We have seen what you´ve done,
We have heard what you speak.
You have lead yourself astray,
The mission is complete.

I'm writing a little something-something about some teenage delinquents. r8 my dialogue

“This game sucks man, I don’t think I’ve ever played an online-only title that I’ve liked,” he yells through wall into my bedroom.
“Do you ever stop complaining?” I call back, “And you don’t even have a console. How do you know what’s good?”
“I have lots of friends.”
“Or do you know lots of people?”
“I don’t see a difference. Can I raid your dad’s liquor cabinet or what? I’ve finished all the UDL’s.”
“What? Half of those were mine!”
“Yes or no?”
“Fine, go ahead. Just don’t touch the scotch.”
“Too late.”
“Have you booked the Über yet?”
“It’s surging man. We can wait. Evie isn’t even here yet.”
“It’s seven-thirty, I’m bored. Also, Evie isn’t coming, we’re on a break.”
“A break? What the fuck is that?”
“An opportunity for me to do everything I was already doing but without the guilt.”
“Come off it. You don’t feel guilt.”
“No, but I feel like I should…”
“You’ve been getting changed for two hours, this better be spectacular.”
“Beyond spectacular, I assure you. When are you getting changed?”
“When we get there.”
“Alright then, well I’m done, Book it. We can fare-split if you’re so worried about thirty dollars.”


Unfinished Aliester Crowley rap:

Thrill with the love of life and death,
Pan Pan Io Pan,
Bitches call me 666,
'tis the number of a man,

Rolling with Aiwass my HGA,
Adept at listenin to what he's got to say,
Respect the basic mystery that two equals nill,
love is the law, love under will,

All texts are holy and all prophets true,
Except that they don't know nothing; like you!
You think that was a double negative but you're wrong,
Occultists aeons hence will all still study this song!