Poetry thread

Not bad but the "birds frolic" clashes with the other imagery. I don't know if you've been on any high mountain tops but there ain't no birds up there.
As someone else mentioned, you've got some cliches in there (one step forward three steps back, time will tell, cloud the mind).
It's got a good base, but it needs some work.

got drunk one night and wrote this about an old ex

Sorrowful memories engraved in my mind,
It was from you that I never could hide

Our love etched into the sand
As the waves caress its sweet, tender cheek
Washing it ashore in some foreign land
Where the elves roam freely and the sirens don't sing.

Rhythm lost to an abysm of Pride
Pace taken like the lace of my Bride.
To look upon such a sombre face
as yours - love; I could have only a taste
of content and of stability in this land
where man thrives and the sirens sing on the sand
songs of ice and of ash - where symphonies clash;
where I lie with false memories of you - abashed.

To live in plenty is to die in dearth
With none but me to tell your worth
Live with love writ in sand to die with hope forgone
listening only to the siren's empty, cold song.

Okay, let's hope it works this time.

Crumpled up in a corner of a bed with red sheets is geezer in a young man's skin.
The sheets may need doing, the rooms a wreck, and his nurse is a wrinkled cigarette.
He stares into his phone, camera to himself, gazing into the digital mirror.
Our skin is drying
Our twinkle is dying
I wonder where it's gone.
He is supposed to be so young and strong but already desires youth. He whispers to himself a solemn hymn:
Soon I'll be sixteen again.
And so he gets up and ready for the day whispering his short epitaph, drags himself through his skin, and sees the bathroom mirror to his melancholic delight.
He sees not a young man, soon to be seventeen, but a flame losing air.
A face covered in wet clay, slowly drying and freezing into place. Crude deviations soon get stuck, wishful goals run out of luck, and now he's gone too far.
He fears a nightmare that haunts him like the sunrise
One that seems so far dark. Frames of years skipping by. Love and curiosity soon run, bye. Weblike thoughts he used hide behind. All blows away like ash.
He tries to cry but only lurches
He wants die but a new thought perches:
Soon I'll be sixteen again.

I feel as though your theme is a bit trite, personally. Extremely similar to a lot of 19th century romantics. That said, it's more or less iambic all the way through, and it has a good rhythm. The repetition of "rise", "forms", and "old" is also pretty slick. I don't know, this poem really isn't in my taste at all, but you definitely have some skill. Maybe focus on crafting an image for "the old" some more, since you focused primarily on the new "monsters" with your imagery.

This is great. It kept me engrossed, and, at least I felt the resentment and rationalization of the victim in an abusive relationship. It hit me right in the feels.

The only constructive criticism I have would be to change the sixth line from
>The first few times it's a request, until that nuclear winter of a woman sets in.
to
>The first few times it's a request.
Of course, it's not exactly my place to make assertions. Again, I really enjoyed this.

Not bad for a drunk poem, but way too epic of a tone for an old ex. The word choice becomes more and more archaic as it goes on as well. Allusions to the Greeks (and Norse possibly?) are always fine in my book, but I would make the language more modern and the tone more personal.

She was the only thing about me that I liked

I really enjoyed this. My only gripe is the "fountain" metaphor doesn't quite gel with the "Every drop a new Picture" line. But other than that, well fucking done.

Thank you, I just started writing today and it's hard sharing it with people.. I agree on the fountain metaphor. I originally drafted that section as part of the painter metaphor, and I'll probably edit it.

8/10

The roadside means more to me
than a lot of things these days.
I walk on it, day by day, my boots a click clack on the tarmac.

See, the roadside knows me more
than friends. And when it's beaten
down by rain, I'll lend it my jacket
keep it warm.

The overhanging canopy, the seeming
guardian of the roadside sometimes
lets through a beacon of sunlight;
it illuminates.

See, I spend hours by the roadside
My boots a click clack on the tarmac
thinking, mostly. Thinking of what would happen
if I turned left rather than right.

Now, crazy as it might seem
I left the roadside last spring
with blisters plastered over my feet
and sour memories in my head

Yet as the winter rolls around again
I can't help but be drawn back to it
like a magnet attracting me to the roadside
and I just can't shake it.
See, as I walk in winter, the mist might
obscure what I see elsewhere; but on the
roadside, the flowers blush as though pleased
that I'm back. Again. Again. Again.

I want to leave the roadside, I really do
if I skip town, I'll only come back
again in the winter; cause the roadside
entices with leaves and promises
that maybe this time I won't leave;
and the mist guides me to a safer place
till I turn over and look at the roadside
still waiting for him to look back
and let my boots go a click clack on the tarmac.

My soul has captured me,
hands and feet bound with chains,
and thrown me into a cart
taking me where I do not know.

I am taken to lands that are not home,
forced to work the mines of merry,
and once I'm settled, I'm moved again,
whipped to sew the fields of pain.

Soul and shadow conspire
to track my every trace.
To break free from my depth's constraints:
that is the salvation I await

Pretty good, but you're missing a lot of words like "a" and "to". And this one line was really awful:
"Love and curiosity soon run, bye."
I laughed when I read that. Other than that, it was a good poem.

Worked on this one for a long time, pls no bully

I miss the old Kanye, straight from the Go Kanye
Chop up the soul Kanye, set on his goals Kanye
I hate the new Kanye, the bad mood Kanye
The always rude Kanye, spaz in the news Kanye
I miss the sweet Kanye, chop up the beats Kanye
I gotta say, at that time I'd like to meet Kanye
See I invented Kanye, It wasn't any Kanyes
And now I look and look around and there's so many Kanyes
I used to love Kanye, I used to love Kanye
I even had the pink polo, I thought I was Kanye
What if Kanye made a song about Kanye
Called "I Miss The Old Kanye"? Man, that'd be so Kanye
That's all it was Kanye, we still love Kanye
And I love you like Kanye loves Kanye

I have witnessed true art tonight. bravo, user

Thanks for the (you) famalam, I'm not a native speaker of English and most of the poetry I've read is 19th century so that explains a lot.

Sleep eluded me
Or rather, I eluded sleep
Sitting up with a bottle of bourbon
And a revolver trained on the door

I heard the clock strike once
And then a second time
And then a third
And then everything was silent

Whether by sin I committed
Or by proscribed knowledge I gained
The agents of lunacy tracked me
To drink from my moonstruck skull

I heard a knock on the door
And then a second time
And then a third
And then everything was silent

The light from under the door vanished
As a shadow crept towards me
Like a mass of skittering black insects
Crawling along the floor

I heard them call my name
And then a second time
And then a third
And then everything was silent

I resolved I wouldn't let them take me
Fearing that even more than hell
So I loaded a single round into my revolver
And pressed it against my head

I heard the revolver click
And then a second time
And then a third

fucking genius

Angsty. The callback to second time then a third is OK enough but it doesn't really have any impact. If you dropped the first stanza it'd be a lot better imo

>I revised this today.
The Window:
The window was a mosaic.
Its tiles, interpolated and shapeless, repeatedly
Repositioned.
The window was a painter finding their
Vantage,
Ever reevaluating their
Perspective.
The window was an unfinished canvas,
Each brush stroke a new
Vision,
Every drop of paint a new
Picture,
Every splash a new
Depiction,
Every moment a new
Portrayal
Of the same world.
The window in the rain was a memory,
Resurfaced in the dry house, with
Eyes habitually cast down towards the
Same desk in the same room with the same walls,
Away from the wet canvas.

Stupidity is contagious
It is an accessory
Like luke warm boiled ginger
Easy flowing and very acidic

can I get a (You) directed at this garbage:

The window can't be a painter and a canvas familia... Stick with the fountain and just change up the wording to fit it better.
Your writing is great but your editing is trash.

Boiled ginger is an accessory? Confusing language and a hackneyed, holier-than-thou theme.

Every year, the same old tale
Civil arson, saviors fail
Happy is that happy does
Pretty sure I never was

Mayor Tom to Ground Control
Tinker, tailor, soldier, soul
I sold my home for nothing less
Than magic beans of happiness

>drinking from a skull
I sincerely don't think you can have this kind of imagery in a serious work these days. Skull accessories are like fedoras at this point, edgy to the point of cringe. Other than that, I agree with

Very good. I like the rhythm and theme, I wish it was longer though. Other than the rhyme scheme, your word choice has a sort of singsong tone that I'm digging.

Visions of that day
Cloud the innards of my mind
Without even a moments thought
Time moves forward
Longing for days old
But making mistakes not so new
How can one fix
What cannot be fixed
It does not care
No matter how much
You can call out
But who will answer?
Forgotten
But when you move forward
as Time does
Then you can truly find peace

I apologize for the shitty poetry I'm trying to get better.

No i was watching some dumb show and the stupidity was contagious and the woman was using it to promote herself as if her beliefs were an accessory she could wear to gain status. And I was drinking ginger tea kek

I don't drive cars
There are things
In the dashboard
That jumble your think-waves

I need to think
I think a lot
About faceless policemen
And the Pentagon

They have black uniforms
With white ribbons
And a gun in their right hand
They never put it away

I don't travel by bus
Every third passenger is a spook
An eagle in human skin

They take your thoughts and wants and memories
And fly them all the way to Washington
To drop on the other president's desk

There are papers on that desk
Letters written to no one
But the papers are blank

I don't go outside at daytime
There are people waiting
On the doorstep

One word: imagery. The point of literature is to describe what you're feeling through metaphor. This also reads more like the outline for a coming-of-age novel than a poem. Find out what feeling inside your soul you want to share with the world, and then craft language that helps do that.

It needs to be more concentrated in my opinion it needs more substance

This was interesting. Poetry from a paranoid shizophrenic's mind, I like that. The short lines match the narrative, but it would be interesting to have the poet have some actual hallucinations and maybe some word salad in there as well.

The whole point is that the window is constantly changing. It's an extended metaphor for someone's personality and outlook on life. It's something different in every structure. How can a mosaic be a literal memory?

pastebin.com/dXM9eGHK

This is my last poem. It's only apt I give it out, find some use in it and throw the rest away. And since this is Veeky Forums, I guess I need to entice the reader with something besides posting just a pastebin link, so here is part of the prologue.

Then,

there,
here and now and fall is all of a sudden rain.
Air to new air and poesy is dead.
A bridge careens in a flood of May,
when many a Mayhap blossoms to kite
small prayers over a river.

Run, water will pray never stop.
Wet yet swift, does the lining of a rinse cloud
drop. A day caught in turbine flux.
It is love o' clock and the world has to go.
Sun set in low brevississimo,
as birdeyes wailed into a color dead east.

Thanks, I think I'm going to rework it so it's longer and more involved.

I know, I just think painter and canvas are too similar. I enjoyed the first draft much better. The more different the window metaphors are, the better you get your point across.

I have no idea how to rate this

In the centre of the city where the great star wakes and sleeps
Ride the women dark and pretty on the horses that they keep
By the ladder in the ground out from which climbs the dawn
Near the children bathing brown in the heat of rising sun
Walk about the tired men with callous on their feet
Careful as to not offend the mounted women that they meet
Such the longest stretch of hours crawls over the baking day
Across the sparkling city towers where it will be shut away
Just beyond a golden bridge journeyed men hide out of sight
They heave it down a jagged ridge and thrust the city into night
And drain the color from the women with the steeds that drink the sun
They ignore the frozen children dancing til the coming dawn

This was awesome. Really good

Love that bit about "I was trained/ Like a dog, by a bitch." Chills man. I agree with the other poster about changing the "nuclear winter" part, and maybe end it with making the cigarette itself a metaphor for the relationship, the "fire" (passion/love/lust) all ending "up in smoke". Or something. Just for your consideration.

magical

This reminds me of my favorite kids book it was about a family of bears that learns to tightrope walk across a misty mountain by a human couple. Other than pure nostalgia though, i don't really like it. The beginning and end feel disjointed from the middle.

I feel like some of it touches on strong emotion but it never really takes off with it, it stays very vague.

It feels a little like a stuffy old man but at the same time it paints your grumbling nicely enough to not sound too preachy.

I've read this when you posted before. It's very bare which i like but i wish you touched more on some of the great feelings you have in there like
>smiling, staring at me in a language I don't yet speak.

Thank you. I've been on the edge about that line since the start. I will seriously consider changing it.

That is a great idea. I would love to work that in somehow. Thank you

Which feelings exactly? Do you have some examples?

It's a continuous work in progress and I appreciate your input guys.
Also I think the condom wrapper might be a little heavy handed and could be a bit subtler, like the whiskey hands. What do you think?

I don't mean feeling like emotions i mean like setting. Certain snippets like when she tilts her head give a very human glimpse into the world your painting. Or with her whispering in pinksocked feet, you can picture the almost tenderness that might show which would keep the victim in her vice. I think those are what makes this piece but i don't think overall i get that from reading it. I didn't like it the first time i read it because it feels very blunt but on the second read i picked up on those and it was actually really pretty good

It is you and I, alone, once again.
From day to night you've stayed with me, my sweet friend.
No one knows you better than me and all you know is I.
Do you remember that time we drank that bottle dry?
You passed out on the floor with such withered eyes,
but I was always there for you, my sweet mate.
And you, I.
Like the time we got so high we thought it a mistake.
You held me all evening on my mothers couch for ease.
Inseperable and natural like trees to leaves.
My best unforgetful friend.
I'll raise a glass to you time and time again,
this one's for you from heart to pen.
I'm glad I found you in this unconditional pain.
Such a good friend, as if we're one in the same.

You Cringe: You Lose, Veeky Forums edition.

Same fag here, trying to learn how to write better. Please don't be rude, but criticism is what I'm looking for.

Oh mother, I can feel the soil falling o'er my head
I can see the luster break beneath
Oh mother, I'll be fine
Elohim and I have an understanding
Mother, Beelzebub is ravenous, but I'll be fine
Elohim says there is a better place
Don't try to wake me
Oh mother, Mammon wants all of me, but I'll be fine
Don't feel bad for me
Oh mother, Leviathan says we can have more than them
Elohim will understand
Mother, the kingdom is breaking
I can feel the stones falling o'er my head
Elohim says you can have them
Mother, I did it for you, you'll be fine

10/10 really made me feel

Here an old herald heard herds head hither and tither with hefty heaps of urns high with half hacked ape heads.
He heeds the hordes unorderly hammered heels harrumph haphazardly ahead his heightened hair ends.
Heavy heaving hopes hop from him hoarse throat, but a horrified hesitation holds him hanging.
As heckling huffs hike uphill, oh, how he hinges on holy healing to hinder the heinous hounds' haranguing.
His hands harbor vehement hatred for these heathens and their hunt.
Wholly hypnotized by the inhospitable behavior haunting his hypothalamus,
a hunch hinders his hindsight at an hour when he wishes it had been a holiday.
Hence, the unhappy hodgepodge hooks onto his apprehension, and like the hint beholden in a stack of hay,
a howling harpoon hisses past the underheld heir and into the hulking herald's heart, whom hollowly hollers, "Dicks out for Harambe!"

i like it. I am not good at writing or interpretting poetry myself but I can still try to rate. I got kinda of a good feel from the sad poem in a sense of mystery. it was a nice piece of literature. made me feel. good job

Is my metre any wrong senpai? I think it's a mess, isn't it?

On what year or what month?
Or day, or hour, or minute?
There can't be any run
--Oh, young days were quite fun.
From omens of death, innit true?

Your life was such a waste
But no need for a haste
Judgement is at the gate
--Not bothered about it, wasn't you?
Still God tries to make up with you.

The dusk comes nears the verge
Dawn is in front of your face.
Doth the thief has the urge?
No man knows, all is a grace.

I like this.

What do you mean?

>I went to shoot a big string of spit
what did he mean by this

What are you doing man. This one is one a15 year olds attempt at rap but
is actually quite good. The second is still simple but it is powerful. You do have an edge though because the biblical name drops seem to give it more credence but it does have something to it for sure. It's very hopeless almost miserable.

I like it!

Nothing more, nothing less,
Leave it to rot.
Birth is death
Death is nothingness.
Birth is existence.
Existence is death.
Death is nothingness.
Leave it to rot.
Give yourself meaning,
But it's meaningless
Leave it to rot.
Leave it all to rot,
It will rot for eternity.
Nothing you do will change it,
It will rot.
We are the maggots.
We are the rotting world
Nothing more, nothing less.

>inb4 "edgy"

A poem about nothing
Isn’t the worst
That can come from a malfunctioned mind.
A poem
With a pause at every line
Is pretty bad though.
A non lyrical
Everyday speech kind of poem
Now that’s the worst.
And maybe
I have no depth
And maybe
Women make me uncomfortable
Or maybe
Everyone makes me uncomfortable
And that’s my excuse to be alone.
And That’s the limit of me as a person
And that’s the limit of my depth
And I’m repeating and too much
And and and.
But at least,
I have
A poem about nothing.

I claim a breath of wet and wooden air,
And the sky shows through latticed maples tall and bountiful;
How can I lead all others to this place in silence
Where the stately oak sets still, as if infinite?

The wondrous fleeting peace goes off before
its tail is caught. Was it there at all?
Though palpable, the glow is immeasurable.
Or perhaps to me only, thus I duly form it,
Public and universal.

But
No poet can be prideful:
He alone knows the fact
and
the account.

>literally the first thing I've ever written

Fucking terrible. Do not spell out the metaphor. Create a space for your poem to live. Do not use cliches. The ending is worst part, don't just abandon your imagery unless you actually have something of value to say without it.

The fact that people actually said this poem was decent is why I stopped making these threads on this board.

nah

I wasn't even trying to use any cliches I was just writing how I felt I don't know much technicalities. I am a beginner poet so why don't you just chill the fuck out loser

Hey OP check out
for a reasonable critique of your poem. Ignore the clearly ass-blasted fools, you know they can't write worth a damn themselves.

And there upon the stream's wet waves
The faery danced and sang.
And in the ear of every trout
The faery music rang.

Hum diddle dipple
Hum diddle dipple
A faery kiss in every ripple

And there upon the curving bank
A girl in pearlwhite gown
Called to me across the stream
And laid her stockings down.

Hum dipple dipple
Hum dipple dipple
A faery kiss in every ripple

And o'er the waves I waded fast
To kiss that mousewhite maiden
And tripped and splashed and rose and found
Myself awake, dream laden.

Hum dipple dipple
Hum dipple dipple
A faery kiss in every ripple

How about a limerick

There once was a woman for Cue,
Who filled her vagina with glue,
She said with a grin if they pay to get in . . .
They'll pay to get out again too

See how the trees swing,
See how flowers cling.

Taste the perfect air,
Taste the grass there.

Feel the refreshing breeze,
Feel the crystal seas.

Hear the birds play,
Hear them lock away such beautiful songs,
Yet i cannot decide where my heart belongs?

Competent tier. The refrain could use work. Or you could just get rid of it idk. Keep doing what you're doing you'll end up writing just fine.

Not even organized properly. Definitely not funny. At least Google a form before you use it.

This is like a worse version of this:Rhymes are uninteresting and forced. No meter whatsoever. Payoff is weak. Neither you nor the other user has written a publishable poem, but where he probably will someday, you have no hope.

In the tartan lilt of childhood I liked to spin between glass cases:
Make death masks blink and bones dance.

I remember paintings of dead boys that followed you with
Their toes, and contemplated the middle distance as if to

Test if they could see the butterfly display on the other
Side of the hall without squinting.

Muskets; crystals; collection boxes; rib-glued Dodo flesh
And the diamond rings of Spanish ladies; there

Was small wonder in the way the faux leaves
Hid the firework-eyes of model lemurs.

Lollies from the gift shop candied my cheeks with the same
Migraine rush I get now only from running in

At five: worrying about bullet-points that went unrecorded
While I was dreaming about the animal-manubrium-placard-poetry;

Being reminded about the lemur eyes by an exploding zeppelin
(And its historical connotations);

Burning with indiscretion, biting knuckles,
Peeling skin, and watching diagrams sit perfectly still,

Wishing my eyes would make them
Dance again.

Poetry is not subjective. There are rules for what makes a good poem and a bad poem. If you post your work in a critique thread and it isn't good, people who know what they're talking about are going to tell you why it isn't good.
Why should he ignore me? What was unreasonable about my critique? How does being critical of a bad poem make you assume that I cannot write myself?

i think opening your ""critque"" with 'fucking terrible' is unreasonable

kek fair enough. Wasn't wrong, though.

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 as 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.

My philosophy agrees with the statement "there are no rules, unless you make them". I am aware that my poetry can be bad I am a beginner but I am trying to grow. I am pretty sure I have more potential than 90% in the world

I cant be bothered to with so many technicalities, maybe I will mature

A single glance had brought to view
An image I had squandered
Shattered panes of dreamer's glass
With faces, names and curses

She is the one I'd soon forgot
The soul I could have borrowed
She turns and weaves and ends again
Where shy minds meets the summer

He is spring's perfected bud
Anticipactions of the flower
And were I not what I have been
I might have found me only he

They are well met, these moments mine
This brief, ghostly rendezvous
And I shall set their fleet to sail
Where new minds meet their curses

No, you don't have potential. If you had potential you would be taking advice and not ignoring "technicalities." They aren't these little details you can just ignore, they are the cornerstones of the craft that make poetry work. You can turn a bad writer into a good writer, but you can't turn a good writer into a great writer.

I understand with time and experience you get better and there are certain principles that are reccomended and favored but there are lots of different types of poetry like haikus with different format.

If I post some lyrics that I wrote will y'all rate em?

Sup, Veeky Forums. I just moved here from Pacifica, California, which is on the other side of the bay from here. On the other side of the peninsula, which is probably the least hip town in the whole Bay Area. And you can get a nice ratty apartment there with a nice panoramic view for about $700 bucks a month. Anyway, this is something I wrote while I lived there. It's called Pacifica.

My balcony looks over Eureka Valley.

In the evening, I get to watch the land turn the color of brick, and then aluminum.

On the hills there are trees: eucalyptus and Monterey pine.

And in the sandy bed, a housing development.

Often, I catch my eyes, sliding easily - as if they rolled on bearings, or had been oiled - off the identical rows of houses of people, and back up to the more peculiar trees.

bland reassurance:
A will be A,
B will be B,
and all the world will go on
suspirating gentle
as a wounded deer

what's to be done with a man like me--?
like the shore at low tide:
composed of lonely puddles
that the sun dries

i hate blacks
i hate them all
and i hate them right
i hope they go back
from where they come
back to their lands
and stay there too

beautiful volta! well done

this guy doesnt' know shit btw

I am afraid that this is gay, to me

Veeky Forums crit please?

try to read it out loud. it's a mess ya. but if you unfucked it maybe it wouldn't be? sorry to be that guy, just my $2 (because my opinions... are worth 100* your avergae boardposters')

the flow is fucked up

sorry to have to say that. I advise you read it out loud, you'll hear where you're stuffing too many syllables in or unstressing them where they should be stressed

maybe some cool idea if you fix it... idk

Yes, that's my point exactly. Each style has rules. Your poem was a contemporary piece and it followed none of the rules of contemporary poetry.

lit crit pls