Poetry Critique Thread

Yelling goats edition.

We've got a prose one up, but the poetry thread died.

My piece, still working on a title:

In a grey mountain land, searching for God,
I happened on a cave, toothy and cold.
Shouting, anguished, within. I turned to my guide,
facing somber dissent. Heedless, I entered.
Where the small den halted, bleak light fell through the rock,
on a thin brackish pool, in which a figure lay.
That tormented wraith writhed, bones in black water,
endless life lamenting— one it could not take.
An ending I offered, a fool's pity.
It shrank from me in fear— by this I left.

Returning to the guide, I bid us continue the search.
Met with my ignorance, their gaze sought the ground in dismay.

...

It is equal to living in a tragic land
To live in a tragic time.
Regard now the sloping, mountainous rocks
And the river that batters its way over stones,
Regard the hovels of those that live in this land.

That was what I painted behind the loaf,
The rocks not even touched by snow,
The pines along the river and the dry men blown
Brown as the bread, thinking of birds
Flying from burning countries and brown sand shores,

Birds that came like dirty water in waves
Flowing above the rocks, flowing over the sky,
As if the sky was a current that bore them along,
Spreading them as waves spread flat on the shore,
One after another washing the mountains bare.

It was the battering of drums I heard
It was hunger, it was the hungry that cried
And the waves, the waves were soldiers moving,
Marching and marching in a tragic time
Below me, on the asphalt, under the trees.

It was soldiers went marching over the rocks
And still the birds came, came in watery flocks,
Because it was spring and the birds had to come.
No doubt that soldiers had to be marching
And that drums had to be rolling, rolling, rolling.

I like this. The last four lines especially remind me of the feeling of not remembering your dreams, but knowing that they happened.

This has a fantastic flow to it, the only line I'm not quite getting is "That was what I painted behind the loaf," but this may just be a result of me not considering the poem for long enough.

Because you've never been desperately poor and hungry.
It's a poem by Wallace Stevens, who is probably one of the best poets of the last century.
You just confirmed that you're a pleb, that's all.
The only reason I posted it was to see if some user would be like, "tipsssz fedora so shiit xdxdxd hehe huhu ha"

You're right, I've never been desperately poor and hungry, and I haven't studied anything by Stevens.

Glad I could help you jack off your ego-fueled metaphorical hard-on, but these threads really do work better if people post their own work.

Lol, shut up you waste of semen.
You have nothing worth posting. Your attempt is full of cliches, and not in a good way.

If the internet didn't exist to coddle you, you'd be working your 9-5 and talking about flat pack furniture with your fat and fucking ugly wife right now, instead of daydreaming about being a "writer" because you think it's cool to be an "artist"

Suck me off, you cunt. Stop posting here.

he didn't even post anything?

He's the OP