Poetry rate thread

I don't really understand it but it's worded really nicely. How long did it take to write?

forgot to say that i'd like some feedback

Love it, nice and sweet. What do the first two lines refer to?

They signify me struggling to walk the line between neaningful and pretentious, hence the third line.

(not truing to be rude)

>defense mechanism

That's great. We've all been there. What do you do with your poems? Haven't you ever wanted to throw them in a little book?

Insecurity, insecurity, insecurity.
Suprised someone liked one of them.
Though I souldn't be I guess, if I was more sure of myself.

About 12 revisions and half a year

r8 pls?

>awkward needlessly verbose prose is good poetry

Both your poem and this style of poetry inflict physical pain on me when I read them.

Prose?
It's blank verse
Sorry you don't like it

Stop the desexualization of women's breasts
bare, non-erotic bulbs of tissue
These things are so terrifying to me
As women's nudity becomes the every day
Their breasts become likened to a cows udder
And I won't know any better
I'll find myself in the dark
With my mouth made as if to devour her tit whole
Ill be so turned on,
and the lights will come on
And I'll only be in the middle of a farm
Violently sucking on a calf's low hanging teet
Thinking I've just got laid

I can't believe I like this bullshit

Decent to strong 7

>I poured some tea and stared at it a good 2 minutes

wow

I can live with that. How do I make it an 8

Distances in the making
far memories not lost but hiding
what one describes as self, the other
analyzes in a waking, almost naked
always crying, always hating

Gates closed to outsiders
generals pointing fingers
snowflakes falling, slowly melting
also cry brainwashed tears
barely standing, on the pavement
soaked with urine of years
the sweat of the disillusioned

Jesters jump and holler
their bells bring fear
the young ones falter
they cross the hallway, patrolled
with monitors filthy at the mouth
holstered spears, phalanx shields
point blank blasts flash near
blooming shrapnel
burning air
warring pamphlets tearing.

I burn the original manuscript with some hemlock while brewing ayahuasca and playing tribal instruments made from shells and coconuts. If the text is still legible after the fire goes out then the gods approve of my poem.

Never posted on this board before but came here for this. Looking for a rate and also advice on whether I should add a stanza about Pontius Pilate (between Peter and Mary).

Nazareth

A pauper in a manger far from King Herod
What does that make the magi
If He was not truly God?

Carpentry helped pass His time when miracles were short
What does that make Joseph
If he never brought Him to court?

Embarking to Jerusalem without an ounce of fear
What does that make you
If you did not shed a single tear?

Three times He told Saint Peter he would deny The Christ
What does that make me
If a good person turned me away thrice?

If Jesus ever asked just who His father was
What does that make Mary
If she could not show Him why He does?

Piercèd by the spear a rain of blood and water fell
What does that make a man
If it was only then that he could tell?

Reborn on the third day with little more than a scar
What does that make God
If He could only go that far?

>not 16 five year olds

why even bother, user

You're a more visionary man than I, my feathered friend.

did you just assume my gender?

>triggered

yikes

>yikes

that's what i hear from the basement

I like the mishmash of ancient and modern war images
I wish I could help with your biblical allusions but I can't. Could go from solid to strong with some work on the meter

I gave up on finding expressing grand ideas in my poems, so don't read too deep here

Up
I don't adore this feignéd sense of care
Your eyes had slid the truth down cheeks
Of which I hadn't touched nor kissed for weeks
When almost you had left with just a glare.
They told me all in love and war is fair
But no-one laid the law between those peaks
Pray tell: 'twas wrong of us to safely seek
A lover but from break our hearts to spare?
To speak like such for the chorus is bunk,
The haughty sage's wisdom has no hold
Upon the modern words and thoughts we've thunk
I see the vessel sinks but has not sunk
To see head mistress caught between the told
And what is safe has left this one as junk.

>no spunk
0/10

That was fucking fast

Also this one is probably really relatable

Master
Habits lend themselves a helping hand
To lead astray and ceaselessly destroy
The minds of man and in their ploy
Of wasting time and making beauty bland
The common man expires; dire strands
but only graze the virulence, the coy,
Impunitous infection on the boys
too youthful now to even understand.
And twice or so it's been a lover's bane,
An awful pestilence that breeds self doubt
In one who could not see the bastard's clout,
The tyrant whom has raptured them as thane.
Perhaps there comes a time one does without;
Perhaps each fruitless 'tempt to quit is vain.

wtf I hate jerking off now

Well don't stop now

This one is supposed to be read outloud but fuck it

Parallax
Parallax pavement scrolling
Asynchronously
Chevron chauvinism would you go and grab me a snickers don't
Laugh at me
The tragedy
Tires and wheels on the freeway
Speed kills my vibe and I can feel your energy from two
Planets I know my way around the blocky
Headed men too square to circle dance
Spinning Saturn's rings
I watch as Jupiter leaves
Juniper leaves in my cup of teabone steaks are
Higher than ever
I'm higher than ever
Six feet for four inches I'll scrape
Doorways and duct tape my scalp
Back in its place
Please wait

I only just started but the train stopped
My brain dropped from my nostrils
Gray matter snot I bought
One checked bag so check em
Let em know that under my wrist is the pulse
And under my chest the heart of the
Sandy mountains, uh, sandbergs
Karl Marx tried to teach me to share
Left some marks on her neck it happens
She told me she's a socialist so
She can have MY means of reproduction
But navigating this mortal coil takes a map and
Dignity gets lost somewhere along the way

Someday I'll do a mctwist off a hotel roof over a helicopter but now I'm underground like Marc Antony
Hawks
Circle round my drum corpse don't
Mean to play my own horn here or
Daily Bugle or something
Spiders, man, I killed so many spiders
For an arachnophobic sociologist
I also call her my sister
Missed her all year and racked a phone bill
So she aughta just come back
And she did.

I recently found a few pages of "chunking" exercises my senior high school English teacher would make us do to learn new complex words. I mostly used the exercise to write little quips and stories. They may not be 'poems' but I'd thought I'd share a few

Things I shouldn’t have learned, words I didn’t want to know the meaning of, it was all this and more, is what dragged me to her front door. Seeking some detumescence from all my surroundings and issues. However, she just stirred up even worse feelings in me.

I should’ve noticed it long before this happened.
Like night and day, her demeanor fluxed from this fake sweetness to a dark and sour expression, if only it’d been more salient to me.
Maybe then I wouldn’t be here, with this sanguine puddle beneath my feet mixing with the bitter rain that fell from my own incompetence.

Her obstinate demeanor, crass attitude, plain features, and worn boy’s T’s, unacceptable for even the lowest key events, are all so wonderfully tasteless but ever so delightful.
It is her prosaic attributes that make her the most beautiful little thing.
Like dark chocolate her bitter taste makes me come running back for the hidden sweetness.

Well, that was unexpected especially from him of all people.
It’s incredibly forward dealing with these types of questions, and yet I know both the answer and the answer he’s getting at with those rude, distasteful remarks.
Though then again how am I supposed to say anything when I know he knows the truth already.

God damnit, user. Its good

I wrote this after not writing really anything since the age of twelve:

They say of Theodora that her father tamed the bears,
And, bottled there inside your father, rained that royal will.
Rending autumn's monarchs from their thrones to sleep, his trill
Called out their names 'til winter's winds left them their waters bare.
They say of Theodora that men understood despair,
When words left your pools unrippled, without a dip in depth,
When no aural machinery could steal breezes from your breath,
When sons of kings found themselves drowned, dethroned, ensnared.

They say of Theodora when she called the royal name,
Rivers wore down pillars until the palace washed to shore,
And with the palace gates now bowed five feet from your front door,
You split your skin to show Justinian your noble claim.
They say of Theodora when her king was overcame,
By oceans new clad green and blue, storming in the square below,
Shining from a silver column, you told the tide to flow
From writhing crowds to Justinian, setting him aflame.

They said of Theodora that, despite all those who swooned,
Her greatness was too human, her beauty too diseased,
But yours knows not the soft erosions stolen by the sea:
You make ponds of absconding oceans, and puddles of monsoons.
What they say of Theodora, from lovers lips maroon,
Will drain away with every tongue that finds her royal name,
And ousting it from where it perched, your own will there remain
As future lovers try to tame the subtleties of its tune,
As fishermen try to net reflections of the moon.

top kek

Here's an ode to the sun I wrote. Each of the first three lines are supposed to be a likeness of the sun. I'm trying to connect the sun to the simple things in life and then what those things end up giving us. There is quite a bit of conceit. Any tips will be appreciated.

>Light of my Life

Rose petals bright red
The afterglow of day
Swells of salty air
Quiet applauding waves

Plump and juicy orange
Slice, crush, mushing, gushing
Spritz of aromatic zest
Mouth flooding foretaste

Glowing ball of molten earth
Dark layering rust and dirt
Broken bone, bruising skin
Green grass, blue sky, bright gold sun

bump

I like

>They told me all in love and war is fair
But no-one laid the law between those peaks

But the love and war line is super tacky.

sounds like stream of conscious wankery.

hi there, i really like you
hey there, we really liked you
hey! i loved you
hey there, i really love you
hi! we really loved you
hi, i like you
hey, i love you

The young wanderer drops
a stone into the anthill
and watches it burst
into flames, silent noise,
then ambles on through
the foliage, leaving the field
for the forest. Another passes
and eyes a stray emmet
whirling about salty earth—
a helping hand falls
from the sky, bearing ground
on which to latch, and
suddenly a city of family
emerges from the horizon
to welcome the lost traveller
home again.

Paramedics drape their backs
in black lead capes in crowds
where a human crush injured
the scores of kind, gasping for
straws that extend to the sky
where Zeus' tears pour into clouds
and the star stings heedlessly
the calloused skin of concrete
and canopy of downtrodden lilies
withered from the sulphuric soil
spread across the buttered toast
falling in unison with the dice
cast from a broken blind arm
connected at the hip to nothing
but a belt of glimmering bulbs
rattling at every nudge of the wind
intoxicated with yesterday's reminders
of a tomorrow unavailable and unmet,
and so we twirl bedraggled and smiling
in corrosive heaven's unboiled wax
to gleam for a seconds glory
and melt back into the cracks in the floor.

>end-stopping every line
FUCKING REEEEE

this is shit, you have shit rhythm. Read ezra you fucking degenerate. Also this

I do read Ezra (although I prefer other modernists)
>end-stopping every line
I'll look into it, if you feel it negatively affects the rhythm.

This is probably pasta but i dont care to google it. -2/10

Use verbs you fucking hack

Apparently not enough. E.p. specifically admonishes against the use of repeated end stops. Do you know how goddamn droning it is to read sentences that go in multiples of five iambs? All your sentences sound the same. It's sickening, knock it off.

I was trying to slow it down so it'd speed up in the second half.

>slowful
wtf

A poem ain't prose even if it's blank verse, if that's what you're saying

I meant that it being blank means its verse regardless of quality.

this is what your poem reminds me of

Mother said you were unique
Until society proved her wrong
Suited men despise the weak
Yet to us you still belong

Who's to say you're a dead end?
People running out of time
No one appreciates the freaks
Until the day they die

Laughter,
Always laughter.

Always asses,
Getting fatter.

Always pigeons,
On a platter.

Always givens,
On a matter

I don't typically ask for feedback at all. Unless you're making money off of poetry, I don't think any outside input is necessary. It's an art form and should be expressed with purity.

've ad igeon eat nd ts ot ad

The lambs are falling,
Following gravity like the good shepherd's herd.
The lambs are falling,
Like time will tell them just when to stay upright is absurd.
The lambs are falling, and falling, lured by tempting stares.
Impaired beings of hot air and limp wool in the wind.
Initial velocity slips into a sinful lull.
The lambs are falling.
The lambs are falling.
Canis lupus prowling, scooping up dirt with a full sprint.
The lambs are falling, far past that point of speech.
Useless lint at the bottom of your pocket.
Little did Little Red Riding Hood know, grandma had no teeth.
The lambs are falling, right into place, right and left.
The lambs are trapped in a web of lace.
The lambs are tilting.
Vertigo: unlimited.
The lambs are falling into a downward spiral,
Into a cage with the Viral,
Into the arms of another depressed child.
The lambs are falling like meteors and like trauma.
Scouring the strings and plane with no seating for the wilds.
I'll be your lamb.
I'll ram this flailing body of dormant tissue and sail, not more.
The lambs are falling.
The lambs fell just before municipalities did.
Just before cities and towers and people died, four horses were ridden.
Newfound good riddance to mankind.
Sitting down, willingly, when one could give up and drift down.
The lambs are floating for two and half minutes before they drown.
The lambs are brought to the core of it all.
Father, for it is I who weeps in the presence of your shown light.
Father, for it is I who seeps down through the porous tunnels of the bright.
The lambs sought eternity, infinity, endless possibility,
Adventure and tombstones, other things that fall just as easily,
Other falling lambs, great shepherds that will lead on and on.
The lambs are falling in line.
All is going according to plan; All is a song with a particular scheme for rhymes.
All is falling as lambs do tonight.
Mary's bones wither into ash unto green pastures.
Father, for it is I who seeps down through the porous tunnels of the bright.
Without guidance, the lambs are falling.
Rock bottom is a literal term for the ephemeral yearn to be with another falling lamb.
The lambs are falling in sickness and in health, together.
The lambs are falling, abreast to the burn, resting for an everlasting forever.
When Below is reached;
When ties binding us towards downwards bleach and break,
The lambs will fall for falling's sake.

your moms an art form and I sexpressed her impurely

please end my suffering

this poem was brought to you by
Wendy's Fried Chick-filets,
an abominable amalgamation of horrible ideas
interminably (till mortis) branded in me skull cab

I just roll my eyes whenever poem or poetry is included in a poem.
It's like you sat down and thought "Write a poem" and you start to type "poem"

>I just roll my eyes whenever poem or poetry is included in a poem.
DUDE

An Idaho red belly man with a red nose
Guffawing and sloshing out his garret

A dizzy spell this time spun round into that gutter
with a splash and slip

Comrades red nosed guffawing splatter
A shoe lace tied slipped lickity split

Mates mates you drank too much
on the side of the road
now lying in the slush

I like it. Keep writing religious poetry.

And so!

Frightened by suspense; on my wall sits man.

And on the shelf thy father.

but its my real life all we do is read poetry and watch movies

Oh God.
Oh God.
Oh God.

I wish these words were more than hyperbole,
more than accents I’ve learned punctuate my vocabulary with.
Why was I not blessed with your gift of ignorance?

chekd

8/10