Poetry Thread

Can I post my single pleb OC poem here? Is this the place for shit-tier poetry or just people who actually know what they're doing?

It is the seventh and last poem/chapter in Huidobro's "Altazor." The whole of it is essentially a successive deconstruction of poetic canons, with ever more abstract imagery and figures.

This is his deconstruction of language and additionally his creation of some sort of language only understood to by him. He believed the poet to be "like a little god." Small ego, that man.

In my craft or sullen art
Exercised in the still night
When only the moon rages
And the lovers lie abed
With all their griefs in their arms,
I labour by singing light
Not for ambition or bread
Or the strut and trade of charms
On the ivory stages
But for the common wages
Of their most secret heart.

Not for the proud man apart
From the raging moon I write
On these spindrift pages
Nor for the towering dead
With their nightingales and psalms
But for the lovers, their arms
Round the griefs of the ages,
Who pay no praise or wages
Nor heed my craft or art.

-Dylan Thomas

When neigh the day,
Neither the night,
All in each moment lost,
In our lives.

feels lacking in substance
the intention for meaning is there but isnt articulated well enough in the 2nd and 3rd lines
almost there though

Who here annotates? Well, if you're cool enough to defecate on a poem, then consider the following:
print out a poem (or leave it in a book), heavily annotate it, sign your name on a corner, scan it and send it to [email protected]
and try not to annotate your own poem. That's fucking lame and we all know you just want to appear deeper. You can't fool anyone. If possible, no long poems, but if you got to, then you got to.
I'm really curious to see where this goes.

Thanks man. I thought it was aesthetic but I guess not

It's my own. Just wanted to see if anyone liked it because that's how most of mine is

a drop of deer urine trickles down my throat
dont ask me how I got here
*freeze frame, camera zooms in onto my face*
you may be wondering how I got here
and by the intrigued look upon your face it would
appear as if you have misheard me
what I meant to say was that
a crock of my dears youre in trick held down at the boat
I will meet you guys there
we are planning a barbeque with the Stefans, down at the water front after the kids get back from kayaking
Hey, Jeremy, did you see Debrahs blouse?
yeah, I think I saw her nipple
dude, thats my wife bro
my bad dude
you should keep your fucking whore of a wife on yours balls and chain that bitch to a tree and leave her out her so that the vultures can peck out her lungs
haha, yeah yeah, she has some imagination, that one, she does, her daughter takes after her too,
does she now? Loves to goad the chode does she? loves to grimice at the penis is that right?
ha relax, im just fucking with you man
wait, is this your wifes boyfriends daughter, or her girlfriends husbands?
oh, oh, shut up, here they come
Hey Caroline, dont you just look Darling! today,
thanks Pietre, I really like your cuffed shorts, and your sunglasses look real cool, like some sexy alien bug
pst, what the fuck man, your girls a total fucking weirdo
shut the fuck up you faggit, shes an artist
Isabelle, come here darling and sit on daddies lap, show uncle Goerg the bouncy game
No... issy... hes joking, dont do that, who wants smores?
I want smore of your wifes fat ass
dude, shut up, she can hear you
oh, its fine, I dont mind, with all of your shortcomings, I will take all the compliments I can get
then it started to rain

>Obviously not aesthetic
What do you think 'aesthetic' means?

A while ago, thought I'd start writing poems from the perspective of Saturn, to Saturn, to myself - as a sort of therapy. I don't know if they amount to any literary merit, but the therapy seems to be working, which is all I wanted. I have two parts, working on a third in the moment.

1: pastebin.com/ZSuKFriL

2: pastebin.com/Ug65wNwB

God sent us to California,

“This is God’s Country, Son.”

And we sent back spiteful YouTube comments,
And bent over backwards for Brand Name coffins,
And went from Summer of Love to nuclear wasteland.

“Throw Don John (born June 14, 1946) out of office!”

Everyone touching and baby cupids blushing, the fountain of youth overflowing, gushing.
Where do you think you are? Heaven?
You’d be mistaken. I’m glad to inform you we brought Heaven down here.
And we live here forever.

Liked it up until barbeque with the Stefans, just turned boring and uninspired. Those first few lines had an interesting style going though. Here's one of mine

Spent the change I had on candy and coca cola.
Need money for the night bus now, need to get home to my bed.
I hate begging, but sometimes there’s just no other choice.
Fuck I need to smoke; I can’t stand this itch in my lungs.
I need a cigarette. I don’t plan on quitting in my lifetime. I’ll quit after I’m dead.
That guy I just asked had a whole fucking pack, I saw it in his pocket.
He didn’t give me even one. He walked away from me as fast as he could.
I’m going to stab his eyes out with a screwdriver, piece of shit.
I want to put his big mouth over the sidewalk, take my foot and: BOOM. Fucking right asshole!
I haven’t had dope in four days, I’m very ill. I want it so badly.
It’s cold, I don’t have any fat to keep me warm.
Finally got my cigarette! This man gave me two.
The boy next to me says he smelled like rotting flesh.
I can’t smell anymore, I say, my nose is broken.
Now he’s talking to me like he knows better than I do, stupid shit.
It’s been ten years I’ve been like this.
My IQ is 144. I’m very good with numbers. Even got my economics degree.
I’m a smart guy. I’ve tried everything—doesnt work.
I think differently than people like him. My brain is different.
Can’t fix myself. I’ve tried. Can’t.
I’ll be someone else after I die.

Interesting concept, well played but really devolves at the end with the line "It's been ten years I've been like this" and onward. Comes across as very fedora-tipping Euphoric Brain-man

Bump

>Refreshing smell of petrichor

Please find a more cliched image. Other than that I enjoyed it.

I don’t begrudge the young their dreams of something more exciting,
My envy just parades around conversations as malice.

I’ve never attempted to assassinate the princesses making diplomatic stops to my porch
on Halloween evenings.

I’ve never once set a little boy on fire just to watch his red plastic hat melt about his head, even though it would more thoroughly obscure his identity.

I don’t hold people to their costumes, no matter how problematic or unlikely. I understand the purpose of a costume, revel in a mask’s invisibility.

Still, there are some things that shouldn’t be attempted by amateurs.
I wouldn’t give up two dull nickels to see a middle school’s Macbeth,

Nor would I pretend to believe the truth if it wasn’t dressed properly.

Post whatever you want man, this thread is all about poetry, shitty or not. The more the better!

I want to have that sort of dedication for a very large epic I'm working on. But I still don't know if I could do that for. It's either brilliant or a little too lost to thought imo.

This is wonderful. Simple, yet complex. Evocative, and gripping. It feel so natural to read.

There's just so little. I get the gist, but there's not much to play with.

I don't, but hopefully someone who does may stumble across this and help you out.

It's not aesthetic because aestheticism has no meaning behind it, it simply is art for arts sake- no message, no lesson, no insight. Just appreciative work. Will check these out shortly. Sounds interesting though, I can't certainly relate to writing for therapeutic reasons.

This turns from an interesting frame to rambling really quickly. About when the other guy said he lost interest.

This is pretty interesting. Like I'm in the head of a meth or crack addict. And it had pretty good structure for freestyle.
I do agree with this user though.

I'm glad you liked it. Even if that image is cliche. I knew it was, but I was writing that based on what I was doing and what was happening because it was really comfy at the moment and there was actually the smell of petrichor. Which is so comfy to me I couldn't help but throw it in.

Thanks for the bump. Between work and sleep it took me a while to get back to here. I'll be giving out a word next. And hopefully people will keep posting poetry!

Any french accepted ?

I mean, someone posted this: I personally don't speak French, but poetry is poetry regardless of language. Share it!

Désormais peut être sais je,
Des milliers de vie et ses visages,
Autant de morceaux et d'étoiles,
Au plus profond, l'encre et la toile.

Une force se consumant dans l'éther,
Me faisant traverser encore les mers.
Le rivage lointain disparaissant,
mourant dans l'iris, dans la mémoire naissant.

Un centre si profond et ses parois,
Verticales et assourdissantes, peintes.
De cent motifs éteints, milles teintes,
Les lettres sculptées de ces titans d'autrefois.

Carrousel d’antan, les paysages défilent,
Comme un livre se gorgeant, enfilant chaque secondes.
Les perles d'une colossale mosaïque, et d'un monde.
Tourne, tourne enfant de passé et de Nihil.

Folie rotatoire et le plancher pourtant immobile,
La démence d'un monde qui jamais ne s'arrête.
Ouroboros te cache tu dans l’asile devenu île.
Les douces journées d'étés à jamais se répètent.

Voyageur, si tu as encore l'amour d'une existence , fuît au plus loin, et ne soit pas son papillon.

So what is this piece about?

Teen stuff, loss of temporal reference mainly.

>waste your childhood and teenagehood
>finally start reading books
>start reading poetry
>I'm Italian, so I pick I Canti by Leopardi and Il Canzoniere by Petrarca
>read and study them

>tfw I won't ever entertain the idea of become a poet, not even for a second

I've fully experienced a kind of mastery that I won't ever attain, unless I 100% devote my life to it.
How are you guys overcoming this struggle? There is no way I'll ever muster the courage to attempt to publish anything, since I know that until the day I die I will be just an amateur.

Shifting my feet I stand in line,
Milk, eggs, bread, apples,
Always the same.
Glorious peaks of exotic edibles
Rising out of carts around me,
Belong to someone else.
Cashier beep-beeps paltry purchases,
Did I find what I needed?
Always answer yes.
Sweet-faced son tugging on my arm,
Quarters for the gum machine?
Always never enough.

You can't really be a poet. And what I mean is that it's better to be a writer who can write poetry than a poet. Unless you go to school, are well known in the literary community, and write truly sublime modern poetry.

lovely end

You're talking about money and success, not art.

Yes, but it's difficult to be content with your work if it isn't appreciated.

Yet I have the strong impression that to truly achieve something in Art, especially in poetry, you have to ignore this mindset.
I mean, I'm sure that deep down you know that >every compromise should be avoided as much as possible
>the entire capitalist system subjects you to models and lifestyles that are not propedeutic for any sort of art
>that achieving true mastery of the craft requires a monumental effort that can take an entire lifetime

Given these consideration I'd say that every true artist should simply disregard what is expected from him by society (in our society: to make money) and see his artistic path as inherently lonely and individual.

tl;dr: please don"t talk about the publishing business in a poetry general

You're using as many "poetic words" as possible, but that's not enough to make a good poem.

Also watch your spelling, write sentences with verbs, pronouns and an actual meaning (seriously...), and avoid zany stuff like:

>books threading the beads of a mosaic
>the deafening walls of such a deep center (YES, YOU WROTE THIS)
>the sculpted letters of these titans of yesteryear

At least you're lucid (even if despondency from picking too great a master is treacherous).

Don't waste your time if you feel you don't have the gift. Find another activity, and be a good reader instead of a mediocre writer.

>even if despondency from picking too great a master is treacherous

Well, I think it is fairly justified since I've given Leopardi and Petrarca as an example. Their virtuosity is simply apparent if you know Italian, to a point where these poems could be about nothing and it would still be a worthwhile aesthetical experience.

>Don't waste your time if you feel you don't have the gift.
I was thinking about doing poetry on the side, but I'm way too selfconscious to release any sort of half-hassed poetry.
It's not that I think that they're too great for me to reach them, it's that by reading them it becomes evident that I have not thought about the medium enough to truly think that what I'm doing is deliberate.

The impression I have about artistic expression in general, is that to be truly great at what you do you have first to exhaust every possible conventional possibility (wich usually stems from erudition and personal contemplation on the knowledge you possess), and only then trascend what poetry has been until now.

Without doing this I can't help myself but think that what I'm doing is unexamined and almost random, and to be fair I value the most the art that is infinitely deliberate in its essence, completely unbound by any external factor (and when the external factors are there, they're completely dominated).
my2c

Most people just don't look at it that way. I'm not one of them, but that's just a general fact. You are right though, and I'm not saying you're wrong.

Thank you. This made want to re-think what it was I was trying to do. I'll try to write an essays on my thoughts on poetry. H*ck, maybe I'll even upload it here at some later date. :)

L4 and L7 fail at the attempted language elevation, i would consider revising them to either match better with the rest or jiggle them around until the attempt is successful.

Otherwise this is a nice little piece.

am i gonna make it Veeky Forums?

I would love to share my poems but I have two considerations that prevent me from doing so.
>If I post my poetry here, How can I be sure that no one will steal it and pass if of as their own ?
> What if they love my poetry and get obsessed and reveal my identity or something. Virgin nerd creeps can be dangerous.

I think visual deviant poetry is simply attention whoring. You are better than that user.

Alright after doing a theme last, I was thinking I'll do a word this time. The word to use will be

>conduit

I love this. Very relatable and quickly brings you down to perspective.

Do you actually know French or did you use a translator?

1.) its p easy to prove you wrote something if you found out

2.) this place isn't like /b/ in that regard unless you're a pretty girl talking about modernists on youtube

so Veeky Forums am i gonna make it?

eh, I write plenty of more traditional works, but the more out-there stuff is harder to get feedback for.

Is there a market for sonnets? I only write sonnets.

a niche one, but you have to be god-tier

Series of Pound Studies of “In a Station of the Metro”

As moss grows on the marble;
eyes on a sleeping lover

This glass city shines through;
unclouded shroud of Turin

Chi-Ro carved in stone eyes;
holy city seen

>god-tier
oh boy lmao

I agree with when it comes to your example. It's just too much and it becomes lost to your own little code of jargon and structure.
I will say I do believe in some instances of visual cues in poetry. I wrote this (terrible) poem when I was first getting back to writing and I used a little of the visual structure technique. And I believe it worked, but the poem is very dense and is very rigid. It's pastebin.com/tE3cAyEC here if you want to look to see what you should be trying with visual cues, and not that crystalline, lexical codex.

am i supposed to be formal with my adjectives?
you need to be good, because people shit out sonnets all the time

no, the impact i wanted it to had was "oh boy, god tier sonnets? too bad, guess i'll be an engineer."

don't give up, because there is no market, but expect it to pay for your food either.

have you tried other forms (just curious)

well, i have tbqh, but the sonnet, the sonnet is for me the ideal form, the perfect form. i like to try to have concise poems, not too drawn out.. and the sonnet is a well known form, so experimenting with sonnets is always fun.

think about it like this: free verse is free, there is no form, there is no meter, rhyme etc.
a sonnet needs to have all this for it to be a sonnet - so playing with rhyme/rhythm/meter is noticable. you could also write longer pieces using only sonnets (the crown of sonnets? was it called) or write a sonnet in a mirror (quatrian-tercine-verse-tercine-quatrian) etc..
see what I mean? The sonnet is the perfect form...

>pastebin.com/tE3cAyEC

It's pretty good user. I like it. The visual clues seem appropriate.

Here we go. I'll post one of my own, and critique someone else's. If people like it I'll post more

the spoken rhythm is off, felt like you used "i" too much, some of the imagery was good but was executed poorly, you come off as pretentious in the end, can't believe you used 'problematic' in your poem

Well here's mine:
Hands are the Eyelids of the Soul

They shake withered
before their time
reaching out into familiar darkness
spilling milk in the
urine soaked air
we breathe around it
from rusty white lawn chairs.

I think the Villanelle is the ultimate form, and a well-written one proves the mastery of the poet.

A knock on the door,
And a "How are you?"
To the neighbor of next-door.
Reply "How do you do?"
And shaken to the core,
"Good, how about you?"

Shaking like the East
He looks me in the eye,
Foggy, glassy mist,
And a glass eye.

I freeze and shake,
"Oh, so you're a Jew?
"Here's an oven, for you,
"To bake."

Well, thanks. I did put a bit of thought behind it, so I don't think it's bad as a whole. My taste for poetry has completely changed since I wrote that, so now I am not so much a fan of it as I used to be. That's what I meant by terrible.

The first one is great, I really like it. That's about it though, the rest are(seem) a little try hard.

I agree with , though there's certainly much more that can be done with the "concrete" formula.

Also, bump.

My dadaist masterpiece

Once I saw a devil
and he told me
gue gue gue
I didn't know it was a camuflated fish
yo yo
lelelelelele
boba boba boba
cried Jesus
but not biblical Jesus, he already forgot his safety password while bdsm hard
io io io
polish police
fishes everywhere
and I can't use emoticon because it will
change
from dadaism
to cubism

I saw this in anotger thread. I dont like that you didn't consider the advice ppl already gave you. This looks like the exact same poem, which means you're just looking for validation. It smells lazy.

I did consider the advice. You don't have to take every piece of advice your given and follow it. Otherwise I would've killed myself like 6 time s already.

I post here because I get shit not in spite of the shit I get.
And no, I didn't remove the commas, because someone told me to write more like Pound (who would've bitched about the blank verse).

Here's the lyrics to one of my favorite songs at the moment. It really helps to hear the song, but the lyrics are still solid.

"Mandala" (Indigo) - The Dear Hunter

I lost my place in the world;
it left me behind.
Now my soul is unbound
and my mind is free to roam
around and around

Thoughts drip down to words on a page scrawled in a foreign tongue.
Circles tending toward the center lead you back to none.
You can cry, you can beg, you can plead, you can pray...

You may doubt it, apathetic,
but you never had control.
You saw what you wanted,
but the rest was terrible.
Pull back the curtain
and reveal the guilty, so
the veil can be lifted.
The well will overflow.

You've been here before.
You've seen it all
but your conscience won't recall.
And your eyes are barely wide enough
to recognize what your heart keeps giving up.

And someday it might win
if your mind's giving in.
Just try to lose yourself;
or do your best till then.

WHAT IS IT?
Those who have it doesn´t want it,
Those who want it doesn’t have it,
Those who had it regrets it,
Those who never had it, craves for it.

What is it you ask?
It´s called love my friend.

>It's bitter aroma filli
>It's
Just delete the entire last stanza imo. Otherwise this is a good poem, nice work user.

Here I will give it shot;

What was it that Neticze did,
I don't know but he was red-pilled

What was it that Kant said,
Jet fuel can never melt iron and lead

What did old Schopenhauer mean ?
Women are stupid and men are creeps

And What is your philosophy ?
I just want some anime pussy

Ancient Holy War!
Autumnal jihadis cascade through the wind
Sacrificed in uncountable numbers
Needlessly
To Stem the unstoppable forces of encroaching winter

Paint the skies and ground with your martyrs
Great Vernal Obelisks!
Religious leaders of the death cult of the seasons
With such fervent followers
Observe them as they battle your greatest foe
Prostrate themselves at your ancient feet
And their corpses rot that you might, after death
Yet live again!

And they too, on that day, will be reborn and live again
In Glory!

I actually completely agree with you. It doesn't need the last stanza at all. Glad you liked it though!

Gonna bump with another one of my poems.
And who will go a-riding with Fergus now
Through the ancient, towering glade
When the once young, russet brow is wizened
and the maid has gained a hardened gaze

For his brazen cart has lost its gleam
The team of horses no longer prances
The path, once new and well-tended
is weathered and overgrown with brambles

How long will he be found among the trees
the trickling streams and blooming heather?

I like this. It's well written, has pretty imagery, and flows fairly well. But who is it asking for in the beginning, if not the maid mentioned later? Unless Fergus is a reference I'm missing.

I wrote this to be what the title sums it to be. Relating vague images of the sun to something the sun gives our lives that mean everything to us, done through a series of evolution. Each stanza gets progressively more esoteric in meaning, and this will probably come off as pretentious.

Evocations of The Suns:

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 molten heart
Dark veins of dirt
Great mountain of bone
Green skin, blue mind, bright gold sun

How do you all start writing poetry? What place does it come from?
How do you translate your observations into text?

I just wrote this poem on inspiration while browsing through this thread. Might touch it up later, it doesn't feel quite complete yet. Might just discard it.
I honestly don't if I'm actually any good at writing poetry, but I like it, it feels natural, and you guys give honest criticism. So just a fair warning.

My Itchy Brain

My brain is itchy
Itchy like a foot
In a bed of maggots
A pearly white bed
All seething and alive
Like the corners of your eyes
And the corners of your smile
Make me shiver
Like the smell of cadaver musk
I'll meet you if, I must, but
I'm much more palatable
With whisky in my liver

If I could
I'd like to cut off my head
And survive
Maybe that would
Scratch this bitch

>books threading the beads of a mosaics
It sound so awful in english tho, but there's litteraly no problems with this metaphor.
A mosaic is not only a piece made of colored glass or rock.

>The defeaning walls of such a deep center
The wall are not immobiles, "carrousel","Folie rotatoire".

>the sculpted letters of these titans of yesteryear
So ?
It's kinda symbolist tho, I guess

I'm pretty new to this whole poetry thing, but here's an attempt.

Body

Standing on the precipice, clutching at his side.
Cloudy water runs down the leg.
Smelling of formaldehyde,

he leaps into the air
while birds cackle with delight.
To contemplate such a sight,
to write it down, or rather type.

I'm not the one to try.

They find him in a pile
pointing to god, kicking a bush
elbow in dirt, pelvis as crown

they pick at the arms; the shell doesn't break
they claw at the neck; it gives and it takes

and birds don't like meat that comes from the ground.

Two dear friends
sat together while drinking wine.
They laughed over stories of whoring while at war.
As they sat around the brothel fire,
the two men also talked
about lovers they had lost.

And how many lost
lovers did the two dear friends
recall while they talked?
Drinking sweet wine
and sitting around a warm fire
made the two men miss time spent at war.

They cried about victories won during war
and laughed about battles they’d lost.
From afar, Pliny the Younger watched as fire
shook the sky that hung over these two friends.
Enough ash fell to spoil all of the world’s wine.
In the brothel, the two men still talked.

In the crowded streets, no one talked.
They just watched the mountain wage it’s war.
The city would make no more wine
and the forum would become lost.
All of this happened while two friends
talked next to a warm, brothel fire.

Nobles and slaves were blinded by fire.
The sky went black while the old soldiers talked
about how in the next life they’d still be friends.
Such a brotherhood only comes from drinking and war.
How much time had they lost
to brothels serving sweet wine?

Two friends became one with their wine
and everyone else became one with the fire.
A great many lives were lost
in the smoke and heat but the friends still talked.
These two men became brothers through war
and would drink together as friends.

The old soldiers, two dear friends, still sit together with their wine.
The stories about war mingled with Vulcan’s envoi of fire.
In the brothel, two old soldiers talked into the ages until they were lost.

Can someone tell me if this is complete pseudism or just mediocre? Don't need it to be great right now, just need it to pass muster:

Tears
That fall in the desert
Blur the glass
Of the lens
Of the eyes
That trace the stars

When a seeker dies
Looking for bones
Who will mourn her in her turn?

Bonus points if you know the documentary it's referring to.

For me I start with a theme or emotion or image that I know can either be communicated vividly or is on its own a provocative idea/image. So with my opening poem for the thread, ,
it was in fact a very beautiful, warm, and comfortable day where I like (Midwestern U.S.), and I know that comfortable days like this are something everyone can relate to and image well. So for here, my poem started out just as the last stanza since that's what I was doing and feeling when I started the piece.
Once you've got the image and idea you're trying to communicate, you turn then to word selection and voice. How is this thought being voiced? What rhyme schemes, word choice, syllables, metaphors and similes best portray this thought without distracting the image from itself? So for my poem I knew I wanted to work up to this homely feeling by starting the piece off as busy and full of life. I realized that life filled image I wanted was also symbolic of spring coming, so I knew I had a good start going.
Pay close attention to the stressed and unstressed syllables in each word as they flow into the next. Even if a thought is pretty or evocative, if it's written with sloppy wording (or too colorful of wording) the reader gets distracted from your scene to focus on your words. That's a bad thing overall. Looking at poem, look at the first three lines:
>Today was a mild day for so late in February.
>Spring sang early by a windy tributary,
>and played away the cold decay of December.
Notice how the I repeat the hard (a) in the first line, then focus on the hard (e) sound from the words ending in y and the end words of the first two lines. This way when I tradition to the next two words to rhyme, I can use the hard (a) like I did in the first line to hold the flow from before. And then I end the two lines with soft rhymes to balance the flow.

So if you're not writing for others and/or money, when you try and write a poem, don't get lost inside your own profundity of whatever idea your trying to convey. Say what is needed and not what is wanted. Because half the time what you want to say in a poem isn't what you need. And that only try and write a poem with an idea vivid in your mind. Start writing as soon as you think of it. Get the idea out first and then work with the afterimage without hurting the original idea.

>Tears
>That fall in the desert
Ham fistted imagery. I generally liked it though, want a little more expansion on the second stanza about the seeker

Too long, too much fluff. The words wine and talk and fire were used to often, their effect was lost, could have been half as long and there was still no conclusion if you know what i mean, no greater meaning or understanding by the end of the poem

Not bad, I like it. Seems like "to write it down, or rather type" was only put in for the sake of rhyming, consider revising.

I liked the cut off my head and survive bit. Maybe the poem could start with that and save the maggot and cadaver imagery until the end, so it acts like a punchline of sorts.

Your description of the poem was the most pretentious part about it all. Any and all art should speak for itself. The poem reads like you're describing beautiful scenes without exactly doing the scenes justice. It's alright just needs revision.

Here is one of mine , constructive criticism always welcome. Here is another

Country Sunset

Maybe I’ll miss the
solitary soundtrack
scratching away
the silver ink of dusk
beaten dog baritone
fuck you falsettos
rise to a domestic crisis
crescendo.
With the cow choir
diesel beasts rattle my road
and our fine china
finds the floor

It's got some vivid imagery there, albeit mostly unpleasant imagery. And the thought is mostly complete and able to be followed. You have a rhyme scheme, but it's a little weak. It's very sparse when ending lines and is used a bit within the lines (which is not a bad thing, but with so little wording here, it doesn't really end up working for it). Especially the word maggots. It feels so out of place even though it fits the image because there's nothing around it to compliment that harsh 'aggot' sound, so it sticks itself out in a bad way.
If you're still mostly practicing, really try focusing on relatable and experiential imagery. Not that a bed of maggots isn't imaginable, but it's not reliable, so it's not as evocative as something you've actually felt:

My brain is happy
Happy like an idiot
On a bed while bouncing
A pearly white bed, all springy and alive
Like the hop in your step
And the pop in your kiss
Makes me jiggle, like your breasts while making love
And I'll meet you if, I must, but
I'm much more palatable
Once you've made me dinner

If I could I'd lop off my leg
And survive
maybe it would prove that you keep me alive

Tears are actually literal tears, but I'll revise it. Thanks for the tip

I like Country Sunset, although I wish you could find a way to reorder "domestic crisis crescendo" to match the ABA alliteration pattern of some other lines.

I agree, I hate giving a statement about what I'm about to post. But I've shared the piece a few times before and people weren't realizing that the first images are liken to the sun. But it's a poem of evocations, so it's purpose is actually to be missing a lot of little detail and only keeping the "evocative" images there. For instance the first stanza should all come together as a proposal of love between two people at the beach during sunset. It's dense- I'm not trying to be pretentious. Sorry if it comes off that way. Thanks for the input.

>the first stanza should all come together as a proposal of love between two people at the beach during sunset
I would not have gotten that just by reading it. It just seems to set the scene of roses by the beach at dusk, I didn't exactly feel any humanity in it. Same goes for the rest of the poem. Beautiful scenes but all lacking humanity

It's a sestina(sp?). It's supposed to utilize certain patterns of repetition.

I guess when I picture a beach I don't think of roses being there naturally. So there was supposed to an inference there. But I can totally see why it would be missed.

Fergus is a historic and mythic king from Ireland. This poem is a direct response to a poem by Yeats.

Take 2:

Salt makes imperfections
Blurs the glass
Of the lens
Of the eyes
That trace the stars

A daughter
Seeks bones among the dust
She learns more each hour
And every dawn
Hurts with the remembrance
Of things she never knew (Not sure this line belongs)
But who will mourn her when her children are dead?

all imagery blatantly stolen from Nostalgia for the Light

Since I did not need to be told what you were doing here, you can take your (You) with some pride that it is successful at its aspiration.

I bet though that you also sense a repetition within the repetition; places where the form restricts the advance of its idea. Bumping up against its bars. For example, by the time we get to St 4, the re-assertion of two friends talked next to a warm brothel fire adds nothing new.

If you are happy, then I'm happy.

I want to add that one of the tactics that this form encourages (in English) is rotation of grammatical part of speech for the key words. So "fire" which you use as a noun every time, might also function as a verb, as in "fire the iron" which a smithy might do, or "fire the clerk" to lose a job, "fire the gun" to hurl a projectile.

Lost also has the potential of "misplaced."

Good work, in any event. A smoothly handled catastrophe.

Well that makes more sense now that I realize this (I have no formal schooling in poetry or older styles of prose, just read and write more contemporary things)

But I will stick by my original comments in the sense that it lacked a certain kind of zest and impact. Sometimes when you repeated a few of the same ideas it was not all that exciting or relatable even.

But certainly a competent poem, not "bad" at all

Sonic's first game is fast,
His physics, unsurpassed.
His early games, really great;
Are all too soon, out of date.
When "D" subsides to "3."
So fanboys can't concede,
So Sega lost their way,
Nothing fast can stay.

Dream about
circulating dawns all tangled up in blue
and the glistening grey
of the arriving and departing trains.

Sit in your tree
and spit on strangers' heads.

Blinding light flashes my eyes as
jagged mountains cut into my sight.
Have these great peaks been
delivered to my vision by divine intervention?
I don't care, I've already changed the channel.

>Bumping with shorts

Drumsticks matched with matchsticks
drum erupting snares of embers.
Alternating and pulsating
orbs of rhythmic fires
conjure bursting storms of sparks
becoming twisters dancing spirals.

Hey Veeky Forums let’s discuss the great philosophers

/Pol/, Can you tell me what Nietzsche did,
/Pol/: I don't know but he was red-pilled

/b/ What was it that Kant said,
/b/: Jet fuel can never melt iron and lead

Veeky Forums What did old Schopenhauer mean?
Veeky Forums: Women are stupid and life’s a bad dream

/r9k/ And what is your philosophy?
/r9k/: I just need me some anime pussy