armageddon flowers now
the rain slants the skies
armageddon flowers now
lacerate the dress
agent of axe wound
motivations are stolen
fade-away clown bugs
a smog-leech christmas
an anathema cherry
a crimson blade dance
apathy moondance
sludge wars for mr. noontime
the house doubles down
buck banger flea trick
sunset bravado dump tides
glass cannon tube-fed
i wrote this for a guys art project, would love feedback.
fuck there should be a period at the end.
i also wrote this poem for my dad who just died recently
dream lawyer
did you photograph this florida sunset with your slingshot temperament
did you bury dead flowers under the physicality of your footsteps
you talk to your clients while i water the fake plants
and the sun does circles around you
the diet coke king inaugurates another moody tuesday
and i keep thinking
why do i have a brain
and you practice your putting
like nothing is happening
and nothing is happening
i needed a lawyer to sue my bad dream
and you came
with bagels and coffee
and collateral—a sweat stained callaway hat
you came
with a tornado’s deposition
you came, of course you did
you came into my bad dream
exorcising it in the name of ballgame
your reason was dominant
you took me to where the rain never bleeds
and dream lawyer
you took me to earth’s greenest steam shower
and showed me the emergent airplanes over the concrete fields
dream lawyer, i owe you
for passing the dream down
bump
>unironically doing pottery
My critique would be that you should spend your time doing something useful
nobody wants to post their poetry?
I laughed for a while then died at anathema. Everything about this just sounds like you're a neophyte. That's fine. Get some influences
Hated being poor being seen empty handed at the store
Tired of not having things wish I could just grow a pair of wings
Get out of this city tired of people looking at me with pity
There was downtown and uptown but I lived in the wrong town
Just wanted to get out, leave the building, evacuate
But back to reality I had to face it
Said I didn't need school, boy was I a fool
Chose the street life being in strife
Got a few bags, a glock and my life on a clock
It wasn't supposed to happen like this, I had a bright future filled with bliss
Made a whole bunch of bad choices because I didn't know how to appreciate what I had
Wanted to get rich fast and not end up like my dad
Living below the poverty line I felt like my time spent had been more than fine
If I waited two more maybe I wouldn't have to trap anymore
Or If I waited six more and some more I could have had more floors
Maybe I could of lived in my own place in my own space
With a family that loved me, what I lacked in my childhood
Growing up I envisioned this to be with my crush but it wasn't meant to be
Pretty rich white girl, poor dark nigga lets be real
I dropped the dreams, the basketball seams and the love for my team
All I knew were the crack fiends
But my time I believed was coming to an end reminiscing one day with a friend
Living the life of being on the run, working after the sun, praying to my gun
Hoping that I didn't have to shoot or get shot
But it all happened so sudden I didn't know how I let the tears flood in
My friend murdered in cold blood
I wonder why I was surprised, like damn we lived in the hood
This kind of shit happened everyday but this time it was different
If it happened to someone else I would of been indifferent
But this was my homie, my day one, my nigga
Never thought I would see myself pull the trigga
He was in another gang and I was forced to bang
I was arrested and now I'm doing ten but he's doing life
Everyday I regret the path I went down, one filled with strife
This is just one story among many in the hood
I didn't want this, I didn't want it to end like this, but was it for the greater good?
Honestly OP it's not good. You use a lot of good images and there are elements of cohesion at times. BUT, it is not a good poem. It's meter is bland at best. There is too much of a sense of obscurity replacing artistry. It's so unstable that it's empty. However, if you like it then keep writing like that. As for me I would close your book and leave it on the shelf at B&N
iz OK, but only barely OK
honestly, man, i think you have some raw lil seeds of talent that if you cultivated properly might, over the course of years, yield something resembling quality poetry
right now it really feels like you are writing with the idea that people will read it...one feels the heavy hand of the artist most when the artist is so concerned with their public image
it is the most difficult thing in this world, by try to write honest, genuine, brutal stuff with the intention that you and only you will ever read it. discard/burn the effort. do this so many times per peoem you cant even remember--then maybe a lil glimmer, something worth being read by others, will emerge
seriously, why do potential artists never understand the most basic principle--that those things born under the star of the imagined public are forever destined to be sent to the dumpster?
I'm dead
And I don't even know it
It's invaded my mind
And my writing - atrocious!
There's clang in my brain
They'd call it insane
Would they tell me there's reason in unceasing pain?
Alone and afraid
Fallen down deep & there to remain
Shallow, vain
Filthy, frayed
Confused, out of place
Gone down the drain.
Blueberry pistol machinations
Are the ultimate source of frustration
In the end times.
The sole soul benefactor
Is the devil, hiding in rainbow brushes,
As he scorns off the consulate
Of the Spanish revival.
Oh, it's a silly thing, these days,
To celebrate the disco-tech slime
That dot the landscape of time
And tell us in their ornery way
Of how the past becomes ours, today.
boop
another boop
I'm going to be honest. It is a bit lackluster, but that's probably just my taste. I don't know the metrics by which it should be judged.
>Making it in poetry
The young teller
at the credit union
asked why so many
small checks
from universities?
Because I write
poems I said. Why
haven't I heard
of you? Because
I write poems
I said.
lel
not usually into slam poetry but i got down to this, i see what you're doing. keep it up my friend.
thank you for the feedback man.
this is where my brain is all the time.
loved it.
i can dig it. you have a sweetness to you.
Genuinely enjoyable both.
can't take credit for the second guy, thanks though
Thelonious Monkfish
Holding court over deep see quartets
Playing Ellington's 'Caravan'
For cool, sea cucumbers
Caught by foolish fisherman;
Killed
Baked, fried,
or over rice
Cold, blue Monk-
Fish
you're very beautiful, very talented, and i love you very much.
I really enjoyed this. I am just waking up from a Nyquil sleep, so my judgement may need a bit off, I enjoyed it nonetheless though
>the diet coke king inaugurates another moody tuesday
I like this a lot, not the dream lawyer line so much though
You're on Veeky Forums and telling other people not to waste time
Litty
I love Cypress Hill!
Sad, true, good
Thank you!
>>unironically doing pottery
>pottery
not all of us have so much luck with ashtrays, user, that we can make ironic pottery. maybe the clay has no buddha nature and doesn't know the future that awaits it as its cast but i think even the ashes and dust know they are ashes and dust as the clay bank might know itself.
I like this cause it's both well written and funny.
his name was jack,
he had a smelly ball sack,
he was wrong about life,
he killed his wife.
Somewhere, in some other time
You never learned the words we knew
And how much easier things would be
Were this true.
If stayed you had where once you were,
We'd chance upon each other
And talk in gestures, smiles and dreams
Of one another.
Your neck would hold the morning stars,
Your eyes would offset monasteries,
Your skin exuding softness, love, the strength
Of conifer trees.
But this is all desire's effluent
A canker in my mind I wish away,
A symptom of the world. I'll be the scythe
That cuts the hay.
A spring haiku
Greyness slides away
Spongy rhythms scent the air
The sky is gentle
I like it.
I wrote my first haiku this month:
Snowing on march, heavy
Raining now. Warm tomorrow, this week.
In love. I think, hope
It's very bad, but I'm falling in love with the format
Did your dad know his son was gay?
A bit of a long shot here, but could anybody share the publish date of "The Ballad of the Lonely Masturbator" by Anne Sexton? I need it for an essay and can't find it anywhere.
I'll post the poem here too, for inspiration.
The end of the affair is always death.
She's my workshop. Slippery eye,
out of the tribe of myself my breath
finds you gone. I horrify
those who stand by. I am fed.
At night, alone, I marry the bed.
Finger to finger, now she's mine.
She's not too far. She's my encounter.
I beat her like a bell. I recline
in the bower where you used to mount her.
You borrowed me on the flowered spread.
At night, alone, I marry the bed.
Take for instance this night, my love,
that every single couple puts together
with a joint overturning, beneath, above,
the abundant two on sponge and feather,
kneeling and pushing, head to head.
At night, alone, I marry the bed.
I break out of my body this way,
an annoying miracle. Could I
put the dream market on display?
I am spread out. I crucify.
My little plum is what you said.
At night, alone, I marry the bed.
Then my black-eyed rival came.
The lady of water, rising on the beach,
a piano at her fingertips, shame
on her lips and a flute's speech.
And I was the knock-kneed broom instead.
At night, alone, I marry the bed.
She took you the way a women takes
a bargain dress off the rack
and I broke the way a stone breaks.
I give back your books and fishing tack.
Today's paper says that you are wed.
At night, alone, I marry the bed.
The boys and girls are one tonight.
They unbutton blouses. They unzip flies.
They take off shoes. They turn off the light.
The glimmering creatures are full of lies.
They are eating each other. They are overfed.
At night, alone, I marry the bed.
a red kite trapped
in the hands of the palm tree
the kids watch below
I really like this. It feels a bit clunky in places ('exorcising it in the name of ballgame/your reason was dominant/you took me to where the rain never bleeds') but on the whole, contrary to what that other user said, it struck me as heartfelt and evocative. I get a vivid sense of someone you felt stifled/overshadowed/alienated by in life, someone you couldn't really relate to, but whom was there for you and whom in retrospect you kind of admire and whose loss hurts.
>back to reality
Whoops, there goes gravity
I have wrote some other small poems, lame-haikus.
Once again I used 3 verses of 10 poetic syllables. The originals are in Portuguese. I will post the translations followed by the originals.
Young prostitute girl, the night and the skies are cold,
But the dew that embraces you: is it more cold
Than the warm loneliness of a strange bed?
The tolling of the bells of twilight
Has the scent of the autumnal woods.
The sun withers and falls; it is time to sleep.
Frogs croak in the swamps on night, far away,
And yet I sleep. Hatred, famine and war thunder
In the world, it is day and there is sun, but I…well, I sleep.
Silverfishes gnaw books, they do not read them: sages
Preach for the vacuum inside their entrails.
Have I the guts of Silverfishes for a brain?
The originals:
Moça meretriz, frios a noite e os céus,
Mas o orvalho que a abraça, é ele mais frio
Que a morna solidão da cama estranha?
O badalar dos sinos do crepúsculo
Tem o aroma dos bosques outonais.
O sol murcha e cai; é hora de dormir.
Rãs coaxam nos brejos da noite, ao longe,
Mas eu durmo. Ódio, fome e guerra estrondam
No mundo, é dia e há sol, mas eu...eu durmo.
Traças roem livros, não os leem: os sábios
Pregam ao vácuo dentro de suas vísceras.
Terei eu tripas de traça por cérebro?
I am in here.
Sitting in this bijou room I hear
The pervading quiver of the asphalt,
Spawned by the Peter and Paul ring road.
The infinite waltz of cars
And trolleys.
I am in here.
And in my mouth the rain crystallises
Into the hailstorm, twelve years ago.
Cinematographic plums of glass,
Synchronically cascading into the yard of August,
Cut off from streets and bedrooms.
And we, the yet-unconscious wayfarers
Are cleaving the sunflower seeds and I believe
That it was all well.
I am there.
The oblique window becomes my Madeleine,
Letting in sound instead of light.
And I see how on the curve of the ring road
The 2nd one loses the wire
And halts.
from a higher plane
of objectivity
I regress
my personality
like soft blown waves
from the oriental sea
Asian girls
will be the death of me
Thats why he killed himself
nice dubs, the one about silverfishes is the strongest in both