CRITIQUE THREAD PLS

CRITIQUE THREAD PLS

I NEED REAL HELP BECAUSE SUBMISSIONS FOR COMPETITION SOON

An enamelled flower bud, a locket
made of shell, a lacquered fingernail
treehoused upon a wormy stalk
that wags as though to say
not quite or not exactly so
and this is only one of what’s
a fishy copse
undulating back and forth as in a gale
and asked what land they grow upon
they’d likely say no land, and asked
whose hand they reach like fingers from
they’d likely say the hand
of some stray branch
ferrying them with their feeding limbs
fraying from their beaks
like royal waves.

I hate it.

Most of the phrases are ugly and annoying, and produce unsatisfying imagery.

We sunk in the bay.
She swam to the sandbar and the drops of salt were highlighted by the sun. I’d reckon the sun saw her with a curious eye--most do. She swam I watched, with my feet wandering the bay’s floor. The day was unlike any others to I, for this day was made up of only colors. There was no sense of time, and certainly no sense of responsibility. There was blue; her eyes, the bay, the crabs, the sky, and an Adirondack chair. There was orange, if you could call it that; the sun’s soft glow, the horizon, her swimsuit, my eyes.
All else was transparent. The water had been deceiving. You look into the Chesapeake and you see nothing but what seems to be green. But you take a dive into it, you paddle it, and it reflects your face and shines your skin. Maybe that’s what fish know. Maybe that’s all they’ve known.
She got closer. She was being playful, and swiped at the water to splash me. I smiled and skidded fingers across the surface. We continued this exchange until we laughed and we dived under to pet the oysters. She called them clams.

The sun left us alone, so that we could watch its fall.
“Could this last?” she murmured under the sound of the shore. She ran her hands over her hair so that it whipped the drops and broke the silence in the tides.
“I don’t know.”

Old Peck never taught me a whole lot about romance. “Love ain’t fishing, which means it ain’t work, which means it’s a load of crap.”
So that’s what I knew. And what I didn’t know, only the fowl who flew lovelong in the day could know. He’d take me out on the bay, cruising along the shores. We’d hear the sound of the gulls--not that we had much of a choice to.
“There are natural laws laid upon this bay. To accept them is to be happy,” he’d state.

I'll be blunt--this won't win (unless you're not white).
It's not directly impactful enough.
A fucking lacquered fingernail?

What the hell. I always assign my poetry students prose work, and my fiction students poetry work. You're missing the narrative side.

how would you improve it? thank you for advice btw

are you a teacher?
I like the use of colours, to paint the image you're trying to create; didn't like the phrase "All else was transparent"
Feels like an ominous undertone is present throughout, idk if that was the point. Very good, enjoyed it
also, thank you for the response to my one!

I'll look at it more when I get home from work.

Found a poem I wrote in the eighth grade, back when I actually tried to write. Found it a little sweet.

If only my life were a wagon
Rolling down a road, in the morn
Don't need hopes, just a set of wheels
To unload the lavender and corn

If I got old, I wouldn't lose my hair
Or my teeth, or my mind, or my eyes
They'd just patch me up, or maybe they wouldn't
It's not like i'd ever die

this reads like a parodist's take on a 60's country song.

Give it another 5 years

Iambic is good, but some adjectives are either unnecessary or cliche.

Royal gale and wormy stalk particularly

I had the carburetor cleaned and checked with her line blown out she's hummin' like a turbojet
Propped her up in the backyard on concrete blocks for a new clutch plate and a new set of shocks
Took her down to the carwash check the plugs and points
I'm goin' out tonight I'm gonna rock that joint

Early north Jersey industrial skyline I'm a all set cobra jet creepin' through the nighttime
Gotta find a gas station gotta find a payphone this turnpike sure is spooky at night when you're all alone
Gotta hit the gas 'cause I'm runnin' late, this New Jersey n the mornin' like a lunar landscape

The boss don't dig me so he put me on the nightshift
It's an all night run to get back to where my baby lives
In the wee wee hours your mind gets hazy radio relay towers won't you lead me to my baby
Underneath the overpass trooper hits his party light switch
Goodnight good luck one two powershift

I met Wanda when she was employed behind the counter at the route 60 Bobs Big Boy fried chicken on the front seat she's sittin' in my lap
We're wipin' our fingers on a Texaco roadmap
I remember Wanda up on scrap metal hill with them big brown eyes that make your heart stand still

5 A.M. oil pressure's sinkin' fast
I make a pit stop wipe the windshield check the gas
Gotta call my baby on the telephone
Let her know that her daddy's comin' on home
Sit tight little mamma I'm commin' round I got 3 more hours but I'm coverin' ground

Your eyes get itchy in the wee wee hours sun's just a red ball risin' over them refinery towers
Radio's jammed up with gospel stations lost souls callin' long distance salvation
Hey mr. deejay woncha hear my last prayer hey ho rock 'n roll deliver me from nowhere

Be lethal.

>The years of my life have been spent immersed in what is objectively the world’s most beautiful town. Stop by for a visit and you will see that I do not exaggerate. The town of Helen attracts with fierce, undeniable attraction. Anyone who comes here to visit relatives ends up standing wistful and wide-eyed on Auntie’s yard, disillusioned of the home they will soon have to return to...Newlyweds destroy themselves economically for the sake of capturing that chance to spend even a few years in one of the sterling and plaintive Victorian houses...Children who were born here like myself and have never seen any other place are not, as you might guess, coolly accustomed, but instead fully possessed and spin around deliriously in the forestry while the sunset spreads its shadows...The elderly who make it to Helen devote all of their remaining time of fever to soaking in its charity while thanking stars for the deliverance. Even our high school’s standard-issue displaced rebels and punk rock brahmins never seemed to get around to fulfilling their duty by bashing the place. Come to Helen and you will see what I mean. It makes me turn sappy and talk funny. Steer your ships this way so that you can lay your eyes on the islands of trees and hear the sweet birdsongs that call from each one. Helen was named after the founder’s daughter, and even when the land was knotty and untamed she surely suffered from the comparison. The poor girl never stood a chance, even if she had melted many hearts. If Helen the town were demoted to human form, it’d suck the nimbus out of any man or woman’s considerably powerful figure, and any face of once worship-ready pureness would be revealed to contain medical-book grotesqueness. If Helen the town were demoted to angel form, bet your bottom dollar that the competition would still be outshined with ease. Yes. If it were an angel, it would be the most beautiful angel. Because it is the most beautiful town.

I definitely wouldn't use it as stand alone poetry, but it could make a comfy little song. I'd switch the order of "mind" and "eyes," since most people would probably say that "mind" is the worst thing to lose.

Pretty impenetrable, I'm afraid. Or is that your point? Do you like "Tender Buttons" by Gertrude Stein?

Alternates between cheesiness and really nice moments for me. Of course the color stuff should stay. I'd recommend getting rid of "most do" as well as her saying "Could this last?"- the latter sounds a little forced. The "Love ain't fishing" quote is okay, but the part about natural laws is much better. But maybe use a word other than "happy."

>made of shell, a lacquered fingernail
the rhyme in this isn't pleasant

> as though to say
>not quite or not exactly so
>and this is only one of what’s

lotta walkin aroun here that feels wasted

>undulating back and forth as in a gale

read this out loud, does this sound like the good kind of artificial to you?

>asked what land they grow upon
>they’d likely say no land, and asked
>whose hand they reach like fingers from
>they’d likely say the hand
>of some stray branch
>ferrying them with their feeding limbs
>fraying from their beaks
>like royal waves.

this part feels like you finally figured out what you were writing about. Keep it and rewrite the the stuff before it.


r8 my blank verse sonnet

I saw your soul between two river beds
uprooted and your garden’s warped and dry
knotted with silt and desert brush. The drought’s
been hard, your tuberhart held water long
enough. Let’s squeeze the rest out now, come on.
Let’s wrench the brine from ocean eyes, come on.
Let’s dry your body to dust now, come on.
I know how hard our death will be for you,
but burnt offers reek of desperation.
The water will come soon, no use to drink
piss before death. No use in savoring mud,
when as soon as the sun crumbles into dusk
the rain will pour out and you’ll drink again.
The fresh water of spring, you’ll drink again.

>The years of my life
Bordering passive, lacks a beginning rhythm to your prose. Rewrite that sentence.
>. . .attracts with fierce, undeniable attraction.
You said attract already, if you want to say something to emphasize, use another word or rearrange your sentence.
> Anyone who comes here to visit relatives ends up standing wistful and wide-eyed on Auntie’s yard, disillusioned of the home they will soon have to return to..
Good.
>coolly accusstomed
Coolly is odd here. Drop it
>steer your ships
You lost your upbeat nostalgic tone here for me. You got too "theoretical" I tell my kids.

Pacing is choppy, but it is hard to know for sure without reading more.
You really caught me with the first 4 sentences or so. I really felt engrossed, but you got too much like an old man thinking about "the good ol' days" as he talks to himself rather than his grandchildren.

Also, you say there are cheesy moments through the writing. Can you highlight them for me? I'd appreciate it if you'd tell me what you'd do to improve it.

I like it. I'm not Goethe, nor are you, but I like it.

An amatuer's attempt at children's fantasy. Watch your step folks.

The moon glared into the golden ballroom, a hive of diamonds and frills twirling in a lake of white marble; the night soothing into the joys of the evening delights with the jamboree of music slaving away in the background.
Trapped in the maws of sway is a young little girl of pearl and silver, no higher than your leg, no thinner than a thimble.
“Where am I?” she asked, eyes darting about for someone to whisk her away from the whirl of dancers. Confusion was an understatement, for but a moment ago she was held up in her room in drowse, face first into the books of her coming exams tomorrow.
“Can anyone-?” she tried to squeak out, but her voice was but a whisper in the currents of high music: violinists, pipers, and pianists in a three-triad war for control of the evening. She would’ve touched someone of course, had she not been of the withholding nature; speaking was almost a second language to her, especially in the company of others.
But just as she made for the exit, a round of applause held the dancers in track, a wall of pretty colours encaging her within the middle of the hued storm.
‘Good eve, good eve dear guests!’ announced an old fellow tapping his glass. ‘It would be nothing short of my honour to be able to announce this year’s Ember Queen!’
The girl looked at him queerly. “Father?” she said, “What are you doing here?”
She knew him to be a saint of the woods, a shut-in who kept to himself so as to avoid the blight of the “city people” as he called them. To see him there with fine suited garments, a fellowship of nobles, and a glass of what looked like expensive wine was nothing short of witchcraft to the eyes.
“But we all know why we really came here, don’t we?” he grinned, the crowd seemingly with him.
The girl shuffled along, lightly paddling her way through the sea of gut-clenching dresses and shoe-tripping cloaks.
“Father?”
His eyes found her, and for a brief passing moment - they turned to poison.
Elvira woke up screaming.

i read the first two sentences. here are the things that gave me the shits:
>immersed
>objectively
> Stop by for a visit and you will see that I do not exaggerate.
>attracts with fierce, undeniable attraction
>disillusioned of
Your writing is needlessly labored and opaque. It's hallmark of beginner writers. You want to dispense with it ASAP. it steals vitality and life from your writing. I would recommend re-writing your passage entirely with the goal of making it simple and clear.

I know this is going to sound silly, but this writing is too gaudy for kids.

They don't care about form, they want a story

Beware the slippery slope.
How one thought,
alone,
brings along
the friends
you never see coming.

One idea,
small and helpless,
brought under a tender wing,
grows,
blossoms,
flowering forth
into something more.

An ideology is not for sale;
never bought,
it works its way in pieces,
slider through the gate,
like a ghost
key, unlocking
the forgotten
places in your mind.

Let loose your arrows,
and you will miss.
But at least
you can say
"My word,"
before
the end
of you,
and the beginning of
another you.
A copy
from a fax machine.

Dithering, dumfounded,
you will be found
at the bottom of the mountain,
again.

So mind the slippery slope
sloppily found,
and steely in its purpose of mind.

*sliding

Thank you for the advice. The cheesy parts, for me, are

1-) "most do"- I would just get rid of those two words

and

2-) "Could this last?" I just can't hear someone talking like that. But maybe realism isn't your point.

And thank you too. The second person to mention the "attracts with fierce, undeniable attraction" part, which I actually completely ripped from a Walt Whitman poem .

Wow. This is honestly the best poem I've ever seen in a Veeky Forums critique thread. I only cringed once: "a fishy copse." That phrase is meaningless,
which is especially dangerous if you're giving it its own line. Also who uses the word "copse" anyway?

I'm assuming this was meant to be posted to the whole group and not just me. It really does have something. I'm not sure what. But keep at it. (This has been another installment of Extremely Useful Advice on Writing by user.)

Seconding user-kun>The years of my life have been spent immersed in what is objectively the world’s most beautiful town.
Why not just
>I live in the world's most beautiful town
?

The story is always written from the narrator's perspective. In this post-modern world, we don't mistake the narrator's opinion for a gnomic truth; we get that when he says he lives in the world's most beautiful town, it's what he thinks. Having him tell the reader that it is objectively true is just overburdened. He won't persuade us with his notion of "objectivity"––and if you're trying to make it clear that he's deluded, why bother? We're already suspicious of everyone's opinions. It's just too much. You should try to write simply and clearly, even if it means being less exact. For the most part, you can let readers do the work of filling in details.

Although this reader did very little work! Like user-kun, I only read the first few sentences. Sorry.

You made some good commentary before, so I linked it to you, but yeah, for anybody.

Anything more specific?

If I moved the age group to teens or a more general audience, would it work then?

with some minor adjustments, you'll have had written yourself a good tart to a YA fiction novel I'd say

>Who uses the word "copse" anyways?
Your mum had quite an abundant copse beneath her knickers when I found her waiting on me in that august air that borne ye.

I'll try, but for some reason I'm really struggling for words here. I suppose one thing I enjoy is the alliteration. "Dithering and dumbfounded," or "slippery slope, sloppily found, and steely." Or "flowering forth." I'm a sucker for that. "An ideology is not for sale" is also a sentence that is definitely going to stick out in my mind. Or "you will be found at the bottom of the mountain, again." Or "Let loose your arrows, and you will miss." All in all, it has an old-fashioned feeling, but I like old-fashioned feelings. I still feel at a loss for some real words here.

Now this is some eye-opening advice. Thank you very much!

eastern sun
squinting as you rise
above grey skies

dusty old barn, home
to many swallows, making
a life, worth living

To life and love
Those up above
Those stuck in the mud
Those familiar with love
Remember life is no dud

I hate you.
I dislike your mammoth grins,
I cringe at your leeching hugs,
that choke the wind and more
from my slim soul.
I hate your cigarette
that flickers like a broken bulb,
making your pale skin orange
and lighting your mouth
like a jack o’ lantern on Halloween.
The incense of your coat filled mine y home,
and the stove frit to avert its path,
and the dogs would howl at your car door,
and the teapot screamed at your sight,
and the sun fell from the sky at your sight.
And yet I fell in love,
at your sight.

Another one:

No one ever considers
the itch.

Of course your skin crawls,
but eventually
your skin crawls away,
in the claws of mites,
mightier now,
than you dispossessed opposables.

And it follows that your hair
falls away.
Or proceeds.
It doesn't matter
anyway, it goes,
any way it pleases,
receding further than your memories.

And you, your remains,
remain
with the itch.
So claw away.

You will never reach.

cancer
I have cancer
die, me
die.