Short Poetry + Rate

I like trees
they grow in the ground
up
UP
Trees are tall

Though my life has always been
But a little trifle
I find I cannot emphasize
How much progress has been stifled

Though I would love to hear
Sweet satisfaction in my ear
The present sound of -
Discontent
Will always make me lament-

Through the glass I can see
The deadly sin
Staring back at me
Through its bloodshot eyes
And lack of sleep
The light never dims
On the damnable beast

For the future that never was
For the past that’s lost
These things they do consume me
The sun that wanders in the sky
Forever-lost!

Pretty sure the kid just doesn't like that we cage up wild animals. Nothing to do with chaos.

We met, and through
The time we spent together,
By the end I knew
Who I was when

I was with you.
With others, some who
I thought I knew,
I was lost. I was no one.

I feel new.
Doors to anywhere
Do not care what I do.
No one does. Not anymore.

Not even you

Nigger nigger nigger nigger nigger
I'm 100%
NIGGER

BA DADUMP DADADUMP BA DADADUMP DADADUMP DOOOOODDOOOO DOOOOODOOOOOOOOOO

Will just be rating most of these.

Honestly, not a big fan of modernist poetry, but this was pretty good. I like the subtly of the rhyme and how loosely it all connects without feeling too bogged down by modern speech.
>7/10

Breaking lines
Doesn't make a poem
Even if you want it to.
Unless you do what I do
And structure right
To hold it tight.

But the content is whimsical so the lack of strict form isn't the worst thing ever.
>5/10

It starts too wordy. Unneeded words, overpowering words--it's off putting. It drifts into slightly better wording, but it's still showing that you're shooting in the dark here.
>5/10

A little cliche and edgy, and could use some polishing in wording. But it's not bad. I'm mostly impressed that you SEE death's song.
>6/10

This is pretty bad.
>A breeze that is a mountain
What?
>4/10

I like it. Great imagery here. A little stiff in the wording, but it still gets the image across.
8/10

The best of what's been posted so far. Nice form, tight rhythm, good imagery. This is certainly well edited and you must practice poetry. Keep it up.
9/10

>And structure right
what did he mean by this?

>Poem that bores me; will you ever end?

>Breaking lines
>Doesn't make a poem
>Even if you want it to.
>Unless you do what I do
>And structure right
>To hold it tight.
Unironically the best poem in the bread
Dying!!
(pic unrelated)

What meme is this

The autumn tint of gold poem

Was just a poem i wrote for a class where we had to take phrases from random books and make a poem.

For this poem What could i improve on?

The cat
sat on the mat
sat
SAT
And structure right
All thru the nite

Primarily I marked it where I did because of the content. Death is a spectre we're all very familiar with and your poem didn't express any new feelings towards this. So, for that, there's nothing you can change.
Otherwise this piece could benefit from some punctuation. With no periods and even no commas the poem reads at a flat and steady pace which doesn't draw me into the imagery of climbing a perilous mountain. The structure of your poem should relate to the content.
>If death is to be perceived as great, show and exclaim his power through your mighty word selection!
>If us s-small and insignificant, w-well, then, s-show us desu...

Remember you're structuring a voice as well as a scene and words. And how that voice reads effects the quality of a piece if it's disharmonious to the content.

The cat
sat on the mat
sat
SAT
And structured right
All thru the nite

Ftfy

I found I wanted to leave the door
But little do I know what lies in store
For every creek and leafy glade
For every light moment in the shade
A shadow-Cascades

The wind howls in my ear
It is always talking
Making sense
But no words
I am always left gawking

Candle in the dark.
Obscurity
doesn't scare me.
You bark
but you don't bite.
Your dark eyes could smite
the night away
making the sun,
the only way
to run
away
From this obscurity
like this candle in
the dark.

Thanks for the tips, im new to poetry and schtuff

No problem.

THE ROAD.

There'll be a day
i'll shave my head
and walk along the lonely road.
Along
until my feet they ache
and until my shoes they do bare holes.
I'll bring a denim backback.
I'll dress my month worn clothes.
Down the mountain, drag my feet
on earth that meets the rain
tired, of this world
no more; i shall walk
along the road, along
the lonely stones that crawl
between the toes that wear my shoes
and sleep, in empty pockets no longer used.

And in a dream, a distant day
i'll hum a different tune.
Alone i'll talk
along the road, beneath the dark
at night between the moon that shines
leave behind the oaks and pines.
Along the road the lonely road
along, the lonely road i'll walk.

And in that day i'll hold my hands
on true and distant joy, and free
along the road, the welcome road
beneath the sun, the rain that falls
the empty song that darkness calls
the secret talk
when minds do break,
a different kind of man i'll take.
On the road, the lonely road.
Along the road that silence stalks.
Along the road, the lonely road.
Along the lonely road i'll walk.

A few grammatical errors. I feel like you're missing punctuation in the first sentence of the 3rd break. And there are a million stories about walking THE ROAD. Otherwise you have good form and good imagery. It's just nothing outstanding. But definitely keep practicing. With the right subject, you could write a good, original poem.
>7/10

Hey man, thanks! I haven't been writing for long, so that's pretty encouraging.
Also, sorry for the grammar, English is my second language

>you bark but you don't bite

don't use a term of phrase, "in good writing there must be no clichés, set phrases, stereotyped journalese. The only escape from such is by precision, a result of concentrated attention to what is writing..."
So don't even use those kinds of phrases ironically. translate that idea of something being aesthetically dangerous but in reality innocuous into your own words.
I know it'll disrupt your verse but I'm sure you'll find another good way of saying it that will work within the structure.

other than that, not bad. cool stuff.

We can walk the way egyptians do
Curious barefoot hearts emblazoned in the night.
As a gentle breeze takes us in Isis's wings.
Wandering along the river bank with dirty toes and clean souls.
In each second a memory is forgotten, another is planted.
The gleam of the sythe preys upon the imagination.
As it reaps golden wheat and breaths in eternity.
I remain still.
Throwing quarters in the Nile in hopes for a brighter tomorrow.
Night falls and moon light allows our reflections to shatter in ripples, holding tight to the seams of the page to keep from floating away.
A fairy tale ending is not what makes a man.
Take flight pretty bird.

No problem. Besides the run-on I pointed out, the errors are ones English speakers would also make, and fairly minor.

God dammit, shit.
I'm very sorry.
Give me a second.
Fuck, I can find it.
Just hold on.
There it is.
And we're in.
Sorry about that.
Haven't been with a girl since high school.

You forgot the final lines:

>And we're done.
>I've just cum

twin-terminal-grasp-reaching
accu-capable-fivesplit-fanning
signal-fiber-point-extending
electri-flexi-omni-manupulating
surface-sensitive-cyllindri-spindles

manus divinus
faithful fingers

Seriously, going back over this it's better than I gave credit. But honestly, this reads very fluidly and I can totally hear the voice. Almost reminds me of Glover. Which prompted me to tell you could write a script and a story like this and itd be very engaging. I could listen to these thoughts for a while and be fairly entertained if they kept that natural feeling fluidity and cleverness going. Props, try making money man

Don't know how I missed this one. Pretty good man, says it all just right.

r8 my sonnet

17.

I pick a honeysuckle from its leaves;
the silk stemdrip slid out and tasted sweet
as grapes or other covered things. The fleet-
vined kudzu grows along the southern trees
and blossoms purple sprites; we jelly, jar,
and sup on the invasive clamber-plant.
These sugared snakes shed meat like skin, the scar
of vines their bones. The hills of Georgia, slants
of wavy green suffocating red mud.
The grapes and muscadines are choked by vines,
vines, vines. And tear away their spindly flood-
roots to see shaded rot. Tear off the binds
of the land and begin to taste the spuds
growing beneath the vines and breathless pine.

>Chaos born was Eros,
>Surely so could we together.

>conjure bursting storms of sparks
>becoming twisters dancing spirals.

>Summon me my will to be,

the punctuation in this needs some work you seem to be avoiding commas in places that would make this easier to read, because you don't want to slow down. With a name like you have attached to the piece, you need to push even further to make the meter almost impossible to stumble over AND rhythmically interesting.

I should write more, but I can't find the mood. I'll post an oldie.

a pretty high skied picture hangs
from the drifting bottom of wells
and somber rooms with empty guests,
those silhouettes of shattered light
that interrupt how bleak the corners,
how low beneath and high we stretch.
from a shifting seat according high
to a standard figure thrown nearby,
such that the dead and their like alike,
with sharing tombs in frightful night,
all equal share with forgetting soon
where lay bare we down under the moon.


but follow me hither, in the afterdream
where safe and still rest side by me
below which brings back yesterday,
in a broadback valley's image in grey,
a calm but prospering shadow at noon,
and introduce ourselves, so it begins.
to my loveliest a most the terrific you
that i dedicate better and make anew
an assembly of words that all can see,
private hooray and greatest victory,
to it that i make with justice more
for what i too lightly asked before.


proceed the creeping dawn of terror
and color my picnic a terrible mauve
then embrace the ascending cloud aloft
or take refuge, strewth, the incredible
takes grace in laughing at our escape,
and while you are the intangible string
that sets the heavens right and sends,
and a pretty eyed picture in the sky,
you haven't taught the world to paint
but peacefully settled as our manor
with practicing your palette and brush.
run by my eyes the colorful array
and strike me harder, for i'm a world,
marveling, complete in your glory.

I'll rate and give advice of a lot of your poems when I get home from work in 6 hours

I'm not a personal fan of the constant emjabment. Especially in the sonnet format. This isnt a big deal but combined with the not extremely strict following of The meter im personally not a fan

Everything else is fine

I like this one. But five 4s tickles my autism a bit.

I started this poem in Portuguese yesterday, it stills incomplete:

Canção às Pedras

I

A pedra seca sozinha
Esmagado rosto pálido
É devir elemental
De um implacável talho

O pedregulho em regaço
Sisudo e feminino
Refúgio frio, ferino
Escangalho escarpado

A pedra de refugo
Ilibada, quase pálida
Fecunda e refulgente
Secura irrefutável

Mas chamam-me à pedra:
Nenhuma delas preciosa
O que pensar, o que pedir

Com quatro pedras na mão
Quando falta-te arremate,
Um escultor e o esculpir

II
(Pigmaleão)

És obra bem acabada
D'uma forma bem formada
E a alma de teu criador
Queda por ti apaixonada

Do inicial estupor
D'uma secura esturricada
Tu sais em esplendor
À beleza enamorada

Como se em ti coração
Numinoso acolheram
Os deuses em piedade
De teu senhor, devoção

Obediência e humildade
E concederam-me fruição
Rara, inaudita e sem idade
Do amor de Deus à criação

I see you post with this sad cat a lot. Or at least, I assume it's you who's always trying to share his Portuguese stuff. Sorry I don't speak it or I'd give you a crit. It must be lonely here.

I put this in the wrong place 2 so here goes this

While walking in the woods after the sun has set but before total darkness, I will often hear a familiar sound break through the stillness of my dusk-like contemplative attitude. You've probably heard it yourself - the sound of a bird dashing away, and the unmistakable voice that goes with it. As if interrupting her departure into sleep, she makes one soft final cry of awareness before committing to the act of sleep once again on another branch farther away from my disturbance, rare for this hour. Usually the bird is impelled to sing when she is in the full of life and sunshine, but my nocturnal wanderings has coerced sound from her once more, and it is a very significant voicing. Only at this exact hour of the day will you encounter this sound, neither earlier nor in the full of night.

Everytime I hear it, I feel as if it ought to be the last sound I ever hear before the world gets submerged in silence. It sounds like a herald of the end of the world. Not an apocalypse, but a gradual diminishing of all the senses, thoughts, and feelings, of being itself, within the span of this waning hour before total nightfall.

I wonder if in fact this is what the bird is conveying, in being coerced into motion once more before the curtain of being closes. Is this perhaps what all animals feel as they drift into sleep and darkness? That the world, existence itself, is fading away for good? They do not say to themselves, "and tomorrow the sun shall rise again," for they live in the present moment. It is as if that final soft voice of the bird is the voice of the eternal dusk, the dusk that is repeated every day in a never ending cycle. It speaks of a world that knows only the eternal oncoming of darkness, with no concept of dawn.

And in the morning, do they feel reborn? Certainly in animals it is said that the function of memory takes on an unconscious role, sublimated to a kind of etching upon the instinctual behavior without any conceptual awareness. How else could I explain this gentle, mysterious herald of not just the oncoming of night, but the end of the world?

Indeed after hearing this sound does all experience of my own remaining hours before sleep feel more illusory, dreamlike, ethereal.
It sometimes frightens me, no doubt because it reminds me, in a direct experiential way, of the reality of death. It is the outro to the song of life, and in such a way as to make morning seem such an impossibly remote reality.

Sure enough though, the same angel of death is singing her gay morning nonsesnses ten hours later. Yet even knowing this, I cannot help but feel that strange feeling of endless night whenever a bird dashes away after dusk, and makes the mysterious sound it makes at that particular hour. Being a create of the present alone, she speaks the real significance of that hour with total honesty, as if the past and future of the sunlight hours never were, and only the mystery of the unknown awaits eternally.

I Came
Hard
Into her uterus
She reminded me of what I am

An African America man
The most sexy man on the planet
Feared by all other men

The ruler of the 21 century and beyond

This is something I jotted down while bored in class, don't know if it's worth keeping.

The red-running river makes me shiver
because I know it doesn't differ
running quicker and quicker,
the rust ever thicker

It inevitably stains the drains
Who's to blame?
Doesn't the pain outweigh the day?
No, these woes, though cold, know no soul,
coal, but only for a time, we hope

But who's to say who's tombs will say
who slew to save or loosed the grave?
It's all news too late
Because when the river washes away
and the blood fades
I won't know why I ever cared anyway

Here I lay, stiff prostate,
in my sickly, weathered state.
And here my grandson came to see
a rotting corpse that knew not he.

His greatest dreams I did not know,
nor his life's first breath, his infant glow.
I suck on liquids through my veins
and try to see in useless vain
the boy I could not recollect,
and would never meet again.

It was too late for a hollow sorry
or to make do time unspent.
My time was up, my vision starry.
There would be no repent.

I would not throw to him a ball
or ride a bike down dusty road.
I would not do anything at all,
except wither, carrying this load.

>prostate
I mean't prostrate, but I guess that's fine too.

Lord. You know the number of hairs on my head.
I remain unsure why you’ve bothered to count.
This seems a useless thing to know about —
But regardless, I have often heard it said.

I know. More importantly, you have taught
me again and again but I refuse to learn.
This alone is cause enough to be burned,
and left in hell for continuing to forget.

But Lord. Everyone who knows me knows this.
You alone saw me pray. To throngs of angels
Tell that my eyes were filled with tears

and tell that I prayed for her. And then,
tell that I feasted lovingly on dawnlit marvels
and that I praised you as my sinuses cleared.

Would love to hear thoughts/opinions on this.

One must be changing, she or I
As I draw and she is drawn
A slippage of the canvas
An abbreviated dawn
Her face amongst the oil paints
Assumes a spiteful air
Instead of rightful, native shades
Mere retrogrades of her
As in an airy drawing room
A vapor will dissolve
My pupils must be aging fast
Or else her eyes evolve

I met a bird today,
and I forgot its name.

It told me that birds need more than just wings to fly.

They need hearts to pump the blood
and skulls to hold
the brains to make
the wings flap.

Without those things all birds would fall from the sky, it said,
just like rocks.

A bird told me all of this,
and i forgot its name.

The Following Day:

This soft speaking tune
Absent of sorrow,
Like the full moon,
Shining with the dancing trees
And moving with ease
It asks: "Can there be no tomorrow?"

It saw the glow of the fireflies
While shaping the quietness of the skies,
"How peaceful is this lie?"
Incoherently forgetting,
That the awake is nigh,
Just as a clock, with a tired setting;

Stars could not but be motionless,
And in a pensive state it entered,
Falsely remembered
If such was possible,
(During the sun's loathsomeness)
Asks, "Why is the future illogical?"

#
I can't help but read this Jerry Seinfeld. Too much rhyme, not enough heart. It has flow, and if you wanted to rap with this, you could probably get away with it. Otherwise it either feels too aggressive or comical.
4/10

#
Pretty good. The prostate typo gave me a chuckle in what was an otherwise sad poem.
8/10

#
>Aunt Jemima's early winter prayers
Pretty good and funny.
>8/10

#
Hard to relate since I'm not a painter. The as in an airy drawing room line isn't exactly clear to me to me also. It seems pretty good though.
7/10

#
Nice and simple. I like it.
7/10

#
>It saw the glow of the fireflies
>While shaping the quietness of the skies,
>"How peaceful is this lie?"
Wonderful, this is probably my favorite so far. Though I must admit if it is not because it struck a chord. Great work.
9/10
___________
(I pasted wrong copy of this before, that's why new comment now)

>Modern Men

I can feel his chest on mine.
(This wicked future's warped your mind)
He hugged me to tell me he loved me--
(I didn't say to think that way)
and I hugged right back.

Years had passed among us in silence.
A love that didn't end in violence--
(It's perfect now though, isn't it)
but a branch life's hands had split

As we never remembered to communicate,
this dammed reunion burst the floodgate.
Filling thirsty rivers under the tree
of our early childhood friendship.

Eight legs and two fangs
Eater of flesh; Death of worlds
Silk wisp on my face

Kys

Hahahaha I loved it

Delicate memory of
your smile
almost enough
to suffocate.

Despite these lines
I only tried
to make you
smile.

Haunting and daunting
memories
close to absurdity
under your nose
there goes
your
smile.

It's a translation. Excuse odd meter.

TRIPTYCH TO THE DEAD

1.Aurora Borealis

They come, wild knighths,
And their sword's dance.
While shine and burn,
Women whine, tears and ice.
Do you mourn them, children,
Or do tears vapor to the rage?

2.Prestissimo

The figurants are dead;
Pirouette, as if flight.
With lyric's knight's jump
Which have ended the ballet.

3.Xibalba

Their bodies decorate
Cold, alien steel.
Treasure them, constellations,
Be gentle, as if submerged in honey.

TRIPTYCH TO THE DEAD

1.Aurora Borealis

They come, wild knights,
And their sword's dance.
'tween shine and burn,
Women whine, six-sided ice,
To be able to throw their children
To the sublime.

2. Prestissimo

The figurants are dead;
Pirouette, as if flight.
With lyric's knight's jump
Which have ended the ballet.

3.Xibalba

Cold, alien steel,
Decorates their bodies.
Preserve them, written stars,
Be as if you were honey.

...

Passing By The Roslyn

Leaving footprints in what's left
of the late April snow;
Sunlight creeps over the
façade of a red apartment building.

funny, I liked it 7/10

i like it, very affective poem 8/10

based on a true story

This, I won’t share with anyone
Not a soul, not a single living breath will hear it
Because it hurts too much to think about,
To talk about and to feel
What I felt when you had said you loved me.

It was the first time you ever said it
And I had said it many more and meant it
I told you how I never once stopped thinking of you
And how I kept a heart shaped necklace that you had left behind
In my bedroom the first night I knew you.

We lost touch, most people do.
You found a guy who liked you too
I saw you at the fairgrounds with him
It hurt like hell, but you were happy then

Months later, after calling your disconnected phone 100 times
I finally figure out a way to contact you, through a mutual friend of mine
I was like a desperado, and you were my Aztec treasure
A friendship that should have never ended, love without measure

And talk and talk we did, all through the night
Held the phone close and filled our ears with light
Sweet nothings that could only come from two lonely souls
Longing to be together again

I was looking forward to the day you would come back
We talked forever about that day, and how
In the cover of sheets, we would hold each other again
Discussing at what temperature our hearts would melt together
And leave puddles and stains in the linens

And it never happened. You never came.
I was so distraught, I cursed your name
I gave up on that town, I wouldn’t dare return
Never again, not without you there. Fuck it, let it burn.

So I joined the Navy, and set my sights high
Told you all about it even though you would sigh
And told me, the day I graduated from that place
That you had a boyfriend, and that you would stay

In Hawaii, so far away, but still I kept
The dream of being together alive
And so I sweated and toiled, spoke daily with you
Until one fateful day, my dreams came true

My worked paid off and I was the top of my class
Picked submarine duty in the off chance
That it would send me to Hawaii to be with you
And that wonderful dream would come true

It was there in my dorm that I told you about
I kept your heart necklace you had lost around
The first time I traced a heart into your back
And whispered under the sound of the ocean “I love you”

But all things don’t last, and when we finally met again
Under volcano stars and sweaty palm trees
I finally told you, face to face
What you truly meant to me

But
I was betrayed
Your heart belonged to someone
Who was not me
Pain, hurt,
me

Each hour was a trial of fighting back the tears
Of a love that had been nurtured over ten long years
And in the cover of darkness I sped and flew away
To a cliff to see if today was my last day

I climbed over the railing but I couldn’t take the leap
My heart was tired and my body was weak
And so I did the only thing that would rid me of you
I took that heart shaped necklace and threw threw threw.

I asked for change
But this isn't what I expected
Almost as if
Some cosmic jester heard
Those panicked pleas
Answering by turning all
On its head
With a chuckle
And said
"Your prayers
Be answered
Your father
Is dead"

In high school once I failed a test
On the way home I was sitting on a bench
Waiting for the bus

I looked down once in respite and saw a bird
He was trying to cram a whole peanut in his beak
Funny guy, I said to myself
I won't get mad anymore

nice nice

come on