Poetry Critique

Post your poetry and critique others.

I'll try to get to everyone myself.

I'll start:


Some bees are not fit for the job
And lap the honey that drips in retort
They live in holes under cool arches
And keek swarms.
They have striped yellow teeth
And wear black coats.
They’ve stung
And they’re dying
They’ll buzz around every now and
Then they cry some and speak to the
Lady bugs don’t like them a whole lot because
They aren’t the best bees

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archive.org/details/fableofthebeesor027890mbp
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I'm writing this one just for you Veeky Forums
>Watching you
>Is like observing
>Socrates
>Take a good morning shit
>After
>Wild hook up sex
>The night before.
>Flush.

>"drips in retort"
>r9k tier theme
Stop.

>speak to the lady bugs don't like them a whole lot.
why? It doesn't flow.
What's this poem about? It seems to be about being a faggot gamma male. Many writers were faggot gamma males, but you don't write about being a faggot gamma male without inviting derision. People admire the admirable and despise that which is not.
Sorry bro, don't mean to be harsh.

Isolated katabatic crypo cinder eaters,
pull their ears and set their teeth in tongue-out , jute twine jeers
passers-by give them oily smiles but not a dime for beers,
which is all they were begging for anyway.

fast food wraps, and rappers drawls hang out in muddy streets,
meats bring beats, beats bring heat and heat brings heady loss
meats, meats, blacken'd charred meats,
can't be chewed out,
else white chicken balk and crow foul.

birds on the powerline sit serene,
in the swampy hell of urbana
nirvana plays in the background of an old couple that stayed young,
the wife with a black eye, the husband with two
and a gun in his throat,
forever 'literally who?'

What a beautiful future we are meant to live,
to leave our prarie fatherlands,
our ancestral lakes, our streams,
our towns of porch-lit dreams,
with father taught crafts and mother taught tunes
and games of the older children.

what a world we are meant to love.
That beautiful urbana,
shameless, anonymous nirvana

I killed a man today
Poisoned his heart yesterday
Watched him suffer in the morning
And at sunset know no mourning

At night he sat silent
As silent as the skies
No longer violent
No longer filled with lies

Midnight brought change
The poison ate his heart
The moon his mind did derange
As he tried to hang on to his art

This morning the sun didn't rise
But only in his eyes
For when a man's soul dies
He does not look up to the skies

And that's when I watched him
Walking out the door
Into the water, I watched him swim
A dead man when he reached the shore

I liked it but it's a bit of a mouthful sometimes

i liked this

Gentle child,
Still and mild,
Unsung praise,
Her last days,
Fury and sound,
In the ground,
Weakened soul,
A bell's toll,
Songs of love,
A little dove,
Life's a pain,
Wax and wane,
Dead and gone,
Remembered by none.

this is trash, right?

Roses are red
Alfred is gay
Veeky Forums may be dead
But

IDK why, but this affects me brah. I'm having trouble sensing truth, what is true what isn't. Has he died by losing his art? Is the man he killed himself, his soul? The sense of depersonalization is strong.

You're relying too much on cliches. If this is an etude where you are playing with cliches and phrases in the vernacular, then that's fine, but in general, it's not. Try lengthening your lines to help with this.
Good sense of rythm though. You'll notice that in (mine) I lost the rythm and my meter changed several times, to where it's hard to tell where the line was. Keeping the meter gives your poem a sense of consistency.

not trash but could be better

I'm glad my poem confused you haha

i'm assuming it was gay sex and socrates was the bottom huh

"mouthful" is an understatement. it's much too wordish. also nobody respects memes in a poem. to those who don't recognize a meme they won't understand it, those who do will call you lame for doing it.

need to write more. you're trying to write with rhythm but without any actual rhythm, for example
>This morning the sun didn't rise
just doesn't sound good. Also you need to write more so you don't have to resort to doing things like
>The moon his mind did derange
and i'm sure you know exactly what I mean by that.

it's trash in the sense that it's juvenilia riddled with cliche and underdeveloped poetic reach. keep practicing, it's no worse than anything else someone young and new would write.

You never really know someone until you do, then all you can do is hope that they'll know you too, or try to forget them, it's up to you.

read this archive.org/details/fableofthebeesor027890mbp

(im the, i killed a man today, guy) thank you, did you like it though?

Well (I'm the overly verbose character), I wrote it in the quick reply window, so my audience (you folks) were likely to get it.
But yeah, you're right about the meme part. Idk about the wordish part. I picked up a journal of modern poetry and found much of it to be colorless. Is it, perhaps, that my facility with those words does not yet match my vocabulary?

To close my eyes while walking.

Tinctures of God; The disassembled pitter-patter
Of sole off brick is no longer
Mere relation, but sings
With one voice.

Chains cast off, eyes now blind,
I peer beyond the veil.

Around this joyous time of year
We light the wick of Spring again,
Once more, and no, forever pray
For there is nothing left to gain.

Rays of sun warm skin’s green pastures,
Soft blades of grass exist to be felt,
Oh pleasant sensation, make it so that
Surrounding wax neglects to melt.

Desire springs from fresh bloomed flowers,
Apparitions of the ancient same,
Summer never comes, Spring laughs forever
For there is nothing left to gain.

...

In love's lonely embrace, we wept.
As one hundred thousand violet nights
Carved sharp wrinkles in our faces,
Til we could take no more, and left.

love it!

here a couple of mine:

The late sun's setting light on leaves of
Red, torched lightly by gentle Autumn's hand,
Now to pass, by cold wings carried,
As birdsong quiets, and skies grow starry

///

An actor drenched in too many roles
says
-I'll grow a beard
Shaves it off and says
-I'll write a poem
Tosses it aside and says
-I will live my life to the fullest
The sun crawls through shuttered window

Legs restless, he lies awake in bed
Dreaming of the certainty in yesterday's mirror.

The half-stripped trees
Struck by a wind together
Bending all
The leaves flutter drily
And refuse to let go
Or driven like hail
Stream bitterly out to one side
And fall
Where the salvias, hard carmine,—
Like no leaf that ever was—
Edge the bare garden

nice my dude

Black stars roll listless
and linger in oblivion.
Ghostly vessels on the infinite sea
reel in the blind eye eternity.
Spherical silhouettes
swallowed in darkness.

But if on the other hand they’ve gone out to fight –

because often discord, with great turmoil, seizes two leaders:

and immediately you may know in advance the will of the masses

and, from far off, how their hearts are stirred by war:

since the martial sound of the harsh brass rebukes the lingerers,

and an intermittent noise is heard, like a trumpet blast –

then they gather together restlessly, and their wings quiver,

and they sharpen their stings with their mouths, and flex their legs.

And they swarm round their leader, and the high command,

in crowds, and call out to the enemy with loud cries:

So, when they’ve found a clear spring day, and an open field,

they burst out of the gates: there’s a clash, the noise rises high

in the air, they’re gathered together, mingled in one great ball,

and fall headlong: hail from the sky’s no thicker,

nor is the rain of acorns from a shaken oak-tree.

The leaders themselves in the middle of their ranks,

conspicuous by their wings, have great hearts in tiny breasts,

determined not to give way until the victor’s might has forced

these here, or those there, to turn their backs in flight.

The tossing of a little dust restrains and calms

these fits of passion and these mighty battles.

When you’ve recalled both generals from the fight,

give death to the one that appears weaker, to avoid waste:

and let the stronger one hold power alone.

That one will shine with rough blotches of gold,

since there are two kinds: the better is distinguished in looks,

and bright with reddish armour: the other’s shaggy from sloth,

and ingloriously drags a swollen belly.

As the features of the leaders are twofold, so their subjects’ bodies.

Since some are ugly and bristling, like a parched traveller who

comes out of the deep dust, and spits the dirt from his dry mouth:

others gleam and sparkle with brightness, their bodies

glowing and specked with regular drops of gold.

These are the stronger offspring: in heaven’s due season,

you’ll take sweet honey from these, and no sweeter than it is clear,

and needed to tame the strong flavour of wine.

i dislike everything in the world out of principle, user

by modern poetry, do you mean early 20th century, or do you mean contemporary? i'm assuming you mean modern as in contemporary. it depends where you look. a lot of published poetry today is beyond aesthetic scope, so diction and craft takes a backseat. as for vocabulary it's not necessarily facility, but rather sleight of hand. or, lack of. it's one thing to have a varied vocabulary, it's another to know when to use it.

interesting but why a poem? you could rewrite this as prose and say the same thing, with nothing of value being lost.

i used to say years ago that rhyming poetry that lacks metre is not enjoyable to read. i'd still say that. you obviously put the effort in (and it is obvious, as phrases like "and no" stick out for adding nothing to a line but a foot) for the first stanza but it fell apart beyond that. practice

Reposting one of my poem to have additional feedback.

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.

Fresh cut mango smells so
fire, burn that dank ass bud.
It's a nice and careful burn--
red cherry lava pours
smoke down the
bottle. More;
or, some
more.
Yes.
Deep breath.
Slowly breath out.
Now.
Quickly press your lips and take in all that you can
handle.
Hold it.
Hold it.

Exhale.

I thought the sky was clear
When I took my glasses off
I saw the moon bouncing from
///////////////CLOUDS\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\

Any germans in here`?

THE sun is bright
sunsunsunsunsuns[1]
AAAAAAAAH MAI FAIR LAAAAAAAAAAAD
(THE[2])

°°°°the fact that (alone,alone,alone,blalone

water down (water) ^papesatan^
water

-----------------------the sun - why don't you
mabellemabellemabellemabelle

MARIE?[3]

teh
sun
isbrig
th [4]
(water down) ---- -- ----------
-------------[5] ---- -- -- - . Zang Tumb[6]?
and.

IIIIKNOWAHTITMEEEEEANSSS TOBEQUEEEER

Trolling or actually autistic.

In the meadows,
Green with grass
A girl laid there
I ate her ass

Alex hates the city
and the cliche she's become
will eat and chew her up all year
until the camel breaks, the last straw comes
and crashes her as she's been craving
and the miserables at Alex's door
they've experienced all this before
they can tell by the
camel butts on her floor