Critque each other's poems
you can start with a fresh one by me (i will try to return the favor to whoever)
Persophone
Tyrian robes hang wet with dye
and reek with wealth. The soaked
color like the thin band of sunset
striping the ocean; the clouds
smooth by patrician hand
but first Phoenician wind.
Surely this dress will belong
to the pomegranate-heart.
Who else could wrap
herself in the fires of hell
and the deep waters
they oppose so vigorously?
Other urls found in this thread:
The one point left without neglect of my own mistake will hold the contempt for awhile, now. Now while form tempting the old will makes me often neglected, outed, left pointed once again.
It's decent but some linebreaks are clunky, especially the last four which I think is structurally the worst part of the poem. What you're attempting there is nice, but the language is uninspired and circumlocutionary. Oppose and vigorously aren't strong enough words to end a poem.
jingle bells
batman smells
i don't know why Veeky Forums is obsessed with styles long since past. you write like you belong in another era.
you're poetry does nothing to speak of your own perspective, life experience, or modern engagement. it's merely stands as an example for your admiration in older poetry. its dead on the page.
And then when we became obsolete,
when waters pulled us back in the cave,
bees became metaphors,
where were we you and me, leaves
of a tired tree's branch?
When a bird became to faith anathema,
Sisyphus idea of hell and being,
wind a possibility to rest,
o where were you, branches
separated from root?
Now speeds the ship, piece falls off
Frighten me dawn when night soothes;
if and when I die leave outside the fort the body,
spirit may leave may not leave may return.
If not infinite, hell is purgatory;
idleness feeds next to fruit and water.
How are poems never ending
when we haven't slowed down,
when we are than fire faster.
bumpa doo
his style is much more recent. it's his subject you're responding to, not the style. the reason you find it circumlocutionary is because you're the kind of person who writes circumlocutionary when decrying a more modern style as bygone.
last two lines of first stanza are awful, the rest of the poem needs work on its assonance and consonance, and you should really read it out loud because those line breaks take from it. you should work out which Tyrian dye you mean, because the likely contender signals wealth when it is well washed in colour, like linen is improved in texture by its washing.
first five lines are very good for repeated sounds but you might want to tame back that alliteration a bit. you could probably cut the sisyphus and wind lines and the "o" from the next line and tighten the poem, especially if you put line breaks naturally in the rest of the stanza.
you should probably say pieces fall, not piece, keeps with the lisping s.
>that second stanza opening
do you really think anyone's going to believe you understand how to use a semicolon but not how to use a comma for the vocative case? like the sisyphus mention, this looks like icarus flying too high. you might be better taking this stanza and cutting the top line off to make a separate poem. if-then-else formulations don't fit with the first half. it would be stronger making it a different poem.
you need to work on a coherent image, not borrow them off Veeky Forums's beginner's lit recommendations as edgy references. you would be better if you were less extended because you're not commanding your own references and they are swamping any image you really could competently handle. i'm letting you keep the roots and cave thing because it doesn't matter whether you're trying to make le epic plato and deleuze references there, and it would hold to an audience that knows nothing about plato's cave. sisyphus you have to loose though.
Swish swoosh swing
How's your liberty doing today?
I couldn't tell you the same thing,
Not that you'd be listening anyway
It seems to me like snakes aren't looking to bite,
You only rile animals if you stink something awful to them.
But hey, I'm off with my wife to meet her friends who I hate,
We're gonna play some games that I don't enjoy,
And they're not even cooking!
So it is, so it was, so it will be
To sing the words within my soul,
Day to day to those I love,
Would I too fly with wings
As the feathered birds above?
The sun will set behind the clouds,
Rain will fall the stars to ground.
At night I'll speak of all that's dying
While the Waxwings sing of flying.
Should I sing instead thereof
speaking of my fettered dreams?
In tones so pure and full of light
The ground should never fill my sight?
Could this then be, what I'd say,
A similarity between
The flight of Wren, in light of day,
To nearest I can soar on wing?
My life I've dreamt to sing and fly.
Yet all my life I've walked and talked.
Now before my daughter's choir--
hearing bird-song long admired--
I glide in flight on wings above.
My heart in song with endless love.
>first five lines are very good for ... etc
thank you very much
put it to a beat and you have some conscious rap
this is good, even where it's strange. however: why the capitalisation for the birds names and why have waxwings at night to contrast with wrens which are more likely to be nocturnal? for a poem ostensibly about birds, you're kind of failing the twitcher test.
shiieeet my italian's showing
My ego would like to devise some sort of explanation saying it was to contrast the birds against their natural ways as does the narrator his own. But in 100% percent honestly, while I did know the Wren is nocturnal, I did it to purely preserve the rhyme scheme. The shame!
>daily reminder twitchers will travel to make sure you know birds are important
nabokov fans probably would make a thing of it too.
>Tyrian robes hang wet with dye and reek with wealth.
Good alliteration. Good line. However you seem to have problem with integrating your vivid imagery with a natural rhythm in the poem. The natural rhythm or flow disapears from the poem after the first sentence according to me.
>the clouds smooth by patrician hand but first Phoenician wind.
is this sentence not grammatically incorrect? Not an english native speaker. If it is then i would definitely redo the line.
>pomegranate-heart
the image seems forced and banal to me
i like this
im not literary enough to explain why i like it, but it flows well
If it makes sense at all, this just kinda dips in and out of itself. Kinda like when a well made poem shifts around it's baseline meter, except here it's not entirely good. It's more jarring and breaks the flow rather than sifts around it. You have some good lines, and I believe you would benefit from a combination of stricter form, better punctuation usage, and letting the words and rhythm come more naturally (as I said, you more force the changes rather than feel them occur).
Thank you.
You better be trying to publish. No matter how patrician a reader you are, you will always be a bottomfeeding Veeky Forums pleb if you don't try and do something more with your life.
I needed to hear that more than you can imagine.
gay
m awake on my bed
The covers only half cover me
The sun blankets the wall
and tells me to rise
up from my mattress
dress and drive to work.
The walls of my cubicle
are the same as my neighbor's:
White with brown flecks; a uniform
design that continues row for row.
At lunch I unwrap my sandwich from its cellophane
Ham and cheese again, just like yesterday
On either side of me are my friends
Jacob and Aaron; talking about anything
I'm responding, but I don't know what I'm saying
My mouth is moving making words without noise.
The tv is up too loud.
I don't remember turning it up
but I did.
The microwave spins around and around
And the tv dinner bubbles and burns
cold on the inside and charred on the edge
I'm eating alone
my silverware clicking
the off switch on the tv.
I'm awake on my bed.
The covers only half cover me
Nah, dudes right. Even if it's not as good as people are making it out to be, I shouldn't be writing for this board. It's a fucking waste.
You appear to have conflated two responses to OPs poem.
At night—the light turned off, the filament
Unburdened of its atom-eating charge,
His wife asleep, her breathing dipping low
To touch a swampy source—he thought of death.
Her father's hilltop home allowed him time
To sense the nothing standing like a sheet
Of speckless glass behind his human future.
He had two comforts he could see, just two.
One was the cheerful fullness of most things:
Plump stones and clouds, expectant pods, the soil
Offering up pressure to his knees and hands.
The other was burning the trash each day.
He liked the heat, the imitation danger,
And the way, as he tossed in used-up news,
String, napkins, envelopes, and paper cups,
Hypnotic tongues of order intervened.
To the MOD who deleted my poem, I genuinely thank you.
-SR
Fire fell from clouds
But the boy watched the earth.
Women screaming, shrieking,
"Daddy, or those swans."
The father cried. The father
Placed the blanket upon his boy.
And said, "yes son, swans. Swans."
And the boy skipped
And the fire fell beside him
And he lookup up upon his father
Squinting at the aether's blaze
And he whispered "I wonder oh
I wonder what it is they think about."
Then it was black.
And the black drifted
Beyond the horizon.
I can't see what he's conflating? The first post he quotes is a response to OP, and he doesn't seem to be mischaracterizing it.
Or do you mean he's responding to that guy and to OP?
I like two. The rest of you need to tone it down and start simple.
>Time Worth Living
The life he led went nowhere and he didn't mind
So many hours
Days
Weeks
Dancing
Dreaming
In his selfish mind
Still, he was kind
I check my feed it's the same few things
Live streamed lynchings and SpongeBob memes
I stay inside to beat the heat
Smoke to eat and then smoke to sleep
I've posted this before but I'd like some new 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.
it's honestly awful. the line breaks, the cliches, everything.
your line breaks aren't creating poetry. they're making it sound like the kid in the wheelchair in malcolm in the middle talking.
3-6-9's tells no lies
Terribly terrible bad bad not decent awful worst thing woo
This is honestly fantastic.
A take over
as a tumultuous calamity has been
plastered against my eyeballs. Tiny men
repel down from my eyelashes,
with long poles with glue rollers fixed to
their end, and apply the horror over my vision
like a new billboard is going up.
People can't stand to look me in
the eye: the sun's rays pass across,
so that the paper becomes translucent,
and now my naked bloodshot eyes are
crying out to them. Or in dim light they
can't see through it, instead the wicked
joke comes into play: mine own Dr. TJ
Eckleberg eyes advertise someone like
me and someone like someone you
probably know...
I think this is a bad poem, but maybe someone will read it and think the basic idea is good.
Samefag. It's garbage.
GOAT
The dialogue needs some serious maintenance, and swans are too much "this is a go to symbol for grace"
OP here. how does the dialogue need maintenance?
I've always sucked dialogue.
A continuum of rain pours up from the floorboards
Syncopated by the Peter pipers drum roll.
The rubber on the road punctuates the static between notes
Culling the herd of children
Into hobbit holes trademarked by sightless feints.
The destination is the journey
Reminds us of communicative properties
Such as the Dallas/Ft. Worth
International airports. Stop me if you can,
Say when if you catch me.
I'll be Tom if you'll be Jerry
And Ben'll be none the wiser, no more
Than angry men sitting in a room
Arguing over the placement of Ö
In the new worlds newfangled alphabet
To be named in time due unto itself
As others hath fury as a woman scorned in hell—
Hounds hopped up on meth
Rabidly file taxes
And flee the state
Scoping out resistantless paths
Offshot a road not taken,
Offbeaten and not traveled
By any streetcars forgetting their name.
some size up a statue
and turn yells into screams
others blow up a plane
to better see the asymptote
tickling the tips of our tongues
like heaven's clitoris coming forth with sacrifices
made of unpacked ideals
glittering in the apples of our eyes
drum-filled with sweet cyanide
and calls from our local law enforcement agency
asking us to pick him up again
just one more time
or so help me god
i'll break down like the van
hailing cabs to leave town
as long as forever stands
its godforsaken ground
The pastry shop closes at 8
in the morning before opening
the Ziplocked bundle of children's hair
saved by mother's weaving memories
of squeezed hands in church
followed by a stern look like a seal
protecting its cubs from waltzing sharks
who fling air bubbles from serrated gills
and grow manes of algae along truncations
reminiscent of mysterious sky-dwellers
floating past celluloid neighborhoods
watched by somnambulant patrolmen
who cauterize bloated carcass wounds
etched on posthumously like lapidary indices
of Mary's busy sons and daughters
who ran (exhaustively) a derelict carnival
home of spherical hard mesh eyeball sidewinders
and caracals leather broken in by
Barnum's retarded Niece named Helen
of Troy of Keller of Mirren of Prancer of Vixen
who by virtue of virtue relinquished bona fides
pro bono to the semi-conductor's wand
magically able to synthesize caterwauling
into superfluid mellifluidity bound to extinction
an instantaneity meted out by metered beats
digested en vogue by the Hostess CEO
and exhumed in the most willy-nilly fashion
most inconceivably called the square dance
of cats snubbed by lofty atoms and eves
of a new day's dawn postured as night
elsewhere where the sun don't shine
also known as the better part of rock
numero uno—the one rhymed with mirth.
Exactly, it's like someone trying to paint like Caravaggio. It's simply bullshit, one should find their own style.
>lit is a singular organism and I will treat it as such
Here's a little something I wrote on the bus. I call it:
The Partisan
When they poured across the border
I was cautioned to surrender,
this I could not do;
I took my gun and vanished.
I have changed my name so often,
I've lost my wife and children
but I have many friends,
and some of them are with me.
An old woman gave us shelter,
kept us hidden in the garret,
then the soldiers came;
she died without a whisper.
There were three of us this morning
I'm the only one this evening
but I must go on;
the frontiers are my prison.
Oh, the wind, the wind is blowing,
through the graves the wind is blowing,
freedom soon will come;
then we'll come from the shadows.
>find their own style
meme
>wrinting like a XIIth century monk isn't a meme, find your own style is
*tips fedora*
t. Leonard Cohen
>if other people are a meme I'm not
>I'm a meme because user in a greentext told me so! xD
>not falling for romanticist originality memes is a meme because user in a memearrowtext declared it to be so *farts for emphasis*
>originality isn't a meme
lmao then explain me greek and roman poetry, you fucking faggot.
who are you quoting
You.
you're not very good at it
Tks. Have a good day.
u2
Wow the thread needs to 404
"mother"
she always hears me cry
merely shrugs as she walks by
and then they wonder why
i told that bitch to die
i told that bitch to die
i told that bitch to die
and once i went to try
to put my dick upon her eye
and then they wonder why
i made that bitch to die
i made that bitch to die
i made that bitch to die
I think you mean rappel, not repel.
Yuck. Cliché
Has potential, occasionally strong rhythm but way too cringey at points
>heavens clitoris
I died, so bad
would work as song lyrics
lol yeah that the main intention with that line, cringeworthily cliche
>cringeworthily cliche
Poor, clueless user
why do you think im clueless?
and please don't use this question as further proof of my alleged cluelessness
point to the poet i'm imitating
show me how i'm imitating them
Because I only quoted two words and you're hung up on one.
sorry if you cringe in advance
You shed a lot of tears
when it became apparent
All my personalities
had grown along the years
I feel cold at night alone
Thanks to how the room is made
It's a lot like ours
Bright, clean and monotone
Every day is a hard hello
To maybe friends or pals
What I want is not the same
as what I should seem to know
But when it's as though I can't talk
The days are pretty lonesome
So I raise my head and look up
To count the numbers on the clock
They dance like a parade
One after the other and refrain
One three twelve ten
There's enough to last a decade
When I feel afraid
That you'll never return
I watch the arms spin
And count the numbers again
So let's draw these digits
One hour until four oclock
I've got tons of time
One mere hour is sixty minutes
I eat up the seconds in pairs of two
Twice as fast I become someone new
At four I think I'm finally done
But I can't help but start another one
One more just means more fun
And more friends in the long run
At five I had become genuine
Fulfilled by the magic of two lines
Nothing matters in my mind
Except numbers and number signs
And all of me I can't confine
I'm glad I can say I have made friends
You always wished I socialized
Another year you'll have wait for me
For another year they'll stay at my side
and which one would that be
how much RAM do you expect my brain to have
Like 2 niggabytes
hehehe
It's just about pasty pastries
heheh
The leathery tank of Ayutthaya,
The powerhouse pacifist,
Brought tumbling by an alopecic monkey
With a metal trunk.
The ape meticulously picked
The red flesh from the cumulus-colored bone, exposing
The gears and pulleys, examining
The teeth and tendons, until finally,
He collected what he could carry into his rucksack
And flew home.
>imitating past poets
Lmao this is not the XVth century anymore, pal.
Your hands fine and slender,
your hips big and tender,
all night and all day,
spin my head a painful way
Been a while since I wrote poetry and I need to go get my muscle back up. I Spitballed this today:
Crouched in the woods,
showing all the goods,
the sun catches downy hair
and makes it glow just right there,
like she's made of light; a special being
and this is a very special thing
to be here, in the woods with her
a moment that will not re-occur.
bamp
I can't stand this type of poetry. There's an absence of soul that reads like lofty sophomoric imitation of the past. In the end it just settles as bland.
Yo yoo
Dog
What's good
Yo
White women
Groovy
Welp I like to make poetry in characters as writing practice for stories
I figure it's not very good but here it is
I buried all my friends
It's getting harder to feel
Bottles and needles wont do the trick
Don't even bother finishing my meals
Thinking maybe on what I should be Maybe become a cutthroat
Kill anybody that looks at me wrong
Riding out with a hot gun
Nah but that ain't good music
Just a played out song
Hell, the family is not even gone
Just smaller anyhow
Instead I will find a new home
Raise a couple of sons
Teach them to dance
And fight like dogs
Doesn't seem quite right
Crying for too long
They left me some good memories
Not bad for dead scum
Bump so I know how shit this is besides my awful formatting and grammar
Am I a retard for thinking all of these are crap?
Do you have to be a poetry guy to like them?
No
Poetry is similar to music in alot of ways
And most music sucks
Feels very run on
Not enough breaks hard read
I kek'd
...
Your diction isn't simple enough. Too many meaningless pseudo-symbols.
I unironically would love to see that worked in a full song
Has the kind of honesty I go for in lyrics
>free verse
End this meme. Start writing strict iambic meters and only start roughening it when you've mastered them.
Could stand to be more original
The line breaks definitely aren't helping
Interesting
In a sperg getting better kind of way
The parades simile distracted me from the emotions you were trying to get at
Personally I'd like this more if the whole clock business was removed to make it a tighter read but that may just be preference
I don't know it sounds right and hit good buttons
But the rhyme at the end seems too "poemy" for lack of a better word
Why are there still critique threads when you can just email the greatest living poet to help you?
>rhyme at the end seems too "poemy" for lack of a better word
Hmmm
Why not use 're-appear'? You get assonance match on the word before, and a less clumpy ending - even though you sacrifice an 'o' sound on the final line assonance.
i feel like if someone posted the perfect poem it would still get a bunch of random criticisms. you see this type of behavior on /ic/ too, someone might post a literal photo trace of a figure and you'd still get someone redlining the proportions