Hi people; can we have a critique thread please...

Hi people; can we have a critique thread please? This is mainly for me to get back into writing so would love any help with the writing (beginning of a sonnet laced with shakespeare, greek mythology. biblical stuff)

Thanks for ny feedback and will answer a few that respond to mine :)


In rich meadows of shade do lie the lost,
Past lives still summoned by ghostly silence,
No heavens break for the soul still aghast
As farthest lands home the sweetest sessions.
From distant lands, her torch rose, rich and bright,
Asphodel flowers in hand; as night’s eye
Moaned at drowned fair souls and love blinded sight,
Grain resown, grey bed beckoned to be alive.

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docs.google.com/document/d/1Bq-fN2Zuhq7XguK3MnniD0IgYwAcG6s5lQ_yo5TGu8A/edit
twitter.com/AnonBabble

isn't it true that these stories, in spite of everything, mean nothing to you? That's just the nature of the times. I can't read your poem cause I'm listening to a song but I will in a second

I don't understand it. It sounds nice out loud, though.

Rate my super short scifi story

The SS Placenta carries sleeping, breathing vessels into the long night. The inorganic crew can handle any problem, including a security breach, refurnish old units and equipment, and above all, firmly believe that their destiny and purpose is to ferry the old souls to the new garden.

Preserved in a living fluid that can keep the body chemically 'frozen'--a mass of viscous liquid with limited cognition that quite literally fills the human to preserve both fat and muscle, in order to 'meld' with the host brain and explore the mindscap--which allows for a mutual albeit outwardly parasitic relationship--electrochemical stimulation and homeostatis are guided by self-sustaining pods that feed the liquid, which in turn feeds its host--the ship charts a treacherous path through storms too terrifying to imagine on an ocean where everything floats and heavy things just stretch it out.

Before the cargo is awakened from its deep sleep the liquid will retreat into a containment chamber inside the pod. After many years it is predicted this will not be a fufilment issue 'since the living liquid'll be drunk as all hell and gunning for cold turkey when that shit pops open' [sic].

Denoted language paints a nice picture, but it is very graphic and could be readers off with the implications

In rich meadows of shade do lie the lost,
Past lives still summoned by ghostly silence,
No heavens break for the soul still aghast
As farthest lands home the sweetest sessions.
From distant lands her torch rose, plush and bright
Asphodel flowers in hand; as night’s eye
Moaned at drowned fair souls and love blinded sight,
Grains resown; grey bed beckoned for kind life.
Heaven heard woe, yet fall claimed nature’s hymn
As life’s wrinkles fell fairer for burnt souls;
Foe of strife rode high,while darkness within
Left crescent light upon yellowed meadows.
If woe blooms in heaven’s fairest prairie
Her heart stays pure while my love won’t vary.


first drafted it if anyone cares to see

After reading literary legend poets, its hard for me to take anything amateur seriously.

Don't we already have a critique thread?

>The SS Placenta carries sleeping, breathing vessels into the long night. The inorganic crew can handle any problem, including a security breach, refurnish old units and equipment, and above all, firmly believe that their destiny and purpose is to ferry the old souls to the new garden.
Shouldn't it be refurbish

> mindscap--which allows for a mutual albeit outwardly parasitic relationship--electrochemical stimulation and homeostatis
Mindscap to mindscape, homeostatis to homeostasis

> fufilment issue 'since the living liquid'll

Fufilment to fulfillment and liquid I'll

Overall decent.


Mine own

Civil war is coming soon. Those thoughts were enough to send a shiver of fright down Gawain’s spine as he kindled the chamber’s cressets and hearth, taking a moment for his eyes to adjust to the new source of light. With darkness receding, Gawain saw the chamber with clarity, arched windows with drapes, a long table with the kingdom’s map attached along with fifteen chairs, a smaller table in the corner of the room to place the flagon and cups, the walls damaged and weathered, causing the chamber to be draughty. No doubt from when the king stormed the castle a few years prior, he had told himself, could the castle be able to handle another battle?

For half a second Gawain was swept away by his imagination of how the fighting of the castle was like, only to be brought back by coughing on the acrid fumes of the cressets and hearth flames. Walking away from the hearth and cressets, he went towards the windows to unlatched the wooden shutters. A breeze came in, strong with the scent of pine, and began to dissipate the smoke.

Moving away from the windows, he headed towards the large table, where he unfastened a leather tube fastened to his back through a leather strap, where he reached into it and drew from it a sectional map of the kingdom that detailed the northern coastline. Removing the original map on the table, he placed the regional map with wooden pieces from the pouch tied around his waist.

After he had laid the wooden pieces correctly on the map, he made his way to the small table to fill the goblets with wine; when he heard the door creaked loudly. He turned to see the king as he closed the wooden studded door.

Gawain knelt. “My King, my apologies, I have yet finished serving the drinks and food for your council of war,” Gawain said in a murmur.

When he heard no response from the king, Gawain looked up to see the king waved him off, and he hastily returned to the small table. As he began pouring the wine from the flagon to the cups, his eyes wandered where the king stood, staring at the map pondering.

yeah I don't get it OP. Sounds nice though.

I can make out dead people and an female object of desire but ur sentences are hard to read and im a brainlet

>ITT Brainlets

what's it about then?

seriously though lmao

critiquing poetry is mostly useless (the only good critique you can get is by reading an actually good poem afterwards so you can see how terrible yours is in comparison. Not even an indictment against you in particular, it's literally how all serious poets feel) so I'll give you a few generic tips

- read it out loud and make it actually sound good out loud. You have like no decent flow or music in this poem. It's awkward and lanky like a high school Sir Philip Sidney imitation.

- Have a point. A narrative point. It can be looser than a "narrative" poem's narrativity, but all good poems have some sort of narrative force that pushes them forward. Even obscure and obtuse and dense and/or neometaphysical poems. Your poem is the equivalent of an adjective in a sentence

- You're not living in 1650. Milton didn't give you a handjob with your coffee. Don't write like it. Use natural language if you can, at least to start. Only get flowery from there, both in editing and in the broader trajectory of your poetic craft

May i describe the reason i wrote it like that? it was in response to something i was told and mirrored the girl's story to Persephone, using allusions to other greek gods (selene, hades, demeter) and the question on whether she would be forever going through her own purgatory; on the subject of the language. I probably need to learn to read aloud better because it didn't wholly sound that bad but thank you for telling me that! :)

Pretentious

Not anymore

That's not what its about

In the centre of the city where the great star wakes and sleeps
Ride the women dark and pretty on the horses that they keep
Round the ladder to the cavern out from which climbs the red dawn
Near the children bathing brown in the heat of the rising sun
Walk about the tired men with callouses on barefoot feet
Careful as to not offend the mounted women that they meet
Such the stretch of playlight hours crawls over the baking day
Crossing sparkling city towers where it will be shut away
Just beyond a golden bridge as journeyed men hide out of sight
They'll heave it down a jagged ridge to thrust unto the city night
And drain the colour from the women with the steeds drinking sun
They ignore the frozen children dancing til the coming dawn

whats it about?

The Tryst
Tragic Romanticism
3097
General impressions, criticism of style, all welcome.
docs.google.com/document/d/1Bq-fN2Zuhq7XguK3MnniD0IgYwAcG6s5lQ_yo5TGu8A/edit
Sample first paragraph:He arrived into the dimly lit foyer, the stench of alcohol on his lips. Solemnly and slowly he hung his dreary coat. He grazed his hand across it. Rough, dry, bumpy with lint. This was no way to present himself. He had been lucky enough to be invited to such a distinguished event and yet he still disappointed his peers. Appearance is everything; that is the law of business and even life itself. What does it matter to feel when you can fake it just as much? He wasn't a professional nor as suave as his peers. He imagined them now, at the backyard of the wide expanse that was this mansion, underneath the yellow lights, brows shaded and teeth gleaming, grinning at some obscure joke told in such elegant accents, their forms intermingling until they became indistinguishable and eternal. No, he wasn't professional nor suave and he could not fake it. A woman should've dressed him, but he had no wife and he could not live with his mother at such an age.

Its shit

I'd like to make myself believe that planet earth turns slowly
It's hard to say that I'd rather stay awake when I'm asleep
'Cause everything is never as it seems

why?

Are you this much of a manlet

YOU WOULD NOT BELIEVE YOUR EYES