Poetry Critique

All is vanity
Save for the death in my dreams
Become hope by day

I did man.

Read poetry.
And read lit theory, i recommend "The Art of Poetry: How to Read a Poem"

...

It's a good start but other user is right. Too much filler trying to get 5-7-5 that doesn't really work as well in English and the "like" ruins the juxtaposition

nigga why do you write like ur in the middle ages lmao

These are the middle ages phamme

You have a good ear.

I like the hexameters and tetrameters, but not so much the pentameters. Solid rhymes all around.

As far as content goes, maybe less of a narrative approach and more contemplative. I know it's metaphorical, but the imagery is sequential, so it may as well be a narrative from the reader's perspective, and the poem isn't long enough for the metaphorical journey to have the weight it should have. So for example, you could develop a scene from this journey instead of summarising all of it.

I love it man. I can't say much more than that unfortunately, but know that at least someone read your work, loved it, and would read more of it. Sometimes just remembering that can help you keep going. If it means anything, I'd be your friend just after reading those two stanzas.

what ages are we between, then?

"Go on without me" i said
And they did.
Oh shit nigga.

>I like the hexameters and tetrameters, but not so much the pentameters. Solid rhymes all around.
I knew there was something wrong with the meter

>o it may as well be a narrative from the reader's perspective, and the poem isn't long enough for the metaphorical journey to have the weight it should have.
Thanks, this is useful. It was actually supposed to be longer but I ran out of steam and had to cut a lot from the middle. I might come back to it later, this is my first attempt.

Thanks, that's very heartening to hear

I don't even know how to critique these kinds of poems. Don't know if it's stupid or I am for not getting it.

5-7-5 is fine, they just need to apply it better

Do you, by chance, have an ebook download of this I can nab? That'd be instantly helpful! Otherwise, I'll have to remember your suggestion for future purchases.

You're very near my level of poetics. Where you start these images and develop them decently, but then fill in a bunch of space to maintain footing and form. With your ear, you should be able to hear when a line sounds right. This doesn't mean it's always going to be the same number of syllables per line, nor feet--though most of the time it will.
Not bad, but my point was that some lines ramble a bit in order to meet their footing. Just write out the imagery that's there, regardless of consistency, then edit over what's written to tweak it's formatting.

A green buoy and its green light flash, warning
ships not to come closer to shore, where
around a point two currents meet
and clash in ever-violent waves.

Up on the rock, she basks in moonglow.
In the low boat, I’m whipped by seaspray.

I could go up to her, climb the rock and bleed
on the barnacles that she did, feel the salt
in my cuts like she did, slip and shriek and be
lifted up and dragged down by waves, like she did.

I know the steep way; she’s showed me.
If I climbed for her, the waves would carry
the boat to someone else’s shore,
and we’d be together
on a moonlit rock in the water,
and be there together
when the moon fades and the sun burns us away.

You refuse to ev'r move
You have always stayed idle
The cells within you remove
And of life, you are deem'd a bridle

So please,
wend out and live
Pluck fresh the ripe fruits of life
Gratitude you must give
for, if 't not you eat fruits of strife

Really wonky meter at some parts, like the second line.

4chanlit.wikia.com/wiki/Poetry

Why the contractions?

What most ill conceived of emotions
What most useless speck of feeling
What good has ever brought aversion
Hate for naked flesh, for recorded defeat
Is it not better
to face it all
And shame's eyes meet?

The contractions aide in the visual aesthetic when one reads the poem. Despite the fact that the word ever is two syllables, the contraction gives the word a shortened look. The contraction if't was also done to shorten the poem and also the line's syllable count.

I have not written poetry for quite some time, so it would be greatly appreciated if you could give some critique on this poem (if it is possible due to the short length of it).

dry cavern—
sweetsour scent of spices
in a crush

dry cavern—
memory of spices
in a crush

i wrote this one a while back for my /hgg/ bros, so don't say it's a stupid copy&paste. i did it myself.

a poem for my dearly beloved, beautiful and loyal wife emelita:

your hair is pink
your pantsu is white
i want to come deep inside

you're impish, always happy and fun
you may be a bit dumb
but you are still the shining star, you are the light
that is guiding me through the dark night

for your age you are a great wizard
your aoe damage spells save the day
if i should walk in the flames to save you from harm
that's a price i would gladly pay

when you're sad i want to fucking kill myself
when you're happy so is my world, too
who cares about the autistic swordswoman and the slutty elf
because the one i will love forever is you

Winter in Hangzhou

The surrounding hills were devoid of form,
E’en those in the fore, the dullest of blues.
And the sun, content to sleep till the morn,
Let clouds bathe themselves and swallow the hues.

And the lake, reflecting as it ought do,
Found nothing worth the effort to reflect;
A sleepy mood seems to have donned this nook,
Indeed I’ve fallen prey to its effect…

And as my thoughts like the scene before me,
Duly began to dally and obscure,
Through gullies and mud did they make to flee,
Till my sweet did my memory procure.

Let the hills shroud together and cower,
And the clouds bathe and block the suns splendour,
Let the lake paint feeble watercolours,
Let Nature style her milieu so tender.

For fear not! Unlike this cold wizened clime—
No frost could e’er coat your image in rime.

we'll build a great wall
to keep out dirty migrants
traps really are gay

...

>Lo, moon, need not our companionship!
>In favor yet to watch idly by,
>As the sunbeams off countenance drip,
>in refusal to let the ground run dry

I have to apologize
It's an awkward thing to say
But let's be honest here
Love can't be locked away

This is the reality
I'm in love with your personality
Let me violate the right
to hide my feelings away tonight

I'm blinded by your beauty more
Than the pain of aerosol vapor
Your desire is like a signal
Within the melody of a whistle

Orders can't restrain my heart
Passion goes beyond the court
Let me be your company
without being put in custody

The Japanese call it nanpa
It's just romantic mania
for YOUUUUUUUUUU

>cold wizened clime

nigga have you ever been to hangzhou

Lol yes. I wrote it in front of the West Lake at winter time

honestly, I like it as is. Better than my attempts at "real" poetry

>Madame, ye ben of al beaute shryne
>As fer as cercled is the mapamounde,
>For as the cristal glorious ye shyne,
>And lyke ruby ben your chekes rounde.
>Therwith ye ben so mery and so jocounde
>That at a revel whan that I see you daunce,
>It is an oynement unto my wounde,
>Thogh ye to me ne do no daliaunce.

Shakespeare is not even "medieval" you Philistine, and his is more "modern" than that. It reminds me more of Victorian neo-Medievalists

Grave Patriarch

Perturbed, but with myrtle given,
To a grave and aggrieve the livid
Old man who made family as patriarch;
Mine tears to swell when spoken
On the edges of grave talk.
The supple tendency of daughter
Of age’s time as conversation to slaughter
“Thou pass the tombstone of age
With succinct endeavor, prodigious
In each man’s day,” His gaze with part,
“Thou speak of times when man was at start.”
Two souls depart with meaning,
That atop and below or above, he spake,
“Thou who sees, thou undone death’s deal”—
Life at a hundred times the year
Grandson of one and all whence he feared
The myrtle of blossom and petal
To live once again unfettered:
He who to time crosses in great amount
Shall wealth with better year felt.

wut, I have this pen

They are there
Here

One shell in the sand
In the rain
There are animals nearby
And their noses touch

Two hands touch the fur
Their noses and fur
We look forward

Her halo dimmed
Parts the way

To be nearby, hi
All that's inside
Again, the other life

Otherwise, again, than us

Good.

dry cavern—
sweetsour scent of spices
in a crush

dry cavern—
memory of spices
in a rush

Good.

This mental dissolution
Takes hold of my souls confusion,
This diluted cry
Runs its hands through my life:
Don't be negative, can't be negative
Have you ever seen yourself
Have you ever clawed out its eyes,
Have you ever named yourself
Have you ever been someone else
Have you even seen yourself today?

Emily Pool sat on a stool
Painting a blue blue-jay
She then used teal
The bird became real
And her painting flew away

Cliff is coming home tonite, Seagull said. Seagull was five foot four. When she walked through the doorframe of the Bakelite hut she often hit her head on the robust cornicing, but she put up with it. After all, her father had smelted the house before he died. The only other bird in the library is Knop, Knop is a bird also. The two birds are sitting together, reading by the light of an orange lamp. Yes, I imagine he’ll arrive soon, Knop said. So the two of them read again. Seagull is reading a book by Swiss Redskin, titled: How to Call a Fireman to Fix Your Mistakes. It is a very thick book, over two-hundred pages (which is quite a lot for a bird, whose eyes are very small). Knop is reading a book too, the book is titled: Technology, Process, People.
The two birds sat together in that small room for an hour before they were join by their brother, Cliff. Cliff entered the room and hit his head on the top of the door frame. Seagull laughed and stood to greet her brother, Knop was still sitting. Brother! We’ve been waiting, Seagull said (Knop said nothing but gave Cliff a nod). Cliff’s break began to glow red, he was overjoyed to see his siblings. He gave Seagull a feathery hug. The Trio had once been quite poor, but now they were rich.

I just want attention.
(It doesn't matter how, at first.)
My cage is too small, exoskeleton too tight.
(Eat the mold: eureka, it's penicillin.)
Give me fame or give me death.
(Taxes and liberty shan't do, Mr. Eaper.)
If you give me the map, I'll become the legend.
(I plan to marry the margarine in the margins.)
The theoretic is the applied.
(Maps are so territorial.)
No canvass is blank when beheld.
(What the ______?)
Post-pretentiousness characterizes my character.
(Mustard and onions once could.)
Puff puff pass on the torch, ye monkey of the porch.
(Racism dies when white men can publicly say the no word.)

no u don't user stop lying for no reason, it's weird

pretty good

could definitely use some work

overall i licked it, though have you ever considered diversifying the last few liines

cute, in an infantile (relating to literal infants) vomit kind of way. like babies are widely recognized to be cute, but when you have one draped over your shoulder, blubbin' the wubs, and it starts to eject partially digested tit juice onto your paunch and brown bandolier, it suddenly becomes softly gross, a quiet disappointment (or at least that's how my parents describe it)

you've dripped wax onto an imported Foghat LP and labeled it Vandross for the moroccan merchants

an absolute nonentity, means nothing to me

this isn't high school english user, you don't need to plagiarize to get a good internet grade. just try and be yourself

you can't distill a shot whisky from a singly grain of sorghum

dude youre not a canal evacuating a neonate, chillout with the contr'ctions lol

i didn't read it but i can tell you that it needs work

like The View, it has an audience

this reminds me of Milton during his glory daze

is mine. How would I improve it?

...

>you can't distill a shot whisky from a singly grain of sorghum
W-what?

"A Manifesto"

Damned be tradition, the corner-foundations
of the pagoda and mosque, the jurassic,
polished, well-varnished, in-slow-ambulations-
round-the-bejewelled-cathedral-enclosure-
understood; burn the commandments in classic
letters that cassocks in motley dipped foreign
fingers in ink to inscribe; let exposure
flake the decaying old virginal parchment
sheath and the papery helms of their horsemen
confident faces emblazoned upon whose
masks are the picture of vacuous assent;
let the remaining air bathe your lewd tattoos.
You’re weighed against a spurious ballast; knife
the ropes, free yourself—what can you lose but life?

>
>pretty good
>
>could definitely use some work

what did he mean by this?

10/10

The thing about Haikus is that their short nature doesn't lend itself to wasted words or syllables. Your Hiaku in it's current state has many.
First Line: "The" what purpose does it serve? It doesn't give your line any meaning so ditch it. Also Buzz is kinda weak. Just saying

Second Line: "A" again what purpose does it serve? Ditch it. Also "Whistle pierces" is weird because to "pierce" something is forceful wordage and whistle...doesn't sound very forceful or pierce worthy. Your words need weight to them. Use better ones.

Third line: "Like" don't use like in a poem. You're cheating yourself out of a stronger image voluntarily. Saying "like" in a poem is like reminding the reader "HEY YOU! Don't get to lost in this poem because it's just words on a page and I wanted to remind you of that." If something is "like light through the trees." Than it IS light through the trees." remember that.

Also NEVER EVER repeat words in a haiku unless you're feeling ballsy or they actually serve multiple meanings

great imagery, but conflicting structure
fix it and itll be really good

>canal evacuating a neonate
>contractions
god damnit

Apologies for tiny grammar mistakes. I'll critique tomorrow. I'm too tired right now

Thoughts are proving fatal.
Stricken down and grinding sparse.
My mind a temperance,
Sleek But cryptic burden
laying dense Conflicted harsh.

The back of mine, it's ache
And brow of dripping sweat.
My wish supine. For dismal
thoughts I now beget.

Quite Conflicted tense
But budding soon to blossom
of dark and dreary days
Now brighter they Commence

At ease my driven husk,
An appetite No longer.
Relieved I sit at lunch.
Of brighter things i lust

Beforth a changing tide.
Draining out and leaving
Nothing bar her shimmer
And back to work i stride

Jokes on u these things are the reason I'm broke

bump

she frequents the cafes she's a girl about town
two nights ago she let a brother down
now we go looking round and around
oh what shall we do with this girl about town

Bleachers full of bright-eyed spectators
Each gripped with hope they have transfigured
And projected on the spectres that dance below

Cut grass and ash and floodlights
Corn dogs and paella and sweet nuts
Sweeter tasting in the mild evening air that swoons

Each and every cheer juxtaposed with
The gut-punch of crushing disappointment
A total annihilation

Clouds assume a lofty perch
Above the incandescent crescent
Starched shadows of things inconceivable

And it is time, now time
To reap the day and exhume the night
And to be born again and to die and to remain the same, always

change a brother to another and make it less fucking scary

You could have an eighties hit

You lost me

the somnolence of thunder clouds

ashy clouds, a somnambulist
over fields,
spittle from your blank mouth
drips down,
slicks the stumbling of
your steps
and plays torrid feedback
booming from your tumbling
lisp

weeping lustily, in our flooding
bare foot prints.
ringing bells atop your
rough scalp,
suturing gummed metal
in your
teeth, cough up and pour
thoughts into iron pipes
scattered

about the damp moist mossy growth,
filling their
bleakness they are feel half
empty;
a partial satiation.
your saliva
makes bloated stomachs sick
and makes our bile toil
soil.

as the shattering of the tree
stumps you pass
with your looming ashen
coating
our teeth and our dry tongues,
we drink
from the rusted pipes we
laid out like catchers for
dreams.

but i, like those still uncovered,
become meek and
disillusionment for other
darkening clouds
like dust will then sleep
on our breast,
tickle our necks,
and dump questions
on the shirts
we lent to all
the others
we slept
with...

alone i am stuck mumbling
mutely,
for the slumbering burnt
clouds, now
half awakened above,
have parched
my aforementioned
rambling and rumbling
hopes.

Atrapado en un callejón sin salida
con la única opción de bregar,
voy mirando a las esquinas
en la búsqueda de un portal.

La luz es tenue,
mi andar, huidizo,
cada paso que doy
un posible último suspiro.

Man I was sort of messing around but I really appreciate the advice. I'll keep it in mind for future poems

When the moon eclipses my heart
I reach inside for another sin,
When the tides begin to crash
And I let the cataclysm in.
When the memory starts to weep
Like sinking ships at sea,
As the storm approaches your peace
And when all I taste is hate.

Some nice imagery
Rough line transitions due to starting w transition words for everything, Like, As, And etc.

Some really cool shit. Poor title, weak ending.

I LOVE IT
not brilliant or genius but still jazzy.

The aporia,
A ragged beach awash with
folded butterflies

White vapors arise
From rain-infused cobblestone--
birds on Angelsea

make it better

>what can you lose but life?
literary esteem

so then the jokes on u, twice

i case anyone cares, here is an updated version.

the somnolence of thunder clouds

ashy clouds, a somnambulist
over fields,
spittle from your blank mouth
drips down,
slicks the stumbling of
your steps
and plays torrid feedback
booming from your tumbling
lisp

weeping lustily, in our flooding
bare foot prints.
ringing bells atop your
rough scalp,
suturing gummed metal
in your
teeth, cough up and pour
thoughts into iron pipes
scattered

about the damp moist mossy growth,
filling their
bleakness they are feel half
empty;
a partial satiation.
your saliva
makes bloated stomachs sick
and makes our bile toil
soil.

as the shattering of the tree
stumps you pass
with your looming ashen
coating
our teeth and our dry tongues,
we drink
from the rusted pipes we
laid out like catchers for
dreams.

but i, like those still uncovered,
become meek and
disillusionment for other
darkening clouds
like dust will then sleep
on our breast,
tickle our necks,
and dump questions
on the shirts
we lent to all
the others
we slept
with...

alone i am stuck mumbling
mutely,
for the slumbering burnt
clouds, now
half awakened above,
have parched
my aforementioned
rambling and rumbling
hopes.

Just how bad is it? How do I improve it?

This one I don't know how to categorize:

I knew I was dreaming
when you whispered, "I love you".

I want to fuck you like I never loved you.

5-7-5:
High strung, feverish
Warm unlike wintertide breath
Filling my room whole

5-7-5-7-7:
Thick forest pupil
Lost within the green of ferns
Labyrinthine church
Thwacking branch playfully swat
Chirping warblers call the heart

You're not getting it because there's nothing to get. It's just empty pretentious garbage. The typesetting is a dead giveaway.

Make it stop.

Reach
Like the sun loaned you to the earth
Maybe that’s what we all
Mean to say
Creating yourself
Means saying hello
Taking fears for a walk
Build anything everywhere
Til your everywhere
Make everything
one

Never tried to write a poem before, so I just rambled this down in 5 minutes, for you guys to tear me apart. Please be gentle.

One afternoon, I was struck.
Suddenly, thrown out from nowhere,
I was pierced,
By the spear of despair.
As it dug into my flesh,
All the way, to the core of my heart
The cold metal melted,
And the silvery liquid dripped into my veins.
Down through my body the liquid ran,
And gathered, at the pit of my stomach.

There it lay, like ballast,
Heavy, dreading, reminding me,
That I was the only sailor on this ship,
Heading toward a predestined shore.
Yet, there it lay, heavy,
Making it hard to chose another path,
Or another shore.

Remember when you were dumb
You worshipped Barney like a chud
Die, you fucking Barneyfag
Now there’s just retardation in your eyes
Like the downie that won’t die
Die, you fucking Barneyfag

You were fucked in the crossfire of Leach and Parker
Clutched in their tight grasp
Fuck off, you faggot with retarded laughter
Fuck off you manchild, you retard, you downie and die

I hope you die in a dune
I hope you die soon
Die, you fucking Barneyfag
Taught by those who aren’t right
His purpleness filled your sight
Die, you fucking Barneyfag

You found your own way to ignore smart decisions
Clutched in his tight grasp
Fuck off, you dumbass, you failed emission
Fuck off, you sperg, you asshole, you degenerate and die

Frozen tundra, snow sunken heart-
land--once rich with green grass-and-trees
and wildlife sipping water--

silent lay you, minus the breeze.
That gentle death-filled hymn hums wan
off frosted limbs without their leaves.

No bird flies in those grey skies. Gone
are the mice, and all butterflies.
Bled of warmth who's life, for it, sung

under breath or roaring battle-cries.
When frozen dirt was damp and soft,
heavy feet fell heavy bodies

to pack the earth--to dry and crust.
Their sightless souls now icy ghosts
whose bony clutch, as snowy dust,

does--from cold chattering teeth--grow,
even in death, tighter each day
in flee of a heavy fate below.

Their fingers claw, at glacial pace,
up-on the emerald floor-skirt
of a beige queen's rolling ballgown,

who's married to the sun, not dirt.
Mirrored in her frost-blue eyes, fires
faint but pure burn but small and short--

Dim beads of dying flames: pyres
alight top a frigid tundra
'tween lifeless-tree-like irises.

Frozen tundra, snow-sunken heart-
land, rest on wounds, to scars in peace.
Pass-by moons and emboss stars

in quiet snowfields hung with trees.
Time, soon again, will warm and thaw,
and radiate with brilliance.

>up-on the emerald floor-skirt
>of a beige queen's rolling ballgown,

>who's married to the sun, not dirt.

Area I'm most uncertain about and feel I need to touch on the rhythm.

The Light

The light shine on my flaws
But why not all?
I was once a good man
Who stood proud and tall.

Gave my light to many,
even those that need naught.
rendering my heart
to a closed-tight knot.

Forgive me light,
for these pleas shall rot.
Just like my hope
With Solemn thought.

Please criticize me

Your theme is nice, and I like the progression but the prose is a bit clumsy, so just tighten it up.

It always helps when you read it aloud to hear the muddy parts.

>prose
>talking about a poem

this is a nice little poem user.
The first stanza is enjoyably simple, no pretension at all and communicates a nice image.
>rendering my heart
needs work, I don't know if 'rendering' is the word you're looking for. It sticks out doesn't go too well with the following line (which I like quite a lot) "to a closed-tight knot"
your last stanza might be over doing it tho.
>just like my hope
I already understand that this has happened, you don't really need to say it.
All in all, nice poem - with a little work it'll be solid.

Is this a poem?

Blood blood.
It leaves me, like sweet dripping honey.
Missing five members without palm.
I move the invisible hand,
unable to be seen by my tired eyes.
Frustrating frustration,
squeezing to squelch an awful pain.
"Remember to breathe," mother said
as I strangled myself.
SQUEEZE!
The phantom hand gripped with glee.
"I'm sorry, I'm a bad girl."
I laughed empty air, falling down.
Pain.
Warm skin dyes into white.
I forgot to close my eyes
as I gurgled a bit in my throat.

Thank you all, it was my first attempt at a poem and i will improve on it some more.

The sweet smell of a great sorrow lies over the land
Plumes of smoke rise and merge into the leaden sky
A man lies and dreams of green fields and rivers
But awakes to a morning with no reason for waking
He's haunted by the memory of a lost paradise
In his youth or a dream, he can't be precise
He's chained forever to a world that's departed
It's not enough, it's not enough
His blood has frozen & curdled with fright
His knees have trembled & given way in the night
His hand has weakened at the moment of truth
His step has faltered
One world, one soul
Time pass, the river rolls
And he talks to the river of lost love and dedication
And silent replies that swirl invitation
Flow dark and troubled to an oily sea
A grim intimation of what is to be
There's an unceasing wind that blows through this night
And there's dust in my eyes, that blinds my sight
And silence that speaks so much louder than words
Of promises broken