/lit/ - Literature

The ocean of the city swallows the immensity
Of the individual, encasing
Them within its waves, them within the sea
From far away, the shore, no difference to be seen
With the man and the immensity.

Sinking, falling, hurting, not breathing
Light slowly fades from the eye, the infinite below
Grows in a sordid reflection of the infinite above
And you, in the center, the finite, the middle, but
Within you, behind flesh, muscle, sinew, lung, alveoli,
Cells, DNA, proteins, molecules, Atom; not breathing.

>>10396282
This is a grandiose and I feel reaches a bit over its weight, ambitious but unsuccessfully so and therefore pretentious.
>the immensity
Of the individual

Just feel too inflated for me, I admire you aiming for profundity but I don't think you can jump into a poem like that, it's too pompous imo.

Same with phrases like
>the infinite below/above

It's a tad airy fairy, and a fairly boring expression imo.

Your ending is interesting, but I I feel the technical terminology don't work with the fairly romantic imagery you seem to be aiming for in the first stanza. Don't wanna be a hater, just some thoughts.


Poem for ya:

Moods are a dance!
To live is to dart between motions
loosely trained to reason.

When faultlines show swing over them,
most days I’m planted six feet deep -
blood vessels swell and rush into my temple.
My neighbours say “Put on a show!”
and so I drink and dance it off
cursing my ailments and
the pending morning.

I'll awake and dance again
with fitful grins through every door
I waltz where the world guides me;
my pocket dust is glitter.
The world is treated by my dance
and I squint through it darkly:
scanning for dissidents if not an bridge.
This dance indulges me too much,
I’m sick with it its dark magic that mans
my bones and breath,
then softly
wrecks my mind.

Dance oh dance ah
never in time or tandem
in rhythms too quick to
catch from sure falls.

>>10396330
>Your ending is interesting, but I I feel the technical terminology don't work with the fairly romantic imagery you seem to be aiming for in the first stanza. Don't wanna be a hater, just some thoughts.

Was trying to go for a bit of a Websterish ending with putting all the physical parts of breathing as pure mechanical failures, each at an individual level going down.

As for the first part, I wanted to describe the feeling of being an individual in a city full of individuals, and how, at times, when you look at crowds of people, you feel pretentiously like you're the only unique person there. But you're not. And someone else, a different observer, will see you just as you are, a colored speck in the enormous crowd of people that come in and out every day.

Also, I found it funny that immensity sounds like immense city, and that was the basis of the entire poem

As for the structure, I was borrowing from T.S. Eliot and the way he always likes to break a sentence up in order to create anticipation, as seen with the ", encasing" line. I feel like I could do the "no difference to be seen"line much better, but like I said, it all needs revising. Tracy K. Smith uses a similar technique, but she also has stronger, fuller lines with rhymes through the sentences.

I appreciate the critique.


>Moods are a dance!
>To live is to dart between motions
>loosely trained to reason.

Good, catching entrance. Sets the mood with Excitement! Subject! Verbs! I enjoy the energy of the first two lines in comparison to the third. The contrast of living free, and being actionable, and then reflecting inwardly and calling them with a pensive light is interesting to me.

>When faultlines show swing over them,
>most days I’m planted six feet deep -
>blood vessels swell and rush into my temple.
>My neighbours say “Put on a show!”
>and so I drink and dance it off
>cursing my ailments and
>the pending morning.

Since you're not using a specific structure, and relying on free verse, you have the ability to be more fluid with where you place words. That is to say that words have a bigger impact when they're at the end of a line or at a start of the light. This stanza is great but it needs some more tension in it. I can see the overall structure of your poem start to emerge here; brightly bubbly beginning with an analysis at the end that feels cold, calculating, and remote.

>I'll awake and dance again
>with fitful grins through every door

good. best line in the poem I think.

>I waltz where the world guides me;
>my pocket dust is glitter.

makes me think of pocket sand

>scanning for dissidents if not an bridge.

typo here

>mans

plural of man is men, plural of human is humans. Its a weird grammar thing. If you were going for possessive, you need the apostrophe.

>>10396330
>>10396282
>my poems are trite, banal and trivial and I never really have original or profound or inspired thoughts so please don't try so hard to be good and extraordinary and special

>>10396419

cheer up anon. I like my poem. I just wanted to share is all. No need to be mean.

>>10396419
Look all I'm not against ambition dude, I respect it, but if you're going for a weight I feel it needs more time to mature, more than two stanzas, it should be a progression that reaches a point. Otherwise the weight of the subject matter becomes trivialized.

>>10396446
that wasn't me. I only post with wallpapers

>>10396419
Who the fuck are you talking to? This is a chill place for feedback don't bring shitty cynicism here.

What happens to a meme deferred?
Does it shrivel like a raisin when it’s sunny?
Or is it supple and plump like a cunny.
Does it come in the form of a cartoon toad?

OR

DOES

IT

EX

PLODE

>>10396453
No I know I was being indirect, I like the wallpapers anon

>>10396457
read the first line and the last stanzas and was thinking of wednesday frog, before I even read the last line.

>>10396446
Two stanza's is plenty enough for weight, lad.

>>10396508
damn.

whenever I read great poetry it makes me shiver a bit. makes my heart feel like there is not enough oxygen in circulation.

>>10396508
Alright fair point lad

I’m finding it hard to focus with you wedged in my mind
So, I looked, searched online, took some quizzes, tried to find
the reason we don’t talk much anymore. I don’t want to be needy,
all of this could be resolved with three lines, a few, ‘hey, it’s not you it’s me,
I just don’t love us like you do’. It’ll only hurt for a minute, day, year, or two.\

Erections abound
Lights out in the Kremlin bogs
PIssing everywhere

(The Kremlin is a gay bar in Belfast / Bog is a toilet)

His Yellow Dog


Everything was alright though,
Because he had her still,
Everyone else was dead or gone,
The world had gone to hell,
Months of hunger, gaunt children,
Delicate words on tattered pages,
Writing so small it could scarcely be read,
Night whispered words of bomb-ashed sages,
Gunshots at evening, roasting flesh,
A fever that took meat from bone,

Darkening madness overtaking some,

Gibbering in the red night,
Cries for children in the rubble,
Hollow eyes on living corpses,
Death in the corner chewing leather
With everyone else,

But he had her, one yellow dog,
Thin, a blanket over hard angles,
Her hair weak and dull,
Hiding under the table as the bombs fell,
As he wrote in an unnatural darkness,
And saw all within the lines at daybreak,
And still she wagged her tail,
As the last hours drew in,
And the bombs stopped falling,
The city reeling in a narcotic haze,
Of smoke, and gas and hatred,
But it was alright,
Her ragged breath was yet life,
When his sister died he had wept,
When his father died he had paled,
The rest felt only the relief of a grave,
When she died he held her in a tattered coat,
And carried her to the empty lot,
Where tires burned for months,
And cars gutted lay in wrecks,
Consigned her to the soil in the still morning,
Before the world began again

>>10396330
Also

>the immensity
>Of the individual

is meant to be mildly ironic. A city is immense, an individual is small.

>>10396453

How deep under the sea is Rapture meant to be? I feel like the problem of having windows and skylights that don't cave under the immense pressure was never really explained

>>10396626
Just by virtue of the ocean water being blue, it had to be within like 400ft of the surface.

>>10396626
>>10396641

As long as you have a solid structure and the ability to keep pressure inside the structure, you would be fine. Glass would have to be thick, though.

Biggest problem is that there wouldn't be leaks like you see in Bioshock: You would have condensate dripping, and you would have catastrophic failure; there is no in between.

See: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Zz95_VvTxZM

>>10396454
>This is a grandiose and I feel reaches a bit over its weight, ambitious but unsuccessfully so and therefore pretentious. Just feel too inflated for me, I admire you aiming for profundity but I don't think you can jump into a poem like that, it's too pompous imo.

I was defending the first writer, for striving to be pretentious and pompous, ambitious, grandiose, and inflated.

>>10396713
>>10396459
*I forgot profound

No matter how hard i breath in it all just feels the same

Everytime i look at the ground theres something tapping at my shoulder

It trys to get me to look up and on some occasions i do

On those sorry days that i do i see the sky. It's plastered and rests motionless and infinitly to my tiny mind. Streaming all the blues of creation I find that i'm the most alive when water tames my thirst

in this shallow pool are clouds that from time to time occupy this space . And when I reach for the clouds all i've ever felt was air.

>>10396713
>>10396748
So its a good thing? I'm not sure. I thought pretentiousness was using high level language to convey something shallow.

>>10396869
I was just trying to be supportive, and encouraging, instead of repressive, oppressive, offensive, discouraging, dismaying, demeaning, I was trying to be the good cop.

>>10396962
i appreciate you anon

-A Palms Frond Psalms-

A tropic palm, the subject of a midnight frame
A psalm to the solemn November night
Frayed and red-tipped leaves hang --
Overhead; dripping drops, a puddle alight.
A party could be heard
Stepping from the palms and frond psalms
Found my weathered ear assured
that what it hears of malaise and disrupted calm
Lives below that - the palms frond psalms


-The Day Lost-

Never had the sight of dawn --
The sphinx: it synchs the breath of day
Neither by arduous heart nor pitchforked hay,
But a pock-marked wall with resin stains.
By piston and cog the hallowed log lays -
A present fog over the redwood’s grave.


I'll stick around and crit now

>>10397182

Clearly you know more about poetry than most of us; the first poem was cutesy and I loved the playing with the sounds of words. The ABAB structure helps, but I always found that sort of scheme to be distracting; abba or aabb sound much more organic to me. Usually, ABAB is something quite serious to me, as seen above in Housman's poem or with any of T.S. Eliots work. I could be talking out my ass here, but thats what my impression of it was.

second poem was even more lyrically whimsical than the first. I think it sacrificed story in order to play with words too much. As such, its describes the scenes well but I can't help but get confused by the cryptic nature of its message, if there even is one.

>>10397271
>Clearly you know more about poetry than most of us
You have me all wrong Im just starting out, but thank you Im really glad you liked it. Both of the poems have meanings, but I see what you mean, they are obscured.
>>10396270
>>10396414
I like the concept of this a lot, but the execution leaves something to be desired. Keep working on it anon, Id love to see where you take it.
>>10396338
>I don't wish to make a joke
>saying so.
Really awkward to read, the whole thing really, but those two lines stand out.
>I am very weak.
>I don't wish in saying so to make a joke,
>But I have nothing to give.
>I guard jealously
>The fantasies alive in the past --
>Weigh me down and burn me.
>Like molten lead from the core of the earth;
>Let me, at last, be ashes.
Something like this might make it more smooth. Of course thats my rendition of your poem so it will never be quite right, but I hope I've given you some idea of how to progress from here
>>10396508
fuck is that good.
>>10396562
It comes across quite Rupi-esque, but that could be what you're going for. Im sure theres an audience for stuff like this.

>>10397351
Rupi doesn't use aabbc rhyming structure tho, and she puts
Pauses in the
Most random
Spot
s.

>>10397477
line-breaks aren't pauses, they're semantic divisions

I know this is probably pretty corny and basic and just bad in general but I'll take any thoughts. I think I'm writing them more as song lyrics than poetry, though I haven't written the music yet.

Sit back with me and try to hear
The melody of a rocking chair
Or a paper plane flying through the air
Have you ever heard a song so pretty?

All the broken glass and urban decay
Leave bold outlines as they’re washed away
But have you ever seen such a perfect day?
Beneath the harsh skyline of the city?

So the desert willow grows
And the medicine flows on in
But who wants to know?
If there’s a better time for us to begin.

The groundskeeper and the summer rain
Rip out all the weeds as they circulate.
And so I’ll never see
the symmetry in how they lay
A bird that never flies is not a stone.

All the chattering of the new display
Is supposedly the sign of a coming age
There are screams coming down the old alleyway
You can hear but only when you’re alone

And so the epidemic grows
And the medicine flows on in
But who’d want to know?
When the withering starts to begin.

>>10397480
I dunno about you but when I read a porm, the line breaks are a dramatic pause that fits where a command cannot. Take Love song by Eliot for example

>Is it perfume from a dress
>That makes me so digress

It's one sentence, grammatically, but the line break is dramatic pauses for effect.

>>10397780
I think treating them as a dramatic pause steals the nuance of the punctuation already put in place.

I'd like some feedback. the honesty and animosity of anonymity is invaluable to me. This is a poem about the coming of age, the line breaks are sort of arbitrary at this point as it was written originally as stream of conscious. I'll try to make some comments on other people's work, for whatever qualifications i have.

Simóne

When I was blessed briefly with bohemian blush
and more cheap charm than a gypsy, I lived down
the road from a boy who looked like a chestnut
and his older sister Simóne.

Simóne wore a broken bicycle bell about her neck
where it came cupped softly between her budding breasts.
Only about the size of a shooter marble and as round.
When I walked up on weekends, welcoming the fresh
spring scent, Chester greeted me cheery but fleeting.
Frowning when the sight of Simóne’s bell left a ringing
in my ears, though it didn’t make a sound.

How a year in youth is bound to be the basis
for a clear superiority. How low did I bend
to make my amateur advances felt. I hold positive
she knew when I leaned down, I was peering up
at brightly patterned secrets. After such a shameful invasion
I spoke to her only in stutters and when, in May, I
finally choked on a paltry proposal, her family was planning
to spend the summer in Poland.

On return, Chester looked more like an almond
and disconnected images created conflict in my mind,
for in regretful reasoning I had become callous.
A jealous callous, I noticed now the rust speckles
on Simóne’s dull decoration, I recognized lust
and separated obligation. The allure of gypsy charms
was broken in the Fall, and I left before she noticed.

>>10397792
If that's the case, why even bother having line breaks? Just stop when you have enough syllables, and if using structure, have a rhyming word.

I am moved by fancies that are curled
Around these images: and cling
To the notion of some infinitely gentle
Infinitely suffering thing

Sounds different with the line break on line three replaced with a comma, and is less aesthetically pleasing and adrupt than if it had not it's own line.

>>10397876
>If that's the case, why even bother having line breaks?

Because they're useful as semantic divisions. And there is a natural pause from your eye moving from the end of one line to the beginning of another (slightly shorter than a comma), but its hardly dramatic.

Think about Yeat's Leda and The Swan. This piece has an intresting use of enjambment that, by moving the next line forward to meet the end of the previous. Considering he breaks on the period, it's obvious that the line-break isn't the source of the pause.

Someone like Browning purposefully uses enjambments to hide rhymes in strictly formal works (see: My Last Duchess) so the language feels more fluid.

The Dishwasher

Undine blue dyed soapy waters,
Steaming, dissolving food residue,
Aloof and daydreaming I hang above.

If I tune in to the steelwool
In my hand whirling,
Chemical water gurgling,
Little white bubbles with salt freckles --
I get drunk,
Just from the mundanity of it.

But I'm being romantic, it really is boring
(As fuck).
And the people I work with are usually
Older than me.
Some are a lot older and I think about
Getting old and being here.

Hustling around for a two-faced boss,
And dourly dreaming over a spoiled sink.

>>10397960

The sentiment is universal so why did you choose the imagery you did? The answer is obvious, because it was an immediate experience of yours. But I don't think there is anything about the whole kitchen setting that is intrinsic to the meaning itself or significant of its own. In other words, any mundane setting could convey this poem just as easily. Therefore it strikes me as a surface poem with not a lot of depth to it.

>>10397960
>>10397992
I actually think this particular imagery is quite good. There's a sense of purification but also there's this sense of going around in circles when you clean it with the steelwool.

So for dishes the circular nature of it, the repetition, is what makes it clean. But the author is in a sense doing the same thing, except instead of making something clean he's spoiling his life.

Your mother and I parted ways about three years ago
She went east and I went north 100 miles or so
I never saw her past that day, and she never saw me
And so my son you were not born, you never came to be

You never had her bright blue eyes, nor my early graying hair
You never had my intellect or her spirit without care
You never got to read the Bible, to grow up big and strong
You never had to figure out what was right and what was wrong

I never got to tell you that life was far from just
You never got to tell me you’d make it fair, you must!
I will never get to proclaim to all who live below or above
That you were my son, my precious son, who I so dearly love

>>10396454
>Literally and unironically "muh safe space"

A bud (who is much better than me) want to do a chapbook full of southern stuff with me. Is this piece worthy?

>>10398010
>a sense of purification
But no purification actually takes place. Metaphysically that is. So it would be a stretch to say that just because he cleans dishes that it's philosophically important. I think it's a little dishonest to say that there's a link by negation as well, as in "it's important because the dishes are being purified but the narrator isn't."

>>10398019
>no purification takes place metaphysically
Are you going to tell me the plate does not become clean, in a metaphysical sense? Why, because the food is in the sink now, but there's still food particles in the world at large? What nonsense.

If the piece was about Chopping onions it would have a completely different tone. The kind of lazy (in terms of speed) writing wouldn't fit. The sense of repeating something over and over until you're done wouldn't be there.

I should point out, I'm not the author, I'm just an anon who thought it was a good poem

>>10398017
I enjoyed it.

>>10398017
That's tranquil; rolls to the end wonderfully. Feels like a real psalm, though maybe a little more succinct.

shelter-cracks accrue dust
labor-men touch steel, hear clangour, breath rust
army-masses supplant dictatorial coups
rumor-men blame the jews

>>10396605
Nice start, you clearly have an eye for descriptive detail in some sense. I feel like it may behoove you to look again at some things which drew my attention. For starters, I think some of your words and phrases were ill chosen, or to presume the worst, less than considered. For starters
>tattered pages
>tattered coat
neither of these holds so much significance that a word like this needs to be repeated. Also,
>roasting flesh
is ambiguous in the context, is it people, or something like a communal barbecue? It's fine if this is intentional, even preferred, I just thought you should be aware of its impression.
>hard angles
>unnatural darkness
>living corpses
>yellow (what shade???)
all feel like cliche, or dull descriptions. But, I must give credit where credit is due, some bits and words I liked very much (because of their meaning or the context they are in or their sounds):
>Gibbering
>narcotic haze
>Death in the corner chewing leather
I'd also like to say, nice idea on the relationship between man and dog, but it doesn't feel quite bleak enough. The post-apocalyptic feeling seems rather unspecific, and the man and his dog do not receive enough direct attention. When the dog dies, I want to feel betrayed and depressed.
You have a very strong start. A few more revisions and I'm sure you'll have a stellar poem.

>>10397992

I find washing dishes mesmerizing at times because it can be so monotonous and effortless. I wanted to communicate that feeling and I felt it was more appropriate through images than saying it directly. But also the more overbearing feeling that in spite of the slight romance it's a boring ass job and I don't like it. It's certainly not meant to be profound no. Just every day thoughts in a dry job.

>>10398034

Here, >>10398054 in the author's words, is exactly what I'm saying, but in a critical way. The mesmerizing element of dishwashing comes through, but I don't sense the poetic depth that you do in the sense of purification. I find your assertion meaningless. Yes, the plate is being cleaned. But if that's supposed to represent anything, then what is it? Who is it? How? Why? None of this is clear to me so I take it as an incidental reading.

>>10397832
I liked this poem, but I think it needs some refinement.

In the second stanza you end with "though it didn't make a sound". I think is unnecessary, and takes away from the beauty of "the sight of Simone's bell left a ringing in my ears." On the other hand, sound rhymes nicely with round earlier in the stanza.

You seem to be trying to rhyme the third line with the final line in both the second and fourth stanzas, but in your third stanza the pattern doesn't hold.

You should try to solidify (or get rid) the rhyming scheme you seem to have, and balance that with some of the poem's nicer turns of phrases.

>>10398048
>/pol/-men blame the jews
ftfy

How many hours a day do you all read?

>>10398065
I really was only focused on internal rhymes for this, but you make a good point. I'll try to iron out some of the inconsistencies in the structure. Thank you for the feed back.

>>10398077
I pretty good bit. I also try to make sure to read at least one poem I've already read before out loud a day.

Gucci gang, Gucci gang, Gucci gang (Gucci gang!)
Gucci gang, Gucci gang, Gucci gang, Gucci gang
Gucci gang, Gucci gang, Gucci gang (Gucci gang!)

-T.S. Eliot

I've been trying to write one garbage sonnet per day about dreams I've had in hopes of eventually getting better. Biggest current problem is bad rhymes.

Fragmented pictures of a house in grey
Away from those who seek what lies within
Abandoned long ago, left to decay
With summer insects' song it called out then
In dreams the door gives way to solid black
A void that inhales all the August breeze
The woods around will offer no way back
For evil's shared by every ghostly tree
What waits inside is never to be known
No man who's ventured there has since been found
In moonlight it stands in its field alone
With black aura that bleeds into the ground
The visions mock and wrest me from my sleep
Some devil's house within the woods so deep

Repeating scene that steals away the light
From other indistinct pictures of day
A crescent beach below a moonless night
Where waves cast back kept sun of yesterday
The stars that pirouette as moving scapes
Of heroes and their gods in that dark field
Dissolve into aurora mouths agape
Their radiance is never set to yield
The song of death glides through the branches there
But all that's heard is wavebreak as a wall
Of white noise harmonizing with the air
It echoes up to embers as night's call
On eyelids utopia's old mauve glow
For flight to where there's peace is all I know

>>10398064
You notice the purification aspect by looking at the first stanza. The water is described as undine, meaning a female nymph water spirit, and as soapy. It's given an active, cleansing character (He could have described it as immovable, purifying what comes into contact with it by it's sheer force, but it would be weaker). It also gets rid of impurities, as the second line indicates. Note he starts off being above his work: "aloof and daydreaming I hang above". Then it dives into the details of the work.

You get the connection between his work and him by noticing that his third stanza is an inversion of the second.

I'll denote the poem as follows: 1.3 means stanza 1, line 3.

2.6 is romantic mundanity - 3.1 is realistic boring
2.5 implies giddiness and joy - 3.2 crassness and contempt
2.4 notices a particular that makes him happy - 3.3 notices a particular that makes him unhappy
2.3 chemical water moving evokes feelings of movement, reaction, life - 3.4 evokes feelings of self-consciousness, death
2.1 & 2.2 author is the one doing the repetitive motion, focusing on it, having direct control on it - 3.5 & 3.6 author comes to realize he is involved in a repetitive motion, that is out of his hands to some extent

He starts off above his work, does his work in its particularity, realizes he is being worked upon in a particular way, and is now left with this idea that he is worked upon, not just in particular, but also in general.

Putting this all together we get a specific feeling of disjunction that we wouldn't have felt if it wasn't cleaning dishes. His work cleans something, but it doesn't make him clean. The tools he uses evoke a repetitive, circular feeling which somehow goes somewhere, but by the end of it he's being used as a tool that goes in circles without going anywhere. The bubbles from the sink are floating up above, but he's sinking.

It wouldn't be the same if he was a construction worker. You wouldn't get the cleansing contrasted with the spoiling, you wouldn't get the floating, dreaminess of bubbles contrasted with the grounded, harsh reality of life. You wouldn't get the repetition leading somewhere (cleanness) vs. leading nowhere. The actual content of a construction worker's job is more "grounded" than dishwashing is, just because you're dealing with metal, wood, stone, concrete, hammers...these things that for whatever reason remind us of solidness, reality, immovability, practicality.

>>10398166
Okay Toohey, we get it: The mundane is great.

>>10398166
>It's given an active, cleansing character (He could have described it as immovable
Why would you describe dishwater as immovable?
>It also gets rid of impurities, as the second line indicates
Common sense indicates this as well.
>His work cleans something, but it doesn't make him clean.
The tools he uses evoke a repetitive, circular feeling which somehow goes somewhere, but by the end of it he's being used as a tool that goes in circles without going anywhere.
This is a huge contradiction though. Is there a circle or isn't there? There's nothing in the poem to indicate either.
>The bubbles from the sink are floating up above
Again, common sense. This is what bubbles do.
>but he's sinking.
You have foisted that imagery onto the poem. It's not contained within it.
>Your last paragraph.
I disagree entirely. A construction worker could easily be mesmerized by his work, for example if he were working at heights and seeing things at a distance.
>You wouldn't get the repetition leading somewhere (cleanness) vs. leading nowhere.
This alone is not a very profound idea. Many people have job dissatisfaction.

>>10397477
>checked
true and thats why I said rupi-esque. I was reffering more to the subject matter and the YA feel it has. But also like I said, there is a definite audience for that genre, so youre probably better off than any of the more profound, structured attempts on here.

>>10398161
Is it wrong that I read this in MC rides voice to the tune of Beware?

>>10398225
All of those points demonstrate not only an actual understanding of what I wrote, and what the author wrote, but also an unwillingness to engage with my point, which is that dishwashing in particular evokes feelings other things don't.

Just as an example, you claim I've foisted sinking imagery onto the poem. "And dourly dreaming over a spoiled sink," is a play on words. It describes both the literal sink, and the process of sinking that is his life. This is something you wouldn't get unless you used a job that utilizes a sink.

Fashion Today

A congestion of thorns bulging,
And splashing over one another
The way laundry gets wrangled and contorted in the wash.
Or that condition where too many teeth
Start to fill in one place.

Each spike is adroitly placed for decoration,
And painted with something that is
Like silver, but more sullen,
And proudly so.

Makes a sparkling dress that mesmerizes,
Those lonesome folk who dine on peeks through,
Bludgeoned glass.

The shimmering robes accentuate the
Tumultuous glum within.
But with all of their sorrow so
Desperately worn on the sleeve,
They are still invisible.

Laughter takes the crowd around
The fool whose groping hands
Are buried in tenebrous light.

>>10398237
YA =\= millennial. When I think YA I am grasped by images of Harry Potter or Ursula K. Leguin, not people trying to find closure in a despondent society that uses up your body and your organs and leaves your soul to rot while browsing through the endlessly long Facebook scroll, hoping, maybe, you've missed some little piece of information and that hiding in the bytes of data, layered in the HTML code of the messenger, that there's some real human connection behind it all; that a woman you've overlooked three times over is thinking of you, and that maybe, this time (if only we could be so lucky) it will work out and you have the ability, 20 years from now, to say you met online when you weren't even looking.

>>10398242
>dishwashing in particular evokes feelings other things don't.
I'm not disputing that at all. What I'm saying is that it doesn't communicate with itself in the way you're suggesting.
>... is a play on words
I can't take your word for that. Your only evidence is that the word "sink" is deployed... but that's exactly what it ought to be called. There's no salient comparison between that word and any sense of "rising". In fact there's no mention of anything rising at all.

You guys remember when someone posted an obscure poem by a famous poet and /lit/ shitted the fuck out of it? I do, haha.

>>10398279
The Plath Moon one?
The Knight Shakespeare one?

If I am to wode with the damsel, the dear,
If to dwell by her droop, if to dote at her ear,
Then she mustn't be lacking a dimesworthy rear.

>>10398257
>that there's some real human connection behind it all
Concept is much better than the execution, I like that quite a bit. Maybe it's the futility of it. I get that you're trying to capture what it's like to be a millennial and I think that could be done well, but your execution was off to me.

>>10398279
I posted a poem from Ungaretti once and someone said that "you repeated "like" 3 times like a retarded child" while another said " spotted the soyboy liberal". twas pretty funny.

I'm new to this so go easy on me
I'm sure you can see where my inspiration might have come from.
--------
Ghost

Dark skies stretch over my vision like a starry quilt over my head.
The orange street lights cast their light onto the haybale where I lay.
They enter a deep harmony with the cigarette in my hand and the music in the distance.

And then, the burning.
Could you call it chainsmoking?
or simply running.
Running, running, rain soaking,
Cold eyes water, cold eyes choking,
Running, hiding,
from the ghost I have become.

I flicker under the street lights that now dim out the stars.

>>10398425

My thoughts, take them with a grain of salt.

Can a noun stretch over vision? Vision is the ability to see, not that which is seen. Street lights casting light is redundant. How do they "enter" harmony? Can harmony be entered to? Can you describe this harmony more or differently? The cigarette bit comes across as product placement for cool points. You seem to want me to wonder what the burning is. Could I call it chainsmoking? (Again, more product placement). How is the running like the burning, especially if it's cold and wet? Running, hiding/from the ghost I have become is a little melodramatic. There's too much imagery and not enough content. How am I supposed to care about the ghost you have become if you're purposely obscuring all details of that to me? Can stars be "dimmed out"?

>>10398404
Wasn't a poem.

>>10398443
"His soul was stretched across the sky"

Yes. It's poetry. One must take the abstract and mix it with the concrete (read: literal) in order to be eloquent.

>>10398459
There's a difference between a carefully considered artistic choice and one informed by a lack of grammatical, linguistic, or philosophical awareness.

>>10398459
>Yes. It's poetry. One must take the abstract and mix it with the concrete

???
it's the exact opposite

>3.Don't use such an expression as 'dim lands of peace'. It dulls the image. It mixes an abstraction with the concrete. It comes from the writer's not realizing that the natural object is always the adequate symbol.
>4.Go in fear of abstractions. Do not retell in mediocre verse what has already been done in good prose. Don't think any intelligent person is going to be deceived when you try to shirk all the difficulties of the unspeakably difficult art of good prose by chopping your composition into line lengths.

>>10398457
I know... you were describing the concept. I was telling you that I liked the concept but the execution of the poem was off. I felt kind of bad but now it's clear you're dim m8. You really are strikingly dumb

>>10398443

The imagery was meant to set a peaceful place which I had actually found myself in when I reached partial inspiration. The synchrony from the old orange lamplight and my cigarette was beautiful under the stars, amplified by the faint country music.

The burning is tying the lung burning from the chainsmoking to a burning in your lungs you might have from running. The running, is running from my problems. In this way I meant to directly tie my chainsmoking to running from my problems.

The ghost, that is me, is about personal issues I face with depersonalization.

By saying I was >now< under a headlight that dimmed the stars, I meant to say I was thrown back into a loud, bright world where I could no longer see the stars or hear the music that was peaceful to begin. By flickering, it shows a return to the normal state, from the temporary relief I gave myself.

I should have specified the burning as lung burning and the connections might have been more clear.

>>10398238
IT'S DEATHDEATHDEATHDEATH

>>10398480
>>10398457

Well.. I haven't even really seriously written any poem at all. I'm also a fairly emotionally lacking person so that didn't help.

If I was honest the whole thing was lacking effort. I wrote it in a very short amount of time. I apologize.

>>10398488
>>10398480

I'm really fucking confused who is talking to me right now.

>>10398161
First one reads like black metal lyrics.
The second one's decent (aside from rhyming day with yesterday) in that I can visualize what the feel of the dream was like. Just be wary of word salad unless you know what you're doing. Forcing a "poetic sound" is a mistake too many amateurs make.

>>10398491
>>10398488
I thought there was 2 of us?

>>10398476
No, it's not the opposite. If you're going for comparisons, you can say something like "the rock was like an elephant" or some other simile or metaphor, but you must have a concrete, physical known to do this. You can't say "his love was like philosophy" because you're just mixing two very vague concepts together (unless you're purposefully trying to be vague)

I'll be honest, I didn't even read the dudes poem, which I assume was bad enough that even you saw it was terrible.

>>10398507
I mean, did you write the comment that I was dim and then change your mind? It's chill I'm not offended. I'm just gonna rationalize it as a miscommunication thing, so no hard feelings. But, if anything, isn't that your point entirely? That the concept is great but the communication is poor?

Well, it's all a matter of mechanics then, ain't it? It's like weightlifting; I just need to do more.

>>10397271
>the cryptic nature of its message, if there even is one
Pretty sure it's about an early morning sight of a machine in a newly cut redwood forest. That's what I gathered, anyway. Quite good.

>>10398562
Yeah I wasn't sure. The last two lines confused me because when I think of sphynx, I think of desert, and then the rest of the poem I'm trying to relate sphynx to it and it causes confusion.

>>10398576
I thought the same, actually. Then I figured he just wanted to romanticize the morning. Take my opinion with a grain of salt, this is my first poetry thread.

>>10398579
Same. I wonder how many people come here and it's their first time?

I don't think there's such a thing as "regulars" in these boards. Perhaps someone should make a compilation of all the best poems here, with critiques, and name it "Poets from the Underground"?

Still looking for thoughts on any of these

1. East

Drive east, and clouds surround the peaks
In soft gray mist, laden and low.
The mountains collect them into creeks
Before they breach the rainshadow

Which rules beyond, where sky can speak
The stupid blue of only sky,
And summer, lounging, kicks up its feet
With fading pinks in mid-July.

2. A Glass of Water

Bring me a glass of water, please. I just
Smoked. And more, the daylight and the breeze
That rolled along my tongue have left it dry
And have stoked my head to tinny pleasure. I must
Drink. So bring me a glass of water, please.

Old friend, hurry! I know the past gone by,
the events, deep-rooted, through which you earned my trust.
I know you’ll draw to fact with what I've willed:
You’ll show with the glass, brilliant with sky,
Gentle in hand. And just half of it filled.

3. Smoking Indoors

I
Open the window, so we might blow smoke
Vaguely towards it in attempted rings.
I, myself, will watch, shivering,
Trails of air open the glowing coals

That fell out of my cigarette. I regret
That I left them, but later will forget
Until the landlord finds them in the carpet
And decides to cash the security deposit.

II
You tranced, trying for a suitable shirt
from the small collection taken from college,
while others blew smoke, rising in rings,

white through your windows, their feet lounging out,
all feeling the full day that was still spilling
like his brush of blood feathered on the dirt.

4. Fortune Told

I suddenly became aware
of them: the facts. In fact,
instantly realizing that was that,
I reached to touch the truth that stared
extending its fingers as a dare.

It burned a bit: right there.
You see? It left a mark;
It glows a little in the dark;
It holds an old and noble spark --
Or so they tell me everywhere.

>>10398598
You know that feeling: the first half goes down
easy, long and open breaths, lying
on the couch, feet up. You tell people
"Reading relaxes me." Should read more.
Legs start to ache, you adjust. Next page.
Next chapter. Ache, adjust. Looking up,
you’re surprised by where the light has faded to.

It goes by like that. Just glides on by.
Unwinds easily, like the thin threads
of the sweater you've been picking at.
Let it. We all know what happens next.
Next chapter. Next page. You change your grip,
the pages in your left hand growing fat.
Ache. Adjust. This time you sit up,
eyes no longer passing over
the page, now pushing down, deeper,
falling down. You raise the book
closer to your face, your eyes
begin to blur under your
glasses, the words now glowing
brighter, outstripping themselves
until they vanish, blind white,
with you moving into them,
moving through them, over them,
carried through sentences,
and then through all next pages,
the chapters cannot stop you
now, now all dissolve and
disappear, free, quick, coursing
along coils of thick pure thought.

--

All over, closed, the openings have changed.
That move there made you pause at first,
but now it is squared and set with purpose.
Walk through it again. You know now whose green eyes
grinned behind trees, the great truth in the glint of a trout,
the space left by the lake in a forest. The light is on.
But how far outside can you carry the light?
The moon hung a little differently last night,
but how will the sunshine be tilted tomorrow?
Any fiction can be found, sifted out of the sand
in the sidewalk cracks, but you know it’s imaginary,
illusory, fanciful as a parliament of faeries —
here, chapter one’s chance is no chess move,
and no one can arrange the lines of a life.

And yet, in the afterglow of the fading page
everything lingers as much more than it is.
You know that feeling too… when at a sudden stop,
you have it all in a flash, the present pressing itself
teeming with conspiracies onto your senses,
front to back and back to front at once
and all inside an instant is found in once upon a time.
Let the fabric of your vision keep its paranoia for now.
There is something at the edges. Something.

>>10398598
East:
>Before they breach the rainshadow

>Which rules beyond, where sky can speak
>The stupid blue of only sky,
I don't quite understand what was meant here. It seems vaguely metaphysical, but the imagery in the poem (which was great to this point) blurs. All of the language used is beautiful though

Glass of Water:
I honestly did not like this one at all.
>Bring me a glass of water, please. I just
Smoked. And more, the daylight and the breeze
That rolled along my tongue have left it dry
And have stoked my head to tinny pleasure. I must
Drink. So bring me a glass of water, please.
Sounds awkward and the wrapping of the last word to the next line sounds jarring. The second stanza is much better but still.

Smoking Indoors:
>Vaguely towards it in attempted rings.
I, myself, will watch, shivering,
Trails of air open the glowing coals

>That fell out of my cigarette. I regret
The picture is built up for the reader to imagine a hookah (especially open the glowing coals), and the switch to cigarette feels uncanny and breaks the flow.

Fortune Told:
>It burned a bit: right there, you see?
It left a mark; glows faintly in the dark
I would word it like this, but that's me. The next line is a rhyme as well so it doesn't break the scheme

>>10398617
I fucked up the greentext, but still readable. I swear i've been here for years

>>10398617
Can you elaborate a little more for me about which part of the imagery in East is blurring? Is it the “sky can speak”, or the “stupid blue” or what? I think the summer lounging bit is probably clear enough.

I totally get glass of water not working. I like it because the structure is strange and amusing.

I see what you’re saying about smoking indoors, maybe I can change the title so the reader expects cigarrettes earlier. But the flow breaking at the beginning of the second stanza should still be there, it breaks the grandiose mood of the first into the mundane plop at the end.

I’ll try out fortune told with your suggestions and see how it feels to me.

Thank you!

>>10398053

Thanks for the critique, anon! Very useful and much appreciated.

I have for you a gift
So come to me and see
The presence of a window
Who's existence surely be

We may together look
into the other side
but keep in mind the pane
Unless in falling do you glide

Here's a poem I wrote a few months back:

A man was found cold outside
Lying with a cardboard sign
A red puddle in a corner glistened
Near where students paraded by
I heard a man went for coffee
Then left his wife and kids

But life goes on for most; us
The guilty hide and fear
No shouts; no cries; it's quiet
Count your loss and shed a tear
Death is judge and jury
When the news hits our ears

>>10399264
Here's another:
"Sour Fruit"

For years, helping ourselves
To its sour, sausage fruit
The tree with leaves
Lined like fish bones
On every branch
Is now dead

A hollowed stump stands rooted in its place
A lifeless husk producing no more
Of that nostalgic green fruit
And red-purplish bloom

Your gaunt face stays
when I shut my eyes and
I’m losing my mind
shattered like the
mirror you threw at me
in one of our fake late-night fights
(brought on by our boredom Darling)
the nights I spent awake
my hands still hurting
from trying to capture you
in words that just wouldn’t work
and filled pages with the wrong picture of you
I roll around in my bed at night
losing my mind, trying to stop you
jogging through the freshly bloomed flowers
and about what you meant to me
on those beautiful April mornings
Despite the exhaustion I endure
I can’t stop thinking
of the nights we spent
wrapped in each other’s arms
whispering that it’ll be okay
and I’m screaming
I’m screaming, screaming, scream.
and then it’s gone. It’s all gone.
how can you expect me to say
I love you
when I can’t even fucking say
who I am.
I’m breaking apart a mind
I didn’t even know I had and
The little pieces you crushed my heart into
Like the glass discarded at a wedding, you
left me to be cleaned up by someone else
and the empty scream from my punctured long
fill the bleary fogged nights
whenever I remember
the way you looked at me
when you left my car
for the first last time.
And I asked if I could still call you
my little song bird
and you said okay
you said okay
you said
okay

>>10399758
Exactly the type of poetry I hate. Long cliche and boring. Exploring something that's already mapped out, but doesn't add detail or further insight.
>of the nights we spent
>wrapped in each other’s arms
>whispering that it’ll be okay
honestly just god awful and riddled with cliches
>And I asked if I could still call you
>my little song bird
>and you said okay
>you said okay
>you said
>okay
WE GET IT shut up already. I wanna mush your pathetic head into the car window you intolerable faggot

>>10399758
>>10400753

I thought it was endearing; a millenial love story cliche, but its relatable.

I would only ask, that if you were to commit to free form and without structure, that you choose your words a bit more carefully, use enjambments and such for effect. Last/First word placement should be considered. Imagery should be more fluid, dynamic, and present. If you wish to put some tension, use imagery that compares emotions to physical objects so that people can see just how you feel

>My love, the rock of Gibraltar
>Opens and floods to let you, the sea
>just a word, a whisper; and I falter
>your carelessness swallowed it's immensity

It's honey
Dripping down his head
Rolling in slow, soft waves.
I'm supposed to ignore it
But I can't look away from it
No matter which way I turn my head
the golden glint
catches my eye, and I'm staring again.
The buzzing bees warn me not to linger
But it's rolled over me
I'm stuck in the sticky stuff
And despite the painful stinging
I can't move on.

>>10401089
It's beautiful, I love it.

You made good use of imagery and used the free form to your advantage. There could be more depth, but I feel like that would detract from the poems taciturn nature.

Towards someone who has figured it out
Lifted arms are the throne

Traveling poems from the fulcrum of titanium cabinets

Isn’t it beautiful,

How you never stole a pulse,

and the oblisk-ed samba that became your toe-tipped stones

move you over mountains

and all else.

Where do you lose the wind

when that’s your cavern?

Is there cacti or palm that denies?

Born unto tepid resonance

there’s a revolving door that’s only in your mind.

>>10400980
>cliche but relatable
its awful and you know it. Dont encourage this horseshit to fill up these threads

>>10401905
If it were up to me, only poems with puns would be allowed, so be thankful it's a free internet where shit and gold are equally found.

>>10400980
>and I’m screaming
>I’m screaming, screaming, scream.
>and then it’s gone. It’s all gone.
>how can you expect me to say
>I love you
>when I can’t even fucking say
>who I am.
Still me because im angered, but how does this not make you cringe? Can you really tell me thats not absolute garbage

>>10401967
Because secretely I'm Ellsworth Toohey and I want poetry to convey the mundane as if it were sublime, and sublime as if it were pretentious.

>>10400753
Yeah i guessed it is pretty mapped out already but idk i thought it was a pretty unique take on it. And yeah there are some cliches in it, that was kind of the point. The voice of the work is an artist who tries to be this great beacon of literature and high and and just hates themselves for it because they can't get over just how shitty they are. Yeah i know I didn't include the context, but still, I think what you said is a bit harsh. Thank you for your critique, I think that the first area you brought up is definitely weak. So...thank you

>>10400980
Thank you, it was supposed to be in the voice of a millennial love story. And yeah, I know this piece needs more imagery, every iteration I add a bit more but I can still add more haha thank you!

>>10401967
What exactly is cringe about it? I'm open to any suggestions for this part

Here's an oldie but goodie from back when /lit/ used to have talent:

Travelogue

"Pray What is the news from Babylon?
Does Xerxes ancient town,
Still hold inside the Lion's Pride?
where once the world bowed down?"
"There is no tale of Babylon,
that great long-storied land
The Lion's gates are broken now.
The fields are choked with sand"

"You Tread the Path from Illion
Where gods and men did greet,
Does Priams mighty forteress still,
Show all assault defeat?"
"What gods have sown, the raven reaps,
I offer you no joy
neath broken stones her treasure sleeps
I bear no news of Troy."

"Speak, pilgrim, of Jerusalem,
I know you passed that way.
The palmer's badge adorn's you yet:
does David's line hold sway?"
"Where prophets sowed the seed of love,
the weeds of hate now grow:
the peace that was Jerusalem
was broken long ago."

"well, traveller, What of Camelot?
does Arthur's blood still reign?
Do boldy go the shining knights
across the feudal plain?"
"A trusted friend's betrayal;
a bastard's vaunting greed.
The moon that watches camelot
sees stones upon a mead."

"Good host, I beg you, ask no more
you waken in my mind
the shadows of vain, fallen hopes
I fain would leave behind.
You long for comfort; this i know,
that grandeur might abide,
that strength of stone and arms and hearts
can bear the waxing tide,
And Gilgamesh the strong yet stands
upon his mighty wall.
That works endure the waning sands,
that towers might not fall.
Content yourself that legends live
where men are just or brave,
and deeds of lives may yet survive
their castles in the grave.
I will not comfort you with hopes
that Rome may live again;
don't ask me of Tenoctitlan,
I've no news from Berlin.
In sorrow i depart you now;
regretting lenten cheer.
But the road is long
towards London town,
i cannot linger here."

>>10402165
>I think what you said is a bit harsh
That hate is equal on myself, I wish you luck in turn.

>>10401241
Wow thanks anon, I was fully expecting to get torn to shreds. I've never really written poems but today the mood struck me to try it out and I wondered if it was any good. It was nice getting some of my thoughts out this way, maybe I'll try it again sometime.

Also this is my first time in /lit/ and I have to say there are some really nice pieces ITT. I've been enjoying chilling out and reading them.

>>10402322
welcome friend. I liked your poem as well, keep it up

Summer.

The Chesapeake runs faster when the sun lashes at its hinds, proven by me
Who paced my years with the current. And in the sun, I stumbled.
When you’ve waved the geese good-bye and drown in loud orange of blues
You welcome the heralds. You welcome the noble seagulls who run.

And from what? From the frothing cities. From suburbs of dainty fruits,
That beckon the country in a fit of lies. I went to the zoo and cried.

I cried at the zoo because I was an animal in my own habitat; Labeled
And looked through screens. I am as corn; too common for zoos

But I’m not human. I’m in a vitrine of a field, wielding a plow, like he
From the American Gothic.

And I found out why the geese returned the plantations.

>>10402320
Thank you? I think

While all the poets are in the same room, I'd like to take this opportunity to ask if anyone here has any recommendations for poems similar to T. S. Eliot's The Wasteland.

I hated the fucking thing during my first read, but it later started to grow on me as I read it over and over again just to understand what the hell was going on. The fragmentation was jarring and an excellent experience, and I especially loved all the esoteric allusions that made me have to do actual research just to get a mere grasp.

>>10402393
It's a weird mix of romantic and new age. Structure the poem for better effect. The imagery is nice, but I feel like it can be taken to the next level by using either a rhyming scheme, a syllable scheme, or just plain distillation of words. Remember, poetry is imagery and sound, and too little of one of these elements makes it amateurish.

>>10402436
Anon, what is the first fucking name that shows up when reading The Wasteland? Who is the poem anthology addressed to?

Start there Anon.

Therefore walk with grace,
for in hours such as these
the mob will run rampant.

Let each whom know Death
conspire for Life.
Constrictions play a noose note
and times neck is thin.

But fortune stays in valiant hearts,
guided by the sun.
We cast out dissonance
in favor of the forest,
to hide in its mysteries
and find roots
still alive.

>>10402450
Anon, who in the fuck hasn't already read The Cantos? They didn't have the same punch as Eliot's long poem anyway.

>>10402487
Then fuck off and read Yeats or Housman then! If you've already read Pound then you're running out of good poets of that period anyways. Only other one I can think of is Whitman, but I'm sure you've read that already too.

>>10402487
you shouldnt read poetry

>>10397182
>>10397271
I wrote something new and so Im back. Ill hang out and crit again.


How may physics allow for thee?
a drops unscathen bounds
How may I dare in what be done
a process such as sound?
never can the flippant man
stand upon His ground.
For aching and unwilling student
can neither know nor found.

How may physics allow for thee?
a king no land nor crown
the lover whom, yet to find
the land --
with love's unscathen bounds.

>>10402456
Very good I like how you build up this impending apocalypse and turn it to nature instead.
But fortune stays in valiant hearts,
>guided by the sun.
>We cast out dissonance
>in favor of the forest,
really well done, I just have to say that I don't think the last two lines hold up to the rest of the poem. It ends in disappointment and doesn't do much to finish the image or add anything. Although I don't think something regarding "roots still alive" should be ruled out
>>10402393
>The Chesapeake runs faster when the sun lashes at its hinds
>, proven by me
the ending of this line is odd.
>Who paced my years with the current. And in the sun, I stumbled.
I would change the period to a comma and remove the second comma entirely, it is not needed.
>When you’ve waved the geese good-bye and drown -
>in loud orange and of blues
I think there needs to be some way to add a pause between drown and the rest of this line. then adding "and" of blues makes the rhythm sound better to me. Of course this is my opinion.
>And from what? From the frothing cities. From suburbs of dainty fruits,
>That beckon the country in a fit of lies. I went to the zoo and cried.
Weird punctuation all around here. But I do like the language used.
>But I’m not human. I’m in a vitrine of a field, wielding a plow, like he
>From the American Gothic.
The comma before "like he" is unneeded.
>And I found out why the geese returned the plantations.
Im not following this line at all. Are you saying you understand why an animal returns to civilization? Or to a farm rather than a city? and if so a goose and a plantation is weird imagery that really comes from nowhere.
sorry this critique is mostly technical, but that's mostly what I found to be holding this poem back. Keep working on it anon, it certainly has interesting bits and is creative to say the least

>>10402456
And by last two lines I mean last two lines of the poem, not the last two lines of the quoted section. All that I quoted was excellent

>>10402860
>the ending of this line is odd.
not that guy but I've been reading your critiques and im not sure you understand enjambment

>>10403009
wow I didnt realize that was what it was. I read proven by me with a period at the end and the the next line as a new thought. Hence the "change period before and in the sun to a comma." makes more sense now thanks for pointing that out

>>10396508

Housman is a genius.

>>10402436
H.D.'s Trilogy starts off being like the Wasteland, but ends up being like a better version of The Four Quartets.
>>10402450
Pound is just not that good, anon.

i hate to be the dude that just dumps something with no prior critique but i don't know shit about poetry and just want to be torn apart. i haven't really written any poetry before and was just inspired by something i read

>>10403296
first thing you need to learn (especially since you are obviously attempting a more traditional structure) is how to write in iambic pentameter.

Its gonna be hard work, but learning how to do it will immediately change the way you read and write poetry (in an enriching way)

here's one of mine with notes on how i need to fix my meter (and some explanations of the rhythm) i hope it'll help you

my take on a Bacchus myth. based on Pound's 2nd Canto rendering of it

>>10403344
that's perfect, thank you. i definitely tried to go for a traditional sonnet form though my own real knowledge is 14 lines, 10 syllables etc. i made a choice to break it in the last two lines but i definitely need to refine the syllable usage. thank you!

>>10396330

tried to fix the poem a bit. I don't know if I made it better or worse, but it has a much better meter to it now.


--Murakami on the Shore--
The ocean’s city swallows up the immensity
Of the individual, encased
within white waves, within sad seas
From far away, the shore, no dif’rence seen
With those men and her immensity.

Sinking, falling, hurting; drowning fast
Light fades from sight, the infinite below
the sordid reflection of the infinite above
And him, in the center, the finite, the middle, but
Within his flesh, muscle, sinew; takes his last
Breath.

>>10403433
forgot my wallpaper

>>10402256
this is the irishmans work, good shit anon, havent seen this in a while

>>10403739

It's superb. Who is the Irishman?

I'm new as fuck to poetry

I decided to go for one more draft today, I wanted to try out some rhyming.

Crossing the desert, an oasis I spy
And parched as I am and as shriveled by sun
I've still enough water to moisten my eye
I aim myself towards it and forward I run.

I stop short
confused, brows formed in creases
It's an island, unreachable.
The earth simply ceases
giving way to silent air, and endless unknown
There is no path to the luscious brush overgrown.
I can think of nothing I've found in my previous walks
I could've brought with me to make any bridge
At the impossible landscape I stand there and balk
staring longing and thirsty from the edge of this ridge.

There is nothing to lament.
There is no one to explain.
I must continue on
yet steadfastly I remain.

>>10396270
WAKA #1
As withered leaves fell,
Against the groves orange fog,
Nature’s sorrow rose.
Autumn’s passage threatens me,
To soon take my dreaded love,
For all that decays.
The finality of all,
Joint as time’s victims,
So seen in the leave’s descent,
Brought me winter and wisdom.

>>10396270
GLASS GUTS
My insides are made of glass,
The lightning struck my center sand,
And now the smoke emanates from my eyes,
And Iron bangs in my throat.
Shatter my guts,
And let the shards rip me from inside out.
My head is a furnace,
And lava erupts from my ears.
Break my head open, give me relief from this pressure,
And so too will I erupt,
Sink me to the bottom of the ocean,
And then may the lava cool,
The smoke dissipate, and the glass return to the sand,
And the rest of me shall sleep as stone.
For good.

>>10396270
THE APOTHEOSIS OF SHILOH
My Tirzah,
You have kicked the hornets nest.
For Shiloh in this land of promise,
Instead must be an alter for sacrificed sons.
And seas were crossed.
And rain came down,
And all have drowned in the mud.
But by the Nile or Tennessee. The enslaved were freed.
What gained we from this rite of sacrifice?
For those compelled die on the banks of rivers,
In the mud,
By plague,
By locusts,
By the hands of their brothers.
All pharaoh, farmer, and forsaken in kind,
in the fallen ash, sow the soil.
Their action shall never be undone, by god’s covenant, or boated gun.

>>10404664
I wish I knew enough about poetry to give an actual critique or more meaningful feedback than just saying I really liked this. I feel like it paints a very clear picture of a scene and gives just enough of a hint at a story and how the changing seasons are an analogy for it to make it feel purposeful when such a short poem could easily come across as just an attempt at using flowery language without clear meaning just to make it sound "artsy", or something like that.
Anyway it's very good imo.

>>10396270
I'm the last comic sans a branding
meandering through bramble
brandishing a sandwich
squeaky sneakers speaking my languish
not aiming to be famous just to get out of the matrix

>>10404806
Like the use of sounds.
Don't like the simplicity of the statement.

Mixed feelings about the pun; see this poem below for how it should be done:

Apocalypse soon
Coming our way
Ground zero at noon
Halve a nice day

>>10396270
Dust and excrement pile up
Mixing in the streets
To shades of tawdry brown
We wade through it
Choking and spitting
Searching like hawks deprived their sight
for any sign
Of beauty or truth
Buried under the resentment
Of petty overlords
Bloated and coddled
Each crying out in protest
Of endeavors chosen freely
We stomp our feet
The beat resounding like
Mistuned snares
And shout for the walls to come down
The predators cunning would offend
It’s silent approach bringing tears to onlookers
The workmans craft will be burnt
Tradition and originality both
Treated as a threat to prosperity
When light comes to our world
The bitter angrily throw up sheets
To keep it out
What is our escape?
Will we stack bodies
And sharpen blades?
Preparing for the day they come
To burn our carefully collected?
Do we resign,
Drowning in our own shit?
Or do we burn brighter,
Fly higher,
Driving the sane
To pull out their hair
And grind their teeth
Calling out,
“Come down from there,
You might hurt some body”.

>>10403750
The Irishman was an anon who used to post these positively sublime poems on here three or four years ago. A lot of poems are attributed to him, but there's no way to be sure as he never used a name or a trip. All we knew about him was that he was an Irishman in his 30's, but he was always willing to talk to you about poetry and seemed fairly knowledgeable. There are three or four poems that are confirmed to be from him which are part of the /lit/ canon. "Travelogue" is one, and I'll post some more below.

>>10405996
"A Rumour in Gomorrah"

A man has told me god is good,
and stands above all men,
that he will never cast us forth,
though drenched with lust and sin,
That though we heed him little,
and pursue our own accord
he will not seek our bane nor yet,
unsheath his deadly sword
that he forgives excesses
and will not our prayers reject.

There was rumor in Gomorrah,
to that very same effect.

A friend avers that government,
has all our cares in mind.
And will not neglect the comfort of
the poor, the halt, the blind.
he maintains unreservedly,
his faith in policy.
to bring the fruits of honor to
the strong the just, the free.
he says the great in power seek
the profit of all men

It was mentioned in Treblinka,
but I did not heed it then.

Technology will save us,
i have heard a stranger say.
The wonderment of science,
skill, and tools will win the day.
Our comfort and our safety
we may leave to wise devices.
And men who build and train them up,
will coddle all our vices.
they'll see the futre clearly
and avert all waiting dooms.

I think I heard it spoken in
Titanic's smoking rooms.

The forgiveness of the strong is great,
I'm sure most meen agree.
The wisest and the best of us
will surely all be free.
the bold men, wise in letters
with their eye on public weal.
will never be cast out or forced
their knowledge to conceal.
Time alters soon the hearts of kings,
and all will be put right.

I heard it in the Gulag
almost every single night.

So go forth with the banner
of of redemption wafting high
and shout the slogan "Liberty!"
in land and sea and sky.
Of justice, peace, forgiveness, love,
proclaim the coming reign.
And cry the truth to power,
and the vanity of gain
That mercy always triumphs,
and that men will all be free.

Go tell them in Gomorrah,
but you didn't come from me.

>>10405996
"When Jesus Walks in Belfast"

When Jesus walks in Belfast
He wears his collar up
he keeps his blessings to himself
and stoops before his cup

when Jesus comes through Belfast
he spends his wisdom dear
And when his name is spoken
he makes as not to hear

He keeps well back in company
and shuts his fuckin mouth
and when he can he does his trade
a measure further south

When Jesus walks in Belfast
He keeps his cap pulled low
his step away he quickens
and those returning slow

He'd have a merry welcome
if he should take the whim
to ask the sods he suffered for
to suffer more of him.

>>10405996
"I sing the god carcinoma"

I sing the god carcinoma
devourer of beggar and saint.
across all our tissue
the bulls he gives issue
make every is into an ain't

I sing the mighty sarcoma
Consuming the daft and the wise
In the pallid lymph courses
he marshalls his forces
Decembering all our Julys

Come give us the hymn "melanoma"
the bane of both pauper and prince
when the cool probe insults
and we wait the results,
and the specialist cannot but wince

we sacrifice things on their altars
a lobe or a limb or an eye,
that our doings without
may appease them no doubt
that this bribe might just let us get by.

But the comfort of friends is not cheering
and the struggle does not give release
and the glance of an eye
and the tremor and sigh
and the long dismal wait for decease

Oh drink you the health of Lymphoma:
requiter of dread and despair
and the step on the scale
as it tells a new tale
of a soon to be vacanted chair

But we had some good laughs with him didn't we?
and he made a good run of it though;
have another small round,
he won't wake at the sound.
take the bottle back home as you go.

I'm going to write a limmerick
because I want to be done with it
on an imageboard
with neckbeards galore
wanking their dicks over cartoon tits

the ants are in the furnace
oh yes
they crawl under the closet door
where won't I hide

>>10396270
He lit up the place
Afterwards some asked why
“It was the only light I could find”.

Best.

Love poetry but I don't get how straight scum can appreciate it. It's like it's tailored for us faggots

>>10406273
poetry is the only way straight people on this board can get laid. Read a girl some poetry and she'll fall for you every time.

>>10406273
I think it's like any art form, where different styles can appeal to different people, even the ones who don't really care about art that much. If you're inventive with your presentation you could potentially grab anyone's attention. People always seem to love hearing a thought or feeling or situation they've experienced was shared by someone else, so I feel like if you're able to get across that message of "the human condition" in a way they like or that at least doesn't make them shut down and write it off as fluff, no matter who they are they'd connect to it.

>>10406273


Gtfo of here, Rimbaud. Poetry is music taken to the aesthetic step. Barely any of the canon are faggots. Fuck you

>>10406283
You must live in a completely different word from mine, desu

Most of the English major girls in uni dont even read poetry. They just read novels, because those can be taken at face value without immediately losing 99% of the work s contents.

>>10406013

These are honestly some of the best poems I've read in a long time. Written by a fellow irishman and all. Why is so much of what's in poetry journals today so fucking shit and 'artsy' when there are actual talented people just posting their genius on anonymous forums like this??

I always, always regret posting in this thread every time.

Here goes

The body is liquid like
rock under the hands
of an unremembered attican
and as plain, a colourless
Ornament
the canvas, bland, blinding
hanging, a statue's garment
tracing an angelic line of a sacral bent
unfound in Michelangelo.

>>10406440
The problem is you thing English majors will be impressed by poetry. That's not how it works Anon.

>>10404715
hey, thanks. its one of my favorites i have written. I have submitted it to some journals. i hope that it makes it!!

>>10406947
Good luck anon, I hope you get in!

aba aab
its a tinder message, don't judge too harshly, i'm feeling sad

i feel like one of those nights where
you want to scream to everyone to hug you, but
you don't want to be bothersome so you sit in a chair,

staring off in space, wondering where,
if anywhere, there exists a person who cares,
and would, if only you'd ask, hug you for longer than a minute.

>>10407247
thanks man!

>>10396508
>into my heart an air that kills
>from your far country blows:

Did he also had a fart fetish?

>>10406445
I mean, it was okay

>>10407576
>your
i fucking hate you and want you to die. How can you fuck up one of the best lines of poetry ever written

This one needs work doesn't it? Or is it just to hard to understand or too free verse?

If you called me something
Some kind of word in the Trade Language
And it wasn't my name
It would be lightning
And you would call my rank that
You would call those before me that

Because there is the Proles in the soil
Who lived off potatoes and lamb
With rifles under the bed
Where people say I and we

But just as the land will purvey
I will also provide like the heavens
My body and soul is only a bridge
And you can forge your own idols

But do not let the darkness distort
Do not let them lie to you and say
That the heavens do not love
Or that I am not here to protect you

And while the hate breaks my heart
The losses that we bear is too much
The power from soil and heavens
Makes me strong enough to progress

Have no regrets for making me
Do not be guilty because I must lead
I am not exploited or controlled
If anyone is being controlled it is you

And you can consent to violence

So here I am
Your bridge
Lightning
Your Seer
May we meet tomorrow
Let us be composite
We can prevail together
My Comrades
My beloved people

>>10407602
i wouldn't say best. Cleary, of A E Housman, the best is "Is My Team Ploughing"

“Is my friend hearty,
Now I am thin and pine,
And has he found to sleep in
A better bed than mine?”

Yes, lad, I lie easy,
I lie as lads would choose;
I cheer a dead man’s sweetheart,
> Never ask me whose.

>>10406283

Poetry works when you already are sleeping with the girl, but want to just get laid more than you already are.

>>10407723
I've had 5 one night stands this year and it kills me that I shared my bed with them. I read them poetry, they looked at me dog-eyed. It is, I suppose, an excuse; he has a cat, he has a dog, he has cute eyebrows and a cool looking car. If there's a reason to be slutty, they go for it.

>>10407725
if they’re nice enough to humor you and listen just take that anon. most people, women especially really can’t into the sublime, the philosophical, the abstract or anything like that. Don’t spit on them, they’re all suffering just like you. The one’s willing to listen to you are better than the one’s who sneer or turn away. We lost this battle already.

>>10407725

Either that or they wanted sex, but didn't want it again for quite some time and want absolutely no connection to you.

How many friends do they got that are guys?

Was it to get back at an ex? Who the fuck knows.

Am I going to be banned for being off-topic? Should I be talking about mental health or something as well?

>>10407749
this board isnt moderated

>>10407760

I think that is a good thing, not entirely sure.

I was given three words on another board and I was going to make a poem from each three word combo.

There isn't enough cold
To cool the reaction
Meltdown meltdown
He raises himself up
And grabs the picture
Tear it down, tear it down

And he tosses it away
At a speed that is breakneck
Because if the frame hit you
It'll break your spine and neck

He says his heart is untouchable
But it's very clearly torn
He hates their marriage so much
That he wishes his love was never born

>>10407745
i am suffering: they are suffering. We are suffering but we don't share in it
i don't spit on them anymore than i spit on myself. i hurt because i shared my bed and then feel lonely.

>>10407749
They wanted something more, I tried to offer it but they don't care for the emotional stuff anymore. i don't know. i can only guess. At this point, i've no reason to believe that i will ever get a straight answer from anyone i've slept with why they chose me: why they moved on so quickly and left me, alone, cold, decemberist, in a bed and house well made that oppresses me. Each morning i wake up to the realization that all my kindness and good graces has bought me a house that is warmed by a hearth but deadened by its solitude.

>>10407760
/lit/ is actually pretty well moderated desu

>>10407765
god i hate how you’re all stuck on this board and have autism and horrible friends and parents and gf’s its so fucking depressing. half of you are gonna die from drug overdoses or suicide and the other half will either get brain blasted by psychiatric pharmako posion or slowly ground into dust by the market. Really a shame, you poor spergs

>>10407769

The first one is almost a pretty good poem.

The second bit should be made into a poem...I am very much tempted to edit in into such.

>>10407774

I think it's more likely
We will die
By firing squad
Because I don't feel
Like self-terminating
And I'm not in the mood
To be an asshole to civies
Or various other unarmed people
So yeah...
Firing squad.

>>10407774
Coming from a no capitalization pleb.

>>10407779
Go ahead, you have my permission. i am drunk. notice how i capitlize in places where it should be done, but, for the sole exception, the personal pronoun reserved for myself remains lowercase: this is because i, too, feel as if i myself am lowercased.

>>10407786

Either I am really out of it, or that sounds somewhat deep to me.

>>10407780
The lack of capitalization is a conscious rebellion against effort. One doesn't capitalize for the same reason one doesn't it; depression of the senses.

>>10407780
phone posting aloofness chad master race, desu

>>10407791
*one doesn't eat

>>10407786
>phone posting aloofness chad master race, desu

i am suffering
They are suffering
We are suffering,
But we don't share in it

i don't spit on them
Anymore than i spit on myself.

i hurt,
because i shared my bed.
And then feel lonely.

>>10407810
Very rupi kaur ish. If i see this on Barnes & Noble i'm sending her anthrax.

>>10407814

Why her?
Why Anthrax?
What?
I don't get the context?

>>10407791
that's pretty gay, i don't capitalize because i can then samefag with capitalization and no one would be the wiser

>>10407816
Because i doubt Rupi Kaur has felt a genuine feeling of loneliness that wasn't wrapped, masked, and packaged with pretentious instagram bullshit. Mostly, though, because the structure, the intent, and the layering of the poem is a very millenial-esque, "chopped up prose" kind of poem that has no rhyme, meter, or any other stylistic point that makes critics go "wow!". It is shallow, i think, but that is indicative of the generation of which you and i belong to.

Anthrax just because.

for more information, press "ctrl + f" and type in rupi.

>>10407830

I thought the pupose of modes of communication or self expression, such as art, exist to move thoughts from one place to another.

If they were meant to be pretty, I don't think Heavy Metal would do as well.

Aren't critics themselves, at least in poetry, kinda pretentious? I think of such people as like wine testers, who just make shit up, according to multiple studies.

>>10407842
>
I thought the pupose of modes of communication or self expression, such as art, exist to move thoughts from one place to another.

Yes, but there is also merit in learning the tools of your trade; it allows greater expression through the mode of communication. In a sense, one could be the greatest painter of all of history, but, if he has never learned the basics of the stroke, he would never release that which is in his heart. There would be no masterpiece if he does not know how to hold the brush.

>If they were meant to be pretty, I don't think Heavy Metal would do as well.

There is better heavy metal than others. The mode of expression has nothing to do with the quality of the message. Megadeth will reign supreme over shallow, insecure, scream o garage bands who only dabble in the medium

>Aren't critics themselves, at least in poetry, kinda pretentious? I think of such people as like wine testers, who just make shit up, according to multiple studies.

No. Pretentiousness is, by my definition, the usage of high level language to convey something shallow. If one uses the analogy that Ezra Pound uses in his ABC's of reading, then describing the fish would be a matter of comparing it to lilacs, sea, breeze, love, anger, loss. The fish is just a fish. The sea lions are just the sea lions. It is that simple. Elevating the mundane into the sublime without having something interesting to say is an act of insincerity; hence, pretentiousness.

>>10407854

Isn't Megadeth more authentic and transparent?

I thought pretentiousness is wanting to appear deep, but not being deep. Or thinking you are deeper then you are.

Granted, you pretty much said that, but it came out differently.

>>10407854
>Megadeth

Bippity boppity boo,
you're a goddamned poo.
You shit in the street,
then scream "Pajeet!"
All 'cuz you haven't a loo.

Pippity poppity pink,
you're a goddamned chink.
You boil the dog,
then give it a flog,
all 'cuz you fail to think.

Tippity toppity tig,
you're a goddamned nig.
You got in a scrap,
then popped a cap,
all 'cuz you lost yah wig.

Constructive criticism only, please.

I am starting to think
That maybe
Just maybe
This thread
Is far from the eyes
Of moderators

>>10407899
Why what ever could you mean?
Doth though protest to the screen,
why won't you listen to my scream?

>>10406572
>reading comprehension
I literally said they dont read poetry, so why are you telling me that.

>>10408150

Welcome back. You got a poem for me?

>>10408154
Already posted one in this thread, and still no feedback. That s how it always goes.

>>10408159

This makes me angry. Can you link to that poem for me squadfam?

Do you want your review in words and poem, or just words?

>>10408175
It s this one
>>10406455
not that you were serious.

>>10396508
I still struggle with iambs in my writing, so short poems are a bit easier to write for me. yet it doesn't seem like I get any better no matter the effort or inspiration.
Though lightning does not paint the untouched sky
I can still see the scalding sight of red
The blood you sought sketched over the warm clouds
Carried by a heart that screams to its beat

An image created with such free care
Would rush me to reach for the sky once more
Only to forget how you pulled before
Crushing my heart in every direction

>>10408204

>>10406455

I regret posting in this thread till you showed up, I think.

Okay, so um.

The body is liquid like',
Rock under the hands
Of an unremembered attican
And as plain, as a colourless
Ornament

The canvas, bland, blinding
Hanging, a statue's garment
Tracing an angelic line of a sacral bent
Unfound in Michelangelo.

Hmmm... Well this sounds very pretty and has a nice pacing as far as I understand... But I ultimately very confused as to what it means.

A unremembered place has metaphorical hands... The body is liquid like rock... or like both. I understand it's bland, I understand something hangs from it...

Is this a body like a statue? Is this a statue like a body?

Sacred bent? How has my years of prayer not made clear what this means?

>>10408209

I do poems... That are free verse...and involve swearing.

I've been doing poems for seven years.

:)

>>10408209

Though lightning does not paint the untouched sky
I can still see the scalding sight of red
The blood you sought sketched over the warm clouds
Carried by a heart that screams to its beat

An image created with such free care
Would rush me to reach for the sky once more
Only to forget how you pulled before
Crushing my heart in every direction

>Hmmm

Lightning is red? Something like lightning or red, in the clouds, like blood or is blood...Hmmm

Throwing your hands into the air, because of a quickly made image... Pulling on the heart....Hmmm... Heartbreak...

I think I am pretty stupid when it comes to poems that are metarpocial or slightly vague.

>>10408228
I wrote that while sleep deprived, and I must admit I only have a vague idea of what it is about. here is a more concise one


A flower may bloom with strained conviction
To make more of himself, a legacy
That outlives him for short generations

At his greatest peak he is plucked (almost
effortlessly) by a cruel, obsessed fiend
For a purpose greater than his own

His dreams were stolen, and soon forgotten;
Much like himself, though admired for moments
He slowly wilts with soft, silent screams

He is dying, light gone from the grey world
He suffers, gasps, chokes for water and sun
He simply longs for a life without life

In all spectrums of time where there is thought
He is forgotten, a memory burned
Painlessly for the fiend who cries alone

>>10408217
Oh no, I didnt mean attica, that would be quite confusing. I meant Attican as referring to a person from attica (this is perhaps unusual). Sacral as reffering to sacrum, not sacred.

Also, "as plain" is coordinated with "liquid like rock" (you added a coma after "like" in your trascription and consequently had to add as before "a colourless", the "like" is actually enjambed to make the form "liquid-like" so it correlated with the contents) there is nothing plain about ornaments, after all (or the poem would have to say what is plain about ornaments for that to work)

I hope this clarifies things...

>>10408250
What does "the canvas" actually refer to?

>>10408250
>sacrum


The body is liquid-like
Rock under the hands
Of an unremembered attican
>and as plain, a colourless
>Ornament

This part in green still sounds choppy?

Hmmm... The body is like mud or magma or melted metal or melted rock.

I think it's mud, sounds plain to me. Unremembered person is feeling it in their hands.

The canvas, bland, blinding
Hanging, a statue's garment
Tracing an angelic line of a sacral bent
Unfound in Michelangelo.

The body is mud and plain and like art....hmmm

Garment on a body that is like mud, but the garmant is like it belongs on a statue...So it's rock...

Wait, that's the bone that is connected to where the um.. Sex organs are.....

I think I am still an idiot.

>>10408249

Give me like 10-15 minutes.

>>10408249

I am starting to remember why I use such blunt language in my poems... I have no idea what this means.

I think I've seen this like...type of poem 15 times in my life...and to this day I don't understand why I keep finding it.

I had a screw loose;
scraping scrounging for a sense of security.
tossing hand grenade hallelujahs and hoping you'd hang it from a nail in your hollow home like an expensive work of art waiting to explode.
there were days where we stood dumbfounded, crows on a wire wishing for the the electricity to warp us to the hands of the waiting deity we delightfully denied.
shots don't echo from a foot away; I can't tell if the wounds were self inflicted, the smoking barrels pointed at the sky.
missing their mark, the bullets race back to their birth.
is it gods grace that drags them in downward spite, or gravity?
if I stand very still, with a bit of luck, I'll find out.

I'm the potential that I waste.
I'm every talent I ignore.
I'm waves of light.
I'm outer space.
I'm nothing and I'm so much more.

I'm but a spark, a burst of life.
I am achievement and regret.
I'm every second that goes by.
I am the people I forget.

I am repentance.
I am sin.
I am the sacred and profane.
The apple rotten from within.
I'm the desire to feel pain.

I am the smoke that I inhale.
I'm every cigarette I buy.
I'm what I snort.
I'm why I fail.
I'm everything I'll never try.

I am the pressure in my chest.
I am the the way my stomach aches when I am anxious.
I am stress.
I am the fear to make mistakes.

I am the porn that I find hot.
I'm every groan, and every thrust.
I'm scripted moans. Degrading thought.
I am the artificial lust.

I am the promises I break.
I'm every word I'll never say.
I'm chances that I didn't take.
I'm everything I've pushed away.

I am self loathing, I am hate.
I am the lows to which I sink.
I am the eye contact I break.
I am the need to overthink.

I'm every line I'll ever write.
I'm every poem I delete.
I'm every feeling that I hide.
I'm every sentence incomplete.

So how can I ever expect, of someone else to understand.
Or love.
The person that I am.
If I'm unable to myself.

>>10408430
>>10408489

I already can tell these are really nice, but it's work to look over poems and I have to sleep/write this crazy I had.

I'll be back for them later.

I have a WIP that is shit and subject to change, so I wont be butthurt when somebody tells me it s shit I guess. So go rite ahead:


Non-standard analysis


Her axes are childlike, incongruent,
and sag still further in the disinfectant draft.
I hypothesise conjectures further daft,
comparing infinitesimals, seeking that part
lost, not revealed when dissecting to primes.
I resort to have a corpse for comparison
engrafted from within the morgue,
the home of that marginal geometrist,
who is wont to bring them breathing,
always on an afternoon train.
And then I pain myself with a compounded vivisection.

>>10408725

Honestly, the first read-through I thought this was nonsensical word vomit. Read it three more times and I now I just think it's quirky. It's a bit indecipherable but I think that's the fun part about it.

Pretty sure I wrote this on my way to class a month or so ago...I don't really like the second stanza and the last one. rip it apart plz

I could never understand
these indecipherable angels:
those thousand-eyed glories,
these lampposts of love.

Dance with me, you cupid,
ripped stockings stained golden.
So insipid in nature..
(So insipid in nature.)

Never shall I understand
these descending moons,
star upon star upon starー
none who claim to be mourning.
These mockeries of dead sins.

For every stomach of mead and liver
there exists an acid building in the lining
of a throat so wicked
it pours back its nutrients like toxins.

You are an angel that is in mourning
because you could never die.

>>10408953
Thanks. I just wish axes and axes werent homographs in English, very inconvenient. That probably contributes to the word salad impression a bit.

As for your poem, is this on not being able to share in the banal pleasures of typical romantic imagery? I am not sure how to interpret the last stanza. The penultimate stanza shifts from being centered on the narrative mouthpiece to a general statement, so there is wiggle room for whether this is still the same angel, or whether youve castled things around. So I wonder whether this poem is lamenting over the state of romantic tropes or the speakers attitude towards them.

I am not sure what to make out of "These mockeries of dead sins."

>>10408953
3/10

>>10408725
So you know it's shit. Why not work on it until you know it's good? And not waste our fucking time.

>>10408489
8/10

>>10408430
4/10

>>10408249
7/10

>>10407892
For what it is... it's fine.

>>10407765
Garbagio
Shittorio
Makes me sickio
That U think it's poetry
but you're in
for a life of self-imposed
miserio
so, lmao

>>10406455
1/10 (can you guess what made it redeeming?) (probably not)

>>10409144
I dont think you know what redeeming means.

Speed-readers speed-writers

>>10409171
Care to elaborate? :^)

Inb4 you come off retarded thrice,

>>10409296
Elaborate on what? Your bracketing?

I am a particular woman
A boundless shade – no -
beady queen
I can’t decide
I am all things I think.

Why can't my breasts grope for the air,
I’m clean and sexless like a child
I’ll wrap the pair in cling film;
It neatly guards me.

As for my arse I’ll have it squared then
stuff the pores with mildew,
that’ll show the lechers
I grow my own scum.

Now as a statuette,
I’ll sink my head in clay
and leave it there
perhaps a week or more
all art is murder after all.

I will at last then be my own,
in bold conquest,
diverting gaze.
Don’t tell me I’m a lady
I’m a deviant cum
sexless shade.

Note for a fellow Rover

The streets will never be too wide to
pocket them from neighbors -
Winter will mark their trails from dusk to dusk.
Ashy embers imbue their heels,
they march to flitting compass dials
heaving the load of their own designations.
Where are these rovers some may ask?
Most of them are masturbating
In Bitspace, in car park bays, amongst trees!
Happy to be alone
with comforts only they can know
the world of risk has shaky hands;
they’d rather use their own.

>>10408489
I like this one, it's relentless and unromantic. Tbh getting a little sick of my own, and others tendency to flowery romanticism. This feels modern. So much poetry I've written and read here is obsessed with an old-timey cliched reverence of nature; not saying it's a bad subject obviously, just a little tired of hearing about the 'valleys' and 'flowers' amongst the same stale ass phrases and turns of speech. Well done anon.

Sirens can’t flood ear canals
rather they titter near the lobe
and gnaw at the loose drapings
‘Get off your ass’ they say.
You’d do well to torch the bloody place
and plug into the static
but the sirens would still peck if from a distance.
‘Attend attend!’ ‘Away away!’
Such is the wicked day –
you self-employed dust mite collector
bound to make a killing!
How to escape?
You know full well
clean your robes,
and keep vigil for the
next time you burn your ears with liquor.

What are some good tips when it comes to writing with rhyme? Like things to avoid it being cheesy or overbearing.

>>10409681
Use more nouns and verbs than particples and prose words. It will add depth. For example, try not to use sentences like:

'And I was thinking that it would be'

'if the time for us is right, the we will know'

Etc. Too many short words with no images. It makes the poems surface, without imagery, and poetry is supposed to be, first and foremost, about emotion and imagery

>>10409704
Rubbish. There is nothing wrong with participles. They are phenomenal at condensing information.

>>10409717
Any examples of how you'd use them effectively in a rhyme?

>>10409717
>>10409729
Don't overuse them. It makes poetry look like prose if this is too much.

Sehet den letzten Mensch!
Er spricht mit zwei linken Mündern,
Das Gesicht wie gedörrtes Fleisch,
Schwächlich flattert das Herz in seinem Käfig.

Mensch, deine Geißel heißt Liebe!
Die Sirene lockt mit fiebrigem Gesang,
Eine falsche Blüte treibt verwesend aus ihr
Und schlägt Dornen in das Fleisch der Jünger.

Im Büßerhemd kriecht er nach Bethlehem,
ein schwach pulsierender Sack Leben.
Er zehrt sich aus den Erinnerungen an ferne Weiden,
an versiegte Quellen und erloschene Feuer.

>>10409729
Here is an internal rhyme in the second stanza of ancient mariner:

The Bridegroom's doors are opened wide,
And I am next of kin;
The guests are met, the feast is set:
May'st hear the merry din.

And yes, these could be interpreted as parts of composite verbal forms, but from the point of view of modern English, you can consider them participles and it still works.

>>10409739
Participles are not a category specific to prose. What are you smoking?

>>10409759
Look at Eliot
Look at Cummings
Look at Larkin
Look at Yeats

All the best poets employ more imagery words than participles and filler words.

Look at preludes, and it's most vague stanza there is more 'chunk' words than filler words and you are naturally drawn to those:

I am moved by fancies that are curled
Around these images and cling
the notion of some infinitely gentle
Infinitely suffering thing.

There is movement, there is vague imagey, but it's not filled with superflous. He shouts "I RUN", he doesn't say " I have been running" or "and then I ran". The sentences are flowing because there is less words and more movement

>>10409787
Is this similar to the active/passive voice distinction, as I feel it's crucial to giving life to any fiction..

>>10409797
Similar, yes. Read Elements of Style.

I didn't want to bump my poem but maybe I should have. I'm wondering how I did with the rhyming and I thought asking about it in general would help me analyze it myself but I have to admit I'm finding it hard to truly understand this difference.

>>10409787
Funny that you say Eliot. I seem to recall some sweet participles in his poetry in particular.

But whatever, lets look at your example:

moved, curcled, suffering. Three participles in four lines is not exactly no participles. What the hell is an imagery word even. All words can be used in the construction images.

Also you dont seem to know what vague means.

>>10396555
I don't see you developing the concert the blanket in a way that reflects the oppression. Rather, it seems to be left alone as something I have to unravel. Overall, the rhythm skips in a ton of lines, vocabulary is good, imagery and system of images created are decent, but the blanket and the symbols seem to be pointing in every which direction

>>10396270
It's like you're trying to juxtapose the ethereal with worldly graces and suppose a type of all power of the real world that contrasts with dreamsusing the fundamental medium as the contrasting point. Why? Probably because you mean to say a type of human weakness, but then say tread on threads to attribute this weakness of yourself as a meagreness, but rather the poem could also be taken as an egotistical potential where your dreams are merely a platform for her, but as they are undescribed we don't know they are meager, just that you are poor. You hold a hidden hope within you that bespeaks your poetic ego and it doesn't seem to pick a side, but is for someone to tread lightly on and not see your side.
Overall good, consider picking a side and not being a tacit egoist that laughs at people missing this point fundamentally, jackass
(ily though)

>>10409820
Moved and curled are perfect forms of the verb. Suffering is the present continuous form of suffer in this context. There are no participles in that stanza

>>10409862
Nigga that's a poem from Yeats you just critiqued

>>10409430
>>10409436
>>10409456
Each of these is shockingly bad.

>>10409904
bitch idgaf

>>10409879
Except ""perfect form"" with be cannot occur with a transitive verb, so at least for moved, that is literally not even possible within the constrains of the English language. Now, if you were to consider curled a ""perfect form"" that would be very strange and also grammatically questionable as to tense agreement with the following clause. I dont think the be perfect extends to these verbs that like taking locative objects, but I can do a diachronic corpus search for you, if you like.

As for suffering, there are exactly three things suffering can be:

participle, gerund, or a part of a finite verb structure (which is originally a participle)

I dont think you even know what a participle is.

>>10409928
Please help me understand why anon

>>10409955
Participle is the tiny little words that are fillers, like this that like see can it, etc. Right? I am wrong aren't I? Deadly wrong. Fuck. I am stupid. I was thinking all the conjunctions were participles for some reason. Anyways, distillation was the point I was trying to make.

Well, I appreciate the anons who tried to explain to me about using participles in rhymes. I think I might benefit more hearing how I did directly though so I'm just going to relink to my poem if either of you wants to take a look at it and help me out >>10403858
I'm getting pretty interested in poetry and I think having an idea of what craftsmanship I should work on would help me explore the medium.

'you met me at my worst' is what you told me
But I, knowing misery, imagined you like winter;
May be cold, mournful, distant, unhappy,
But you kept me warm, covered with forgetful snow

>>10409928
Fair man, could you critique it so I could possibly improve? Free game to rip into them anyone

>>10410033
Yikes. You don't read much?

>>10410033
Expounds too much
>knowing misery
Detracts from any mystery, and just spills the beans on what could have been elucidated through imagery - then you go on to a list of adjectives that further spell things out. The opening is also really weak, 'is what you told me' is like super clunky, don't wanna be a self esteem killing douche like: >>10410384
forgetul snow is alright, but this needs thorough revising.

Gone's the pride, lost my name
Hollow vessel I've became

For eternity trapped here
I wish I could disappear

My whole life has been in vain
I am sure to go insane

This dismal world is a sacred hell
Evermore shall be my prison cell

my poem about GARcher
>inb4 don't cut yourself on that edge

>>10410415
Try
>this dismal world, a sacred hell
>evermore my prison cell
Pretty cool poem tho

>>10410465
Sounds better, thanks for the tip.

Dream of a monkey

As the candle goes out I hear
Faces of sages carved in stone
They whisper dawn anew
A fiery flower sings its song tonight
The first to bloom in this dead garden
Tomorrow time again will usher backwards
Into itself into tides of true lies untold

As meaning through mead, through mind was dissolving
Into a golden air frozen

I saw the image of a well filled to the brim with rain
Shamen chanting word-creations to chase away pain
For what they brought us will be carved in the shape of a key
That'll open doors unknown to lead us where we'll be free
The veins of gold run deep inside of these stranges mines
Those eyes untold will weep with pride their oldest sweetest wine

Remember now what we have lost, what we seek to regain
Remember how it hides uncrossed while it leaks from your brain

The mad child climbs without a breath to the top of the tree
While soul and mind whisper along though they may disagree

Remind me now of what begins and what ends for your soul

A lack of all meaning is now our plroblem as you might know

Create we must and even so remind them of the snow

Forgive the creator of old that chants forever more
In the middle of the ancient grassland

Above blood-red soil awoken

Repetition of dawns eternal whispering lies
Transforming their views into grass-stained tapestries

Forever does change, and the line is too long
Why would one ever wait such long a time only to sell their soul

If the great city gnomes already have written
A speech of grand emotions, dreams never encompassed

This soul-ship will fail
Will break its time-built structure

An amalgamation of sand, tears and faiths


Cruise now, will you, dear friend Moloch
Through those parts as unknown as riddle-ridden ruins
A labyrinth of corn whose walls are awaiting

To be crossed by your courage

As the fool greets an old sea
Mint-colored twin-suns do reflect
Infinite mirrors circular and lush

I ask you now, I beg you sailor
Please decypher the code written across the sand
Before the short white waves come sweeping all the land
Before evergreen forests wither not knowing what we were asking for

Once there was a man
(Walking in the desert)
And he found a dragon
(Walking in the desert)
The dragon slithered under his skin
And ate and ate and ate
It hollowed him out
And sat in his heart
Til he was a pelt
A suit of faded green
Worn by a dragon
(Walking in the desert)

This is a 'creative translation' of Caedmon's Hymn

Now! All must send praise and cheer
To the Sovereign of the Star-shod Sphere,
His topographer’s touch and toil, and that clarity of sight,
With miracle-maker’s mighty moil, Him-of-Heavenly-Light
Made the first foundation for all fantastic things unfurled
He birthed a new creation in the midst of an empty world
But first the sky - a shelt’ring roof for the people of the Narrow Waters,
Then, He, Most Exalted Creator, Guardian of All Sons and Daughters,
Great and Godly One, afterwards adorn’d adoringly
This earth for us, so that we see Him and He sees we,
That Lord Almighty

It has been seven
hours (since midnight)
And still I sit
Awake
I’ve moved from my
Comfortless bed to
A hard wooden
Chair (in the kitchen)
Open Johnson

It seems a
Person is little
More than a
Random amalgam
Alloyed from
Ley-lines of
Chance and
Skin

I’m not for
A quarrel with
That
(I’ll mosey and
Muck with
The worst)
I just feel
It’s a gloss
That rings empty
For this
Honeycomb
Skull

Aim within amble
Dance within drift
Gist within gad
Function in flit, some
Kind of tack
With my tide
I admit, (but heaven
Forfend there be
Joy for the
Slave)

The somnipath
Sits alone
(Castrated, cuckolded)
But alive, eating
No crow, never
Directing an
Inch in reverse
Though when the
Sky cracks asund’ring
And hell
Pours out below
I’m
Sleep

If I forget you, do not forgive me

>>10396414

no, the dark magic 'mans [his] bones and breath' as a crew mans a ship

i've been lonely.
and I don't blame you for this
its a certain kind of lonliness
that builds up slowly

it's been a while
since I've been able to be free
in the ways that love let's you be
talkative with smiles

i have just found
that its when we are most willing
to share our little thoughts, giving
heart sprouts fertile ground

that we lose fear,
to come out of our corners
where pressed noses and floors
drenched now with our tears

Have kept us hidden all these years
From ones who love with open ears

>>10410803
decent but work on it, rhyming is the best form of poetry

>>10410939

>rhyming is the best form of poetry

shut up you fucking dunce

>>10411031

That's funny because the best poem of the 20th century, The Hollow Men by T.S. Eliot, doesn't have a rhyme scheme whatsoever? Nuts.

>>10411059

meant for >>10410939

>>10411059
>hollow men
>best
>not wasteland

why even read Eliot if you're just going to spout of the only thing you've read from him?

Next you're going to tell me Preludes is his best (its my favorite, but not his best)

O
Little spider
Spins her web
In forgotten places.
Flesh made a feast for young
Better this then food for the worms.
Each with flesh of the mother made flesh of self
Across all aeons, back to the most ancient of ancestor

>>10411224

the wasteland is eliot's best poem, but the hollow men is the best poem of the 20th century. idiot.

Paltry Eidolon Is A Beggar

I was small
There was a
Thing
In white
That would come
Out of the cupboard
In the attic bedroom
Where I slept
(Alone or encompassed)
And whine
Its sickly wail

Certainly
It was nothing
But my own head
I was
Always scared
(Of everything)

It was not
A phantom
Of the Gothic
(Something ancient
Clad in chains)
It was
From this time
From today, right-wise
Soot of car exhaust
(And cigarettes)
In its eyes
And a beating soul
Of warbling
Abstract
Dial-up signatures

Scriven’d a thousandfold
Vagrant and unsatiated

Something that
Slipped through
(Late night)
Amber-dipped streets
(Like a shadow)
A great
White
Slug
Moving fast-forward
Gliding through
Playgrounds and over
Garden walls
Bouncing down
Deserted office corridors
Creeping behind bins
Past chicken shops and churches
Hunting tramps
And alley cats
(Til it found my attic)

A real ghost
Not something out of books

I see it clear
As day even
Now. Taller than it
Thought it was
(Yet still not tall)
Confused, blurred,
Twisted and peering,
A shade-soul shod in sadness,
Apparitionally impaired.
It would stand there pathetic
In the empty space at the far
End of the attic
And cry til the nothing
Behind its face was hoarse
And raw
(The pitied grotesque)

1/2

>>10411379

I see it no more
(Well you’ve broken all
The mirrors, Narcissus)

I wondered
For years
Who’s spirit it
Was until I
Understood that
It came to me because
No one else would
Care for it

I am big
There is a
Thing
In white
That still comes
Out of the cracks
In every bedroom
I ever sleep in
(Alone or encompassed)
And sings
Its wretched songs

Certainly
I am nothing
But my own head
I am always scared
(Of everything
Forever)

Scriven’d a thousandfold
Vagrant and unsatiated

2/2

>>10411364
Anon, when was the Wasteland written?

>>10411469

The Wasteland was published in 1922 and written between probably 1921 and 1922. It is the greatest poem Eliot wrote. It is still not the greatest poem of the 20th century. The Hollow Men is the greatest poem of the 20th century, however it is not the greatest poem Eliot wrote. The criteria are very different.

If you would like an explanation, just remember that Heart of Darkness was published in 1899.

>>10411485
This does not logically compute.

>>10408430

I had a screw loose;
Scraping scrounging for a sense of security.
Tossing hand grenade hallelujahs and hoping you'd hang it from a nail in your hollow home like an Expensive work of art waiting to explode.

There were days where we stood dumbfounded,
Crows on a wire wishing for the the electricity to warp
Us to the hands of the waiting deity we delightfully denied.

Shots don't echo from a foot away;
I can't tell if the wounds were self inflicted,
The smoking barrels pointed at the sky.
Missing their mark, the bullets race back to their birth.

Is it gods grace that drags them in downward spite, or gravity?
If I stand very still, with a bit of luck, I'll find out.

This reads like someone constantly trying to kill themselves in ways where they might live or might not, sorta like "tempting fate". It was an interesting read, it's like one of those rap songs you like listening to, but you don't know if it means anything.

>>10408489

Put this shit on DeviantArt you fuck. I'm going to look this up, smash that fav button, and then share it with my friends.

DA would lap this up.

>>10409171
>>10409307

I feel like I need to call the police now.

>>10411485

That would make HOD or Wasteland his best poem.

>>10411571
This anon gets it. How the fuck can the best poem not be the best poem, unless you're speaking purely subjectively, which I assume he is.

In which case, he should have conceded right away. W/e. I'm over it.

>>10411505

The criteria for a poem being 'ranked' as T.S. Eliot's personally greatest poem and ultimate piece, his magnum opus that is almost absolutely representative of the coherent and holistic semiotics of his work and his personal talents and beliefs as a poet, are totally different from the criteria for a poem having representational primacy of the 20th century poetical discourse and the canon of said siècle. One is the most approximate elementary ideal of Eliot, the other the most approximate elementary ideal of the hundred year period (at least in terms of poetry).
To elaborate, The Wasteland is not even the second greatest poem of the 20th century, which would be Sailing to Byzantium by William Butler Yeats. In turn, I would not rank Sailing to Byzantium as Yeats' greatest poem, that would be Lake Isle of Innisfree, and I would not rank either Yeats or Eliot as the greatest POET of the 20th century, but rather someone like perhaps Pessoa or Dylan Thomas, despite the fact the poems they wrote did not outrank Yeats or Eliot. Furthermore, Eliot is a better poet than Pound, but Pound is more of an ultimate and tangible representative of Modernist poetry, pre-deconstruction. Does this mean Pound is a greater Modernist poet? That involves us in the question of which is more important: the meaning-making itself or the subsequent examination and meditation thereupon.
The fact you concern yourself with things 'computing' shows a slightly flawed form of heuristics at work, just so you know.

>>10411571

I don't speak to people who think Heart of Darkness is an Eliot poem.

>>10411584

Ok well have fun with your completely limited search for unitary truth mr robot man bleep bloop. Hope you compute some actual critique and original thoughts some time.

>>10411584

Maybe they mean like... The poem that represents him? Or a poem that represents the 20th century?

Anyways, I need three words squadfam.


Cool
Fool
Drool

When I met you first
I sucked up my anxiety
And you thought I was cool

But I was so stressed out
Needy, carnal, and sad
That I would've been made
Just some fool

But you said the three words
Two weeks too early
And you like to drool
So I figure we're fools together

>>10411589

lotta big words there champ

>>10411589

This actually makes sense.

>>10411589
Thank you anon. Your position makes much more sense to me now.

>>10411655

That's ok. Sorry I was rude I have autism.

>>10411634
>>10411647
>>10411655
>>10411662

My soul says there was at least a little bit of samefagging.

>>10411678

my soul says you're gay

>>10411701

haha owned

>>10411701

wow owned

>>10411701

damn! owned!

this one is a complete version of something i posted an extract of a little higher up. i got zero response and i probably will get zero response again but im BORED

King Stephen Crushing Elephants

‘Understand’, said the self-sown heteroclite
(Who was always so desperate to have it known
That what they lacked
In orthodoxy they made
Up in sheer fucking
Arrogance)
‘That I am unlike ye Many,
Instead I am
Amongst the hoi oligoi.
Watch me dance!
Watch me!
Watch me laugh!
Watch me!
Aren’t I such a delight
To behold?
Folk in all spectrals do come
And write of me for
All the generations!
(Til judgement day!)
‘REMEMBER THEM?’
‘NO.’
‘THEY WERE SPECIAL AND
DIFFERENT?’
‘YES.’

Yet this here slight-saoshyant
Holds no words
On the deeper
Pools of truth
That ebb
In fathomless and secret
Coves and hollows
Far beneath
And ballast this frigate Earth

I believe I
Remember
A place where
A time when
I was a green
Skinned child
Crawled up from St. Martin’s Land I
Only ate
Broad beans and
Blackberries,
And speaking other words
From other tongues that
None knew
Cept I who
Ran through copses and brambles
(Legs all scratched) dashing over
Streams (that had flowed
From before all ages)
Catching the last guttering
Shreds of sunlight and
Letting them
Crackle cross my necks and arms
(For I had
Not known it
In St. Martin’s Land)

Chasing stoat and starling
To bring to you my darling

1/2

>>10411726

Therein lay the
Old gods of my soul
(Gods that are best left unsung)
Yet they sometimes creep
Through the kirks that
I am bidden to now
Roe deer
Eye on altar
Shifted from within

Chasing stoat and starling
To bring to you my darling

Once there was a man
(Walking in the desert)
And he found a dragon
(Walking in the desert)
The dragon slithered under his skin
And ate and ate and ate
It hollowed him out
And sat in his heart
Til he was a pelt
A suit of faded green
Worn by a dragon
(Walking in the desert)

(Everyone you meet
Is beautiful but
Don’t let them see
That you are not
Beautiful
Because
Because that
Would really
Fuck things up)

And when the mountains
At the end of the world turn
Red and my heart makes
Passage to the Sunless Country
To the Great Below
It will be the broad beans
And the blackberries
That are remembered
And to be again
In St Martin’s Land

For I am there
All nights
(As I sleep)
I am there

Chasing stoat and starling
To bring to you my darling

Panties
Mhhm
mm!
So good


Smack flap flop, my hand won't stop
Oh yes I'll keep'a jerkin
And if I sure were about to pop
I'd let out quite the squirting
So gather round, take off your blouse
Oh honey stick with me
Because when my shoop gloop hits your poop roof you will be a smerkin

I know only shadows now and corpses
The days are filled with ghost
Lady bugs cling to corners frozen to death by the hundreds
I'm the happiest I've been and the most fed up

All the people you see in Walmart
Don't really love you

>>10409717
Particles. The word he was looking for was particles.

>>10410929

I've been lonely.
And I don't blame you for this
Its a certain kind of loneliness
That builds up slowly

It's been a while
Since I've been able to be free
In the ways that love let's you be
Talkative with smiles

I have just found
That its when we are most willing
To share our little thoughts, giving
Heart sprouts fertile ground

That we lose fear,
To come out of our corners
Where pressed noses and floors
Drenched now with our tears

Have kept us hidden all these years
From ones who love with open ears

This is very expressive and is a solid use of a mode of communication, of human expression.

I very much like this and like I said before. I think this should go on DA, if they knew what was good for them, they would eat this up.

There is a book on my shelf
And I can't tell you it's name
Because if you knew it's name
Then you would know who I am

Regardless
The book is about being very skilled
At one specific type of thing
Like a trade or form of art or study

And the book says one thing of interest
Of it's first chapter or so
That when you are inspired
Truly, definitely inspired

You feel like it's coming from God
Or it's coming from outside of you
This powerful force that is speaking
And you are just doing what it says

That is how I felt like ten minutes ago

“The tasks of someone an order of magnitude greater,
Are crammed into my body and laid at my feet.”

Is this coming from me or somewhere else?
I have no idea
I just know that I'm a very spiritual person

A little bit of a girls love
A little bit of listening to a Korn instrumental

I will try to do what this outside force says
I will try to type what they are describing
Glad I don't have to put it on tablets

>>10411974

Thanks, I'm glad you like it. Its the work of a character I have. His name is Walter Scott John Adams. He's not a happy dude.

>>10411550
>>10409144
>>10408503
>>10409456

Thank you for the feedback everyone, I don't normally post my stuff, I just write whenever I feel like I have something to say and I keep it to myself. I'm comfortable with sharing some of it here and there, but honestly won't go further than that.

I've got another one which is slightly worse than the first one, but whatever, might as well share it here too:

I waste my time.
You waste your time.
Unless your mind is not like mine,
then all is fine, you don't waste time
but I waste time.

I waste my time,
that's far from fine.
The time I waste
I can't make mine
so I must haste
Increase my pace
to save more time
more time to waste

that's why I live
to waste my time
that's why I breathe
air that's not mine
that's why I weave
in my quick mind
intricate plans
to waste my time

Mostly online
I waste my time
sometimes I find
verses that rhyme
sometimes I try
to ask myself
if time I waste
is wasted time

to me it's clear
right now and here
that I don't try
to persevere
that I don't try
to not waste time
that where I go
is hardly clear
that where I'll be
in my next year
I can't predict
and I feel fear
But I'll still lie
And I will try
To tell myself
I don't waste time.

Any criticism would be appreciated!

>>10412578
P.s.
Fuck punctuation!

>>10412578

Capitalize, the starts of the lines squadfam.

I can't tell if this flows really well or really poorly, it kinda does both. When you repeat the same word, it needs to not seem like a forced rhyme and more like a mantra and thus repetition.

Example:

"I wombo
You wombo
He, she, me
Wombo"

This is drawing attention to the word and that's why it repeats itself.

"Queen of rap? Fuck outta here
Queen is back, fuck outta here
Time to get this wack bitch outta here
I woke up like this, fuck outta here"

This however is lazy writing.